[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
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 
  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:
  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 
  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 
  "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 
  "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? 
  "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 
  "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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  • » [SKRIVA] God Jul - med en liten julsatir! - Ahrvid Engholm