Warning
Satire
Klouse (the K is silent) Swab sat, as was his habit in the morning, at his computer screen reading his emails reporting on the activities of his minions scattered around the globe. He looked forward to reading of the chaos, cruelty, economic damage, “vaccine” related deaths and other assorted general mayhem that they had wrought on the world’s “useless eaters”. He especially liked to read of the exploits of his ‘Young’ Global Leaders, most of whom had, by devious means, wormed their way into positions of power throughout the world.
As he read, as usual, he tunelessly produced the noise that passed for singing in his pitiless world. The tune he had selected to butcher this particular morning sounded roughly like Clementine.
Deep in Europe, folk are freezing,Oh how happy they must be,Owning nothing, never eating,I’m so certain they all love meeeeee.Oh my darlings, you Global Leaders,Starve your people, won’t you please?Make them hungry, and they will love you,While they’re eating their pine trees.
As he finished his massacre of the song, his private secretary, Fritz, appeared at his side and cleared his throat nervously. His nervousness was justified, for it did not take much of an infringement of WEF (Wicked Eugenicist Fascists) rules to incur Klouse’s wrath, which meant a trip to the Mengele Holiday Camp where miscreants were taken and subjected to a variety of transhumanism experiments.
“What is it Fritz?” grunted Klouse, looking very much like a constipated warthog. He hated to be disturbed whilst reading his morning glad tidings.
“Sir I have an urgent message from one of your leaders. Justinda Ardeau of Ayo-te-ya-rower. She says she has a crisis with her Minister of Sausage Rolls.”
“Minister von Würstchen im Blätterteig!?” shouted Klouse, “Of what are you talking? What means this nonsense of rolled sausages?”
“Herr Grunt Robbingson, your Klousedness,” responded Fritz. “He cannot go past one of these rolls of sausage, which apparently are a delicacy in Ayo-tea….. New Zealand. This is the crisis to which Justinda Ardeau refers. I will read her memo.”
“In reading it be schnell,” snapped Klouse. “That woman, of my time wastes much. She is as bad as the Castro boy.”
“Dearly loved and cherished Klouse”, Fritz read. “My great Luciferian master, and controller of my controller Hellish Quark, to you I owe my wealth and future high position in the Great Reset…”
Klouse barked with laughter. “Any position she has in the glorious Fourth Re… rather, Great Reset, will not be high, more likely she is to be cleaning dem latrinen, in a reedukationslager [re-education camp]. Continue and the grovelling skip.”
Fritz returned to reading. “My Minister of Finance and Sausage Rolls, Grunt Robbingson, whom I’m sure you remember…”
“Do I remember him, Fritz?” asked Klouse. Then memory dawned. “Is he the podgy fellow who has ruined the economy of Ayo-tea… New Zealand? A fine chap, fine chap. What his problem is?”
Fritz continued. “…has recently returned from a brief trip out of Parliament, and has returned back to his office and is hiding under his desk and refuses to come out. Nobody can budge him. He seems terrified and shakes continually. He keeps repeating over and over, ‘They’ve got lamingtons, lamingtons I tell you.’ It is feared that he’s stuck under the desk.”
“What are these lemmingtons, that so strike fear into the heart of this person?” asked Klouse.
“Not lemmingtons, your Swabedness, which I believe are fur-covered and like to leap off cliffs; lamingtons are the feared objects. I imagine they must be some new type of missile, perhaps nuclear. I have not heard of them. Wait while I check my online dictionary.”
“Lemmingtons interest me,” said Klouse thoughtfully. “Perhaps genetic experiments with lemmington DNA could result in population reduction by making people want to jump off cliffs. Interesting.” He made a note on his pad.
“Perhaps after a freezing winter without food, people will wish to jump off cliffs anyway”, said Fritz. “The creature is actually a lemming, not a lemmington. But won’t the winter be warmer due to global warming?”
Klouse gave him a pitying look and snorted. “Don’t tell me you are actually believing this schnickschnack [balderdash] Fritz. Of course, there is not being a climate crisis.”
“Ah here, I have found it!” cried Fritz and began to read. “Lamington: Cookery. Aust and NZ. A cube of sponge cake coated in chocolate and dried coconut. Named after Baron Lamington, governor of Queensland (1896–1901).” He looked at Klouse expectantly.
“A cube of biskuitkuchen [sponge cake]!!” shouted Klouse. “This feigling [coward] is afraid of a cube of sponge cake? Why would anyone be scared of a cube of sponge cake?” He thought for a moment. “The only possibility is that lamington is being slang for some sort of grenade. Could this be so?”
“I can’t find such a reference in my Dictionary of English Idioms,” said Fritz, who had been looking up this publication online. “So it seems that Herr Robbingson is indeed afraid of cubes of sponge cake.”
“What does this trottel [idiot] Ardeau expect me to do about this? What can I possibly do? Can I give a coward courage? I think that the best I can be doing is to send a memo stating that I can guarantee that there will be insufficient flour available within a short time, so the making of these lamington objects will be impossible in the near future. Until then, as far as I am concerned, he can under his desk stay.”
“You are quite sure then that he has done all the damage he can to his country’s economy?” enquired Fritz.
“Ja ja, perfectly happy,” purred Klouse. “The work is just about finished; that airline fellow can tidy up any loose ends if I should decide to install him in government next year. That will be all for now Fritz, send the memo to the Ardeau creature.”
“Right away, your Amazingness,” said Fritz, bowing and leaving the room.
