SPOOF OF THE WEEK

SURPRISE VISITORS AT GROUP OF SEVEN SUMMIT

The annual summit of the Group of Seven industrialized nations was taking place, when a surprise attendee arrived, accompanied by his accountant and lawyer. The three had traveled a great distance to be there, actually from another part of the galaxy, and they were in no mood for diplomatic niceties, as indicated by the lightning and thunder that somehow announced their sudden appearance.

“Greetings!” stated the principal visitor who, like his assistants, was dressed in a white toga. He was, however, obviously the preeminent one, since he alone wore a laurel wreath on his head.

Shocked by the unprecedented intrusion, the Group sputtered various befuddlements, such as, “Who are you?” “How did you get in?” And the perennial, “Call security!”

“Don't waste your time,” the leader of the trio told them, waving his hand. “All the doors are locked.” Sure enough, unmistakable clicking sounds ensued that only the most lavish locks make. He crossed his arms over his chest, and added, with a trace of scorn, “So we meet! You, who are the leaders of earth’s seven most advanced nations.”

“You got that right,” the American President told him. “And who are you?”

“Interstellar Rockefeller,” he claimed.

“You’re a Rockefeller?” the American President sighed with sudden cordiality. “Well, then we’re all in this together. What are you doing in a getup like that?”

“It’s the usual dress of the extraordinarily wealthy in my part of the galaxy.”

“Did you say ‘your part of the galaxy?’” the American President wished to confirm, with a skeptical grin to the other members.

“Yes, actually, the very center of it, which is far removed from this remote outpost.”

“Surely, you’re joshing, old boy?” the British Prime Minister wanted to know.

“I never josh, old boy,” Interstellar Rockefeller replied. Then he turned to his companions. “Ask my lawyer and accountant. Tell them, do I ever josh?”

“I never heard him do it once,” his accountant said.

“Never, in all his immortal days,” his lawyer added.

“Immortal, did you say, eh?” the Canadian Prime Minister queried.

“Yes, and, as his lawyer, I never lie.”

“In our part of the galaxy, a lawyer wouldn’t even think of it,” Interstellar boasted.

“It’s been that way for many, many centuries,” the lawyer added, perhaps with a bit of remorse.

“They all must be psychos,” the American President confided to the British Prime Minister.

“No doubt,” the Brit concurred, “but the great inconvenience of it all is that somehow they got in. And there doesn’t seem to be a convenient way to toss the buggers out.”

“Let’s just indulge them till we can get some security in here,” the American President concluded.

The other members nodded their tentative approval, and he turned back to their unwelcome attendees. “What’s on your mind, buddy?” the American President asked.

“I want it back,” Interstellar Rockefeller replied.

“What is it that you want back, monsieur?” the French Prime Minister inquired, with affected politeness.

“The planet!” Interstellar announced.

“The earth itself?” the Brit asked. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Interstellar Rockefeller insisted, and held out his hand.

His lawyer put a scroll of parchment in it. “Here’s the eviction notice.”

“An eviction notice?” the Japanese Prime Minister asked, clearly insulted.

“Read it,” Interstellar instructed his attorney, handing it back to him.

The lawyer unrolled the scroll, and read, “The human race is hereby ordered to surrender possession of the planet earth immediately." He held out the notice. “As you can see, everything is in keeping with Intergalactic Law.”

“I’ve heard of a land grab,” the American interposed, “but this one tops them all.”

“This entire affair is not as amusing as you might think,” the English Prime Minster let the interlopers know.

“I thought the Rockefellers were far less inclined to ruthless tactics these days,” the Canadian contributed.

“Why, downright gentlemanly, they seem to me,” the Englishman said.

Deciding to indulge the man’s psychotic illusion for a moment, the Italian Prime Minister asked, “On what grounds are we being evicted?”

“It’s a long list,” Interstellar informed them, and waved to his lawyer to enumerate them.

The lawyer looked down at the scroll and began to read them off. “Faulty maintenance of the premises, lack of appreciation for – "

“– Let me see who signed your document,” the German Chancellor demanded, still somewhat willing to amuse the evident idiot.

“The Supreme Court of the Milky Way,” Interstellar told him, and waved for his lawyer to present the document. “Which is the highest and, I might add, the most just court in it.”

“Supreme Court, Milky Way,” the German Chancellor read, with apparent ridicule.

All seven world leaders began to laugh heartily.

