Trump visited by space aliens, becomes supreme commander

I asked the Google search bar:

write a funny story about Donald J Trump being contacted by aliens and learning that he can't run the star cluster. He is convinced life is a game with one winner, and everybody else is a loser. He has to be the star cluster president.

Here's the response:

The news hit Mar-a-Lago not via secure fax or a midnight phone call, but through a blinding beam of neon-purple light that sucked a golf cart clean off the 18th fairway. Moments later, three seven-foot-tall extraterrestrials with translucent skin and floating metallic halos materialized directly in Trump’s private dining room.

Trump didn't blink. He simply adjusted his tie, waved a hand at their glowing levitation discs, and said, "Beautiful technology. Terrific glow. Probably made in a very high-end galaxy. I like people who don't get sucked into wormholes."

The lead alien, a High Arbiter named Xylar, clicked its mandibles together, translating its thoughts into a smooth, synthesized voice. "Donald J. Trump. We are the Council of the Andromeda-Orion Hegemony. We have monitored your planet's primitive data networks. We are here to inform you that your species is being integrated into our star cluster."

Trump leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, deal-making squint. "Star cluster. Tremendous. I’ve heard of it. Big stars, the biggest. And let me guess—you need a President. You looked at the other galaxies, you looked at Mars—very overrated, by the way, totally dead, no water—and you said, 'We need Trump.' Because let's be honest, folks, life is a game. There’s one winner, and everybody else? Total losers. And I don’t do losing. I win. I’ve always won."

Xylar’s floating halo pulsed an agitated shade of crimson. "You misunderstand, Earthling. The Andromeda-Orion Star Cluster is a post-scarcity, multi-dimensional telepathic collective. We do not have a 'winner.' We do not have a president. We function via absolute, harmonious consensus among eighty billion sentient light-beings."

Trump let out a loud, theatrical sigh, tossing his hands in the air.

"Consensus? Oh, that’s terrible. That’s a disaster," Trump scoffed, shaking his head. "Eighty billion people talking at once? Nothing gets done! It’s like the United Nations, but with more tentacles. Terrible management! You need a boss. You need one guy at the top of the pyramid making the big calls. 'Should we blow up Alpha Centauri? Yes or no?' Boom, done. I’d run that star cluster so fast your heads would spin—and you have very large heads, by the way, spectacular craniums."

"The Hegemony cannot be run by a single biological entity," the second alien chimed in, its eyes flashing. "Our infrastructure is managed by a cosmic super-intelligence. You lack the neural bandwidth to comprehend the quantum algorithms."

"Fake news!" Trump shouted, pointing a finger at Xylar. "My neural bandwidth is incredible. Top scientists, the best space-doctors, they look at my brain waves and they say, 'Sir, your algorithms are beautiful, they're flawless.' You think I can't handle a few quantum things? I built towers! I built casinos! A star cluster is just a very big piece of real estate, except with fewer zoning laws and more dark matter."

The aliens glanced at one another, their telepathic bond vibrating with sheer, cosmic exhaustion. They had conquered entire solar systems, yet they were completely losing a rhetorical battle to a man holding a half-eaten club sandwich.

"Look, it's very simple," Trump continued, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a confidential whisper. "You give me the title. 'Star Cluster President.' It sounds great, sounds very powerful. We do a big rally on Saturn—the rings are fantastic, great seating capacity—and I tell everyone that the eighty billion light-beings are doing a tremendous job. If you don't make me the winner of this game, the whole cluster looks weak. Very low energy. You'll have black holes popping up everywhere. Total chaos."

Xylar sighed—a sound that resembled a solar flare passing through an exhaust pipe. Realizing that the only way to save the Milky Way from an endless loop of negotiations was to compromise, the High Arbiter reached into its robe. It pulled out a small, metallic badge shaped like a galaxy and handed it to Trump.

"Fine," Xylar declared. "You are hereby designated the Honorary Supreme Commander of Sector 4-B. It carries zero legislative power, but it comes with a sash."

Trump snatched the badge, pinning it instantly to his lapel with a massive grin.

"Supreme Commander. See? I told you," Trump beamed, looking toward the kitchen staff who were watching in absolute shock. "One winner, folks. Everybody else is just floating in space. Make Andromeda Great Again!"

The aliens vanished in a flash of purple light, leaving Trump alone in the dining room, already drafting a press release about how he had successfully colonized the universe over appetizers.

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