Trumpets thundered across the marble halls of the Imperium Americanum.
Golden eagles stared heroically into the middle distance. Senators adjusted their ceremonial neckties. Somewhere deep beneath the palace, an exhausted federal clerk loaded another mountain of parchment into the Imperial Printer of Executive Greatness.
Then the doors opened.
Into the Hall of Tremendous Decrees strode Imperator Donaldus Trumpius Caesar Magnus Aurelius, Protector of the Borders, Defender of the Golden Passport, Supreme Commander of Very Important Documents and First Consul of Things That Are Absolutely Priceless.
In his hands rested the newest imperial decree.
Its subject?
American citizenship.
And Trumpius Caesar had arrived to make one thing magnificently clear:
Citizenship was not a coupon.
It was not a promotional giveaway.
It was not something one could allegedly obtain by booking three nights at the Imperial Birth Resort and entering the discount code BABYCAESAR26 at checkout.
No.
Citizenship, proclaimed the Imperial Court, was a profound national inheritance.
And Trumpius intended to guard it like the last golden cheeseburger at an imperial banquet.
The Oracle of Supremus Curia
The decree pointed to the June 30, 2026 ruling in Trump v. Barbara, in which the Supreme Court addressed the Citizenship Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.
Naturally, inside the Trumpian Empire, this became considerably more dramatic.
The Supreme Court was immediately renamed Supremus Curia Maxima, a sacred temple containing nine legal oracles, several thousand law books and enough footnotes to immobilize an adult elephant.
The Imperial Herald rushed into the palace.
“Caesar! The Supreme Oracles have spoken!”
Trumpius slowly turned toward him.
“Was it tremendous?”
“Legally significant, Majesty.”
“So tremendous.”
And thus another scroll was prepared.
Operation Golden Citizenship
Under the decree, executive departments and agencies are instructed not to recognize U.S. citizenship in certain circumstances specified by the order when neither parent is already an American citizen.
This required categories.
And if there is one thing an empire loves almost as much as marble statues, it is categories.
First came certain individuals connected to designated terrorist organizations or classifications.
The Imperial Ministry of Security immediately placed these files into the cabinet marked:
BARBARIANUS EXTREMISTUS — ABSOLUTELY NO GOLDEN SEAL.
Next came foreign government personnel.
Ambassadors.
Embassy and consular employees meeting the decree's criteria.
Foreign government officials.
Certain employees of international organizations possessing immunity.
Trumpius Caesar examined the list.
“Diplomats?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“With immunity?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Very fancy.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“But not automatically citizens?”
“That is the point of the decree, Majesty.”
Trumpius nodded.
“Tremendous legal work.”
Birth Tourism Meets Caesar
Then came one of the central targets of the imperial proclamation: commercial arrangements designed to obtain birthright citizenship.
The decree addresses circumstances in which parents engage in commercial transactions to arrange for a mother to be present in the United States or its territories to give birth, as well as certain commercial surrogacy arrangements involving birth in American territory.
Inside the Imperial Palace, this was immediately given a much simpler name:
Operation Baby Vacation.
Trumpius marched toward a gigantic map of America.
“You cannot simply book a flight, arrive with luggage, give birth and expect the Golden Eagle of Citizenship to fly into your hotel room carrying a passport!”
The senators applauded.
One senator applauded particularly enthusiastically despite having no idea whether golden eagles were actually involved in passport issuance.
They were not.
The Imperial Department of Ornithology later confirmed this.
The Imperial Citizenship Resort
Trumpius' advisers then presented him with what they described as the imaginary nightmare scenario:
The Birthright Caesar Palace & Citizenship Spa.
The fictional establishment supposedly offered:
Three nights accommodation.
Continental breakfast.
Airport transfer.
Complimentary Wi-Fi.
One ceremonial American flag.
And, according to the joke circulating among imperial scribes, “Citizenship Upgrade Available — Terms and Conditions Apply.”
Trumpius was horrified.
“Terrible package. Very bad package. Breakfast probably isn't even American.”
The establishment did not exist.
Nevertheless, the Imperial Tourism Ministry reportedly gave it zero stars.