“What do they want with the earth?” the Spanish Prime Minister managed to get out between his peals of laughter.

“It's not what they want. It's what I want!” Interstellar Rockefeller informed them.

“How can you want the whole thing?” the Canadian Prime Minister laughed.

“No one can own the entire bloody globe!” the Englishman insisted, “although, at one time, we did give it a go.”

“The seven of you are making a pretty good attempt right now, aren’t you?” Interstellar replied.

“Now, don’t tell me you’re just another anti-globalization nut?” the American President asked, still laughing a bit.

“My good man,” the Englishman went on, “don’t you realize that capitalism, by its very nature, distributes wealth, because it always searches for the cheapest labor? And that, as a result, we, who conduct the greatest capitalist economies, are actually the greatest hope of the world’s impoverished?”

“It’s a lot better than a bunch of cronyism at the top,” the American confirmed, “hoarding everything for themselves, like a bunch of commies. Besides, the people in our countries work hard for what they have.”

The final advice came from the German Chancellor, who pontificated, “You see, the only way to provide for everybody in the world is to have a worldwide system.”

“The remedies, gentlemen,” Interstellar replied, “require a fundamental change in human priorities – a revolution I have given up on.” Then, looking at his watch with growing impatience, he added, “Enough small talk. You’re being evicted – and my decision is final!”

“But where are we supposed to go?” the Italian wanted to know.

“That's your problem!” Interstellar replied.

“Now, see here, Mr. Rockefeller or whoever you are,” the Englishman went on. “I don't think you're being entirely fair! There are approximately six billion people on the earth, and you want us to just pack up and leave? How can you expect such a thing?"

“You mean, why did I wait so long?” Interstellar Rockefeller told him. “The human race has had a hundred thousand years to figure out what a swell place this planet is and what nice lives you could have here. And look how you behave. Greenhouse gases everywhere, poisoned waterways, depleted oceans, overpopulation, rampant inconsideration for your fellow man, hate based on ignorance, murder, robbery, war, and a perverse obsession with violence and death, instead of a commonsensical endorsement of peace, life, stewardship of the planet, and, my own personal favorite, joy. Why, most of you simply treat this splendid property as no more than a stopover on the way to a better place, after you're dead. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't want it back!”

“But, senor, what makes you think you can have it back?” the Spaniard queried.

“I refer you to the document,” Interstellar responded, pointing to it.

“Now, see here,” the verbosely ineffectual British gentleman went on, “you walk in here and pretend to be this preposterous fellow from the center of the galaxy, when in all likelihood, you're a crank from a local insane asylum.”

His comment seemed to annoy Interstellar, who grew visibly more resolute and raised his arm, upon which lightning flashed about the room and thunder shook it. “Can a crank command the lightening and the thunder?”

The seven leaders cowered behind their chairs, with exclamations, such as, “Damn it!” “Perdu!” “Morte!” When the atmospheric disturbances settled down, they slowly raised their heads.

“He has a good point,” the Japanese Prime Minister admitted.

“May I ask how you can manage that sort of trickery with the elements?” the Englishman asked.

“Easy,” Interstellar replied. “I own them.”

“Of course, you do, buddy,” the American President said, and opened his cell phone.

Interstellar pointed at it and it merely evanesced.

“That was my new cell phone,” the American said, looking at his empty hand.

“Very impressive, chap,” the Englishman admitted. “But it's hardly more than a paltry trick compared to what you're asking of the human race.”

“That's right!’ the American concurred. “Vacate the earth! I’ve convinced the public to do a lot of crazy things. But I can tell you right now, they’ll never go for this.”

“If you don't vacate the premises immediately, we will have you removed,” Interstellar’s lawyer announced.

“Removed to where, my good man?” the Canadian wanted to know.

“Take your choice,” the accountant told them. “The moon, Mars – “

“Those are all quite uninhabitable,” the German Chancellor argued.

“And how will we get there?” the Canadian asked.

“I can't be responsible for that,” Interstellar replied. “You've had your chance on the earth. And to think – I gave it to you! I gave you everything!”

“That's right,” his accountant said, holding up his books. “And it cost him a pretty penny, too. Forty-five trillion solars!”

“Solars?” the American President asked. “You mean, like dollars?”

“Hardly,” the accountant replied. “At the current intergalactic exchange rate, one solar is equal to over a million trillion dollars.”

