With a final grunt of exertion and feathers, Pablo de Pato completed the guard tower of his new battlements atop a majestic mountain in the Vallejo de Cómpeta. As the mortar dried in the golden sun, he puffed his chest in pride at how his new battlements would protect the sacred valley from Those Who Don’t Belong Here. Then he realized something, and he deflated slightly, which often happens with plastic toys left out in the sun, golden or otherwise.

In his triumphal exuberance, he had forgotten to build an exit to the guard tower. While this was not an immediate issue, as he had stocked his tower with plenty of cerveza and beef jerky, there would soon come a day when he would need to descend. After all, molting season was nigh, and this was a personal duty best attended to at lower elevations, lest the sudden release of last-season’s feathers inadvertantly bring down orbiting satellites and no one could watch the World Cup.

Pablo spied a lanky lass just below, strolling on the Avenida de Exhibicion. He called out to her, in his usual mix of poor English and belittlement of what he considered inferiors. “Hey, wench. Can I grab you by the pushy?”

Melania Trump turned around, pausing strategically as she did so, ensuring that the accompanying photographers could capture her pouty angularity. “I’m not sure how to respond, as Michelle Obama hasn’t yet written her own speech about this situation.”

Pablo: “Can you help me back down from this wall thing?”

Melania: “You wanted the wall, you deal with the fact that nobody else with any sense wants the wall.” Then she turned and trotted away. “I married rich,” said the back of her jacket. “Did U?”

Pablo paused to vent his frustrations via an illogical message on Twitter (400,000 dead souls immediately clicked “like” on his tweet without even reading it, a reflex action that was ingrained in their beings after decades of Pavlovian worship of Fox News). Then he returned his poor eyesight (all those fatty cheeseburgers take a vicious toll) and searched for another savior to get him out of this mess, even if said savior had no business getting involved in the situation.

Vladimir Putin came prancing along, shirtless, swilling from a bottle of Russian vodka (that no conscientious person should be drinking) and leaving a trail of stolen American ballots in his wake. “Hola,” said Vlad the Paler, “you ready to pay me for that home video I have of you watching prostitutes do an interpretive dance of the rain cycle?”

“Of course not,” said Pablo. “I never pay for anything. Just ask all my bankruptcy lawyers.”

“Oh, you’ll pay eventually,” said Vlad, signing another executive waiver to allow Russian athletes to continue taking drugs and staring at Jimi Hendrix album covers. “Ducks always come home to roost.”

Pablo shook his orange-accented head. “That’s chickens. Chickens come home to roost. And I’m no chicken.”

“Oh, really,” said Theresa May, Prime Minister of the country that used to own America until things got a bit out of sorts, walking up and tossing aside her previously-strong coalition in the British Parliament. “We’ll see how things play out when you visit the UK, where no one wants you to visit except the actual owners of your Scottish golf courses.”

“Interesting that you should bring that up,” said Emmanuel Macron, president of a country that has belonged to a lot of people during the course of history. “I made the mistake of having a bromance with Pablo on his last visit. I must admit to some degree of regret since then. The French cherish a good love story, mes amies, but sometimes it hits the crapper and we just have to move on after Edith Piaf warbles about it from beyond the grave.”

“Speaking of dead things,” said Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, yet another country that is not impressed with Pablo’s infantile need to build walls and impose tariffs because, well, he’s a duck, to paraphrase, “I’m quite certain that Pablo will go down in history as the most ignorant fowl to ever foul the concept of democracy.”

Theresa: “It appears that we are in agreement. Let’s head into town and have some nice tapas so we can discuss this further.”

Emmanuel: “Splendid idea. Let’s go!”

Justin: “Will there be poutine on the menu?”

Angela Merkel, running to catch up with them: “Don’t you forget about me. I won’t harm you or touch your defenses.”

The four of them sauntered into town, hands joined.

Melania Trump wandered along the road once again, because she really doesn’t have a purpose in life other than to look pretty. The message on her jacket had changed. Okay, fine, I admit it. I don’t have a clue what this is all about. Do U?

Overly-political reflections from Cómpeta, Spain. More to follow. Or at least I hope so. We are nearing the end of our sojourn in Spain, just a few days left. I don’t want to leave, but when does one ever want to go back to reality?