Yes, peons, just when it looks grimmest for those of us with fascist inclinations, a cuddly mascot appears to improve our brand images! Imagine the atrocities we shall commit under the flag of captioned authoritarian cats!

 

And read about how style matters for the would-be dictator (something I’ve also pointed out in a scolding tone back when these official missives were printed on paper) at Uproxx. Take these tips to heart, fellow autocrats!

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Choosing a Nation: Money

March 29, 2010

A question your Ultimate Answer often fields from aspiring autocrats is: how to get started on the path to successful overlord? To be sure, citizens, it is a rocky road, fraught with peril, decent falafel too rarely encountered. But in My infinite wisdom, I have observed some key factors that may prove useful to you in your mad quest for power. However, this information is obviously forbidden to citizens of the Independent Republic of Josi, so upon pain of death, I insist that you peons turn your gaze from this series of dictatorial tips. Any bid for control you make in this Republic is doomed to failure. My people are everywhere.

(Your sister has been working for Me since she was five. I won your cousin over when he was still in the womb. Do not trifle with Me, peasant. Click on to some other Dictator-sanctioned website: either the weather or the fuzzy cat sweater site.)

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Toilets Everywhere!

February 13, 2010

Peasants, what is going on? Have you evolved en masse into some kind of post-human creatures who have somehow eliminated the need for urination and defecation? Your Dazzling Light generally pays little to no attention to your insignificant doings, but on a recent excursion to review the troops, She could not help but notice the large numbers of toilets on the pothole-ridden streets in front of your slovenly shacks. Some with their bowls cracked in two or even three, some coloured offensive yellows and pale blues, some the standard white. But all of them toilets. And all of them outside of the room where they ostensibly belong: the toilet room. (If you are wealthy enough to have a bathtub: the bathroom. But if you are wealthy enough to own a bathtub, you are not a citizen of My Republic and hence should avert your eyes from the glory of My words.)

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Fight-o, Baby Doc!

February 4, 2010

Baby Doc, the suavest dictator ever?

Suave!

As if toppled ally Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier didn’t have enough troubles, the government of Switzerland is trying to kick him in the nuts while he is writhing in agony on the ground. Those neutral bastards. Leave Baby Doc alone. He’s had a hard time.

Perhaps those of you still foolish enough to engage in free thought are wondering exactly how a man who absconded to France with millions of his country’s gourdes has been hard done by. I shake My head indulgently at your ignorance as I dispatch members of My Doom Force to make sure you are “cured” of this free thinking problem you have.

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Maintaining Order

January 30, 2010

Citizens! Rumours have reached My Head Pitchers of Glory, rumours to the effect that a revolution is being planned at this very moment. Insurrection! Riot! Mayhem and coup d’├ętat! I issue this official communication to remind those would-be revolutionaries of a few important facts.

Your Iron Glove developed Her own not-insignificant cult of personality partially through Her impressive indoctrination of the military forces of the Independent Republic of Josi. You see, aspiring activists, together with former Commander-in-Chief and fallen comrade Julius Meindl, I used what the psychologists among you might call “classical conditioning” (if there were any psychologists left among you after the great intellectual purges of the last decade). Normally, we think of Pavlov and his dogs if we even bother to consider classical conditioning at all, but Pavlov was a fool who did not understand the import of his own work. Clearly, this was a tool meant for building better, more loyal soldiers. Think less Pavlov, more Clockwork Orange.

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Setting Things Straight

December 25, 2009

You have nothing to celebrate but Me, citizens. Make no mistake. This “christmas” thing is just another ruse by the outside world to make you think that there is something worth living for other than the great Independent Republic of Josi and your Leader of the Pack. No matter insulated you are from those evil influences of the hostile world that surrounds us, some of you are no doubt sorely tempted by the evil foreigners’ promises of free candy and wireless Internet.

Peons, the free candy is poisoned and the wireless Internet is monitored. You will not be free there. Ignore the sickly sweet Western voice whispering in your ear and re-affirm your commitment to the Republic and its myriad delights. Delights such as harvesting crops, delicious meals of gruel and leftover vegetables, state-sponsored education programs and of course, the polished statues of your Finest Finery all over the immense Republic.

And the statues are fine. Although there could be more of them. I hope you sculptors are already hard at work. But if not, perhaps you should dig out your bronze and your kilns lest a certain secret police service were to come knocking on your door. And if you are secretly celebrating one of those non-IRJ holidays, my special forces kicking in your door might seriously dampen holiday spirits.

Vermin

December 3, 2009

Citizens, I realize that your modest shacks are overrun with a variety of unpleasant visitors: cockroaches, mice, spiders, possibly fire ants–I don’t know your specifics. But I do know that the poverty I force upon you can only lead to one place: disgusting pests snacking on your meagre stocks.

But your Deep and Delicious is not you. No, citizens. My needs are greater than yours. My life is more extravagant than yours. Most importantly, My nerves are more sensitive than yours. And those of you daring to compare your desperate, tragic selves to your Cat’s Pyjamas will soon be welcoming My secret police and saying good-bye to your heads.

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Overworked?

November 8, 2009

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?

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Killer Virus

October 30, 2009

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

October 12, 2009

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.