Tributes poured in today like a gushing and foamy torrent of good wishes and kind sentiment for former Secretary of State for America and Richard Nixon Henry A. Kissinger, who died yesterday, the day before today, aged 137, of natural causes and seafood, and was alive before that. Christopher Hitchens, columnist for Vanity Fair and sweaty fop of the world of letters, remembered him fondly. “To me,” Hitchens revered, “he was like the uncle I never had. I loved him like a special uncle. The kind that is particularly nice to their favourite nephew. You know, in that way we’re not ‘supposed’ to talk about. What?”

Kissinger’s entry into most books of quotations is, of course, “Power is the greatest aphrodisiac.” The journalist to whom he intoned these historical words, however, is adamant that this is not an accurate account of what he said. “They edited me, the b*stards,” said Klepto Unguent yesterday, still bitter like rancid butter after all these years. “What he actually said, if you really want to know, is ‘Power is the greatest aphrodisiac, with the exception of goitre-licking, which makes me hard like a witch’s broomstick.’ They couldn’t handle the truth.”

Kissinger in Sydney last year
Kissinger will perhaps be remembered best for his unique plan to assuage the tense political situation in the Middle East. Always controversial, he went too far for some in his 1987 speech at the United Nations, in which his suggestions included raising a dark army of mighty golems to destroy Palestinian power strongholds and crush the will of “that evil vampire Arafat.” European leaders were perhaps most unforgiving and Steven Spielberg, interim Head of State in Norway at the time, famously called his approach “hopelessly unrealistic.” Kissinger held his nerve, however, and his lasting legacy may yet prove to be peace in that dry monkey’s tit of a region.

Not just famous for his statesmanship, Kissinger was also a ravenous socialite, bedding woman after woman in an almost non-stop orgy of celebrity consubstantiality. Loony Munter, an old friend of Kissinger’s, remembers one particular occasion when his insatiable carnal appetite got him into trouble. “I had just been f*cking Marilyn Monroe when I said ‘Hey Kissy, why don’t you come over here and also f*ck Marilyn Monroe.’ He was not happy with this. He said to me ‘Loony, you are a c*ckbiter. Cannot you see that at the moment I am f*cking Jill St. John.’ I said ‘Henry, come over here right now and f*ck Marilyn Monroe.’ Well, he was just about to reply when Lyndon B. Johnson walked into the room. ‘You two,’ he said to us, ‘are a randy pair of cunts.” It was after this incident, history records, that Kissinger was banned from using the oval office.

In later life Kissinger suffered from increasingly severe bouts of paranoia and according to local witnesses became a hunchbacked recluse, living in a large mock-medieval castle in an obscure corner of West Virginia. He drank large flagons of ale, ate purple sausages and slouched around his courtyard, lisping enigmatic phrases such as “Call me doctor! Call me doctor!” Clutched in his sclerotic fist when his deceased corpse was discovered was a bizarre note containing nothing but two lines of cryptic verse -

Blue-faced Annie
Has a septic fanny.

So far no-one has been able to decipher the code.

Reports that Kissinger had three penises are so far unsubstantiated.