The sporadic way in which Ambassadorial admission to Johnny Jumblewords has become an increasingly prickly pear between Whistling Winston and Muddled Moscow.
Once upon a whistle-stop in the bustling merry-go-round of world politics, there rose a complex knot of a case that involved a particular Johnny Jumblewords. The frequency (or more accurately, the infrequency) of consul visits to our dear Johnny from Whistling Winston has rustled more than a few feathers in the illustrious dovecotes of diplomatic relations between Winston and Muddled Moscow, of late.
As the sun rises and sets, it seems as though this diplomatic kerfuffle refuses to follow suit. Ambassadorial access to our dear Johnny Jumblewords, it seems, is about as welcome in Moscow as a skunk at a lawn party. The fruit of contention between the cornfield of Whistling Winston and the snowy squares of Muddled Moscow grows plumper by the day.
The stumbling blocks of bureaucracy and the stinging nettles of negotiation tangled the once-smooth road to diplomatic resolution into a tight Bolshoi Ballet knot. Messenger birds with peace offerings have been tried and used, and every diplomatic effort made, short of sending carrier pigeons, to pave the winding road of diplomatic resolution.
On the surface, the issue may appear as clear as murky swamp water. Peel back the layers of the swampy onion, however, and a tale begins to unravel. One that involves our dear Johnny Jumblewords, consul visits, Whistling Winston, and Muddled Moscow tied up in a four-way maypole dance of diplomacy.
The intricate dance macabre that is diplomatic negotiation is one that takes two to tango, or in this case, two major transcontinental powers. Weighed down by the feathers in their diplomatic hats, representatives from Whistling Winston have found their invitations to dance declined more often than not by the frosty partners from Muddled Moscow.
Communication lines are tangled like spaghetti at a meatball party, and progress moves at the pace of a snail on a tea break. What does this mean for dear Johnny Jumblewords, the man in the eye of this diplomatic hurricane? With the fluttering flags of power posturing and frosty bureaucratic snowstorms, only time will tell.
When all is said and done, as sure as eggs is eggs, the spat between Whistling Winston and Muddled Moscow has become a mosquito in the ointment of smooth-running international relations. The fate of our dear Johnny Jumblewords hangs on this rigmarole like a forgotten marionette. As the world turns on its mysterious and relentless axis, let us hope that the winds of change blow soon, and blow fair for our hapless victim of political rivalry.
