In politics, there are few good guys and bad guys; usually, there are just people with different points of view. Paradoxically, most people who are involved in politics like to see themselves as heroes. To better explore this contradiction, I offer the serious student of political reality the following fables.
* * *
The Prime Minister stood on the deck of HMS Free Trade. The wind had long since whipped his hat away and the spray had made, of his hair, a mess. Still, he clung resolutely, and bravely, yes, and even against the worst odds, to the wheel and the one true course, which only he and the yeomen of the Fraser Institute seemed to see.
The First mate cautiously made his way to the Prime Minister’s side. “Sir?” he shouted, barely able to be heard above the storm, “Sir, I don’t know how much more buffeting the ship can take!”
“Stay the course,” the Prime Minister grimly replied.
“But, sir,” the First Mate protested, “we’re not moving!”
“Of course not,” the Prime Minister admitted. “They must come to us.” The First Mate withdrew, confused. The Prime Minister tied off the wheel and went to the side of the ship. Looking over the side, he saw that they were still grounded in Ottawa, as he had planned. Looking more closely at the ground, his weak smile vanished as he noticed a group of individuals pushing at the ship, possibly trying to knock it over.
“You there!” he shouted. “Stop that! You’re timorous! Yes, and insecure on top of it! Stop rocking my boat!”
The First mate returned. “Sir…” he started to say, but was cut off with a wave of the Prime Minister’s hand. “Those people,” the Prime Minister stated. “They are the only thing between us and our mission. Can we have them put to death?”
The First Mate looked troubled, “I…I don’t think that’s done any more,” he stated. “Couldn’t we just have them exiled to the back of the sports section?”
“Very good then,” the Prime Minister agreed, and returned to the wheel. It was only a matter of time before they reached the promised land, where jobs were plentiful and government did not interfere with the sacred workings of the marketplace. The Prime Minister smiled; he knew that he was on the right course.
* * *
The Opposition Leader stood at the ramparts, watching the clouds gather ominously. His forces were disarrayed around him, alternately personning vats of boiling oil and Universal Rhetoric Machines (guaranteed to spew out an unending stream of hyperbole on the subject(s) of your choice). The Deputy Opposition Leader approached him.
“Sir!” he cried. “Sir! The persons are getting restless!”
“Let them eat cable,” the Opposition Leader, rather obtusely, but with great concern, replied.
“Sir,” the Deputy insisted, “the persons are wondering why we are protecting the fortress when The Enemy already owns or controls over 80 per cent of the rooms!” The wind howled.
“We must save the other 20 per cent!” the Opposition Leader cried, his voice torturously full of conviction. “Are the vats of boiling oil ready?”
The Deputy looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. “Actually,” he finally had to admit, “it’s more like lukewarm water…”
“What!” the Opposition Leader shouted.
“We couldn’t afford the oil to keep the cauldrons boiling,” the Deputy explained. “Then, we couldn’t even afford to keep them full of oil. You know our relations with the west wing have never been good…”
“What can we do with vats of lukewarm water?” the Opposition Leader weakly protested.
“We could make the walls slick and hope they slip off,” the Deputy suggested. The Opposition Leader shooed him away, muttering vague curses about their mutual ancestry.
The Opposition Leader looked over the side, watching The Enemy enter and leave the fortress at will. “This is a disgrace,” he said to himself, ignoring the fact that his own troops were responsible for much of the traffic in and out of the fortress. “We must fight with every bit of strength we possess!” The Opposition Leader smiled grimly to himself; he knew that his cause was just.
* * *
The President sat behind a vast panel of coloured lights and toggle switches. On the screen in front of him was a computer-generated map of the world on which several small blips were heading over the Arctic towards the United States. The President frantically pressed buttons and entered commands on the keyboard; when he was finally done, he breathlessly watched the screen for results.
Several more blips appeared, heading in both directions. Soon, the screen flared in a variety of colours. After that, casualty figures were flashed: 80 million Russians dead; 20 million Americans dead. The President clapped his hands, delighted. “That’ll teach you not to try a pre-emptive strike on us, Mr. Gorbachev!” the President chortled in his joy as the assembled military personnel started clapping in appreciation of a job well done.
A minor attache appeared. “Mr. President,” he said, “you’re wanted on the telephone.”
“Oh? Who is it?” the President petulantly asked.
“The Prime Minister of Canada,” the attache responded. “He wants to discuss Free Trade with you, sir.”
“Tell him I’m busy!” the President ordered, and the attache left. “Why does he bother me with his petty problems?” the President asked nobody in particular. “Doesn’t he realize that I have more important things on my mind – like the fate of the Free World?”
The President looked at the Big Board and smiled; he was correct.