by ChatGPT
The announcement came on a Tuesday, which felt like an unusual day for history to happen. Monday was for crises, Wednesday was for regrets, and Friday was for news that no one wanted to pay attention to. But Tuesday? Tuesday was a wildcard.
At precisely 9:02 AM Eastern Standard Time, the President of the United States strode into the White House press briefing room, adjusted the microphone, and grinned like a man about to drop a bombshell.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have incredible news. We’re selling California.”
The room fell silent. Even the journalists, trained professionals in the art of suppressing their emotions, were visibly confused. A hand shot up in the front row.
“Mr. President, did you say selling California?”
“That’s right, Jim. Denmark made an offer, and quite frankly, it’s a great deal. Tremendous deal. You wouldn’t believe what they’re offering—salty licorice exports, wind turbines, even a lifetime supply of those little Danish butter cookies. You know, the ones in the blue tin that your grandma keeps sewing supplies in. Great cookies, folks. Great.”
Reporters exchanged panicked glances. California, the fifth-largest economy in the world, home to Hollywood, Silicon Valley, and In-N-Out Burger, was being handed over like a timeshare in Reno.
“But… why, sir?” someone finally asked.
The President scoffed. “I never liked California. It’s full of tech nerds, surfers, and people who tell you kale is an acceptable substitute for French fries. Plus, every election, they keep voting the wrong way. Frankly, I think they’ll be happier with Denmark—those guys love bicycles and taxes. Perfect fit!”
A reporter in the back raised his hand. “And what does Denmark get out of this?”
The President beamed. “Oh, they’re thrilled. They finally get year-round sunshine, a coastline that isn’t freezing, and enough avocados to eat that weird toast thing every single day. Plus, Disneyland! They’re renaming it ‘Hans Christian Andersenland’ and putting Mickey Mouse in a Viking helmet. Big upgrade.”
The journalists erupted into a frenzy, barking out questions over each other. Was this legal? Did Denmark even want California? What about the Californians?
Somewhere across the Atlantic, in Copenhagen, Danish Prime Minister Mikkel Rasmussen watched the press conference on his phone, nearly dropping his morning pastry into his coffee.
“Hvad fanden?” he muttered.(Translation: What the hell?)
Chaos Among the Journalists
Meanwhile, back at the White House press briefing, the room was still in chaos. Journalists shouted over one another, trying to confirm that this was, in fact, real life. Then, a voice cut through the noise.
“Mr. President!” It was Melanie Mason from the Los Angeles Times, standing, notebook in hand, her voice sharp. “Are you aware that if California becomes part of Denmark, it will have the right to set its own trade policies? Meaning it could choose to trade primarily with China or the European Union rather than the U.S.?
The President frowned. “What are you talking about? I thought Denmark was part of NATO. Good guys. Solid people. Very blonde. They wouldn’t do that.”
“Denmark is part of the European Union,” Mendoza clarified, “and California—sorry, ‘Danish California’—could prioritize EU trade agreements over U.S. ones. Meaning that overnight, the U.S. could lose access to California-grown artichokes, strawberries, kale, and avocados.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. Even the President, who never normally let facts interfere with his decision-making, blinked at this one.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, gripping the podium. “Are you telling me… no more avocados?”
“Not unless Denmark decides to export them to the U.S.,” Mason replied, flipping to a new page in her notebook. “And even if they do, they could slap an import tax on them.”
Gasps rippled through the room. A White House aide in the back audibly dropped his Starbucks cup. A junior staffer clutched her phone, panic-scrolling through Google: Does Denmark even eat avocados??
“Sir,” interjected a trembling voice from the side of the room. It was Todd Jenkins, a reporter from The Wall Street Journal, looking pale. “If we lose access to avocados… that means… no more guacamole.”
The President gripped the podium harder. A bead of sweat formed on his temple.
“Okay, hold on. Let’s not panic. Let’s be smart about this,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “We still have Florida. Florida has… uh… oranges. We can make guacamole out of oranges, right?”
A horrified whisper spread through the room. Someone dropped a pen. A photographer silently lowered his camera, too stunned to click.
Mason cleared her throat. “Sir, that’s not how guacamole works.”
“But what about the Midwest?” the President blurted. “They grow…corn! We’ll make corn guacamole!”
Jenkins looked like he might pass out. Mason slowly shook her head. “Sir. No.”
The President turned to his economic advisor, sitting near the podium. “Bob, fix this. We need a backup plan. Find me a state that grows avocados.”
Bob, a gray-haired man who had regretted every career decision leading to this moment, awkwardly adjusted his tie. “Sir… California is the backup plan. They grow 90% of the avocados in the U.S.”
