[SKRIVA] God Jul - med en liten julsatir!
- From: Ahrvid Engholm <ahrvid@xxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <skriva@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Thu, 22 Dec 2011 23:40:56 +0100
En satir inspirerad av http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJr60IpZcyU - den
engelska versionen av Tage Danielssons skröna om "K-B J:s julafton". Med det
vill jag önska alla GOD JUL - så småningom också GOTT NYTT ÅR! Drick inte för
mycket julklappar, ät inte för mycket glögg, öppna inte pepparkakorna i förväg,
och bekymra er inte så mycket om vädret. (Min lilla drapa är fri att återposta
och sprida vidare för den som så önskar.) --AE
HARRY README?S CHRISTMAS MISSION
Once upon a time at Christmas a long time ago poor, independent scientists
could still be seen walking around in the laboratories. Up to that time it
hadn?t been shameful to be a scientist, and professors and PhDs didn't fill
Mainstream Media with opinion pieces. But when the Christmas this story is
about was approaching there had been a change in the research climate. There
was a fixing and data massaging, peer reviewing and boot licking, temperature
adjusting and repackaging, due to a vast increase in climate research funding
that made the scientific community richer and average citizen poorer.
In the main Telegraph Office in the capital city stood Harry Readme sorting
IP packets. Harry Readme was a young computer programmer, but there he stood
sorting IP packets. During the days just before Christmas the Telegraph Office
hired programmers to work all night, because the regular personnel sat and
played poker with emission rights.
Now, perhaps you feel sorry for Harry because he had to stand all night
sorting incoming packets, but really there is no reason to feel sorry for him
at all. He came from a well-to-do family. His father owned an environmental
organisation and became richer every day selling individual emission rights and
pictures of cute polar bear cubs. While Harry stood and directed packets saying
"Buy Viagra!" to the bit bucket of the virile department he thought of Adam
Smith.
Adam Smith was Harry's idol. Free trade, a market that optimises resources,
an invisible hand that nudged a bit for a just cause, healthy economic growth,
defending the chastity of politicians, keeping them from increasing streams of
taxation, and reverence for lawmaking limitations. That was some of the things
that to Harry seemed to be the best life had to offer. And of course, the
principle of empirical proof: let the economy grow to give to the poor.
At four o'clock in the morning, with a sigh of relief, Harry threw the last
Nigeria mail in the Telegraph Office spam filter and went home through the
empty server rack corridor. His steps echoed against the computer casings. Let
the economy grow to give to the poor.
Christmas was near. These unfortunate people for which globalisation is the
salvation. To all men a free market. The beacon of hope is lit again. Will that
beacon shine on those who wander in politicised economies? Dancing around the
Kapital book of a very red man with a huge beard? Cold shines the system LED on
those who have no homepage. Let the economy grow to give to the poor. Let the
economy grow to give to the poor.
It was then that Harry Readme made his decision.
At half past twelve the next day Harry was waken by his loving mother. He got
up, ate his two biodynamically grown soyaburgers with bean sprouts, sneaked
past his fathers firewall, swiped his address-book file and left for the
Telegraph Office. He began sorting incoming packets with the repetitious
monotony of a child who had played World of Warcraft for 27 hours. But his eye
checked the receiver of every packet. It was particulary the status of each
addressee that interested him. Receivers like Wattsupwiththat, Joannenova,
Bishop Hill and James Delingpole he put in the outgoing channels without
further ado. But when he found a receiver at Climate Research Unit, Realclimate
or Penn State University he made a copy that he slipped into a special
directory he had created. That was also the place for packet copies to the
likes of Phil Jones, Michael Mann, Kevin Tranberth and others in his father's
address book. Let the economy grow to give to the poor.
By supper time the directory was well-filled with packets. He stayed behind
while the others had something to eat, and as soon as he was alone he googled
for fundings and turnovers. Climate Research Unit, 23 million in climate
research funding. The packets to CRU were kept in the directory. So did all
others whose funding or turnover was big enough. Even packets for his own
father from aunt Martha were kept in the special directory. No favouritism.
Equality for everyone. Now the directory was full to the top. He PGP encrypted
and zipped it and E-mailed it to his own address.
