Welfare is, Well, Fair
"Mr. President!" said Secretary Candace, running into the Prime Minister's office with a sheath of papers in her hand. "I have here the data you requested, and - it's not good."
"Mm?" said Mr. President, absently looking up from his elaborately constructed rubber band cat's cradle.
"The weekly economic report," said Secretary Candace. "I have it here, and I'm afraid - "
"Oh, yes, about that," said Mr. President. "I meant to ask for a mocha frappuccino and a danish. Slip of the tongue. Sorry."
Secretary Candace stared at him for a second, said some words he didn't know, threw the papers at him and stormed out.
"Well, she didn't seem too happy," said Mr. President. "She must be more concerned about my coffee addiction than I realized." He glanced at the papers she had thrown at him, most of which had coincidentally landed in a neat stack on his desk. "I may as well look at these," he said. "Part of a Prime Minister's job is to look at papers, isn't it?"
"It certainly is, sir," said Vice Prime Minister William from the corner where he sat playing Minecraft on his laptop. "But as your vice prime minister, I'm not sure how I fit into that. I know a vice president is supposed to keep as low a profile as possible, aside from the occasional hunting trip, but this might be different."
"Well, we haven't written that into the Constitution yet, so do as you please," said Mr. President. He furrowed his brow as he looked at the papers. "So this is the weekly economic report. Why did Secretary What's-her-name say it isn't good? It looks awesome to me."
Vice Prime Minister William wheeled his chair over to Mr. President's large oak desk and peered over his shoulder. "I believe that chart is upside down, sir," he said.
"Ah," said Mr. President, flipping the chart. "That explains the letters. I thought they were Russian or something. Well, this changes things. Oh dear. Things aren't so good after all."
"Let's see," said Vice Prime Minister William, picking up the next paper in the stack and running his eyes over it. "It seems there has been very little economic development so far. In fact, aside from a hardware store, a couple of restaurants, and an aluminum factory, our entire nation has no private businesses or means of employment whatsoever."
"You think that could have something to do with this zig-zaggy line?" asked Mr. President, waving the chart.
"There's a good chance of it, sir," said Vice Prime Minister William. "No money is being made because no money is being spent. Heck, I don't know if we even print money. We ought to get a committee and design some. I hear Citizen Bob is rather artistic."
"I hear he's working on a rocket or something," said Mr. President. "Speaking of which, we should take over that project and give it some proper funding."
"We need to give everyone proper funding," insisted Vice Prime Minister William. "Look here, we've only got whatever resources we took from home. Once those are used up, we're in deep dung. People need to get their keisters moving and get us an economy."
"Right, so here's what I'm thinking," said Mr. President. "We make a nationwide announcement that all unemployed adults are to start a business or sign up for someone else's. It won't happen overnight, so in the meantime we'll print us some money and distribute it to everyone, to keep them on their feet until everything's settled."
"Agreed," said Vice Prime Minister William. "Er, this can be a big step for some people. Do you suppose we ought to help them out getting established in the workforce? I mean, still give them the money, but -"
"Oh, come on," said Mr. President. "Let's not treat them like babies. We can trust our citizens to take the initiative of straightening out their own affairs. If they need help they can always come to us."
"Um, yeah," said Vice Prime Minister William. "That was sarcasm. A joke, sir."
"Ah, I see what you did there," said Mr. President, wagging a finger, and they both chuckled. The rubber band cat's cradle on Mr. President's fingers suddenly snapped and hit Vice Prime Minister William between the eyes, rendering him unconscious for the better part of the afternoon.
***
"Letter for you, Citizen Bob," said Postman Pete, coming up the sidewalk.
Citizen Bob set down his cold glass of lemonade and got up from his wicker chair on the front porch. "Is that so?" he said. "Hey, since when do we have a postman?"
"Since today," said Postman Pete. "I gave myself the job. So far, I'm doing so great that Mr. President has promised to turn me into a government-run organization so I can operate even better." He handed over a sealed bulging envelope.
Citizen Bob accepted the envelope and began tearing it open. "Gave yourself the job, eh? How's that - holy buttermilk!" he gasped as he pulled out not only a folded letter on official-looking stationary but a handful of hundred-dollar bills in official FDR currency.
"I thought that would get your attention," said Postman Pete with a smile. "Got to run; plenty more of those to deliver. Remember, it's only until your circumstances change. You can come work for me if you want." With a little wave he headed off.
