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Edd wrote:BTW, how did you get Hitchcock’s face on a peep?
A Phone Call
A phone call made did not go through.
Some say I should call again,
others say "don't bother, there's no use."
They say the phone on the other end's,
Folks still ask me "What's to lose,
should I call back again, just one more time?"
Still, should I really spend my life
Just waiting, hoping, praying
for an answer from something on the other side?
The Economy: A Pirate Tale
Argh, hang the blaggards from the mizzenmast, thought Lawrence Summers as he deftly manoeuvred his ship, the Worthy Obama, towards the town of Stock Market. Satisfied with the bearings, he leapt below deck to get his men to ready the cannons. Put me men in debt, why doncha? With little else left to do, he retreated to his cabin to sharpen his cutlass.
As the Worthy Obama approached Stock Market, the man in the crow’s nest, Bill Burton, spotted another ship. A mighty ship, painted blood red and with a figurehead made to resemble a pit bull with bright red lips had sailed out from the harbour. Bill Burton shouted out:
“Cap’n! Republican ship off the harbour!”
Stirred from his thoughts on years past, Lawrence Summers raced above deck. We’s inheritin’ a flawed system, but we’ll fix it. We be Democratic. Change, we embody.
“Men! Ready the ledgers! Polish yer cannonballs!” He bellowed.
Swarms of men enveloped the deck, doing various sailing things like tightening knots and stuffing cannonballs in cannons, and saying “ARGH” and “Excuse me, ye scurvy knave” when they bumped into each other.
From two hundred and fifty yards away, a silent observer monitored the scene from his mobile underwater lair. A man out of his time, he wrote a note on a small piece of parchment, then tied it to a pigeon’s foot. The note read; “The monsters are in the Loch. Begin Operation Top Gun.” He then loaded the pigeon into a tube, shut the little door and pressed a smaller red button. The pigeon was propelled up through the tube and was shot through the water, safe in its decompressed tube, into the air. The pigeon spun around for a little while, then collected its wits and flew off towards a ship, far on the horizon.
The two ships sailed close, port to starboard. Lawrence Summers stood dramatically on the port side, staring down the suited man on the other ship.
“Parsky, ye jumped-up bilge-rat! Do ye think ye an’ yer old fella kin manage the US economy? Ye haven’t got good enough countermeasures! Argh! The sheer weight o’ the stockmarkit’ll crush yer measly policies inna Huckabee fodder!”
The man on the other side raised a musket towards Lawrence and took aim, but was a terrible shot and fired some fifteen metres off the front of Lawrence’s boat, hitting a dolphin smack-bang in the head. Without further ado, Summers ordered his men to blast the opposing force away, and blast they did. Parsky’s ship wasn’t even prepared, and it was built with a corrupted keel, so it went down like an ICBM cruise missile on foreign soil.
Finally, thought Summers as he sailed around the flaming wreck of his opponent’s ship. If only Admiral Obama was here, and not doing his mission at White House. Taking note of the defencelessness of Stock Market, he again ordered his men to ready the cannons for the final assault on the town.
Ben Bernanke observed the scene from his waterfront office in Stock Market. Holding his hands behind his back, knowing fully the dramatic lighting effect caused by the half-closed shutters, Bernanke thought. So. My nemesis approaches. This should prove to be... interesting.
The Worthy Obama sailed into port under deathly silence. The place was like a ghost town, except with people, albeit few. The only people around were subdued, taking no notice of their surroundings and not even raising their voices to purchase stocks in various businesses. Summers realised that he would have to go this alone.
“Argh, lads, oi’m gunna hafta go this one alone. Ye’ve all been good economists o’er the years, but if oi dun return, tell me wife... tell her not to go through me e-mail inbox. That be all oi arsk. Goodbye, lads.” He said morosely.
Taking a flint lock pistol from one of his men, he drew his cutlass and leapt out onto the dock.
Moving from his office, Bernanke continued to utilise dramatic light sources while making his way to the centre of town. In the middle of office block 1B, he froze. There was another in the room with him, obscuring the dramatic light source he had had implanted in the room. The man was silhouetted with a glowing yellow radiance, which made Bernanke very mad. The man had stolen his light.
The man moved forward, and his features came into view. It was Lawrence Summers, the renowned economist for the Obama campaign, his nemesis. Drawing his cutlass, Bernanke moved forward, kicking over a filing cabinet and standing on top of it to gain the higher ground. He snarled.
Summers was surprised. He didn’t expect to find Bernanke so soon. In fact, he didn’t expect to find the slimy blaggard at all. Head of the Bush economic squad, he had climbed the economic ladder from being taught at the Portsmouth School of Business, majoring in Martial Economics and minoring in Money Warfare, to being a visiting professor at New Yorkshire University to a tenured position at Princeton. From then on, he was quickly raised through the ranks to being head of the George Bush economic squad. He was a worthy foe.
If onlee tharr was a way to manage our current economic climit to keep us from re-sess-yon! He thought, moving his cutlass to the Stockmarketeer’s Stance. Without further ado, the two powerful economists leapt at each other, a flurry of parries, thrusts, and slashes.
“Ye’ve mismanaged the economy, scurvy lanlubberin’ blaggard! Oi’ve come ta cut ye doon a notch!” Summers said between parrying and thrusting.
“Ha! Is that what you truly think, my friend? I have made many men rich. Richer than you would believe! I have pulled strings, moved numbers, even folded sheets of money! I am the economic master!” Bernanke boasted.
It was evident that the two were evenly matched, so Bernanke pulled a dirty trick. He jumped on top of a filing cabinet and flung the top draw open. Stuffing his hand into the draw, he drew out a cluster of paper and threw it in Summers’ face. Summers went down like a sack of flesh and bone, giving Bernanke the chance to leap down and point his cutlass at Summers’ neck, making sure to manoeuvre himself into a position with the most dramatic lighting.
“And so, we enter the winter of your discontent. Goodbye, Summers. I cannot say it was nice knowing you.”
Far away, on the deck of the ship on the horizon, an aeroplane constructed with pre-1800s materials had taken off five minutes earlier.
For the second time that day, Summers was surprised. A large hole had formed where Ben Bernanke used to be. He was just completely missing. Getting to his feet, he peered out through the hole in the building to see a large wooden thing fly past. Summers climbed out through the hole, which was steaming slightly, wondering what was going on, and what that big green beam was that had narrowly missed his face. Summers surmised that it had come from the wooden thing that was now attempting to land on the street in front of him.
Stepping out from the plane, Al Gore doffed his hat to Summers. Summers moved quickly over to him.
“Argh, Al! E’erywun thort ye was dead!” Summers said disbelievingly.
“Dead? No. Just preparing for this day.” He replied.
Gore stood next to Lawrence Summers and put his arm over his shoulder.
“It’s a new day, my fine economist friend.” Gore said contentedly.
Summers was inclined to agree.
Edd wrote:Excellent work, DTH!
Zankou 2.0 wrote:I've posted two new poems on my dART.
ubidubikid #1 wrote:Zankou 2.0 wrote:I've posted two new poems on my dART.
great job zankou, now I'm all depressed. You should meet my friend Emily, She wrote depresing haiku all the way back in elementary school, much to the dismay of her teachers.
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