In the glorious imperial year of MMXXVI, Donaldus J. Trumpius Maximus Caesar, Emperor of America Prima, Supreme Commander of Federal Paperwork and First Protector of All Waters Bearing His Approval, turned his majestic attention to one of the gravest threats facing the Republic:
Rain.
Not ordinary rain.
Taxed rain.
For years, citizens surrounding the venerable Sinus Chesapeakus had allegedly been forced to pay fees because water occasionally committed the deeply suspicious act of falling from the sky and landing on American soil.
Trumpius was appalled.
The clouds, after all, had not filed permits.
The rain had not paid tariffs.
And yet somehow local governments had managed to send citizens a bill.
To the Emperor, this was intolerable.
Mostly because somebody else had thought of it first.
The Ancient Obamic Decree Must Fall
At the center of the imperial outrage stood an old document from 2009: Edictum Obamicum CXXXV-VIII, issued under former Emperor Barackius Obamus.
Its purpose had been to help protect and restore the Chesapeake Bay.
A noble idea.
But according to the new imperial doctrine, the decree had become dangerously old.
Seventeen years old.
practically archaeological.
And in Trumpius America, any government document older than a campaign slogan is immediately suspected of containing socialism, bureaucracy, or insufficient use of gold lettering.
Thus came the cleanest section of the entire decree:
Section II: Gone.
The old order was revoked.
Just like that.
The Chesapeake Bay had officially entered the Era of Aqua Trumpiana.
Clean Water Must Now Be Extremely Measurable
Trumpius made clear that environmental protection remained very important.
Tremendously important.
Possibly the most important environmental protection anyone had ever seen.
But from now on, it would need to satisfy the sacred imperial requirement:
There must be numbers.
Sediment?
Measure it.
Phosphorus?
Measure it.
Nitrogen?
Measure it.
Water quality?
Measure it twice.
Imperial success?
Preferably display it on a very large chart.
The administration pointed to major improvements already made across the watershed, including reductions in pollution and restoration projects throughout the Bay.
Scientists had also projected a comparatively small annual dead zone.
Naturally, this was excellent news.
And in the imperial communications office, excellent news has only one possible interpretation:
Trumpius is winning.
Even when the process began long before he entered the room.
The Ministries March Toward the Water
The new order summoned an impressive parade of federal power.
The Secretarius Belli, Praefectus Interioris, Agriculturus Maximus, Commercius Supremus, Custos Patriae, and the mighty Administratio Protectionis Aeris et Aquarum were instructed to review their work around the Chesapeake Bay.
Money and personnel were to be redirected toward projects that produce direct, measurable improvements.
No more programs that merely sound magnificent.
No more grants that produce seventeen meetings, six consultants, three dashboards and one laminated brochure.
The Emperor demanded results.
Actual results.
This concept reportedly caused several federal conference rooms to fall silent.
The Great War on the Pluvia Tributum
But the true jewel of the decree was the campaign against stormwater management fees.
Or, in the language preferred by imperial politics:
Rain taxes.
The EPA was ordered to work with Marylandia, Virginia Magna, Pennsylvania Superior, Delaware Minimus, Nova Eboracum, Virginia Occidentalis and the Districtus Columbiana to examine the burden these fees place on residents.
Then the imperial bureaucracy was instructed to find ways to improve the environment without increasing household costs.
And finally, federal officials were told to encourage state and local governments to repeal or rescind the fees.
The decree did not define the exact meaning of “encourage.”
In the Empire of Trumpius, however, the term generally translates as:
“You are completely free to agree with the Emperor.”
Science Has Returned — With Spreadsheets
Perhaps the most remarkable development was the Emperor’s sudden enthusiasm for empirical evidence.
Strategies, the decree proclaimed, must rely on objective metrics, proven water-management practices, scientific analysis and measurable outcomes.
A bold new age had dawned.
Federal agencies would now have to prove that their programs actually work.
Sediment reduced?
Check.
Phosphorus reduced?
Check.
Nitrogen reduced?
Check.
Trumpius mentioned in the press release?
Double check.
Preferably in the first paragraph.
And Who Pays for the Decree?
Like every magnificent imperial order, the document concludes with several paragraphs explaining what the document does not do.
It does not create new enforceable legal rights.
It does not override lawful agency authority.
It operates only within available appropriations.
And then comes the true masterpiece of imperial efficiency:
The cost of publishing the order will be paid by the Environmental Protection Agency.
Naturally.
Because nothing says fiscal discipline like issuing a decree against costly environmental administration and then forwarding the printing bill directly to the environmental administrators.
Thus begins the age of Aqua Trumpiana:
Cleaner water.
More measurements.
Fewer rain fees.
More imperial branding.
And standing above it all is Donaldus Trumpius Maximus Caesar, the first ruler in recorded history to look directly at the weather and declare:
“You may rain. But nobody sends my people an invoice.”