The next day was Christmas Eve. Harry was waken at twelve o?clock by his loving
mother who stood beside the bed with tinsel in her hair and a tray of
fair-trade coffee and ecological biscuits and said:
"Harry, our WiFi was very sluggish last night."
"Oh," Harry answered. "I mailed me some IP packets that I have to sort."
"Harry, surely they don't expect you to work on Christmas Eve."
"One has to do one's duty in life, you see mother. A job well done gives
economic growth which is the foundation upon which society is built."
Harry?s loving mother looked at her boy, moved and proud.
"My dear little boy."
Harry soon booted his computer and opened a VPN tunnel to a mail host. He
assembled the packets and re-mailed the contents. With every mailing he
enclosed a message:
MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM AN UNKNOWN TRUTH SEEKER
The living room was already filled with the Christmas spirit despite that
father Readme's environmental organisation had proclaimed it as a Solidarity
Christmas. Christmas songs came from the radio. Other Christmas songs came from
the TV set. Everyone was good and kind to the depths of their being. In short
Christmas had come. In the kitchen his father prepared some beet juice. The
vegetable soup stood on the stove and stank
"The very merriest of Christmases to you my good boy. Would you like to taste
the soup, my son," the father asked. Before Harry could think of an excuse to
hide he declined his mother yelled from the living room:
"I have finished the tree now, Charles. Now come here and put the propeller
on top. Look, isn't it beautiful and in harmony with nature!"
(Couldn't one among the decoration flags spot some from certain totalitarian
systems, that also liked nature and was fond of dogs and all animals, but not
so much certain people?)
This was father's big job at Christmas. Putting on top of the Christmas tree
a wind turbine that anyone could buy from his environmental organisation, but
which of course he took for free.
With sounds of celebration the family ate its Christmas Eve meal. For Harry
the rest of the evening passed in an atmosphere of inner joy, a feeling that
good deeds give to those who do them. Christmas Eve ebbed away with that mutual
feeling of devoutness that only an old propaganda documentary on TV can give
people.
But just as Al Gore was climbing his blinking ladder to get right to the top
and groaned with a face even redder than usual, the telephone rang. Mother
answered:
"Hello! Auntie Martha. Merry Christmas. What? An action plan against nuclear
power? No we haven't received any act... What? Trespassing? Sabotage the
turbines? Sorry auntie Martha, but we didn't receive it. Do that auntie Martha.
Good bye. Take care of yourse... Charles! Auntie Martha sent us an action plan
against nuclear power."
"Oh well, thank heavens it didn't arrive. Now, be quiet, I'm watching Al
Gore!"
"But Charles, she hang up on me. She said she was going to phone the director
general of the Telegraph Office."
"Poor man. I expect that he is trying to watch Al Gore. Now, be quiet."
"Dear me, how strange that it should have got lost. Can you understand it,
Harry? You work at the Telegraph Office."
During a fraction of a second Harry went through an emotional crisis. Lie
like the IPCC to his mother on Christmas Eve? No. Resolutely tell the truth?
Yes.
"The distribution may have been disturbed when I made a copy of the mail and
sent it to climate critics."
"What? What!" his father said. "What did I hear you say you did?"
"I gave auntie Martha's energy sabotage plan to someone who would have use of
the information."
"Have you gone mad, boy!"
"I have taken lots of other E-mails from environmentalists and sent them to
climate critics."
"What! I've harboured a fascist in my breast!"
Charles Readme was one of those who thought that anyone who wanted more
market economy and less politics was a fascist.
"But father, you said yourself that you were beginning to wonder if nuclear
power isn't after all safe and economical!"
"Said? Said! It was our environmental dogma! What do you think all the others
will say? And who else have you taken E-mail from, besides me?"
"They are ticked off in my copy of your address book."
"I don't believe this. Don't you see what you have done! You may be subject
to extremely vague allegations from a Swedish activist prosecutor and have a
European arrest warrant issued against you."
"I'm prepared to take the consequences, father. All I've done is to give a
little information to those poor critics who don't dominate Mainstream Media
and have access to all of our tax money to environmental groups and in climate
research grants."
Charles Readme was almost strangled by his Christmas anger.