Territorialus Complicatus
The decree also addresses births occurring in U.S. territories or territorial waters where citizenship is not granted by federal statute.
At this point, the palace cartographer Mapius Confusus was summoned.
He unrolled seventeen maps.
Then twenty-three additional maps.
Then another map explaining the previous maps.
Trumpius stared at them.
“Which parts are America?”
Mapius pointed.
“And those?”
“Also connected to America, Majesty.”
“And those waters?”
“Legally complicated.”
Trumpius frowned.
“Make a bigger map.”
Thus began the Great Imperial Cartographic Initiative of 2026.
Thirty Days of Bureaucratic Glory
Issuing an imperial decree, however, is only the beginning.
Somebody has to implement it.
Secretary of State Diplomatius Maximus, Attorney General Justitius Hammerius, Homeland Security Secretary Borderia Vigilantia, and Social Security Commissioner Numerius Administratus were therefore dispatched to their respective bureaucratic fortresses.
Their mission was magnificent:
Align policies.
Update regulations.
Prepare guidance.
Inform employees.
And, above all, make absolutely certain that nobody accidentally stamps the wrong parchment.
Every executive department and agency was ordered to publish implementation guidance within thirty days.
Across Washington, printers screamed.
Staplers trembled.
PDF files multiplied.
Government websites prepared new FAQ pages.
Somewhere, an IT administrator quietly whispered:
“Please don't make us update the legacy system.”
Nobody heard him.
The Sacred Severability Scroll
Then came one of the greatest creatures ever produced by civilization:
The severability clause.
If one provision of the decree were declared invalid, the remainder would continue standing wherever legally possible.
The Imperial Legal Council translated this for Trumpius:
“Majesty, if one wheel falls off the golden chariot, the other wheels remain.”
Trumpius smiled.
“Excellent chariot.”
The lawyers sighed.
Close enough.
No Free Imperial Lawsuits
The decree also contains the familiar language explaining that it does not create independently enforceable legal rights or benefits against the United States, its agencies, officers, employees or other persons.
Trumpius summarized the matter for the Imperial Press Corps:
“You cannot simply point at my magnificent scroll and demand a complimentary lawsuit.”
Several constitutional scholars immediately developed headaches.
Who Pays for the Scroll?
Finally came perhaps the most important question in Washington:
Who pays?
Publication costs for the order were assigned to the Department of Justice.
Attorney General Justitius Hammerius reportedly opened the imperial treasury ledger.
“Paper?”
“Yes.”
“Ink?”
“Yes.”
“Publication?”
“Yes.”
“Golden border around every page?”
“No.”
Trumpius looked disappointed.
“Maybe next order.”
Citizenship, Caesar Style
And so the newest decree entered the enormous library of the Imperium Americanum.
Its political message was unmistakable: the Trump administration considers American citizenship an exceptional privilege and intends to restrict recognition where it believes constitutional, statutory, diplomatic, security or fraud-related exceptions apply.
But inside the majestic universe of Trumpius Caesar, things were naturally expressed somewhat differently.
Citizenship was the Golden Seal.
America was the Great Imperial Republic.
Federal agencies were Ministries of Tremendous Administration.
And Donald J. Trump?
He was once again Trumpius Caesar Magnus Aurelius, standing beneath golden eagles while holding a pen approximately three sizes larger than necessary.
The Imperial Herald approached cautiously.
“Majesty, the citizenship decree has been completed.”
“Tremendous.”
“Published.”
“Beautiful.”
“Implementation guidance is due within thirty days.”
Trumpius froze.
“Thirty days?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
He looked toward the enormous stack of unfinished imperial business.
“Then summon the bureaucrats.”
“All of them?”
Trumpius raised the Golden Pen of Executive Authority.
“ALL OF THEM!”
Across Washington, thousands of federal employees simultaneously felt a mysterious disturbance in the administrative force.
The trumpets sounded.
The printers awakened.
The PDFs multiplied.
And somewhere beneath the White House, another empty folder appeared on a government server.
Its name:
FINAL_CITIZENSHIP_GUIDANCE_v7_FINAL_REALFINAL_2.pdf
The Empire was ready.
Probably.
