Phifblaquestan
11-11-2004, 01:41
The first thing that struck a person about Mr. Suviode Raledea was a smile. A massively lustrous smile that carved a great swath of teeth and gums through his benign complexion and left the viewer in a daze of confusion as they contemplated just what could make a person that gregariously happy. And that was exactly the impression that Mr. Raledea wanted to impress upon the viewers he was about to speak to, and so in hasty preparation he massaged his jaw vigorously before turning diligently towards the camera adorned by directors with waving fingers and crew men who pranced about as if the exact shade his face glowed could make all the difference in the reception of the Phifblaquestani presentation.
People were, of course, rather vapid, so somehow he did not rule that out as a distinct possibility.
Three fingers, two fingers, one finger, he has surely been shot back to kindergarten. This sarcastic remark bounding between his temples was his last thought before he cracked a grin for the camera he was looking towards with such open adoration as should only be showered upon a newborn child.
“My fellow world leaders and the citizens whom they represent, I come before you today to dispel the rumors of supposed ‘civil rights abuses’ that have been flitting around shamelessly since Phifblaquestan was allowed into the most sacred realm of the United Nations. It is the hope of the Vicuna Corporation and the people of Phifblaquestan that this first step may quell any differences of opinion before we find ourselves steeped in unnecessary conflict.”
Mr. Raledea spread his arms empathically in a gesture that just begged for understanding, his perfect smile faltering like the whimper of a kicked puppy smacked across a screen to rake in donations. His finely cut suit rose up into two peaks at his shoulders and his purple wool Vicuna pin rustled in his lapel. He wore this pin, despite it’s obviously bizarre aesthetics, at all times. It was a symbol of the country that he lived and worked in by depicting the Vicuna, the most beloved national animal whose purple wool was knitted within Phifblaquestan to create it’s greatest export (this being the purple little old lady sweater), the very wool that the pin was comprised off. It clashed with his neatly styled hair and his expertly tailored suit but his loyalty to such meaningless symbols had made him what he was today and he wanted to world to know it.
“Phifblaquestan is built upon the relationship between the Vicuna Corporation and the consumers it provides for, granted in this particular situation that relationship involves the retailing of narcotics, however VC would like to remind the UN that these substances are a cultural tradition and in no way are used to control the populace through their addiction. Not that the populace is addicted. Or that we would allow them to become so.”
Mr. Raledea’s eyes shifted quickly back and forth before he coughed discreetly into his hand and relaxed back into his calming state of debonair reassurance. From his dark eyes to his overly sincere way of speaking, Mr. Raledea was the type of person whom you knew if you leaned upon, you would slid off of.
“Furthermore, the only reason that Phifblaquestan is without ‘government’”, Mr. Raledea lay his clasped hands pointed ceiling to inform the viewer that he simply did not understand this compliant he was lowered to addressing at all while he let his eyes wander upwards, “is because VC as well as our dedicated consumers found that it got in the way of the free trade between the two sectors of Phifblaquestan. The Vicuna Corporation and it’s consumers live in a symbiotic relationship that is mutually beneficial. VC supplies the populace with the tools they need to maintain their lifestyle and is repaid in Vicuna related labour including tending, sheering, and knitting. Then VC is able to take the products created through this honest trade and sell them internationally, creating a revenue which we can invest back into our consumer’s well being.”
“So you see”, Mr. Raledea added personably, “Phifblaquestan is not an ‘enslaved nation’ as some would lead you to assume, but rather a small and humble nation that supports it’s self in a way that most countries are not accustomed to. However, mustn’t we remember that the celebration of unity of different nations is what the UN was founded for?”, Mr. Raleda raised his eyebrows in his honest but rhetorical question.
People were, of course, rather vapid, so somehow he did not rule that out as a distinct possibility.
Three fingers, two fingers, one finger, he has surely been shot back to kindergarten. This sarcastic remark bounding between his temples was his last thought before he cracked a grin for the camera he was looking towards with such open adoration as should only be showered upon a newborn child.
“My fellow world leaders and the citizens whom they represent, I come before you today to dispel the rumors of supposed ‘civil rights abuses’ that have been flitting around shamelessly since Phifblaquestan was allowed into the most sacred realm of the United Nations. It is the hope of the Vicuna Corporation and the people of Phifblaquestan that this first step may quell any differences of opinion before we find ourselves steeped in unnecessary conflict.”
Mr. Raledea spread his arms empathically in a gesture that just begged for understanding, his perfect smile faltering like the whimper of a kicked puppy smacked across a screen to rake in donations. His finely cut suit rose up into two peaks at his shoulders and his purple wool Vicuna pin rustled in his lapel. He wore this pin, despite it’s obviously bizarre aesthetics, at all times. It was a symbol of the country that he lived and worked in by depicting the Vicuna, the most beloved national animal whose purple wool was knitted within Phifblaquestan to create it’s greatest export (this being the purple little old lady sweater), the very wool that the pin was comprised off. It clashed with his neatly styled hair and his expertly tailored suit but his loyalty to such meaningless symbols had made him what he was today and he wanted to world to know it.
“Phifblaquestan is built upon the relationship between the Vicuna Corporation and the consumers it provides for, granted in this particular situation that relationship involves the retailing of narcotics, however VC would like to remind the UN that these substances are a cultural tradition and in no way are used to control the populace through their addiction. Not that the populace is addicted. Or that we would allow them to become so.”
Mr. Raledea’s eyes shifted quickly back and forth before he coughed discreetly into his hand and relaxed back into his calming state of debonair reassurance. From his dark eyes to his overly sincere way of speaking, Mr. Raledea was the type of person whom you knew if you leaned upon, you would slid off of.
“Furthermore, the only reason that Phifblaquestan is without ‘government’”, Mr. Raledea lay his clasped hands pointed ceiling to inform the viewer that he simply did not understand this compliant he was lowered to addressing at all while he let his eyes wander upwards, “is because VC as well as our dedicated consumers found that it got in the way of the free trade between the two sectors of Phifblaquestan. The Vicuna Corporation and it’s consumers live in a symbiotic relationship that is mutually beneficial. VC supplies the populace with the tools they need to maintain their lifestyle and is repaid in Vicuna related labour including tending, sheering, and knitting. Then VC is able to take the products created through this honest trade and sell them internationally, creating a revenue which we can invest back into our consumer’s well being.”
“So you see”, Mr. Raledea added personably, “Phifblaquestan is not an ‘enslaved nation’ as some would lead you to assume, but rather a small and humble nation that supports it’s self in a way that most countries are not accustomed to. However, mustn’t we remember that the celebration of unity of different nations is what the UN was founded for?”, Mr. Raleda raised his eyebrows in his honest but rhetorical question.