By Johnny Bananas
In case you haven’t heard of the World Economic Forum (WEF), likely because as a member of the world you’re on the target not the invite list, here is a brief synopsis. Picture a remote ski village in Davos, Switzerland. Private airports packed with even more private jets flown by the leaders of global climate change initiatives. Conference rooms full of swankily dressed billionaires and gagillionaires engaging in thinly disguised dialogue masquerading as “global policy”, pretentious pontificating for which they have dutifully burdened themselves. A luxury break between corporate take-overs and color revolutions, which are actually quite exhausting, to simply plan out the future of our world.
What does one have to do to get into this elitist of elite supra-governmental country clubs asks the warm and red-blooded, freedom loving types? If when I say pedigree you think of dog food the chances of you getting in are about the same as you running a successful chain of saunas in the underworld.
Speaking of hell, that is the likely afterlife vacation spot for WEF founder and globalist super predator Klaus Schwab, or as he’s genially known among his adoring fans, Satan Klaus. Like the lone ranger of the North Pole this Klaus has worked hard to see you when you’re sleeping and to know when you’re awake thanks to your pocket sized geo-tracker. Like most of their dubiously named inventions your “smart” phone, which actually makes you dumber, has a double meaning. The smartest thing about it for someone like Klaus is he gets you to pay for your own slow motion “lee-bear-ation from zee shackles of kah-peet-al-izm” (re: techno-slavery). Resist your urge to pat him on the back, they have an app for that. Klaus doesn’t like to be touched by “zee little pee-ple”.
In a room filled by folks who compare themselves by the number of central banks they own, Klaus is decidedly a low man on the totem pole. Making up for the disappointment of taking his family’s hard earned Nazi fortune and turning it into mere millions, Klaus does what any megalomaniacal Ubermensch would – overcompensate by throwing parties for the absurdly rich and powerful. If power corrupts this group is consolidating it, absolutely.
Baby Klaus was groomed for this moment by parents who had him suckling at the breasts of an exclusive German coven with high turnover because it turns out witches don’t have the best hygiene. His evenings were spent listening to torridly narrated stories by his third-cousin twice-removed Adolf, who liked to brag about his new job as chancellor. If he was lucky, Uncle Addy would read him bedtime stories by Hegel or the Brothers Grimm. Little Klaus would drift off fantasizing his real parents were Odin and Heimdallr who moved his bedroom from the dungeon to the second floor where he could see the smoke billowing softly from Dachau. Ahh, memories.
Young Klaus was shipped off to boarding school, or “internat” if you speak supremacist. The silver spoons, freshly removed from the homes of his Hebraic neighbors, supped borscht made red from something other than beets. Afternoons were spent hunting big game in the zuruck vierzig in preparation for the most dangerous game – taking over the sonnensystem. A solid C student, Klaus learned quickly, if he learned anything, that success was a matter of who you knew.
After college and narrowly dodging the Nuremberg trials, Klaus set out into the world he hoped to dominate as an economist. Despite lengthy sessions of Marxist indoctrination Klaus only remembers a joke about economists that goes:
Three men apply for the same job, a mathematician, an accountant and an economist. The interviewer asks each the same question “What does two plus two equal?”. The mathematician answers “Four.” The accountant answers “Four, plus or minus one.” The economist looks around, lowers the blinds, dims the lights, then leans in close to ask “What do you want it to equal?” He still laughs when telling it at parties, because he knows deep down the real answer is five.
Advancing to a semi-profitable career in economics Klaus felt stagnant and stultified by the stunning success of capitalism that brought him only millions of dollars rather than the millions of subjects he and his secret society brothers deserved. He realized he needed a mentor. Disappointed by the chicanery of a young Tony Robbins who had Klaus hopping over hot coals, clearly a part of his future for which he wasn’t ready, and overwhelmed by the amount of homework given by Stephen Covey, Klaus did what any son of reptilian overlords would. He reached out to Satan who famously taught about what it means to make sacrifices.
As luck would have it, however, Klaus was working an evening job for his fourth-cousins seven-times removed – the Windsors. Serving cocktails he overheard Mick Jagger waxing on and on about a very influential and cosmopolitan man who once held a general’s rank as a tank driver for his beloved German army. Klaus, not too proud to beg, convinced a sympathetic Mick to arrange a meeting. Looking the part in his best Lord and Taylor suit Klaus became an instant fan boy of this man of wealth and taste. In rapt attention Klaus could hardly keep from blushing as the one known as Sweet Lou regaled him with stories of a life, not unlike Forrest Gump’s, punctuated by being at all the wrong places at the right time. He swore he saw a second shooter on the grassy knoll while attending John Kennedy’s last parade. For the first time in Klaus’ life he thought he was actually experiencing those things called feelings.
Lou boasted a small but international coterie of protégés, with an emphasis on what he proudly referred to as “diversity, equity and inclusion”. Introduced to a young Hillary Clinton and an Ethopian communist named Tedros who was planning his first genocide, Klaus was somewhat shocked to find out this meant he would be working with women and black people. “Keep your eye on the prize” he heard that sometimes scary inner voice say. Luckily, the band of randy ne’er do wells pulled together playing games like Risk and watching movies like Austin Powers late into the night. Smitten by the smooth styling of his new favorite character Dr. Evil, likewise bald and somewhat grotesque in that can’t help but admire it way thought Klaus, he quickly adopted the look to match his deep Teutonic aspirations. Donning his hand-stitched by real Uyghurs Alien Lord tunic Klaus at last felt like he could take on the world, literally.
As luck and some heavy conspiring would have it, these upstarts had all the right friends in all the right places to slowly and methodically take the western world by silent storm. No longer stuck palling around with dorks like Gerhard back in school, Klaus was now hobnobbing with studs like Bill Gates. The WEF meeting began to fill with the A-list of the super-rich, so elite you won’t find their numbers in the Yellow Pages because they exchange them in their little black books on Epstein Island.
Life is great now if you ask Klaus, who says so in the titles of his books. Ever the optimist Klaus can find the silver lining in anything. Pandemic you say? Time for a Great Reset! Unpopular you say? Time for a Great Narrative! Too many people causing climate change? We need a Great Cleansing – how many bee-llion of you should vee have take vun for zee team!
After all, we’re all in this together, right Satan Klaus?
Johnny Bananas is the nom de plume of a fake news reporter living in Vermont. Nothing he reports ever actually happened.