"Toodles," said Citizen Bob, but his eyes were already glued to the letter. It read:
Dear Sir/Madam/Other:
Our economy has recently come to my attention, and the reason it has come to my attention is because we don't have one. Obviously we need all employable citizens to become employed. To help toward that end, here is the first of many deliveries to help you out when your own resources wear thin. (It's not a check because we haven't got any banks yet.) They will continue as long as you need them, but I am confident you will get out there and make the world your oyster, and fulfill the FDRian dream.
Sincerely,
Mr. President
P.S. This is not a form letter. I deeply and sincerely care for you as an individual.
"Well, doesn't that just take the cake," said Citizen Bob, looking at the money. When he had been commissioned last week to paint a portrait of Mr. President upon a strapping stallion demurely eating figs with one hand while stabbing a pirate with the other, he hadn't expected it to end up on currency. He was mildly annoyed that his attention to minute detail was invisible at this size, but mostly elated that everyone in the country would see it.
He wandered over to the open field where Ex-pastor John was directing his other three workers in the construction of a rocket that would take them to Alpha Centauri. Citizen Bob had designed it himself and they had been constructing for about two weeks now. "Hidey-ho, Ex-pastor John!" said Citizen Bob, waving.
Ex-pastor John looked over and beamed. "Hidey-ho indeed, Citizen Bob!" he said. "It's about time you came back! We want to paint an atom symbol on the wings and none of us can get those little circles right."
"I'll show you the brush technique," said Citizen Bob, "but I can't stay and help any longer. No offense, but I've got to go and get myself a real job now."
"Ah yes," said Ex-pastor John sadly. "So I've heard. I almost wish I could become a pastor again, but we have moved on from the era of delusion. Mr. President says he wants to make this rocket thing a government project, but there's all sorts of paperwork to be filled out first."
"There's no rush," said Citizen Bob. "The money will keep rolling in as long as you need it. Don't strain yourself."
"Yes, but I don't want to be a leech on the FDRian taxpayer," said Ex-pastor John. "I owe it to them to support myself, and that's what I'm going to do. Tell me if you see any pastor-like yet secular job openings, will you?"
"You bet," said Citizen Bob. "Take care in the meantime." He continued on down the sidewalk. A few minutes later he was past the outskirts of town into a more populated area. Surrounding him were a bunch of hastily constructed pre-fab houses made possible by the hardware store, but what caught his eye was a set of brick walls that had been erected to create a makeshift alley, already replete with vulgar graffiti and mounds of trash.
Suddenly, a scruffy-looking guy dressed in rags lurched out of the alley, grabbing a wall for support just in time to avoid splitting his skull. He looked up, and his eyes would have met Citizen Bob's if they weren't peering in opposite directions. Foam dribbled from his rotten yellow teeth.
Citizen Bob decided to go the other way.
"Hey, wait up, pal!" the man called after him in a surprisingly coherent voice. "Help a brother out real quick?"
Citizen Bob held out his hands. "Look, pal, I don't want any trouble," he said.
"Me neither," said the man. "Look, I got this welfare money, all right? But I'm afraid I'll just go out and spend it all on booze and - other stuff. If you could take it and buy me some groceries instead, I'd be much obliged. You can keep a bit for your trouble."
"We haven't got a grocery store yet," said Citizen Bob. "I could get take-out from Happy Panda if you want."
"Fine, whatever," said the man. "Just so long as it's spent responsibly. The government is entrusting me with this money and I'm not going to let them down. In fact, as soon as my systems are flushed, I'll get myself a job. Money for nothing doesn't sit well with me."
"Preach it, brother," said Citizen Bob. "I wouldn't mind some chicks for free, though. All right. Back in a bit." He headed off in the direction of Happy Panda. This would delay his search for a career but, he realized, this was a job itself for now. Maybe he could help the guy with all his meals and set up a rehab center. No, on second thought, that would involve getting close enough to smell him.
"Mr. Bob, sir!" someone yelled behind him. "Mr. Bob!"
"Yes?" said Citizen Bob, sounding more annoyed than he intended. Was he going to get anything accomplished today? He turned around. A pretty redheaded woman in a black suit and skirt was running after him. He recognized her as Mr. President's secretary.
"Mr. Bob," she said, stopping in front of him to catch her breath. "Nice to see you again so soon. We are in need of your services once more."
"Oh?" said Citizen Bob.
