The President awoke in a rage due to the ineptitude token trans-Atlantican (I have yet to see proof that he is not in fact Canadian), once again he had forgotten to make the diurnal trip to the pharmacists for the procurement of the unmentioned drug. The rogue of a North American persuasion claimed that he had not forgotten as much as couldn’t afford it. It was at that point the ledgers were open for perusal. As it turned out the accounts could no longer support the President’s addiction to Zagram. Luckily for us the President’s memory is as fickle as his in sexual preference. The only way we could get through this would be to never refer to the drug in question. At that precise moment the Intern entered the room declaring that he had found a prescription for Sparfloxacin: 5-amino-1-cyclopropyl-7-[(3R, 5S)3,5-dimethylpiperazin-1-yl]-6, 8-diflouro-4-oxo-quinoline-3-carboxylic acid.
After dealing with the aftermath we headed over to the writing desk to prepare a statement for the imminent authorities. As all philanthropic societies know, the best way to make this dispatch was to have a press release. The only problem was that since the untimely death of our last spokesman (he was found in Africa, devoured by some strange variety of ant that I don’t care to mention any more) we were left with the incoherent babblings of The Belgian for a public front man. It was decided that the only thing British people understand about Belgium is Poirot (bad) and the European Union (worse). To this end the press release was designed to exist as a league table of Europeans and due to pure happenstance Admiral Nelson was fast asleep after his morning perambulation.
Back at the farm the cows needed milking but The Secretary was incapable of performing relevant task due to his incessant habit/addiction striating his balls. Four months later, the cows having died of infection, the car that we had found at the bottom of the valley was towed away by the same officer of the law that had chased us away from the festering corpse of old Mrs. Malone which was fortunate due to the fact that we were planning on reconstructing the Ark of the Covenant for purely recreational reasons. The President, still unconscious but nonetheless as useful to the society as ever was towed into place under the archway of the Ark. What we did not expect was that as soon as he was placed under the glaring gaze of the sun he spontaneously opened to expose the huge golden tablets given to Joseph Smith all those ago. It was generally agreed that the phototoxic properties of The President’s drug of choice was the reason for the whole sordid affair. The Belgian, being the only man of such a disgusting nature, suggested that we worship the tablets as idols, but the Intern countered that he would only take part in this filthy plan “if I can be the leader of a cult and make you all do my bidding”. This was obviously a dangerous path to tread as everybody knows about The Intern’s wretched ether addiction, the cult would no doubt revolve around ether-induced oracle-like prophesies, no doubt involving kittens and spades. Seemingly being the only man of sound mind, I demanded that the gold tablets be melted down to fill the coffers of the societal accounts, only that way could we maintain The President in the manner in which he has become accustomed (incapacitated).