Written by Geoff Gilson
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Monday, 14 December 2009

image for Climate Change [The Fairy Tale]: "And They All Lived..."

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, where no man had boldly gone before, in a land where the sun never set and the climate never changed, lived a lovely young princess called Airwick.

Wherever she went, gaily tripping around the land, singing her sweet songs, and dancing her pretty little dances, the air was fresh and clean smelling. And the good folk who inhabited the land were happy and abundant.

Then one day, a large and sweaty giant, known as Al Ogre, came and settled right in the middle of Princess Airwick's kingdom.

Al was a goodly soul. He hurt no-one. But he did talk a lot. I mean, on and on and on and on. It burned your ears. You wanted to take the good folk of the kingdom and smash them into…I'm sorry, medication…now, where was I?

Oh yes. Goodly soul. But Al Ogre had a BIG PROBLEM. He had an Inconvenient Tooth. So, he could only imbibe liquids. And those liquids caused Al to emit the foulest, most toxic whitehouse gases.

Poor Al couldn't cure his problem because he had no healthcare. And no private insurer would take him since Inconvenient Teeth are top of the list of Unacceptable Pre-conditions.

Al's whitehouse gases became the bane of the kingdom. The air turned green. The birds fell from the sky. The rivers ran dank and dark. And the livestock turned quite mad.

They took to reading Gary Larson. Smoking cigarettes. And attending tea-bagging parties. Look, have you ever been tea-bagged by a full-grown, prize-winning Angus bull? It's not pretty…sorry, medication again.

The Princess grabbed Al by his big, sweaty paw and dragged him into her father's royal chamber, to see if he could find a solution. The King - for it was he: King Stephen The Colbert - thought and thought. But all he could think of was a joke about a Rabbi, a Bush and eight gallons of industrial lubricant.

In desperation, King Stephen leapt to his feet and cried in anguish, "Can no-one rid me of these whitehouse gases? I will give my daughter's hand in marriage and half of my Treasury to the man who can fix my kingdom!"

"Er, Daddy," whispered the lovely Airwick, "I'm gay. Remember? Civic partnerships? Benefits? Countess Ellen von Idol de Generes?"

"Oh," stuttered the good King, "Right. Half my Treasury, then."

"Um, Your Majesty?" came a little squeak. Everyone looked around to see who had made the squeaking sound. The squeaking seemed to be coming from beneath the robes of Sir Robert Burn-That-Key-And-Repel-All-Boarders, the Grand Pooh-Bah of the Royal Marmalade Preserve Bank of the Kingdom and Everything Beyond.

There was a rustling of the robes, and out scampered Tiny Timbelina, the Holder of the Royal Purse and Lord High Crayola of the Treasury Chest.

"I'm awful sorry, Your Majesty," squeaked Tiny Tim, "But there's no gold in the Treasury. Remember, we lost it all bailing out the kingdom's banks, when we defaulted on the twenty-first mortgage you took out on the castle."

Doom and gloom settled on the royal chamber and all of the courtiers. There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth. Then, there was some whining, and a tad more wailing. Just when all seemed lost, a fanfare erupted from the courtyard. Princess Airwick ran to the balcony.

"It's Lady Hillary of Florida and Michigan," exclaimed the lovely Princess, "Maybe she can help us. Gorgeous hunk of womanhood that she…"

Airwick was interrupted by the sound of the great doors to the royal chamber being flung open. There was a hushed silence as a huge Knight entered the portal. He removed his helmet, to reveal flowing blond locks and a chiseled chin. The dust motes danced playfully in the sunlight glinting from his perfect armor.

It was Sir Willam Du Rex. The lady courtiers fainted. The menfolk muttered. The sheep were terrified. And Princess Airwick sniffed loudly. "Bloody cradle robber…," she muttered, under now less than fresh breath.

Sir William strode to the middle of the room, and without a sideways glance, or bow towards the King, cleared his throat loudly and bellowed, "I give you the Mistress of New Hampshire…"

Sir Bill then slunk back towards the crackling fireplace, grabbed a steaming tankard of malt and placed a serving wench called Moanithica on his knee. "Oh Sir Bill," she squealed, "I 'ant cleaned orf the last stain yet, ye knave…"

Lady Hillary circled the room, her expression haughty, her eyes burning hot coals of fire. "I bring good news and bad news," she screeched, in her lilting southern purr.

