Ah, oh, eeee, yay, whoopwhoop, you did it Allah. Sorry, Allan. You reached the summit of the Mt Everest of satire. It is cold up there and hardly possible to stay alive, the once pristine rocks are covered with debris and corpses, but I wish you many happy days on that mountain, because the view is breathtaking (in so far breathing is possible and the view isn’t spoiled by ice storms and thunderstormy clouds.)

My train was delayed and I missed an appointment with a dear friend, plus I just read an ominous interview with Alfred McCoy and the latest sizzling posts of Caitlin Johnstone, so I desperately needed relief, some air, a bit of joy. And here it was in the mail, your superb, your suprafastimocioellamacidoxius forecast of better days.

Only you are way too modest. What is your position by then? We all secretly know. You will be the Secretary-Juggler of the Third Bureau for Definitely and Funnily Unfaking the News, 3rd BUDFUN. (edited this post later, my train finally arrived at Amsterdam Central, I had to run to my date).

Friend of life and beauty and foe of spoilers of life and beauty. Golden marriage. Grandfather. Pianist and micro poet. Dutch, European.

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