"First thing tomorrow my boy, you're coming with me to beg forgiveness from
all the people you have stolen E-mail from. And off to bed. You can't stay up
and watch the end of the film.?
Harry went to bed. He had already seen in virtually every newspaper how the
film ended, since all of them every day devastated huge areas of Amazonas with
countless pages of climate and environmental articles. In just a few years the
ocean would rise with twenty feet and drown New York City. Harry could hardly
stop giggling at this absurd idea.
Let us now stop a moment and ask a few questions. Wouldn't Harry's father's
heart have softened if he with his own eyes could have seen the joy his son had
spread in constantly attacked and harassed layers of the public debate? Could
he have remained angry if he had caught a glimpse of the home of Hari B'tram of
India who now thanks to trade, industrialisation and globalisation had a
well-paid job weaving silk ties for export and now better could provide for his
children? And how could he have remained indignant if he had seen the Tanzanian
widow Llebet Hartafildebe who now didn't have to work 14 hours per day in the
fields and had a good job sewing sports shoes?
Such questions will never be answered.
Charles Readme fell asleep this Christmas night in anger.
Not even the morning show's compulsory interview with their own reporter,
earlier working for Greenpeace, with a message of zero growth and sustainable
energy from solar cells in near-arctic countries, could make Charles Readme?s
disposition any more charitable. He was a man of justice who didn't want to be
mixed up in any climate skepticism. Later that day he took the address file and
his son and went on a pilgrimage to a number of people who were deep into the
environmentalist movement. Naturally they took the car powered with sustainable
wood gas, despite it took several minutes to start.
The chairman of Friends of Green Earth had a mahogany door and a maid.
"May we speak to Mr Bergdahl. It's about an E-mail getting astray."
They were shown into a large room were Mr Bergdahl drew up the next
demonstrations plans on a green cloth.
"Good afternoon, sir. Well, the thing is I'm afraid my son has sent one of
your E-mails to a environmental critic."
"I wanted to say I'm sorry," Harry said. "But it is just that you already
have all the media in your pocket and don't need that mail, which could spread
a little sunshine in the lower ranks of the bottom ladder of public debate."
Mr Bergdahl stood with his mouth open.
"Well, my goodness, if that isn't the nicest thing I've heard since I joined
Green Youth. I've began wonder why warming has stopped for over a decade and
that the climate models are unable even to predict if the lamp goes on when I
open the fridge. Have some cake!"
"Oh, it must be uncle Arthur's plan to hire a private detective to find libel
against Climateaudit," Mrs Bergdahl said. "He called yesterday to ask about it.
I do hope it was a good plan, because that's what I told him."
"Yes, that's what we usually say when they ask. One can't keep track of all
the rubbish that the clog-wearing loonies in the movement keep sending us.
Thank you for relieving us from the private detective stunts."
Harry's journey of apology more and more turned into a regular journey of
triumph. Everywhere he went he was treated like a hero. And the joy of the
former environmentalists whose mail had been leaked knew no bounds. Charles
Readme's embarrassment over his son's behaviour was gradually replaced by a
proud smile.
Visiting one of the last E-mail addressees he suggested that the whole thing
should have a name, maybe resembling how some crooks burgled a political party
to bug it.
"Well, of course, I may not be the right person to suggest this. All the
same, it seems to me that the general consensus of opinion make it appropriate
for me to suggest that we find a name for that climate alarmists for years have
spread lies, corrupted research, stabbed critical scientists in the back,
manipulated the computer modelling code and don't even believe in their own
message themselves. I suggest we call all this: Climategate!"
People around enthusiastically shouted "Climategate, hurrah!" and hoisted
Harry into the air.
"Ho-ho! Come along my boy!"
When they got home night had already fallen and a Christmas star glittered
above.
"Come here, my dear. Our son is a kind and humble and realistic human being,"
was Charles Readme's joyful message to the family when they came home.
"Oh, what blessings for the world economy this Christmas has brought,"
Harry?s mother said.
Note the rational look in her eyes. This story took place when a dominating
pseudo-scientific dogma was replaced with the birth of rationalism.
--Ahrvid Engholm (ahrvid@xxxxxxxxxxx)
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