Scoop Satire: Business Confidence Disappears
EDITORS NOTE: Scoop has commenced publication of satirical articles from the Babylon Express newspaper. Those easily offended and not often amused should avoid this content. See authors note at the end of this article for more information about the Babylon Express.
Business Confidence Disappears
Up Own Arsehole
Why Can’t People Just Leave Us
Alone?Sobs Distraught Chaiman
Business Round Trough chairman Roger Curdled condemned the nation’s economic direction at a special luncheon today held for members of the business community whose personal sense of worth has allegedly suffered as a result of the Laborious government’s policies.
“It’s not fair”, said Mr Curdled, his bottom lip plainly quivering, “It’s our government. We paid for it, we ran it, and we want it back. This blatant intent to reverse our favourite policies because they don’t like them is beyond political negligence; it verges on democracy itself.”
“Quite so”, purred Mug Dyers, reclining languidly on a velvet-lined divan behind Mr Curdled and elegantly sipping on a skullful of warm blood. “Give the shitheads the map and you’ll end up in the shit.”
Curdled then called on Auckland businessman Ridget Fallis, who made his way onto the stage with obvious difficulty. Mr Curdled described Mr Fallis as a dedicated corporate director who, through no fault of his own, has suffered serious mental and physical discomfort as a result of the government’s decision to restructure the Employment Contracts Act. Curdled asked the reason for Mr Fallis’s inability to walk comfortably.
“It’s my confidence”, replied Fallis, “My business confidence.”
“And what exactly is wrong with your business confidence, Ridget?”
“It’s…it’s…it’s disappeared up my own arsehole!” cried Mr Fallis before breaking down in sobs. Curdled moved quickly to comfort him.
“For shame!”, ejaculated Dyers in between feeding fresh baby-bludger pieces to his pet dobermans as the gathered crowd booed and hissed its disapproval while Fallis was helped offstage. Curdled then resumed.
“And it doesn’t end there.” He said pulling a document from his jacket. “I have here a letter from Venal J. Dollar formerly director of role-skinning operations with Consolidated Amputory International. I said formerly…that was before the arrival of the Finance Minister whose-name-we-dare-not-speak!”
Here Curdled paused for much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Now, poor Venal has left his job in despair at this government’s policies. He has left his job and he has retired to his room, his room which he has painted black. Whereas once he proudly and efficiently audited prole-skins, now he sits there alone, the curtains drawn, listening to Leonard Cohen reading Jean-Paul Sartre masturbating furiously, and writing tormented poetry. Poetry of which I have here a sample: Sun shine no more, fall not on me, oh cruel employment policy! Let profits fall, let quarters pass, for my business confidence is wedged up my arse!”
Mr Curdled then folded the letter and placed it back in his jacket as the deathly silence of the auditorium was broken only by a gentle sobbing.
“My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken us!” cried Mug Dyers suddenly, his arms raised towards the ceiling as he lunged free of the harem of naked secretaries that had been attending him
“My friends,” continued Curdled, “Enough is enough. We cannot allow ourselves to be persecuted in this way. The time has come for action!”
“Action! Yes!” cried a great many, flinging themselves forward out of their seats.
“And in truth we are not unprepared. Various newspapers have already generously agreed to pepper their publications with educational articles and editorials warning people of this despotic, democratic regime. But there still remains the Finance Minister whose-name-we-dare-not-speak and his tyrannical master, the Wicked Witch of the Centre Left!”
“Burn them!” cried the now inflamed crowd, “Burn them at the stake!”
“Yes! Yes!” replied Mr Curdled, now bathed in an unearthly glowing light.
“Fuck this - I’m out of here!” squealed Mug Dyers running for the nearest plane.
- The Babylon Express is a satirical newspaper published randomly in Wellington. Copies are so far only available in local shops whose proprietors haven't got sticks up their arses. Those interested in acquiring previous or upcoming copies should contact the editor at firstname.lastname@example.org. Contributions and suggestions are always very welcome. Cheers.