upper echelons

The Irish Prime Minister Enda Kenny is sitting behind his desk.
He is a vascillatory, vacant, vacuous, vapid, vaguely vomitous, hairstyle of a man.

As we join him, the Prime Minister is examining his latest hair do with mirrors held in both hands.
His hair shimmers and shines like a field of ripe dyed corn.
The door bursts open.
Minister for Re Education Ruairi Quinn of the Labour Party enters out of breath.
Ruairi Quinn is a different class of hairstyle to his boss.
He styles his hair and beard deliberately to make himself look like Lenin.
If a teenager did it, you'd be worried.
Incidentally Ruairi Quinn has a brother called Lochlainn who sits on the board of Ireland's notoriously corrupt bankrupt financial institution Allied Irish Bank, the same bank which Prime Minister Enda Kenny has just recently purchased on behalf of the nation for the bargain basement price of ten thousand million dollars.
Where can you get something worth nothing and known to be worth nothing, and still compel the Irish people to pay ten billion dollar for it?
Answer: Ireland.
"Prime Minister, Prime Minister," Ruairi Quinn gasps, "the people are revolting."
Enda Kenny continues contemplating his follicules.
"So tell me something I don't know," he intones drily.
"No Prime Minister. I mean the people are in a state of revolution."
"Oh really?" Enda Kenny's rictus grin holds no kindness. "Upset about me closing the Irish embassy to the Vatican are they? The puny fools. Oderint dum metuant. What do I care if they hate, so long as they fear? And they will soon learn to fear, my Ruairi. They will learn to fear me. And my hairstyle. I am the State. I, Darth Hair Do. Apres moi, le deluge."
Ruairi Quinn struggles to verbalise some deep emotion.
"We're in trouble Prime Minister," he stammers. "It has been a night of strange omens and dark portents. Last night the Minister for Finance's BMW didst turn on your Porsche and eat it. And President Michael D Higgins didst give birth to a copy of Das Kapital in Jack Wall's office whilest Archbishop Diarmuid Martin didst turn into Tony O'Reilly and weep himself to death. This morning great gouts of cash didst pour forth from ye olde Anglo Irish Bank building and when we went to retrieve the cash it hath turned to dust in our hands. And police officers didst in the street in plain view greet citizens politely without assaulting them. And Eamon Gilmore wast seen having supper with Vladimir Putin and now he can't stop washing his hands and mumbling Out damned spot."
"So what?" challenges Enda Kenny.
"It must all mean something Prime Minister," mutters Ruairi Quinn desperately. "I mean it doesn't happen every day. Er. Does it?"
"Who cares?" primps Enda Kenny, examining his finger nails.
"But what if the omens are directed at our irreligion, our atheism, our oppression of the Catholic Church, our introduction of abortion pills to Irish pharmacies, our pornogrification of a debauched generation of born children and our direct murder and indirect contra receiving of another generation of unborn children? What if it's all coming home to roost? We and the nation we have depraved will burn in hell fire." raved Ruairi Quinn correctly.
"What me worry!" exclaimed Enda Kenny avec grandeur.
"There's more," persisted Ruairi Quinn.
"More what?" demands Enda Kenny without much concern.
"More omens," trembles Ruairi Quinn.
"Such as?" enquires Enda Kenny.
"Such as Pat Kenny of RTE didst announce he'll give back any property he's stolen from anyone over the past forty years while taking a ninety percent pay cut in solidarity with all those experiencing economic hardship."
Instantly Enda Kenny crumpled behind his desk, head in hands.
All his aplomb was gone.
"Great Scot," he breathed. "It's the apocalypse."