SATIRE
Klouse (the K is silent) Swab sat at his gold-plated computer monitor, viewing the morning’s emails. As Dictator of the WEF (Wicked Eugenicist Fascists), and aspiring ruler of the world, the Doctor Evil look-alike lacked only a large white cat on his lap to complete the image. The cat was actually at the cleaners, and if it survived the bleaching and polishing process would be back on his lap later that afternoon. If not, he had several spares.
As he read the emails, Klouse sang softly in his (fortunately) inimitable voice. In keeping with the season the tune was “Jingle Bells”.
Dashing round the world, burning fuel by the tonne,
I simply cannot rest, until the job is done,
Far too many Volk, need to kill ’em if I can,
Goodwill to all zeykind, NO! Put ’em in the trash can.
Ohhh, reset folk, make them broke,
Roasted cricket pie,
Don’t forget to freeze the folks, it’s important that they die,
Ohhh, dwindle folk, make them croak,
Make their bills go high,
Freeze their whiskers and their blisters,
Till their end is nigh.
His voice faded as he started to read the next email on his list. “Wer ist dieser clown?” [“Who is this clown?”] he muttered and then raised his voice. “Fritz, Fritz, herkommen schnell”.
“What is it, mein Führer?” said Fritz, appearing as if summoned by the rubbing of a magic lamp. “What is it that troubles you, O thou great Koryphäe [luminary]?”
“I am having before me an email from someone I am not recollecting,” growled Klouse. “Do you know who is being this person, Shorn Plonker?”
Fritz rubbed his forehead vigorously as he tried to match an individual to the name. After a minute of serious thought, he said, “I will need to consult our personnel files, Herr Führer. The name does not readily spring to mind. Perhaps one of our lesser affiliates in our Global Schmeichler [fawner/sycophant] programme.”
He quickly trotted to his computer and consulted files. “Ah, I have found him,” he said, after a few minutes of searching. “As I suspected, he is a minor Speichellecker [bootlicker, toady, lickspittle] who poses as an independent open-minded journalist.”
Klouse snorted with laughter. “Well, he would not on our list be, if he were indeed such a type of journalist. Where comes he from again?”
Fritz frowned as he read from the screen. “Some tin-pot dictatorship with an unpronounceable name,” he replied. “Ayo-tee-a-roar, it seems to be.”
Klouse smirked again. “Aha, that is New Zealand, the land of that Justinda Ardeau creature,” he responded. “My Meerschweinchen [guinea pig] country. Don’t worry, you will not be having to be calling it by that lächerlich [absurd/ridiculous] name for much longer. Once Der große Zurücksetzen [the great reset] is accomplished, that name no more will be. The name is simply to get onside the May-or-ees with our plans, and then will be discarded, along with those useless eaters.” He thought for a moment. “I think I will rename it Neubudenschweineland [Newguineapigland] after the reset. It is no more ridiculous than this Ayo-tee-a nonsense.”
“What is it that brought this Plonker fellow to your attention?” enquired Fritz.
“Ah yes, all the absurdities of that country out of my mind pushed the email. This Plonker person wants a million dollars from us to borrow.”
“A million dollars!” exclaimed Fritz. “Is the kerl mad? Why would we lend him a million dollars?”
“He says that a bet it is that he cannot lose,” continued Klouse reading the email. “Some sort of debate on Covid, vaccine and blood clots.” His voice rose to a despairing shout. “In der Hölle zurücksetzen! [Reset in Hell!] He is mad. This he must not do. We are the Covid debacle trying to forget. Facts are out coming, we must attention divert from it, but this trottel [idiot/jerk] wants to focus on it.”
“Who is he intending to debate?” asked Fritz.
Klouse further consulted the email. Then his face went white and he clutched his head, even managing to totter while seated. “I this cannot believe,” he croaked. “He wishes to debate with Steve Kirsch. Der Idlecile [the imbecile], he cannot win against this man. Of course, we must not lend him a cent. It would both be throwing away the money, and publicising facts that must forever be concealed. Write to him, Fritz, and tell him that if he ever again such a demand makes, I will Shrillary Crinton tell that he has evidence that will see her jailed.”
“Of course Herr Führer, I will do so immediately,” replied Fritz, starting to leave the room.
“And Fritz,” called Klouse, “I do not wish to hear of this Ayo-tee-a-roar place again for at least a month. I will not for my actions be responsible if anything to do with that place comes to my attention within that time, is that understood? I am up fed to here with those idioten.” He indicated vaguely a place to which he was fed up, somewhere between his knees and his eyebrows.
Klouse turned back to his emails and opened the next one. An explosive gasp came from somewhere in the vicinity of his nose, and his mouth opened and shut in the manner of a retarded goldfish. In a strangled voice he called for Fritz, who came at the run.
“Look at this,” he finally managed to say. “The very next email. It’s from… her! Justinda Ardeau.”
“Don’t tell me she wants to borrow money too,” cried Fritz, aghast.
“No,” choked Klouse, “she’s wishing me a Merry Baldmas! What does this verrückte Frau [mad-woman] mean? Is she insulting the follically challenged now? That’s it! She has to go.”
“I seem to recall that she did this last year sir,” said Fritz. “She is anti-Christian so she celebrates Baldmas, the crowning of Charles the Bald on 25 December 875.”
“She has to go, Fritz,” growled Klouse. “Make a note to install that airline fellow at next year’s election. And schnapps bring me right now!”
“Very good, sir,” said Fritz, turning to do his master’s bidding.