Obama picks up his Nobel Peace Prize
The auditorium was buzzing with the murmur of hundreds of separate conversations, as the audience waited in a state of excited anticipation for the proceedings to commence. On the dais sat , reading left to right: a tall, stout gentleman in his early seventies, whose bald head gleamed in the stage lights like an ostrich egg on an African plain at high noon; a handsome fellow, perhaps 15 years younger, with well-trimmed, snowy-white hair; a woman of about the same age as snow-head, who bore a vague resemblance to the ornamental object known as a “kitchen witch”; and three middle-aged women who sat with their arms folded across their bosoms, and with ominous scowls on their faces. The septuagenarian was distinguished by his attire – a dark blue uniform complete with red sash and gold epaulettes, the general effect putting one in mind of a British admiral from the late Victorian era. This was King Harald V of Norway, in attendance to perform one of his more boring duties, the presentation of the Nobel Peace Prize to this year’s winner. He muttered to himself, softly. “’Congratulations, Meester Obeamer’. Vait, now…dat’s not right. How dew yew say dat guy’s name? Ach! I know vhat I’ll say. ‘Congratulations, Meester President’. Ha! Goldang, Harald, but yer a shmart vun, if I dew say so!”
Snow-head – Thorbjørn Jagland – the chairman of the Nobel Peace Prize Committee, ran a finger around the inside of his winged collar, and straightened his white bow tie. He turned to the kitchen witch – Sissel Marie Rønbeck – and whispered a question, “De udder ladeez seem a leetle outta sorts dis evenink.”
Sissel – who, in her formal gown, looked like someone’s fairy god-mother-in-law – smiled nervously. “I t’ink mebbe derr still kinda mad about de nomination. Dey don’t really agree vit our choice.”
Abruptly, the lights in the house began to dim, and Jagland stepped to the podium.
He cleared his throat and proceeded. “La-deeeez an’ yentlemen! Tewnight dis here Committee hass de honor tew present de Nobel Peace Prize tew a trewly distinguished citizen of de vorld. Now, some of yew might be sayin’ to yerselves, ‘By cracky, Thorbjørn, hew put de dope in yer fiskesuppe? Dis feller ain’t done nuttink dat I can see.’ But tew yew I say, peace is a forvard-lookin’ proposition, and if ever derr vas a man whose achievements all lie in de future, it’s de President of de Yewnited States of America, Baruch H. Øbama! So, vitout furdder adew, I’ll ask de president tew come on out here and get his avard, which vas granted vit de, er, yewnanimous approval of de Committee.”
Barack Obama, dressed to the nines in full-formal evening wear, walked with a quick step from behind the curtains and approached the podium to loud applause. His smile was a little strained, perhaps because he found Jagland’s speech somewhat lacking in the competent application of unctuousness he was used to receiving back home, including, as it did, the unfortunate reference to the fact that his achievements to date had been conspicuous by their absence. Still, a Nobel prize is a Nobel prize, and if he had to endure the clumsy encomium of Chairman Jagland, it was a small price to pay. King Harald rose from his seat and stepped forward, since it was his job to officially bestow the medal on the winner.
“Congratulations, Meester Banana - er, heh, I mean, congratulations Meester President. Permit me tew present to yew dis here medal, vhich, as yew haff already heard, vas granted by de Committee yewnanimously.”
Suddenly, one of the three scowling women – Kaci Kullmann Five – was on her feet shouting. “By t’under, I can’t shtand no more! De decision vas not originally yewnanimous! Me an’ Inger-Marie an’ Agot taut de whole t'ing vas a shtewpid idear, didn’t ve, girls?”
Inger-Marie and Agot leaped to their feet, too, voicing their approbation of Kaci’s remarks.
“De only reason ve vent along iss because yew kep’ brow beatin’ us, Thorbjørn.”
Jagland, turning a deep shade of magenta in his anger and mortification, roared at Kaci, “Sit down, yew silly cow!”
Kaci, incensed by this comment, grabbed the presentation box out of the king’s hands. Jagland tried to block her move, accidentally grabbing a handful of her bosom.
“Auuuugh!” she screamed. “Yew t’ink yer agoin’ tew grab my bewbs like yew did vit Synnøve Svabø, dew yew? Vell, yew got anutter t’ing comin’, by yimminy!”
King Harald - bitterly lamenting the passing of the old days, when a Viking chief might, with impunity, have waded into a situation like this with a slashing sword, no questions asked - frowned sternly at Jagland. “Thorbjørn, are yew insultink de maidenhewd of dis voman?”
Before Jagland could explain, Kaci opened the box, grabbed the medal by the ribbon, and swung it at the chairman’s head like a medieval flail, clopping him a juicy one on the jaw. Obama shouted. “Hey! You’re denting my medal!” Turning quickly to the microphone, he added, “Which, incidentally, I don’t deserve, but…Will you please stop beating him with it?”
Kaci, her wrath expended, stood over Jagland’s prostrate form, breathing heavily. The chairman lay on the floor moaning, his face covered with reddish, circular indentations, each one bearing within its circumference the incuse likeness of Alfred Nobel. Kaci tossed the medal to Obama, who caught it, two-handed. She then said to the President, “Now, dat dere mebbe you deserve.”
Obama looked at the battered and dented medal. It was bent almost in half, with the side bearing the image of Alfred Nobel being concave; the crease across the middle distended the lower half of the old boy’s face, making his chin look like Popeye’s.
The President gazed at the medal somberly, then looked at King Harald. “There’s some cash that’s supposed to go with this, too, right?”