Your unworthy Prophet was blessed to be in the audience at our Dear Leader's address. I'm the one in the back wearing the mitre and swinging an incense censor. I was originally scheduled to procede our Dear Leader down the aisle, but during dress rehersal he complained that the aroma of the smouldering oxdung incense was so overpowering he could not taste his drink.

But even now, as the world is on bent and bruised knee before Dear Leader, I have grave tidings of woe... for you see, dearest Bretheren, the End Times are upon us!

Yes, though it is as bitter as unrefined Panhandle crude, the nuggets of prophesy revealed by my gimlet eye have convinced me that our Dear Leader shall be taken away from us -- at the very stroke of noon on the day one year hence!

Anyone who has a little learning knows the relevant verse of Nostradamus:

In the land of the eagle
In the year one-hundred score and five

The idiot shall return to his village
And therein he shall live

And consider this largely forgotten Delphic prophesy:

If you attack Babylonia, you will destroy a mighty empire. I'm talking to you, the one in the hat.

Perhaps most troubling of all is this sacred writ:

For what is the hope of the hypocrite, though he hath gained, when God taketh away his soul?
Will God hear his cry when trouble cometh upon him?
Will he delight himself in the Almighty? will he always call upon God?

This is the portion of a wicked man with God, and the heritage of oppressors, which they shall receive of the Almighty.

Though he heap up silver as the dust, and prepare raiment as the clay;
The rich man shall lie down, but he shall not be gathered: he openeth his eyes, and he is not.
Terrors take hold on him as waters, a tempest stealeth him away in the night.
The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth: and as a storm hurleth him out of his place.

For God shall cast upon him, and not spare: he would fain flee out of his hand.
Men shall clap their hands at him, and shall hiss him out of his place.