SPOOF OF THE WEEK

SURPRISE VISITORS AT GROUP OF SEVEN SUMMIT

(Second and final installment; first installment printed below)

“Can I get back to my regrettable reminiscence?” Interstellar asked.

“Go right ahead,” the American said, scanning the doors for any sign of help.

“I decided to add a species that could appreciate my achievement, talk about it, and laugh, laugh with joy.” Then his expression grew dark. “The human race.”

“In five basic colors,” the accountant enumerated, “white, black, brown, yellow and red.”

“And what happens?” Interstellar continued. “You're the only ones who aren't smart enough to enjoy it. You can't just feel lucky to be here, live the best lives you can with consideration for others – achieve, make love, eat, and die, just glad you got to live. No! Not you! You don’t think it’s good enough for you.”

“And you misbehave from day one. Day one!” the account said, with some fury.

“What a fight that was the first day, just outside the cave,” the lawyer added. “My first legal case on earth, attempted homicide – when I was still foolish enough to practice here.”

“I admit it, my dream was vain!” Interstellar volunteered. “Ah, vanitas, even among the immortals! Gratitude – I wanted it. Praise, even, but not necessarily excessive laudation. But what did I get?” he asked, and imitated an ungrateful child. “It’s not good enough for me. I want something better. I’m just here temporarily, so it’s OK for me to abuse it.” He concluded his imitation, and demanded, “Now, I ask you, is that any way to treat a selfless benefactor? Someone who gives you everything and asks for nothing? Well, I've had it! And I want it back!”

“But, my good man, what are you going to do with it?” the Englishman wanted to know.

“That's no concern of yours,” Interstellar told him.

“But, sir, I believe it is,” the Frenchman went on, somewhat taking the apparent lunatic seriously. “We humans have lived here quite a long time and certainly deserve to know what your plans are.”

“All right,” Interstellar told him, “if you must know, I sold it.”

“You sold it?” the American President said.

“Mon Dieu!” the Frenchman exclaimed.

“Say, that's not good, eh?” the Canadian commented.

“He got an outstanding offer,” the accountant informed them. “Ninety trillion solars! That's twice what he paid for it.

“If it's only a matter of money, why can't we just buy it from you?” the American President suggested.

“You must be joking,” the accountant replied. “You combined wealth doesn't even add up to one measly solar!”

“But we have been living here for thousands of years,” the American President said with conviction. “We should get an insider price.

“Too late,” Interstellar responded. “I've given my word to Ronald.”

“Ronald who?” the Englishman asked.

“Rump, Jr.,” the lawyer said, taking a hitherto unseen paper from his attaché case. “It’s a done deal.”

“Tell us how to get in touch with the new owner,” the Canadian pleaded. “Maybe we can make a deal with him.”

“It’s much too late,” the lawyer told them. “He already got a resort deal approved by the Intergalactic Zoning Board.

“And all the time shares are pre-sold,” the account informed them. “Galactic residents who want to get away to some place really remote already bought out the offer!”

“But, sir, –“the German Chancellor objected, only to be cut off.

“– You heard my account!” Interstellar asserted. “The planet is already sold out. So out you go!”

“At least, give us the chance to mend our ways? “ the Canadian attempted to offer.

“– No way!” Interstellar interrupted. “The time has long since past for chances to mend your ways!” Then he pointed toward the door. “Leave! I command you, leave the earth at once, leave it by the millions, by the billions! Leave it any way you can, but leave it!”

The Group, being mightily perplexed at this time and in half a mood to take their troublesome visitors seriously, exploded.

“What do you mean, at once?” the French Prime Minister asked.

“We can't just pick up and go,” the Englishman pleaded.

“We don't have nearly enough space shuttles – and the ones we have don’t even work well,” the American President conceded.

“Ah, no place to go in the whole universe,” the Italian Prime Minister sighed.

“We will make changes,” the Japanese Ambassador promised.

“Please, I ask you, reconsider!” the Canadian begged.

“We’ll do better,” the German Chancellor averred.

“Too late! Much too late!” Interstellar replied, and began to move his arms in swirls. “Off the earth you go! Out of the park forever!”

At this point, mysteriously enough, the wind picked up, with the usual lightening and thunder to accompany it. The leaders of The Group of Seven were blown toward the doors, which flew open. “Help! Help! Help! Please, give us another chance!” the members pleaded. “We're sorry!” Then, as they realized that they were indeed being wafted away, they wailed, “Good-bye, earth! Ahhh!”

And, in a final whoosh of the wind, they appeared to be headed for the infinite unknown.

Interstellar looked at his lawyer, and said, “Call in the cleaning crew. And let the buyer know the earth is his!”

Just then the American President, hanging onto the edge of the door, poked his head back in. “But it's all your fault!” he cried out, venturing a wily tactic.

Hearing that curious insult, Interstellar waved his arms once and the wind, lightning, and thunder ceased. A perfect stillness prevailed.

