There is a specific, pungent flavor of brain rot required to look at a semi-autonomous sovereign territory—a landmass largely covered in ancient ice, inhabited by actual human beings with a distinct culture and history—and think, "I should put a hotel there." It is the logic of a Monopoly player who has swallowed the dice. Yet, here we are. The President of the United States, a man whose understanding of geopolitics appears to be derived entirely from the back of cereal boxes and foreclosure listings, recently expressed a desire to purchase Greenland. Not to form an alliance with it. Not to trade with it. To buy it. Like a used Honda Civic or a distressed casino in Atlantic City.

The sheer, unadulterated hubris of this 19th-century colonial fantasy crashing into 21st-century reality is enough to make one yearn for the sweet release of a meteor impact. But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, has decided that the only response to such monumental idiocy is not divine retribution, but merchandise. Enter the “Make America Go Away” hat.

Reports indicate that these caps are surging in popularity across Greenland and Denmark, appearing conspicuously at protests and on the heads of those exhausted by the relentless, deafening noise emanating from the other side of the Atlantic. It is a witty retort, I suppose, if your definition of wit has been eroded by a decade of internet memes and political discourse that has the depth of a parking lot puddle. The slogan is a direct riff on the red MAGA caps that have become the localized uniform of the American lobotomy, but instead of promising a return to a mythical greatness, these hats plead for a return to silence. They ask for the one thing America is incapable of giving: absence.

Let us dissect the layers of failure here, shall we? On one side, we have the American executive branch, treating the Kingdom of Denmark like a vendor at a flea market who might be willing to part with a family heirloom if you haggle hard enough. The transaction is viewed purely through the lens of real estate. To the American political mind, Greenland is not a country; it is a strategic asset with too much white space on the map. It represents resources, shipping lanes, and a place to park nuclear submarines. The people living there are merely squatters in a potential Trump Tower lobby. The President cancelled a diplomatic trip because the Danish Prime Minister had the audacity to call the idea of selling 50,000 citizens "absurd." Apparently, declining to sell your country is now a diplomatic snub worthy of a tantrum.

On the other side, we have the Europeans. Oh, the smug, self-satisfied Europeans. They cannot stop the American machine, nor can they fix the structural rot in their own alliances, so they do what modern liberals do best: they buy a hat. They engage in the passive-aggressive warfare of the t-shirt slogan. The "Make America Go Away" hat is the ultimate symbol of impotence. It is a scream into the void, monetized for $24.99. It captures the global mood perfectly: a deep, bone-weary exhaustion with the United States. The world doesn't hate America anymore; hatred requires energy. The world is just tired. They are like neighbors living next to a frat house that has been partying for seventy years straight. They don't want to burn the house down; they just want the music to stop. They want the shouting to end. They want to sleep.

But there is a profound irony in fighting American consumerist culture with more consumerism. You are annoyed by the branding of American nationalism, so you counter-brand with anti-American sentiment, printed on a hat that was almost certainly manufactured in the same factory as the MAGA hats, somewhere in a third country that laughs at both of you. It is the snake eating its own tail, choking on the polyester blend.

The slogan itself—"Make America Go Away"—is devastating because it is impossible. America will not go away. It is the cultural microplastic in the ocean of the world; it is everywhere, choking the wildlife and ruining the view. We export our neuroses, our elections, and our stupidity with the same efficiency that we used to export steel. You cannot put on a hat and make the Empire vanish. You can only signal to other smug people at a cocktail party in Copenhagen that you, too, get the joke.

And what of Greenland? While the Americans try to buy it and the Danes use it as a prop for their satirical fashion statements, the ice sheet continues to melt. The glaciers are receding, revealing the precious minerals that started this whole greedy conversation in the first place. Nature does not care about your slogans or your real estate deals. In the end, the ocean will rise and swallow the coastlines of both Florida and Nuuk. When the water comes, it won't matter who holds the deed, and it certainly won't matter what is written on your hat. We are arguing over who owns the deck chairs on the Titanic, while the iceberg—or in this case, the lack of one—waits for no one. But by all means, buy the hat. It will make a colorful artifact for the archaeologists of the next species to find.