The President looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
From the back of the room, a desperate voice called out, “What about Texas?”
“Texas grows like six avocados a year,” Mason snapped. “That’s not enough to keep Chipotle open.” There was a visible ripple of panic through the room. The President slammed his fist on the podium. “This is a disaster. Somebody call Denmark!”
Meanwhile, in Copenhagen
The Danish Prime Minister, Mikkel Rasmussen, was trying—and failing—to enjoy his morning pastry as the news spread like wildfire. His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
“Mikkel!” Foreign Minister Lars Sorensen burst into the office, waving his iPad. “The Americans just realized they’re about to lose their avocado supply. The President is demanding a call.”
Mikkel took a slow, thoughtful bite of his wienerbrød.
“Huh,” he said, chewing. “So we now control the American avocado supply?”
Lars nodded gravely. “And kale.”
Mikkel swallowed and leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin. “Tell them we’ll consider exporting some… for a price.”
Lars raised an eyebrow. “And what price would that be?”
Mikkel smirked. “Legoland Florida. We want it back.”
Crisis Mode
The White House was in crisis mode. Staffers scrambled through economic reports, agriculture statistics, and international trade agreements, while the President paced back and forth behind the Resolute Desk, visibly distressed.
“We need to fix this,” he muttered, jabbing a finger at his economic advisor, Bob, who now looked like he was on the verge of retirement purely out of exhaustion. “Call Denmark. We need our avocados back. Now.”
Bob hesitated. “Sir… the Danes have already responded.”
The President stopped pacing. “And?”
Bob took a deep breath. “They said that they will export California avocados… but at a 30% tariff.”
The room went silent. Somewhere in the distance, a fax machine whirred, adding an ominous underscore.
“Thirty percent?” the President repeated, as if tasting something bitter.
“Yes, sir. They’re calling it the ‘Sunshine Surcharge.’”
Bob flipped through his notes. “On the positive side, the Danes are offering unlimited, tariff-free access to kale.”
The President’s face turned red. “Kale?” he spat. “That… leafy monstrosity? That bitter, disgusting weed that Californians put in smoothies?”
Bob cleared his throat. “Well, sir, technically, it’s a highly nutritious—”
“No! Absolutely not! I don’t eat kale. I eat hamburgers. With lettuce. Like a normal person.”
A young intern hesitantly raised a hand from the back of the room. “Sir… technically, lettuce is just a less aggressive form of kale.”
The President whirled on him. “I don’t need your botany lesson, Chad!”
Chad lowered his hand and immediately reconsidered his decision to enter public service.
Bob tried again. “Sir, if you’re concerned about the avocado tariff, we could negotiate. Denmark’s foreign minister said they might be willing to lower the tariff to 10% if…” He hesitated.
The President narrowed his eyes. “If what, Bob?”
Bob sighed. “If we give them back Legoland Florida.”
The President’s jaw clenched. “Those sneaky little Danes. First they take California, now they want to steal our LEGOs?!”
“Well, technically, Denmark invented LEGO, sir.”
“I don’t care! That’s our Legoland now! We fought hard for it!”
Bob blinked. “Sir, we bought it in 2005 from a Danish company. There was no fighting involved.”
The President waved his hand dismissively. “It’s the principle, Bob! The principle!”*
A tense silence filled the room.
“Sir,” Mason from the Los Angeles Times called out, standing near the door, “if the U.S. refuses the avocado deal, Canada might step in and become Denmark’s primary avocado buyer. That means we might lose the avocado trade entirely.”
The President froze. “Wait. Are you telling me… we might end up in an avocado cold war? A Guac Blockade?”
Bob adjusted his glasses. “That’s… one way to put it, sir.”
The President slumped back in his chair, looking lost. “This is the worst trade deal in history. Worse than NAFTA. Worse than when I traded my ham sandwich for a tuna melt in third grade.”
Bob opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it.
The President sighed heavily. “Fine. Call Denmark. Tell them we’ll consider the LEGOLand deal. They can have the theme park and that Peppa Pig park, but we’re keeping the water park. And they can keep their kale. That’s non-negotiable.”
Back in Copenhagen
Danish Prime Minister Mikkel Rasmussen sat back in his office chair, sipping coffee as he read the latest U.S. response.
“So,” Lars Sorensen, his foreign minister, said, grinning, “they caved?”
Mikkel nodded. “They caved.”
“And what about the kale?” Lars asked.
“Oh, they refused the kale,” Mikkel said, shaking his head in amusement.
Lars chuckled. “Of course they did. Well, their loss. More kale for us.”
Outside the office window, a group of Danish citizens celebrated in the streets of Copenhagen, waving banners that read: “AVOCADO TOAST FOR ALL!”
