In Ottawa, it is said, one may obtain anything. For a price.
There are those who will burn the Hansard of one’s choosing to ashes. These ashes are then kept in an empty bottle of Blue for no less than 12 hours and no more than 24 hours. Then the ashes are passed before an unfurled flag while those about read passages from any work by Pierre Burton. Finally, the ashes are thrown into the air. From the pattern in which the ashes fall to the ground, an experienced reader is supposed to be able to divine the future.
Such “readers” of Hansard (for, in truth, there are few who read Hansard in the common sense of the word) have advised Canadian politicians for decades. Usually, there is at least one in the Cabinet, most often in the position of Minister of Communications (or its historical equivalent).
The Prime Minister was consulting his Minister of Communications. “It has been one year,” the Prime Minister said, “And, now, more than ever, I need to know what the future holds…”
“Don’t put any money in the Canadian Commercial Bank,” the Minister sagely suggested.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” the Prime Minister claimed. “The CCB went bankrupt a few weeks ago…”
The Minister smiled to himself, as if quietly congratulating himself for his sagical correctness. “Be wary of friends who smile and speak softly,” the Minister advised further, “for they are desirous of your participation in highly improbable national defense schemes which will benefit you and your people little…”
The Prime Minister grew impatient. “This is old news,” he said sharply. “Can you tell me nothing of the future?”
The Minister shrugged. “The future will always be revealed to he who has patience…” he wisely suggested.
* * *
In Washington, it is said, one may obtain anything. For a price.
There are those who will burn the Congressional Record of one’s choosing to ashes. These ashes are then kept in an empty bottle of Coor’s Lite for no less than four hours and no more than eight hours. Then, the ashes are passed before an unfurled American flag while those about read passages from any work by Studs Turkel out loud. Finally, the ashes are thrown into the air. From the pattern in which the ashes fall to the ground, an experienced reader is supposed to be able to divine the future.
Such “readers” of the Congressional Record (for, in truth, there are few who read the Congressional Record in the common sense of the word) have advised American politicians for over a century. Usually, there is at least one in the Executive Branch, most often in the position of Secretary of the Interior (or its historical equivalent).
The President was consulting his Secretary of the Interior. “It has been six years,” the President said, “and, now, more than ever, I need to know what the future holds…”
“Don’t invest in Krugerrands,” the Secretary sagely advised.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” the President claimed. “We just outlawed the sale of them in the United States.”
The Secretary smiled to himself, as if quietly congratulating himself on his sagical skill. “Be wary of friends who grin broadly and speak to nobody but themselves,” the Secretary advised further, “for they will lead you down a protectionist path that will destroy all that you have worked so hard for.”
The President grew impatient. “Well, these are threats which have already manifested themselves,” he said, sharply. “Can you tell me nothing of the unforeseen future?”
The Secretary shrugged. “When the police are at the front door, it’s best not to worry about the wolves one might meet tomorrow,” he wisely advised.
* * *
In Moscow, it is said, one may obtain anything. For a price. And, if one is willing to wait in line.
There are those who will burn the Pravda of one’s choosing to ashes. These ashes are then kept in an empty bottle of Vodka for no less than an hour and no more than two hours. Then, the ashes are passed before an unfurled Russian flag while those about read passages from any work by Alexander Solzhenitsyn out loud. Finally, the ashes are thrown into the air. From the pattern in which the ashes fall to the ground, an experienced reader is supposed to be able to divine the future.
Such “readers” of the Pravda (for, in truth, there are few who read the Pravda in the common sense of the word outside of the American State Department) have advised Russian politicians since the time of the Tsars. Usually, there is at least one in the Central Committee, most often in the position of KGB Chief.
The Premier was consulting the head of the KGB. “It has been many months,” the Premier said, “and, now, more than ever, I need to know – for the good of the masses – what the future holds.”
“I wish I could tell you,” the other replied, “but I could see nothing of the future in the ashes. All that I could see was a dirty Kremlin floor. I’d suggest a subscription to The Times.”
The two men looked at each other for several seconds. Then, the Premier shrugged. “In a land where all is known, even the keeper of secrets can be waylaid by a passing thief,” he wisely suggested.
How intricate are the threads from which the fine tapestry of international politics is woven!