Overworked?

Most people think that running a dictatorship is as easy as hopping on one foot, that once you’ve reached out and grabbed the seat of power, you’re on easy street. No worries, no hassles, just the occasional revolution to clamp down on. And sure, at first, that’s what it is. When you initially seize power, there’s a lot of bloodshed and upheaval and no one really knows what to do, all headless chickens. Except you. You’re the one with the mission, the vision, the wide-eyed dream of a country controlled by you. And that dream is certainly enough to carry you to power. But is it enough to keep you there?

Dictator Style

Citizens, it is no secret that autocrats worldwide are fascinated by the doings of our colleagues. Whether it is weaknesses to exploit in upcoming conflicts or new punishments we might like to implement in our own realms, there is always something we can learn to enhance our own heartless power base. Which is of course why your Sugared Treat was delighted at the release of a little book called Dictator Style: Lifestyles of the World’s Most Colorful Despots by a peon named Peter York. The title promised delights on the level of reading Mugabe’s diary (which I did once when we were staying in the same luxury resort at the expense of our starving citizens back home. That man has problems.), but sadly, the content did not provide the voyeuristic amusements I hoped for.

Killer Virus

The loss of productivity is troubling, quite frankly. Peons are dropping on all sides, felled by a mysterious illness often referred to by the locals as the “flu”. Although My staff of esteemed medical care personnel tell me that this flu is not necessarily fatal, it is murdering a large number of My worker bees. The doctors suggested timidly that this might be due to the general poor health and nutrition of My average citizen. Those doctors have been replaced by new doctors who insist that the flu is fatal to the common masses and there is nothing your Fine and Fancy can do about it. These doctors have also been separated from their beloved heads because after being educated in My fine facilities these many years, they should be aware at this point that there is nothing I can’t do. What fool would doubt the great and terrible glory of your Lionhearted Omnipresence?

However, whatever the nature of this flu, it is distressing Me to see My precious pawns in such a state. No wars can be fought when half of My foot soldiers have temperatures of 40 degrees and higher. The workers tilling the fields have coughed all over the produce so that I am forced to throw it away to prevent contamination of other peons. Which means that there is a distinct food shortage as the majority of what the Republic produces these days goes straight into the bin. So you poor citizens have even less than usual to eat. Don’t worry about your Up to the Hips, though. I’m importing all my food from Europe until the crisis passes. I will still be strong and hale enough to watch over you with My paranoid eyes, looking for plots among your malnourished population to overthrow Me and establish a democracy. (More like a democrazy!)

So what is the message to you, the individual peasant, from Me, your First and Only? Simple, dear citizen. Get the flu shot. My random hodgepodge of medical people tell me that it is highly effective in preventing further transmission of the virus by breaking down the links in the chain. If you have been vaccinated, you won’t get the dreaded flu and pass it on to your neighbour peon. So your neighbour peon is saved by your own forward thinking. Which means that friendly neighbour can get back into the fields and grow some cough-free food. Which means you may just get enough to eat yet. Until I start raising taxes again. So get the flu shot soon and enjoy a brief moment of relative prosperity and a respite from the crushing burden of life in the Republic. This window is short, citizen. Take advantage.

Language

Your Up in the Sky has been alarmed recently at the flagrant misuse of part of Her Illustrious Title. Peering around this “Internet”–you peons may know this type of peering as “googling”, even though it is common knowledge that a googol has nothing to do with peering and everything to do with the number 1 followed by 100 zeros–I have discovered a shocking misuse of the word “dictator”. It seems that in your workaday world of disease and poor language skills, anyone who crosses your path can be a dictator. An absolute disgrace to the fine English language and an insult to autocrats everywhere.

Peasants, a dictator is not someone who has angered you by reducing the amount of parking available at the local supermarket. Nor is it anyone whose political opinions you disagree with. And that annoying person in your office who keeps watch over the supply closet? Not a dictator. Not even close.

No, peons. Dictator is a title you earn through years of ruthless and self-aggrandizing behaviour. When you have overthrown the government of your country, interred dissidents in work camps, implemented arbitrary laws to govern the daily lives of your citizens, sported a little moustache, put chatty peasants in the Brank, signed treaties with other nations and then ignored them, gone to war with neighbouring countries for the sake of entertaining yourself, curtailed human rights, abolished free speech and put your tired feet up on the back of some interchangeable peon after a long day of watching over your death squads, then and only then do you have the right to call yourself a dictator.

Be a Pirate!

Citizens!

