Originally Posted by Owain
Well, since what he is doing is what he campaigned upon, and since what he is doing should hardly come as a surprise as a result, if this is not a case of electoral butt hurt, I guess it will have to do until the real thing comes along.


A politician walked into a crowded bar - a pretty well-known establishment called the Right Wings Eatery and Pub. He promised everyone a shiny red hat, in exchange for their vote.

"That's a pretty neat hat," said many of the people in the bar. They all agreed to vote for the politician, because they knew a cheap hat was about all they could expect from the political class anyways.

So, the politician won his election. Afterwards, he returned to the bar. Several of his goons were hauling a big bin full of hats, which they proceeded to hand out to patrons.

Everyone was happy, until the politician made a signal to his goons. Before anyone realized what was happening, the goons had pulled out their weapons and shot a dozen of the younger patrons in the head. Some of the goons started hauling off the pretty young ladies, other goons took to snatching purses and emptying wallets from the patrons seated in the far corners.

Sitting at the bar itself were some regular patrons. One of them, a younger fellow who hadn't asked for a hat, looked out at the carnage and said, "Uh. What the hell? I think we should do something. If we let this go on, we aren't even going to have a bar in the future. Who will ever come here again? That politician isn't even a regular at the pub, how dare he?"

Just as that objecting fellow was rising from his bar stool, a gruff, grumpy voice rang out from further down the counter. "Sit down. What are you even getting all excited about?"

Turning to find the source of the gruff voice, the younger man's eyebrows lifted in surprise as he examined the older fellow who'd spoken up in objection. The older man was a large specimen dressed in a full kilt of patterned tartan wool, with calves the size of holiday hams, and a neck as sturdy as an old oak. From under the brim of one of those shiny red hats, his eyes had affixed the younger man with a piercing glare.

Feeling somewhat beside himself, the younger fellow noticed the politician had taken out a large bag labelled 'Wall St', from which endless hordes of small green gremlins were emerging. After finding their way into the pub, the gremlins swiftly proceeded to the support pillars, and began gnawing and chewing, to the sharp sound of wood being crunched. More screams from the less fortunate patrons could also be heard, prompting the younger man to restlessly shuffle his feet. "If nothing else, we should leave. Those gremlins are going to erode the integrity of the whole building, soon we'll all be buried in here."

Snorting derisively, the older fellow took a long draw from his mug of stout, before ostentatiously adjusting his red hat and saying, "People need to stop being butthurt over the damn election already. We got our goddamn red hats, didn't we?"

For who could be free when every other man's humour might domineer over him? - John Locke (2nd Treatise, sect 57)