We ought to just let the grass take Houston, the grass and the bayous. Same thing with New Orleans, a city that was born on life support. It's a big country. Those people can find somewhere else to live. Maybe they can refugee up to Canada. We could give every Houstonian $100,000 to make a new start. The poor and the meth addicts will take it, and the rich people have money in stocks. The middle class would be badly hurt, but it's $100,000, and there are office jobs everywhere.
Trump could go down there every week, and make a speech to the 'gators promising to make things better. The 'gators are Trump's kind of people, all reptile brain and big teeth, and hungry a lot of the time.
The reporters would still have to follow Trump down there every week, to count the 'gators who came to listen, so Trump couldn't say there were 40,000 'gators in the crowd, when there were really only 20. Eventually, Trump would start feeding the reporters to the 'gators, which would guarantee a bigger crowd next time. Based on the way things are going in journalism right now, reporters would take the risk for $43,000 a year and some bad health insurance
It'd be a swamp no one could ever drain, and Trump could spend all his time writing speeches for the 'gators while a military junta ran the government. The generals would send soldiers down there with Trump, and they would shoot a few of the 'gators. The 'gator skins could be made into stiletto heels for Melania.
It's the circle of life.
Back in the old days, back before even Jesus, our ancestors used to carve their god out of a rock, and they hacked big cities out of the jungle where they could enjoy life among poisonous spiders and the kind of humidity that makes your toenails rot.
After a couple hundred years of human sacrifices and trying to play basketball with a round stone, something bad would happen where our ancestors lived. They'd have a plague or a famine, there would be a climate shift, or they'd lose a war, and there would be bodies in the streets and the whole city would stink.
So, they'd leave. They'd pack up their loincloths and a few baskets of grain, and they'd take the family dog in case they wanted to eat him later, and they'd go away. The jungle would creep in over their cornfields, the stone god would grin at the empty temple, their huts would fall in, and the place would be a grassy hump in about five years.
People aren't like that anymore. Nowadays, if we build a city in a place that wasn't meant to hold a city, a place that is opposed to a city, and earthquakes or flood level the city, we rebuild. People used to believe in a stone god. Now we believe that if there's a Burger King on the corner of Fifth Street and Deluge Avenue, it must always be so, for the Burger King has spoken, just as the old stone god used to speak to the priests.
When times got hard, our ancestors always left the stone god behind. After all, he'd proven that he wasn't any good in the face of a natural disaster, so why not just leave him in his empty temple? But the Burger King shall always be with us, and we shall rebuild.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, "The Land of Trumpin'" is a collection of his columns about the 2016 presidential election and it's zany, madcap results. The book is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and is also available for Nook, Kindle, and GooglePlay