Q REPORT: THE GREENLANDIC WAR

To: Agents, Anonymous, and Anons.

From: Agent Q

Re: The Latest War

All,

In the grand, ridiculous tradition of American foreign policy blunders, there has perhaps never been a more absurd justification for war than the one I found myself drafted into. Greenland — once a sleepy, ice-covered autonomous Danish territory — had, by the insane will of the sitting U.S. President, Donald J. Trump, become the latest jewel in the American empire’s bloated crown.

Diplomatic negotiations had failed. The idea of “Red, White, and Blueland” didn’t take off with the locals. Not even the promise of free WiFi, unlimited Pop-Tarts, and a patriotic rebranding campaign had swayed them. The Greenlanders — tough, fish-scented people with a disdain for nonsense — had seen right through it. They wanted nothing to do with America’s love of fast food, reality TV, and the war on vowels.

Which is how I, Secret Agent Q, found myself shivering in a damp, poorly insulated press tent on the outskirts of Nuuk, forced into service as the last-ditch effort of psychological warfare to convince the Greenlanders to surrender peacefully. My mission was clear: use every tool at my disposal to explain to these hardy Arctic folk why the loving embrace of American hegemony was preferable to a full-scale invasion.

Unfortunately, my primary tools consisted of a PowerPoint presentation, a box of expired MREs, a case of the worst Pop-Tarts in production, and a vintage photo of Brad Pitt in Fight Club.

I was escorted by two Marines — both named Chad — into the last diplomatic outpost in Nuuk, a repurposed fishing shack that smelled aggressively of cod. Inside, a small panel of Greenlandic officials sat across from me, their faces blank as I fired up the presentation. The title, Why America is Your Future, flashed across the screen in Comic Sans.

I cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re skeptical about joining the United States, but let me assure you — this is an opportunity of a lifetime.”

Silence.

I pressed ahead, clicking through to the next slide, which simply read, Brad Pitt.

“Brad Pitt,” I repeated for emphasis, letting the weight of those two words sink in. “You will have citizenship in the same country as Brad Pitt. Have you seen Ocean’s Eleven?”

A woman on the panel squinted. “Who?”

I swallowed. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Desperation kicked in. I clicked forward to my next bullet point: Pop-Tarts.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice a perfect blend of urgency and reverence, “do you know what this is?” I held up a brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart. “It is a meal, it is a snack, it is a symbol of American ingenuity. What if I told you that as U.S. citizens, you could have unlimited access to these? No more dried fish. No more bland soups. Just processed sugar, available at a moment’s notice.”

A man in the back raised his hand. “Can it be used to fish?”

“No.”

He frowned and crossed his arms.

I had to move on.

Slide three: Guns.

“Greenland has strict gun control laws. But in America, we love our guns. We put them in vending machines. We take them to brunch. We sleep with them under our pillows, just in case.”

One of the officials tilted his head. “What do you shoot?”

“Whatever you want!” I gestured wildly. “Paper targets, beer cans, maybe an occasional bear.”

Another woman looked unimpressed. “We have no bears.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have the option?”

Silence.

I had failed.

As it turned out, psychological warfare was not my strong suit. Despite what the Qanon people have been led to believe. The Greenlanders were unmoved by my sales pitch, unwilling to trade their quiet, icy existence for the chaos of bald eagles, NASCAR, and unlimited access to gas station food.

And so, America did what America does best: it invaded.

The operation was codenamed Shock & Aww, They Actually Did It. A fleet of warships — mostly surplus vessels repainted to look impressive — descended upon Greenland’s frigid shores. Helicopters buzzed overhead. CNN anchors, bundled in high-tech parkas, breathlessly reported on the “first war fought over ice that wasn’t in a cocktail.”

At the helm of this madness was none other than President Donald J. Trump himself, personally leading the charge from a modified aircraft carrier, now equipped with harpoon launchers and a Trump-brand casino. Against all legal precedent and reason, he had declared war via a live-streamed rally, dropping slogans like “MAKE GREENLAND GREAT AGAIN” and “SO MUCH ICE, SO LITTLE TIME.”

“We’re gonna win Greenland so hard,” he bellowed. “Denmark didn’t know what to do with it. We’re making it America’s number one vacation spot. It’s gonna be huuuge.”

The opposition? The Greenland National Guard — twenty or so fishermen and a guy named Jørgen who owned a hunting rifle. They did their best, truly. A few flares were fired. Some kayaks were aggressively rowed at U.S. ships. One man attempted to throw a frozen halibut at a landing force. But it was all over in minutes.

Nuuk was officially “liberated” by lunchtime.

With Greenland now under American control, Trump’s administration moved quickly. First, they built a McDonald’s in Nuuk. Then, they introduced syndicated Wheel of Fortune as mandatory evening programming. Finally, they rebranded the country:

“Folks,” Trump announced, standing in front of a hastily erected American flag, “we are renaming this land to something much better. Something patriotic. Something tremendous. Welcome to…Red, White, and Blueland.”

The crowd was silent. The CNN anchor coughed awkwardly.

I sighed. We had taken an ancient, rugged land and turned it into a suburb of Florida.

The Greenlanders, now officially U.S. citizens, were given free handguns and Waffle House gift cards as a token of goodwill. They did not seem pleased. Resistance was low, but the grumbling was high.

And me? My mission was over. I had failed to prevent war, but I had also failed to make anyone want to be American. The Greenlanders tolerated us like one tolerates a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving — begrudgingly and with a quiet hope that it would soon be over.

A year later, Red, White, and Blueland was in chaos. The introduction of American fast food had given the once-stoic Greenlanders an epidemic of diabetes. The first 7-Eleven was burned down in protest. An underground resistance formed, operating out of abandoned whaling stations, demanding a return to Danish rule.

Meanwhile, America had largely forgotten about its latest conquest. A new distraction — a war over the ownership of the Moon — had captured the national interest. Greenland, once the shiny new toy, was abandoned to bureaucratic limbo.

As for me, I resigned. I returned to the United States, a changed man. My report, The Greenlandic War, was classified. No one wanted to admit that the greatest war of our time had been fought, won, and immediately regretted.

And yet, deep down, I knew the truth.

It was all Brad Pitt’s fault.

Willfully Submitted,

Q

Originally published at http://www.gonzotheater.com on February 11, 2025.