This day be a day fer respectin’ them amazin’ forerunners ‘o our society, th’ band ‘o pirates. Although yer Sailin’ High has no respect fer anyone but Her Own Impressive Action, She feels that She must gift due whar it be due. ‘N that be to th’ band ‘o pirates. So let them half ’tis day, Me sweet peons. ‘N let us all celebrate wit’ a big barnacle-covered bottle ‘o spiced rum, because that be what band ‘o pirates do. ‘N let us bow our heads in our drunken stupor, rememberin’ our mighty forefathers. Aah, sweet memory.

Sweet Poland

Citizens, this is why Poland continues to be our staunch ally. We simply cannot resist their poetry. A nation that speaks of the buffalo with such lyricism has won Our heart. Together, we will find a way to conquer the world. And then I will betray them, of course. It is the natural progression of the dictatorial alliance. But in the meantime, this nation will raise Zubr in toasts and sing the praises of Polish brewmasters! If you doubt the word of your Far-reaching hand, my secret police will soon be at your door. There are no second chances in the Republic.

Case Study

Free-willed Individual to Dictator’s Mental Slave

DAY 1: Subject arrives. A forced arrival, but an arrival nonetheless. Subject is female, in good health, age 32, height 165 cm, weight 55 kg. In the interests of the experiment, to completely remove subject’s attachment to former life, will refer to Subject as Clock. Subject protests violently and must be restrained when informed of new name. Seems to have quite a lively personality, erasing it will be a challenge.
2100h: Clock demands to be released, makes veiled threats of legal action. Does not seem to realize that participation is not voluntary. Clock’s strong character will make the experiment more interesting. Brain cleansing begins tomorrow 0800h.

School Days!

Aaah, citizens. When the wind blows cool through the soon-to-be-bare trees, our thoughts drift inevitably to education. And not just for children, peons. No, education is a lifelong activity in the IRJ. Naturally, your Tall and Mighty is not just referring to classes in school, those hours when you learned the meaning of flagella and quanta, but the day-to-day experiences of learning your place in the world and understanding the rules of the greater society around you.

As citizens of the Republic, you are always on guard, wary of any infraction of the many rules of this great land. But no matter how vigilant you are, you know, citizen, that you are not perfect. You had an egg for lunch, didn’t you? Even though you knew that Your Rising Sun is allergic to eggs and therefore, no one in the land is permitted to enjoy their fetal flavour. Or perhaps you forgot that yesterday was the Day of Dance? I did notice that you barely raised your arms in celebration yesterday on your way to work.

So even though you profess your understanding and awareness of the safety harness Your Word on the Street so kindly provides, you trangress these sacred laws many  times in a single day. And citizens, I think you know that this cannot continue. Don’t make my Secret Police work any harder. Already, they work so much overtime that their spouses are essentially widowed. Review the list on your fridge and make sure that your everyday actions are free of offense to your Fast and Furious. Let the autumn breezes remind you of your duties to the State!

Not Dead Yet

Although the assassination attempts just keep coming (yes, America, I know you were behind the shrapnel in my granola), your Fierce and Fiery continues to stand proudly on the beaten down bodies of you, citizens. The carpet your limp and weary forms provide has protected Me on more than one occasion. Such a rich and thick carpet that not even land mines can penetrate it to harm your Cutthroat Autocrat.

And the heat emitted by your prostrate selves keeps Me warm even during this summer of endless cold.  It was only after the Great Move was completed that the foolish bureaucrats who previously managed the day-to-day dealings of the Republic (bureaucrats who no longer have heads attached to shoulders) realized that the climes of this new location were significantly cooler than what you lowly peons were accustomed to. More importantly, your Gallant Hero hates the cold. But I have realized the strategic importance of Our new location and so citizens, I must impart to you the need to hold fast until We can realize our political goals.

Yes, the summers are like winter here. And yes, the rain burns like acid. And yes, yes, the tornadoes tear the roofs from your homes. But peons, you must be strong and bear this ungodly weather for the sake of the Republic. Once certain unmentionable business is concluded and Your Amazing Fandancer is ruler of the entire freaking planet, the Republic will be able to change the weather and have warm feet without standing on the half-alive bodies of citizens.

Summer Promotion

Your Pre-Marinated thinks about you all the time, sweet peons. Even when the weather is bad and your Big and Bad is trapped indoors as the sky falls to the earth (as it so often does lately), My thoughts drift to you. It may be that I don’t have enough wars to fight, or as some dissidents would argue, I don’t have any real enemies, but citizens, listening to the pounding rain outside, I cannot keep my thoughts from you and your hardship.

I won’t say that I have anything that could be called hope for your crops or your survival, but if anything your High and Mighty feels could be called hope, it would be this desire that you continue to live so that I might continue to oppress you. Because, dear peons, your oppression makes my heart sing.