“The golden age of America begins right now.” — President Donald Trump, during his inauguration speech.
We promised that, if elected, we would return America to “a golden age.” And by God, we did it. We delivered on that promise.
Admittedly, it’s not the golden age you were expecting—the one when stuff was affordable, employment was high, traditional industries were booming, weather patterns were still basically predictable, and a sense of national pride coursed through the healthy, fluoropolymer-free veins of every man, woman, and child in the land. If you were hoping for a golden age like that—a gilded era of health, wealth, and prosperity—we can’t really help you. But you can’t blame us for that. Because that’s not the golden age we were talking about.
You assumed. And that’s entirely on you.
But don’t worry, because the golden age we’re bringing back is a real humdinger. We considered loads of options: the Golden Age of Piracy, the Golden Age of Portuguese Navigation, the Golden Age of Islamic Architecture—all solid contenders. But in the end, we passed on all of them. Too complex. Too costly. Too obscure. Would the Islamic stuff fly with our base? Does anyone still actually navigate anymore? And while the idea of re-introducing roving bands of pirates to our shipping lanes sounded cool, we just couldn’t see the point of needlessly implementing an antiquated barrier to free trade that ultimately benefits no one. Except for tariffs, obviously.
No, in the end, we settled on something classy. A golden age that everyone could get behind. And, more importantly, one that we could claim to have ushered in without really having to do much work. And so, without further ado, it’s our great pleasure to officially announce the return of a golden age to America—the Golden Age of Dutch and Flemish Painting.
Trust us, people. The good times start now.
You may have already noticed a change in the air. Maybe you woke up this morning with a sudden, overwhelming appreciation for the little things. Like how the light falls across the earthenware jug of homemade corn wine sitting on your kitchen table. Or the whimsical glint in the eye of the rosy-cheeked peddler selling rustic, artisanal loaves by the road. Perhaps you felt an inexplicable desire to go off and fight in the Eighty Years’ War. Or a sudden aversion to the Habsburgs. In any case, you’re going to start noticing windmills. Hundreds and hundreds of windmills. And not the big metallic ones that kill birds. We’re talking about the charmingly ramshackle ones with no discernible purpose aside from looking great in a still life.
Make no mistake—this is the dawn of a glorious new chapter in our nation’s history. And it’s not just the countless masterpieces we’re going to produce. Going by past metrics, the next century could conceivably see the United States emerge as one of the great shipbuilding nations of post-Reformation Europe. Yes, the wealth will be concentrated among a tiny minority of Flemish merchants and Amsterdam guildsmen. But on the plus side, we’re going to see an absolute shitload of Calvinist churches.
Obviously, there will be some teething troubles. You don’t go from a nation in decline to one of the most vibrant cultural hubs in the Low Countries overnight. To kickstart the new golden age, we’ve had to ship in a few hundred thousand Dutch painters, astronomers, wealthy merchants, lute-playing rural bumpkins, girls with pearl earrings, clergymen, and a handful of bawdy chambermaids. Given that one of our main campaign promises was a major crackdown on immigration, this might upset some people. But fear not—we’re going to balance it out by pursuing a ruthless program of colonial exploitation and bringing back the spice trade.
Let’s face it—bringing back the golden age you actually voted for would be a massive hassle. We’d have to start drafting complex economic policy. By bringing back the Golden Age of Dutch and Flemish Painting, all we need to do is abolish electric lighting and start wearing wide-brimmed black felt hats. The ruff could make a big comeback, too.
Life in this new golden age will be like a stroopwafel—short and sweet. Sweet, because of all the florins pouring in from our shipbuilding monopoly. And short, because of the bubonic plague. Oh, and like all decent golden ages, there won’t be any vaccines. So that one stays.