By Mark Twain.jr ©️2026

 

Now, I've heard tell of some queer ducks in politics, but none queerer than Milo Minderbinder, that enterprising soul from the war who turned eggs into chocolate-covered cotton and bombed his own squadron for a profit. Well, sir, after the war wound down, Milo didn't rest on his laurels. No, he set his sights on the biggest syndicate of all: the United States of America. "Why limit myself to eggs and bombers," says he, "when I can syndicate the whole dad-blamed country?"

 

It started innocent-like, with Milo running for Congress on a platform of "Free Enterprise for All – And All for My Enterprise." He promised every voter a share in the national debt, and folks lapped it up like cats at a cream spill. "Invest in America," he'd holler from his campaign plane – which he leased to the enemy for weekends to cut costs. His rallies were spectacles: he'd sell hot dogs at a markup, then buy 'em back cheaper from the crowd's pockets. "It's the circle of commerce!" he'd declare, and the rubes cheered.

 

But Milo had his eye on the presidency. The year was 2024, and the race was hotter than a Mississippi steamboat. His opponents were a pack of windbags, spouting about taxes and tariffs. Milo? He cut right through. "Taxes are a sin," says he, "unless you're charging as much as the traffic will bear." He bankrupted his rivals by outbidding their ad space – then sold it back to 'em at triple the price. One feller tried to expose Milo's shady deals, but Milo syndicated the scandal: turned it into a reality show called "Catch-47," where contestants guessed how much profit he'd make off the presidency.

 

Election night was a hoot. Milo won in a landslide, thanks to his "Everyone Gets a Share" plan. Turns out, he meant shares in his new corporation: M&M America, Inc. "We're all partners," he beamed, as he tallied votes from absentee ballots he'd mailed to himself. The Supreme Court tried to intervene, but Milo bought 'em out with Egyptian cotton futures – the kind that don't exist yet.

 

Inauguration Day, Milo took the oath on a stack of ledgers. "I solemnly swear to uphold the Constitution," he intoned, "as long as it turns a profit." His first act? Privatize the White House. Tourists paid premium for selfies with the Oval Office, and he leased the Lincoln Bedroom to oil barons for poker nights. "Democracy's a marketplace," he'd say, grinning like a fox in a henhouse.

 

Foreign policy? A riot. Milo negotiated with dictators by trading arms for fruit. "Why fight wars when you can syndicate 'em?" He bombed allies for practice, then billed 'em for reconstruction – all under his new "Peace Through Profit" doctrine. The economy boomed: unemployment dropped as folks worked double shifts in Milo's factories, churning out chocolate-covered debt bonds.

 

But trouble brewed. Congress balked at his budget, which allocated funds for "miscellaneous enterprises" – code for Milo's personal yacht fleet. The press hounded him, calling it corruption. Milo just laughed. "Corruption? That's just inefficient capitalism!" He syndicated the media, turning scandals into stock tips. Impeachment loomed, but Milo outsmarted 'em: he declared bankruptcy on the national debt, wiping the slate clean. "See? Everyone wins – except the creditors!"

 

In the end, Milo served out his term richer than Croesus, leaving America a bustling bazaar of deals and double-crosses. Folks grumbled, but they couldn't deny: under POTUS47, life was never dull. As for Milo, he retired to his syndicate in the clouds, plotting his next venture: syndicating heaven itself. Moral? In politics, as in war, the only sin is leaving money on the table.