Now the following will make a bit more sense from the satire context. YMMV.
An ex-theory – by Christopher Monckton
The Catastrophic Global Warming Theory is not just catastrophic: it’s catatonic.
So I says to my mate John Cleese – yes, he of the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch – I says to go down the Pet Theory Shop to complain about it and demand our money back. The shopkeeper is such a nice Indian gentleman, name of Patchy Pachauri. He used to be a railroad engineer, but now he writes best-selling bodice-ripping hard-porn pot-boilers with catchy titles like Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change Fifth Assessment Report.
Cleese: ‘Ello, I wish to register a complaint.
Patchy Pachauri said nothing.
Cleese: ’Ello, Miss?
Patchy Pachauri: What do you mean, “Miss”?
Cleese: (pause) I’m sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
Patchy Pachauri: We’re closin’ for lunch in Bali.
Cleese: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this pet Theory what my government purchased not a quarter of a century ago from this very boutique.
Patchy Pachauri: Oh yes, the, uh, the Thermageddon Blues … What’s, uh … What’s wrong with it?
Cleese: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, my lad. It’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with it!
Patchy Pachauri: No, no, it’s uh, … it’s just Pausing.
Cleese: Look, matey, I know a dead Theory when I see one, and I’m looking at one right now.
Patchy Pachauri: No, no, it’s not dead, it’s, it’s Pausing! Remarkable Theory, the Thermageddon Blues, innit, eh? Beautiful hokey-stick curves!
Cleese: The curves don’t enter into it. It’s stone dead.
Patchy Pachauri: No, no, no, no, no, no! It’s Pausing!
Cleese: All right then, it’s Pausing. I’ll wake it up! (Shouting at a copy of the Fifth Assessment Report) ’Ello, Mister TERI Thermageddon Theory! I’ve got a lovely fresh climate sensitivity estimate for you if you show any signs of life.
(Pachauri slaps the report)
Patchy Pachauri: There, it moved!
Cleese: No, it didn’t, that was you hitting it!
Patchy Pachauri: I never!
Cleese: Yes, you did!
Patchy Pachauri: I never, never did anything of …
Cleese: (yelling and hitting the report repeatedly) ’ELLO, TERI! Testing! Testing! This is your eleventh-hour alarm call!
(Takes the report and thumps it on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
Now that’s what I call a dead Theory.
Patchy Pachauri: No, no…..No, it’s just stunned!
Patchy Pachauri: Yeah! You stunned it, just as it was wakin’ up! Thermageddon Blues stun easily, major.
Cleese: Um … now look … now look, mate, I’ve definitely ‘ad enough of this. That Theory is definitely deceased, and when the Department of Energy, Climate Change and Silly Walks purchased it not a quarter of a century ago, you assured me and my fellow taxpayers that its total lack of movement was due to it bein’ tired and shagged out owin’ to a prolonged hiatus.
Patchy Pachauri: Well, it’s, it’s ah … probably hiding the decline.
Cleese: HIDIN’ THE DECLINE? What kind of talk is that? Look, why did it fall flat on its trend-line the moment we all started spending billions on it?
Patchy Pachauri: The Thermageddon Blues prefers a flat trend-line! Remarkable Theory, innit, squire? Lovely curves!
Cleese: Look, I took the liberty of examining that Theory when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been predicting drastic global warming in the first place was that the whole thing had been made UP!
Patchy Pachauri: Well, o’ course it was made up! If we ’and’t made that theory up, we could never ’ave jetted round and round the world having important meetings at everyone else’s expense. VOOM! Bali. VOOM! Cancun. VOOM! Hawaii. This theory has the VOOM! Factor.
Cleese: “VOOM”? Mate, this theory wouldn’t fly if you put four million fossil-fuel-generated, carbon-emitting volts through it! It’s bleedin’ demised!
Patchy Pachauri: No, no! It’s Pausing!
Cleese: It’s not Pausing! It’s passed on! This Theory is no more! It is deceased! It has ceased to be! It is on the Other Side! It’s off the rails and in the gulch. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker! It’s a stiff! Rigor mortis ’as set in. Bereft of life, it rests in peace! It’s not lost but gone before! It’s six feet under. It’s pushin’ up the daisies! Its metabolic processes are now ’istory! It’s off the twig! It’s fallen off its perch! It is at one with the cosmos! It is with Eywa now. It’s kicked the bucket, it’s handed in its dinner-pail, it’s shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain, lined up its 72 virgins, collected its ’arp and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible! THIS IS AN EX-THEORY!