“What do you mean, my fault?” Interstellar demanded. “I'm perfect. So nothing can be my fault.”

“Then why did you set the whole thing up and then go off and leave us alone?” the American asked, pressing what he suspected might indeed be the interloper’s Achilles’ Nose.

“Do you mean to stand there and say, with as much as I paid for you,” Interstellar inquired, “that you can't even function properly on your own – that you require constant supervision?”

“It’s too much to expect of us,” the American President said. “You made a mistake, and that’s that.”

The English Prime Minister poked his head in just then, too. “We do need quite a lot of help.”

“We’re so incompetent it’s unbelievable,” the Canadian admitted.

“That can't be true. I’m omni-competent. So everything I do is perfect. It’s your own fault.”

“That’s 100% correct,” the lawyer added, and turned to the Group. “The supplier we got the first humans from said they’re guaranteed to be free from defects in workmanship.”

“Well, you were cheated,” the American President said.

“Outright swindled,” the Englishman affirmed.

“I can’t even tie my own shoes without your help,” the Italian Prime Minister confessed.

“Oh, shame, shame, shame!” Interstellar lamented. “To have so little faith in yourselves and the generous way I ordered you! Why, I made sure you were equipped with the most capable brains in this part of the galaxy, brains with more neurons in each one than there are stars in the universe! Therefore, when even a simple earthworm knows how to be born, enjoy its lowly life, reproduce, and then pass away peacefully, can’t you figure it out? And I provided you with all the available optional extras. The most acute sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch in existence, at the time – all so you could be marvelously capable, indisputably self-sufficient, as well as perfectly sensitive to your environment and capable of enjoying it exquisitely and preserving it as beautifully as the day I donated it. Oh, what a bitter pill, that after all my care and love, look what I got! Lemons! Lemons, always needing to be in the shop! Oh, how could I have so misjudged my achievement?”

“It wasn’t you, boss,” the accountant said. “Trust me. You are perfect.”

“You made them well-balanced on the outside – dual-beam eyes, dual ears, dual arms, dual legs, ten toes – “

“Five on each side,” the accountant pointed out. “Count 'em! Not to mention the inside: two lungs.”

“So,” the lawyer cleverly concluded, “one would naturally assume you would be well-balanced on the inside, too.”

“How about only one heart?” the American ventured.

“But two halves,” the accountant warned, and hit his own chest twice. “Count ‘em! One, two!”

“I don’t care a fig for all these parallels,” the Englishman insisted, with a calculating look at the American, knowing they seemed to be onto something. “You simply expected too much of us poor human beings.”

“Mucha too much,” the Italian confirmed.

“But look at you and then look at me,” Interstellar rebutted. “Why, I made you so extravagantly that you’re equipped nearly as well as I am. And I manage to be absolutely perfect, all the time.”

“No, no, never say that,” the American went on, pressing whatever slender advantage he hoped to hang onto. “You assumed we’d be self-sufficient and left us to manage everything by ourselves. That what a mistake. A real doozy!”

“And you can't be perfect until you stay right here and supervise us until we turn out right,” the Canadian Prime Minister insisted.

“Absolutement!” the Frenchman concurred.

“And when we’re as perfect as a perfect benefactor like you should have made sure we are,” the German Prime Minister concluded with metaphysical flair, “we'll be quite willing to admit that you have made up for your one mistake and are once again perfect, or as nearly perfect as you can ever be again.”

“And not a moment before then,” the American said.

“You can always just return them to the shop for repairs,” the lawyer argued.

“No, my good man, that wouldn’t change a thing,” the English Prime Minister informed him, and turned his heated argument back to Interstellar. “Time to face it. You did make a mistake, and, because you did, it will always exist, even after we turn out as perfect as you’d like us to be. The best you can hope to do is make up for a botched job. But think of this – you can make up for it perfectly and thereby do your very best to redeem yourself!”

“Dear me, what’s a very nearly perfect being to do?” Interstellar Rockefeller pondered. “I’m fallible! Fallible! Fallible! And I’ll never be perfectly infallible again!”

“But think of this,” the American said. “You can still be as perfect as you can be.”

“And that’s really something,” the Canadian confirmed.

At which point, Interstellar Rockefeller turned to his lawyer, and said, “Call Ron. Tell him the deal is off.”

“But you already signed!” the lawyer objected.

“I can’t help it. I’m a perfectionist. If I mess up, my only option is to fix things as perfectly as I can. Ron has a lot of experience in these matters. Certainly, he’ll understand my plight.”

Then he turned to the hapless Group of Seven, who felt that they had, at least, managed to secure a second chance for the human race, and asked, “Now, just how long do you suppose I'll have to stay around here and supervise every little thing?”

By Tom Attea  

Next week we begin our big bonus read, an extended spoof in which Dr. Richard Coburn shows how you can "Just Say No To Sex." It will appear in 10 hilarious installments, free for your reading entertainment.

First Installment

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.

Please, return to top to read the second and final installment.

RETURN TO HOME