Table of Contents
Warning
Satire
Klouse (the K is silent) Swab sat at his desk in his WEF (Wicked Eugenicist Fascists) office and quietly sang to himself to the tune of “Oh Dem Golden Slippers”* as he peered at his morning emails on the computer screen in front of him:
“Oh dem crunchy crickets, oh dem roasted ’roaches, Eat dem for your breakfast, eat dem for your tea, Oh dem toothsome termites, oh dem moreish mozzies, Fry ’em, roast ’em, bake ’em, a treat for you, not me.”
He allowed himself a dry chuckle as he read an email reporting on the latest news from his WEF Global leaders. The slight sign of gladness dissipated quickly, however, as he read the next email on the list, a report from The Netherlands.
“Horst, herkommen!” he barked, “Schnell, schnell!”
His secretary glided quickly into Klouse’s office. “What is it you require mein Herr?” he inquired, “and if you remember, Horst is no longer with us. I am Fritz.”
“Ah ja arm Horst, ich habe es vergessen [Ah yes, poor Horst, I forgot],” said Klouse unconcernedly. “My memory is not what she was, you understand. I had forgotten that I caught Horst humming ‘Die Gedanken sind Frei’ once too often. Is he still with us? You know, lebend [alive]?”
“I believe he is still with us,” replied Fritz, “but you may recall that you decided that he would be the subject of a transhumanism experiment, and I have been told that he now sings a different tune in his new life as a beer-hall jukebox. I’ve heard that his rendition of the ‘Horst Wessel Song’ is particularly stirring and appreciated in some quarters.”
A nostalgic look appeared on Klouse’s face. “Ah, yes, my father loved that song,” he said. “I am told that as a baby I would not eat if that song was not sung first. My first words were the entire first verse. Now if Horst had hummed that instead of that subversive ditty, he would still be where you are now.” The nostalgic appearance disappeared and the usual constipated camel look replaced it. “I digress,” he snapped. “I’ve just read a report from The Netherlands. Diese Pestilentialbauern [those pestilential farmers] are still causing Herr Rutte problems. Why has he not crushed them yet? Weshalb! Weshalb [why] I say!”
“They are proving to be rather determined and resilient, mein Herr,” replied Fritz. “They are difficult to satisfy.”
“Who said anything about satisfying them?” growled Klouse. “Ausrott dieser Landwirte! [exterminate those farmers!]. How dare they want to keep their land and use it to feed people meat, butter and crops. I have plans for a series of huge insect farms on that land. Grasshoppers, crickets, locusts, weevils, cockroaches. The useless eaters will eat grasshopper burgers and be happy. Tell Herr Teflon Rutte that if he can’t get rid of them, I will send Kommandant Straßenhändler [Commandant Costermonger] from New Zealand to do the job for him. Or that Russ Ardeau fellow, he would catch them napping at dawn. He works best before the sun is up.”
“Very good sir,” said Fritz. “It will be done. By the way, speaking of New Zealand, or Ayo-te-ya-rower as I believe it is to be called in the ‘Great Reset’, we have just received a disturbing report from there.”
“Oh no!” groaned Klouse. “Not another debakel from that trottel [idiot] Ardeau. What is it this time?”
“It seems that Ardeau’s handlers arranged a hit-job on a newly elected opposition MP,” stated Fritz. “He had been a bully as a high school student, and they decided that they could discredit him and damage the opposition at the same time by getting their corrupt media to run the story incessantly.”
“This is sounding quite the correct procedure to me,” said Klouse. “Just what I myself would have done. How could it possibly go wrong?” He paused briefly. “But the Ardeau woman is involved, so obviously she would find a way to make a hundes frühstück [dog’s breakfast] of it.” He shuddered, and visibly braced himself. “Very well, tell me what has happened.”
“It seems that a lowly-ranked MP in Ardeau’s own party has written an article stating that bullying is rife in all parties and departments at their parliament, and that Ardeau’s own party practices a particularly suppurative form of bullying of which the MP has received liberal doses,” replied Fritz. “She has been forced to order her media minions to tone down stories of opposition bullying, lest light be shined upon their own practices.”
Klouse put his head in his hands and groaned. “Of course, we could not conquer the world without relentless bullying, but the cardinal rule is that the tactics must be hidden from the peasantry, so that they are kept in the dark. The art of sweeping the skeletons under the carpet must be practised flawlessly. Obviously those idioten in that party have no idea.”
“The party is sinking in the polls, and so they cannot afford for this to become widely known to the general run-of-the-mill useless eaters,” added Fritz.
Klouse drummed on the table with his fingers for a moment. “That airline fellow is an undercover agent of ours,” he remarked. “So it would not matter too much if Ardeau loses. In fact,” he perked up a little, “it would be nice to be rid of her. Perhaps a Grand Coalition without Ardeau. We could send her to Uzbekistan, or somewhere. Where does not matter. It could be a solution.”
“I believe that Northern Greenland is nice this time of year,” interjected Fritz.
“Quite,” said Klouse. He thought for a moment. “To Hellish Quark send a memo. Tell her to keep the Ardeau creature out of sight as much as possible, and let things quieten down before resuming the attack. In a few weeks, I will reconsider.”
“Very good sir,” said Fritz. “Will that be all, sir?”
“No it will not,” said Klouse firmly. “Bring me schnapps and then after that, more schnapps bring. My head aches stark [severely].”
* Chronologically challenged readers may also remember the advertisement “Oh Dem Golden Crumpets” to the same tune.
