Tromp.

President Trump gestures towards the envoy's face, his fingers and thumb collapsed into a flaccid pointer clumped at the end of a weakly snapping cobra. He jabs with the syllables he finds most relevant. "It's pronounced TRUMP. You get that? T-R-U-M-P. Not TROMP. TROMP is what my maid cleans out of the shower drain. The people of this great nation didn't elect TROMP, they elected ME."

"Bzorp zorp zorp, apolloogy, Proosoodont Troomp," gargles the envoy, from its ammonia-filled negative pressure ventilator.

The President looks over to his advisors for approval. They stare pointedly at their notepads. God damn it, he thinks, I'm going to be 90 next year. I made America great again. I united the Earth under one banner, Stars and Stripes Aeternus. 'Tromp' is my reward? When I pass from this world and shake Jesus Christ's holepunched hand, will He say "Oh, hey, Holy Ghost, check it out, it's the Tromp guy?"

The President seethes quietly as eunuchs clear his plate.