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Tuesday, 16 February 2016



                               Preliminary Draft Version


Yuri Minkowitz was the President of Grössen Pharma, a pharmaceutical conglomerate based about fifty miles away in Garten Parmisch-Kirchen, a nouveau riche city on the River Dneiper. While ethnically Russo-German, he was born in the ancient seaport of Constanţa on the far eastern tip of Trystonia. He was dressed in a long silver tunic and sported a furry, creamy-white beard, two large gold earrings, and an ivory nosepiece.

“Misdiagnosis is the key to the entire business,” he declared, somewhat egocentrically. “If the shrinkotherapists continue to convince twenty-five percent of our proletariat that they're off their stupid rockers, then we'll be able to continue pumping all sorts of poisonous garbage into their heads and knocking every ounce of creativity out of them. To cap that, Grössen Pharma's vaccination programs are culling over ten percent of the babies born on this planet, and maiming another fifteen percent for life. Way to go, way to go, Grössen Pharma's the way to go!”

A pox on his house, agonized Trithagoras.

“Excuse me, Dr. Minkowitz,” he interrupted, “but we are discussing how we should refine and improve our current performances, and how we should instruct Milos Muffles on these issues. Do you have any suggestions which might be of relevance to these endeavours?”

“How should I know?” yelped Minkowitz, getting into a flap. “Maybe you should go back in history and consider what the Machiavellian British statisticians initiated during the early twentieth century. Galton, Pearson and Fisher stuck it up everybody's arses! During the following hundred years or so, the covert agencies on Planet Earth really socked it to the plebs and proles and it looked as if they would be zombified and enslaved until eternity.”

“Until the Leith Something for Everybody movement of 2125 brought about a succession of grass roots democracies around Planet Earth,” Trithagoras dryly replied. “The movement was devised and organised by a group of psychiatric survivors, poets, and head banging anarchists centred in the impoverished northern outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.”

“The wonderfully barbaric assassination in 2129 of their paranoid schizophrenic leader Julius Statisticus Scotius only served to inspire them further,” added General Spunk Spitfire, with a snort and a grimace.

“They impaled that tosser with a pike and hung him by his bollocks from the Forth Road Bridge,” chortled Prince Caleb.

Dr. Siren Liebershrink adjusted her artificial nose.

“The Lord Trithagoras addresses a key issue,” she responded. “We need to put down the plebeians so ruthlessly that they will never again rise like phoenixes from the ashes. It is however unclear to me how we can do this while maintaining enough productivity from the shit-wallowing, zombified slaves to support the lifestyles of the super-wealthy with appropriate lavishness.”

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