"On my travels around the globe," she continued, "I met with the wicked Snow Witch of Narnaska, Queen Hopes-Palin-By-The-Moment. She has told me that her ice is melting. And that she does not believe us when we say it is being caused by whitehouse gas emissions. Unless we rectify the situation immediately, she tells me she will be forced to surge into our kingdom, build a new nation and call it Republi-stan."

The room gasped as one. Then the room took a turn for the worse. And had to lie down until it felt more like a greenhouse…[Editor: Thish can't be right (hic). Shurely shome mishtake. Get back (burp) to the shtory…] The room gasped as one. The menfolk took to fainting. The women were terrified. And the sheep began to mutter dark oaths.

"But wait," screamed Lady Hillary, in her soothing, honey-soaked caress, "There's more: the good news. A band of goodly and kind wizards and witches are meeting in CopenKayHagan. They are led by Harry Obama, Gordon Weaselly and Hermione Murkyl. Maybe they can get rid of the Inconvenient Tooth?"

Right. Much discussion. Blah, blah. Dinner. Drinking 'til stupid. Blah, blah. Commercial break. Watching a game or too on the telly. Blah, blah. Packing. Blah. Good-byes. Blah. Digging Sir Bill out of the wenches' quarters. Blah.

And fast forward to the whole Royal Court on its way to CopenKayHagan. Fighting off the lecherous Tiger-In-The-Woods and his band of club-hurling Wild Cats. Ten? Thirteen? Who knew? Who could keep count?

In any event. Chapter Thirteen: The Royal Party eventually came across Harry Obama and his goodly wizards and witches in the Nobel School of Shagwitch, right in the heart of CopenKayHagen. Where they were deep in the middle of an enormous filly-blustering. Sir William was game. But backed off, after seeing the death ray in Lady Hillary's eyes.

King Stephen begged Harry and his friends to help them. Harry made a long speech. It went into the night. All of the next day. And half way into the following week. The women fainted. The men muttered. The sheep had already been eaten on the long journey to CopenKayHagan. With some fava beans. And a nice Chianti.

Eventually the School's Headmaster, Professor Grumblebore shooed Harry back to his seat, and announced that the oldest sage in the land might have the answer.

A sound of shuffling came from a dark corner of the room. A bent and wizened old man, with a long, white beard, hobbled forward. He coughed. He hacked. He wheezed. Then he took a deep breath, and in a voice heavy with the trace of a foreign accent, exclaimed, "My name is Rip Bin Liner. Why did it take you so bloody long to find me…?"

"Get out of town," trilled a voice behind the old geezer. A young man, bearing a striking resemblance to Danny Kaye, skipped forward. "My name is Hans Cooper Anderson," he sang, in his perfect tenor pitch, "I once was an ugly duckling. But now I have the answer."

Hans executed a huge grande jete, landing right in front of Harry. Dramatically, Hans pointed to the livid scar on Harry's forehead. "The answer lies therein," he announced.

"When the evil Lord MoldyBeck left you with that scar, he also gave you powers beyond comprehension. I comprehend because I wrote the script. With those powers, you can cure Al Ogre, and save the kingdom."

"Oh," mumbled Harry. "Brilliant."

He picked up his wand and made to tap Al on the shoulder. Unfortunately, just as the tap was about to land, Ron and Hermione, in flagrante delicto, fell on Harry and the wand was hurled into the air.

There was a blinding flash. The ground shook. The walls rumbled and fell. The earth opened. The plates moved. The frog kissed the Princess. Lava erupted. The sun was covered by a huge dust cloud. And an Ice Age descended for the afternoon. Manfred and Diego gobbled up Sid. The whole world was covered with water. And everyone, but everyone disappeared.

When finally the waters receded, the only person left was Airwick. But the poor Princess had caught the full blast of the distorted magic from the miscreant wand, and had been turned into an iron statue of a Little Mermaid. Which statue still sits, all alone, in the harbor of CopenKayHagen, in the shadow of the ruins of the former Nobel School of Shagwitch.

As for King Stephen, Sir William, Harry Obama and the rest, they were never seen nor heard from again.

So there.

What?

Who says every story has to end with "…and they all lived happily ever after"? Have you read the papers lately? Do you see how bad things are? Did you vote? Did you? No-one's ever satisfied. My job is never done…

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

If you fancy trying your hand at comedy spoof news writing, click here to join!
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