How the West Was Lost

When the President first announced his intention to repatriate the Statue of Liberty, it caused an immediate uproar. No one had ever transported so substantial an object before, and the nation’s leading commentators said it couldn’t be done. Disheartened at the prospect of such a profound symbolic act being thwarted by petty practical considerations, the President convened a blue-ribbon panel to advise him. Eager to avoid the mistakes of the previous administration, they recommended that the government solicit competing proposals for the contract.

The first proposal came from Heaven & Earth Movers, a cutting-edge corporation in Tel Aviv. They claimed that their proprietary Probabilistic Conveyance Actuator could exploit quantum indeterminacy to in effect “teleport” the Statue to France instantaneously, without it having to traverse the intervening space. The presidential panel gave due consideration to this proposal, but ultimately deemed it unfeasible. The members believed that, since the secrecy surrounding the technology precluded its creators from disclosing its carbon footprint, employing it would send the wrong message to other nations.

Bernard Sinclair, a Texas-based entrepreneur, submitted the next proposal. He asserted that his patented EnormoSeal glue could make Lady Liberty watertight, effectively transforming her into a seaworthy vessel that could be towed across the Atlantic. The panel initially found this proposal quite promising. However, they felt compelled to reject it when they realized that Mr. Sinclair intended to reinvest his profits into his own company’s research and development fund. Such a move, in their eyes, would only concentrate wealth, further perpetuating class disparity.

With months wasted and not a single viable option on the table, the President threw up his hands in exasperation. “How did the Statue of Liberty get here in the first place?” he demanded to know. His advisors had no idea, but they consulted Wikipedia and quickly found the answer: it reached America in pieces. “Well, that settles it,” the President declared. “We’ll ship it back just the way it came.”

The next morning, a legion of highly-paid union workers descended upon the Statue with saws and blowtorches. Over the next six years they painstakingly cut it into minuscule sections, which they deposited into a makeshift chute leading down to a giant barge. When they finally completed their task, the barge set sail for Marseilles amidst great pomp. The jobs created by the demolition project, combined with the influx of tourists for the departure ceremony, led to a minor economic revival in the downstate region.

Standing atop the now-bare island marking the entrance to New York Harbor, the President admired his handiwork. Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. What the nation really needs, he concluded, is a new statue for its new ethos. So, as his final presidential act, he commissioned another statue, one less hubristic than the old, one better suited to the new era of compassion, fairness, and hope that he had inaugurated. He commissioned a statue of himself.