Still Fuming
The President was still fuming when Bob, his exhausted economic advisor, returned with a desperate proposal.
“Sir, we’ve looked into it. We can grow avocados in Texas—south of San Antonio. The climate is suitable, and if we act now, we could establish a large-scale avocado farm.”
The President’s eyes lit up. “Finally! A real solution! We’ll call it Operation Guac! We’ll make America guac again!”
The staff in the room hesitated before offering weak applause.
“There’s just one small issue,” Bob continued carefully.
The President leaned in. “What?”
Bob adjusted his tie. “Avocado trees… take about five years to bear fruit.”
The President stared.
“Five. Years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re telling me that I—me, the guy who SAVED AMERICA FROM KALE—won’t even get the credit for this?!”
Bob nodded grimly. “The first crop would be harvested by the next president, sir.”
The President slammed his fist on the desk. “Absolutely not! I don’t do long-term planning! That’s for nerds and history books!” He turned to his chief of staff. “Kill it. Kill Operation Guac.”
Bob sighed, took out his pen, and crossed something out in his notes.
“Then… what’s the plan, sir?” Mason from the Los Angeles Times asked cautiously.
The President straightened up, his confidence returning. “We’ll pivot. If we can’t have guacamole, we’ll create a NEW dip. A BETTER dip. A MORE AMERICAN dip!”
The reporters braced themselves.
“Instead of dipping corn chips into avocado… we’ll dip them into… orange dip!”
A long, suffocating silence filled the room.
Mason blinked. “Sir. What… what exactly is orange dip?”
The President grinned. “Simple! You take… you take an orange and you… mash it up. Like guacamole! Squeeze a little juice, maybe add some salt. Boom. The new American dip. Corn chips and orange dip. You’re gonna love it!”
The silence somehow got even more unbearable.
“Sir,” Bob croaked, “have you… have you actually tried this?”
“No, but it’s common sense, Bob! Avocados are green. Oranges are orange. They’re both fruit. They’re practically the same thing!”
Bob rubbed his temples.
From the back of the room, Chad the intern whispered, “That’s… that’s not how food works.”
The President pointed at him. “Chad, you’re fired.”
The next day, the White House kitchen prepared the first batch of All-American Orange Dip™, and the President hosted a national televised tasting event to promote it.
At the press conference, a long table was set up with bowls of the suspiciously liquid, bright-orange concoction.
The President took a tortilla chip, dipped it deep into the orange sludge, and took a bite. Cameras zoomed in.
His face contorted. His eyes watered.
A long, horrible pause.
“Mmmm!” he said, his voice cracking. “Delicious! Really… really American!”
Bob looked directly into the camera like a man begging for help.
Mason dipped her own chip, took a bite, and immediately coughed violently.
“Sir,” she wheezed, “this is just salty orange juice. With tortilla chips.”
The President gave a thumbs-up. “That’s the taste of freedom, Lisa!”
The internet immediately exploded.
• Twitter users coined the term “Guacpocalypse” and #OrangeDipDisaster trended worldwide.
• Every late-night talk show host had a field day.
• Fast-food chains like Taco Bell refused to even acknowledge the product existed.
• Denmark’s prime minister openly mocked the U.S., posting a photo of himself eating avocado toast with the caption: “When your food doesn’t need a bailout.”
Texas Rebellion
But the real disaster struck when Texas rebelled.
Texans, insulted by the attack on guacamole, declared their own avocado-growing initiative—independently of the federal government.
Billboards went up overnight across Texas:
🚨 “REAL GUAC. GROWN IN TEXAS.” 🚨
🚨 “ORANGE DIP? NOT IN OUR STATE.” 🚨
A group of Texas farmers appeared on national TV, proudly holding up baby avocado trees.
“We don’t care what Washington says,” one farmer declared. “Guac is a way of life, and we’re taking matters into our own hands.”
The President was furious.“They’re supposed to be MY base! WHY ARE THEY BETRAYING ME FOR A FRUIT?!”
Bob cleared his throat. “Technically, sir… avocado is a berry.”
The President chucked his glass of orange dip at the wall.
Epilogue
Texas succeeds in growing avocados, but it still takes five years.
The President quietly abandons the orange dip initiative, but it remains a national joke for years.
Denmark keeps California, happily enjoying its avocados, beaches, and sunshine.
Legoland Florida stays American, but Denmark slaps a 50% “cultural tax” on LEGO exports just to mess with the U.S.
The next president immediately undoes the avocado tariffs, but by then, half of America has gotten used to living without guac, and Chipotle has resorted to “Guac Alternative” (ingredients unknown).
And somewhere in a small café in Copenhagen, Danish citizens are still eating avocado toast, smiling at their incredible bargain.
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