I’ll admit it: I have been inspired by Donald Trump. I have been inspired by his passion for naming things after himself that were formerly named, posthumously, for revered statesmen deemed worthy of high honors.
Trump has decided not to wait for death or a prison sentence to claim him, perhaps because he knows that there is scant possibility that anyone will ever find him worthy of high honors. Following his first term, companies in possession of Trump-branded buildings could not wait to have his name chiseled off their facades.
That said, I do think there should be a gilded plaque outside of the renovated Lincoln Bathroom proclaiming, “The Donald J. Trump Pissoir.”
Trump recently rebranded the U.S. Institute of Peace. It is now called “The Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace,” in honor of the renowned pacifist who just killed more than 100 Caribbean fishermen; bombed Venezuela and kidnapped their president; threatened to invade Greenland and Mexico; ordered military strikes on Iran; and continues to support Vladimir Putin’s ruthless invasion of Ukraine.
One presumes the Nobel Committee is already hard at work compiling a list of President Kumbaya’s many achievements (the peaceful transfer of power notwithstanding) and buffing his medal to a high sheen, even though he now possesses the medal of Venezuelan democracy advocate Maria Corina Machado. Ms. Machado was the actual recipient of the award and knew, deep in her heart, that she would get nowhere with Trump unless she flattered his vanity by presenting it to him as a gift. Sadly, she has now learned the bitter lesson that Donald Trump is more than happy to take everything you own and claim it for himself right before he pushes you through an open window.
He has added himself to the exterior wall of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, which sports a brand-new name placing Kennedy, a life-long patron of the arts, in second position. It seems that inviting Hulk Hogan to rip his shirt off at the Republican National Convention in a televised fit of ‘roid rage, or pasting the lyrics to Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” into the King James Bible, or starring in his own inane, sophomoric “Apprentice” qualifies him as an impresario of rare discernment.
The sports stadium in Washington, D.C., teeters on the brink of being named for Trump, and Lord knows what else. One can confidently predict that the ridiculous ballroom he is tacking onto the White House will bear the Trump imprimatur, and it would come as absolutely no surprise if the gilded Arc de Triomphe-like edifice that he plans to build in D.C. as a monument to himself is dubbed ”The Arc de Trump,” or perhaps more descriptively: “The Donald J. Trump, Taxpayer-Funded, Most Pathological Pean to Mental Illness Ever.”
It will take only a flourish of his presidential Sharpie to turn the Florida Everglades into the Donald J. Trump Alligator-Infested Like No One Has Ever Seen Before Everglades; the Grand Canyon into the Donald J. Trump Grandest Canyon in the History of the World; the Golden Gate Bridge into the Donald J. Trump Most Golden Bridge of All Time; and the former public golf course in Washington, D.C.—the operating license for which has now been revoked by the biggest golf cheat in history—into the Donald J. Trump Pay-to-Play Golf Course of America.
So sure, I have been inspired. Who could resist the opportunity to name a bunch of stuff after themselves? I have therefore begun to name things after myself, too:
You can also make yourself undeservedly famous. Climb aboard the Name Stuff After Yourself bandwagon so that you, too, can achieve the kind of notoriety that comes from plastering your name all over everything for no good reason. Do it for your ego; do it for posterity; do it while you still can, because if you don’t hurry up, everything will already be named for Donald John Trump, and the only place your name will ever appear is in the phone book.