“A million trillion bucks?” the American President said, and joked with the others, “Hey, that’s even bigger than our national debt.”

“It’s obviously quite a lot of cash,” the Englishman commented. “Tell me, why would anyone spend that kind of money on anything?”

“Why, you ask?” Interstellar Rockefeller wailed. “I did it because money, mere money, is not my primary concern. I'm above that. I’m an intergalactic philanthropist.”

“An intergalactic philanthropist?” the Canadian asked.

“One of the biggest,” his lawyer confirmed.

“With only the most noble of intentions!” Interstellar continued. “I have a vision: A beautiful planet, alive with happy people, taking care of it like the splendid home I intended it to be. How was I to know way back then you'd ruin my dream?”

“Tell us more about that,” the American President said. “Maybe we can still make things up.”

“Too late!” Interstellar replied. “Far too late! Oh, who could have foreseen that, with the exception a few wise and good souls and a very brief list of intellectual and humanitarian achievements – oh, what an execrable history! Out, out, I say! Out immediately!”

“Immediately?” the Englishman asked. “Sir, how are we to leave immediately?”

“We need some time to figure out our options,” the American said.

“Certainly, we deserve at least that much,” the Frenchman volunteered.

“Nothing! You deserve nothing!” Interstellar ranted. “Because I gave you everything. Oh, what a fool I am! But what a dreamer! Here it was, this small, remote agglomeration of pock-marked space debris in a sparsely populated section of one of the smallest solar systems. I see it. I take pity.”

“And you could get a good deal on it,” the insightful accountant reminded him.

“The only kind of deal I like,” Interstellar replied, and explained to The Group of Seven. “A pal of mine owned it – the great intergalactic real estate developer, Ronald Rump.”

“Rump?” the American asked. “Any relation to an earthling with a similar name?”

“Actually, yes,” Interstellar confided. “In the eternal gene pool, his great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, etcetera, grandfather, at a time when forthright generosity was still a family tradition.”

“It was a long time ago,” the accountant commented.

“Anyway, in those idealistic times, I had an idea,” Interstellar reminisced. “I'd buy it and make a park.”

Upon hearing this, the German Chancellor waxed metaphysical. “Excuse me. Are you saying that the eternal secret of human existence is the earth is a park?”

“What did you think it is – a landfill?” Interstellar responded. “Way back when, I set out to create a gorgeous paradise of life in a solar system that was until then hardly more than neglected rubble, like the bone-dead moon. You've been there. What a place, especially compared to this. And how did I effect such a wondrous transformation? I spared no expense! The water, the plants, the atmosphere, the animals – all were ordered from the best suppliers in the universe. And the multitudinous bugs – what a time I had picking them out of the vast selection I was offered!”

“Don't forget the dinosaurs,” the accountant reminded him, and told The Group of Seven, “They were a big expense, even for him.”

“And, oh, what a heartbreak!” Interstellar intoned.

“The shipping costs are astronomical,” the accountant continued. “But he wants them. So we make the deal. Then – I can't even say it.”

“This stupid meteor comes out of nowhere,” the lawyer added, “smacks into the earth, and wrecks just about everything.”

“Dust blocks out the sunlight, seemingly forever,” the accountant went on. “Volcanoes explode. There are forest fires everywhere, with no one to put them out.”

“No one to put them out?” the Italian questioned.

“What? You think the dinosaurs had fire trucks?” the account commented. “So these big dinosaurs and all the most expensive plants die off,” he went on, shedding a tear. “It's a total loss. No way I'd let him replace them.”

“But he thinks big, see?” the lawyer added. “So he still wants something gigantic on land.”

“I convince him to settle for a shipment of elephants,” the accountant claimed proudly.

“As we see it,” the lawyer stated, “he only made one mistake.”

“Ah, not a mistake,” Interstellar corrected his lawyer, and informed The Group of Seven, “I never make mistakes. It was merely a case of overly eager benevolence.” Then Interstellar sighed, “It’s my Achilles’ nose.”

“Achilles’ nose?” the Japanese Prime Minister asked, and sought confirmation among the other members of the Group. “I thought it was Achilles’ heel?”

“That’s what you earthlings know,” the accountant said. “What hurts worse when you get hit, your heel or your nose?”

“Excellent point,” the Frenchman admitted.

By Tom Attea

Second and final installment next week. For readers who may miss this installment, we'll repeat it with next week's.

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