Last night, I dreamed that I was ice-skating, against a backdrop of windmills, tulips, and dikes; doing figure eights and faux pases and somersaults as easily and effortlessly as a bird.
Then I abruptly fell through thin ice, to the water below.
I struggled to stay afloat, but wasn't quite making it, when a pair of hands reached down to me.
Out of the water, I looked at my rescuer; because he was wearing wooden shoes, it took me a couple of minutes to recognize him, my fellow alum Skins.
"You were dreadfully hard to save," my fellow alum commented.
Still shaking the water out of my hair, it seemed to me Skins had been trying to push me under the water rather than saving me, but I let it go.
franksolich is a very forgiving person.
After I dried off, Skins and I took a stroll through a field of tulips until we encountered Freeper sitting in front of a house, smoking a long-stemmed pipe, looking very much like a prosperous Dutch burgher out of a painting by Breughal.
We asked Freeper what was going on.
"Today's judgement day," he told us; "down in The Hague, where some Obamaite primitives have been tried. The trial's over, and today the judge assesses the penalties.
"You can go see it if you want; it's open to the public."
We inquired about the case, and were illuminated that an Obamaputsch had been planned, but failed; no Obamareich for us. The main perpetrator, the guy with the big floppy ears, had absconded to former British East Africa--but he didn't take off so fast as to forget about hauling away the Obamaite treasury with him--but some of his followers, the Obamaite primitives, had been caught.
"Under the idea that if one can't nab the big fish, he might as well haul in a whole lot of the little ones," Freeper elaborated. "Of course, these Obamaite primitives were just useful idiots to the guy with the big floppy ears, expendable, left out to hang, left high and dry. But the idea's that they should be tried and penalized anyway, so as to discourage lying and fraudulence."
So Skins and I took off for The Hague.
Upon entering the International Court, we noticed it was packed, mostly with primitives of the non-Obamaite persuasion. We would have to sit way in the back, but problem.
"I can't hear," I reminded my fellow alum. "Let's sit next to a hot chick who's attentive and talkative, and who can explain to me what's going on."
We looked around, and noticed Schadenfreude.
"No, she won't do," I said; "she's hot and attentive and talkative, but this is the Netherlands, remember, and the proceedings are in Dutch. Schadenfreude doesn't know Dutch. We have to find someone who knows Dutch."
We spied mamacags, and made our way to her. Seeing us coming her direction, mamacags waved a rolling-pin.
"I came here to enjoy the show," mamacags told us; "and I don't want to miss any of it by having to explain it to anybody. I just want to sit back and enjoy the show."
She banged me over the head with the rolling-pin a couple of times, which encouraged my fellow alum and I to beat a hasty retreat, stumbling over the knees of the audience seated in front of us.
Then I saw morningAngel, looking very much as if a maiden out of a painting by Bottecelli.
"She knows Dutch," I assured Skins.
So we made ourselves at home with morningAngel.
The judge, looking very much like Hans Brinker, called the court to order, and summoned the defendants.
It was like something out of the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal, and they all were there--Goering and Goebbels and Amann and Himmler and von Schirach and Heydrich and Speer and Keitel and von Ribbentrop and Jodl and von Papen and Hess and Schacht and Fritsch and &c., &c., &c. Excepting these were Obamaite primitives.
"Who's that sullen, surly-looking one," I asked morningAngel; "the guy who looks like he's pissed off at the whole world? In fact, he looks like he's been pissed off for the past 35 or 40 years or something, because his mother left him, or something like that. He's acting like a spoiled little girl who's not getting her way, and so's temper-tantrumming.
"In fact, he probably should've been born a little girl, the way he's acting."
morningAngel checked the printed program.
"That's Pedro Picasso, 'Atman,' alias 'Joseph Goebbels,'" she said.
"If the Obamaputsch had succeeded, he expected to be minister of propaganda in the Obamareich."
"What about that mean-looking one over there?" I asked; "the one who looks like he Hates all that he sees. He looks like the type who's assaulted, or tried to assault, law enforcement before, and as if he's hectored by bill-collectors."
morningAngel checked the printed program.
"That's the malicious cartoon character primitive, 'Kelvin Mace,' alias 'Max Amann,'" she said.
"If the Obamaputsch had succeeded, he expected to get all of the contracts for printing all the official Obamakampfs.
"If you recall," she added unnecessarily, "Max Amann was that small-bit cheap pornographic publisher during the 1920s who landed the printing contracts for the party, and because people had to buy the books, he became the wealthiest private citizen in the country."
"What about the goofy, vacant-eyed, one over there?" I pointed.
"That's Doug's ex-wife, 'sfexpat2000,' ' Rudolph Hess,'" she replied.
"Oh yes," I said; "the one utterly and totally insane, out of it; the lunatic."
Still looking, I pointed again, "And who's the fat one there?"
"That's the low-calorie primitive, 'SoCalDem,' 'Hermann Goering,'" she said.
Oh.
"And that one there?" I asked, pointing.
"That's the cali primitive, 'cali,' 'William Keitel,'" she said; the general who followed orders.
There were so many Obamaite primitives on the dock I ran out of time asking questions, but I did manage to slip in one more. "Who's that one who looks so cruel, so sadistic, so depraved, so Evil?"
"That's the rich kid grazing primitive, 'jgraz,' 'Reinhard Heydrich,' the worst, the most degenerate, the most depraved, the most disgusting, the most foul, of the bunch."
The judge noticed morningAngel and I conversing, and banged his gavel for us to shut up, so that he could read the penalties to the accused.
Remember, this was in Dutch, but even if it had been in English, I wouldn't have been able to hear it.
I watched in amazement as the Obamaite primitives began much loud lamentation, writhing in agony, throeing in wretchedness, swooning in tearful misery, excrementing in their pants, as the judge spoke to them. They looked as if something out of a painting by Goya.
"What's he saying, what's he saying, what's he saying?" I prodded morningAngel.
"He's not sentencing them," my fellow alum Skins spoke up. "Something's really odd here."
morningAngel, although fluent in Dutch, hushed us. She needed to hear the whole thing, before she could tell us.
After the judge's spiel, morningAngel explained, turning to Skins; "You're right, he didn't sentence them to anything."
I gasped.
"But it's not that bad," morningAngel assured me. "The judge said the Obamaite primitives had already sentenced themselves, of their own free will, and as that's bad enough, there's no point in doing any more of it.
"He reminded them that all of them, well into middle-age, are doomed to spend the rest of their lives the laughingstock of the civilized world, to be thought of as fools the rest of their days, to be scorned and ridiculed by even children and idiots.
"Imagine spending the last 20 or so years of one's life under the dark cloud of universal, relentless mockery and derision."
Oh, I replied.