"Yes," said Secretary Candace, self-consciously smoothing out her skirt. She didn't know what to do with her hands when she wasn't carrying papers or coffee and pastries. "Yes, Mr. President was quite pleased with your work, but unfortunately he'd severely underestimated how many citizens we have to hand money out to. The idiot didn't even look at the weekly population report I'd given him."
"So, print more money," said Citizen Bob. "Rest assured, we're all working hard to better our situations and get jobs. These payments won't be necessary much longer."
"Oh, I know that," she said, "that was never a concern. But we really want to conserve the paper for other things like tax forms and such, so Mr. President decided to print some larger denominations. He wants you to design even bigger and better pictures for them."
Citizen Bob grinned in spite of himself, his mind already racing. "You know," he said, "this is a great sort of gig. If only it would come up more often it's the sort of job I could live with."
"Don't speak too soon," she said. "This could be only the beginning. Incidentally, you'll need to know, and none of us could agree - how many zeroes are in a trillion?"
***
A few days later, Mr. President was shaking his head. "Who spit in her oatmeal?" he wondered, gesturing at the door where Secretary Candace had stormed out once again. "A simple slip of the tongue. It happens to everybody." He glanced idly at the papers she had thrown onto his desk. "Ah, good," he said. "Look, Will, almost everybody has gotten themselves jobs and our economy is booming. What's more, they've begun sending back their extra welfare funds. I'm so proud of them."
"That is good," said Vice Prime Minister Will, holding up his own stack of papers and nearly collapsing under its weight. "I've finished the first draft of tax forms. Now they're ready for it."
Next: School's Out Forever
"Mm?" said Mr. President, absently looking up from his elaborately constructed rubber band cat's cradle.
"The weekly economic report," said Secretary Candace. "I have it here, and I'm afraid - "
"Oh, yes, about that," said Mr. President. "I meant to ask for a mocha frappuccino and a danish. Slip of the tongue. Sorry."
Secretary Candace stared at him for a second, said some words he didn't know, threw the papers at him and stormed out.
"Well, she didn't seem too happy," said Mr. President. "She must be more concerned about my coffee addiction than I realized." He glanced at the papers she had thrown at him, most of which had coincidentally landed in a neat stack on his desk. "I may as well look at these," he said. "Part of a Prime Minister's job is to look at papers, isn't it?"
"It certainly is, sir," said Vice Prime Minister William from the corner where he sat playing Minecraft on his laptop. "But as your vice prime minister, I'm not sure how I fit into that. I know a vice president is supposed to keep as low a profile as possible, aside from the occasional hunting trip, but this might be different."
"Well, we haven't written that into the Constitution yet, so do as you please," said Mr. President. He furrowed his brow as he looked at the papers. "So this is the weekly economic report. Why did Secretary What's-her-name say it isn't good? It looks awesome to me."
Vice Prime Minister William wheeled his chair over to Mr. President's large oak desk and peered over his shoulder. "I believe that chart is upside down, sir," he said.
"Ah," said Mr. President, flipping the chart. "That explains the letters. I thought they were Russian or something. Well, this changes things. Oh dear. Things aren't so good after all."
"Let's see," said Vice Prime Minister William, picking up the next paper in the stack and running his eyes over it. "It seems there has been very little economic development so far. In fact, aside from a hardware store, a couple of restaurants, and an aluminum factory, our entire nation has no private businesses or means of employment whatsoever."
"You think that could have something to do with this zig-zaggy line?" asked Mr. President, waving the chart.
"There's a good chance of it, sir," said Vice Prime Minister William. "No money is being made because no money is being spent. Heck, I don't know if we even print money. We ought to get a committee and design some. I hear Citizen Bob is rather artistic."
"I hear he's working on a rocket or something," said Mr. President. "Speaking of which, we should take over that project and give it some proper funding."
"We need to give everyone proper funding," insisted Vice Prime Minister William. "Look here, we've only got whatever resources we took from home. Once those are used up, we're in deep dung. People need to get their keisters moving and get us an economy."
"Right, so here's what I'm thinking," said Mr. President. "We make a nationwide announcement that all unemployed adults are to start a business or sign up for someone else's. It won't happen overnight, so in the meantime we'll print us some money and distribute it to everyone, to keep them on their feet until everything's settled."
"Agreed," said Vice Prime Minister William. "Er, this can be a big step for some people. Do you suppose we ought to help them out getting established in the workforce? I mean, still give them the money, but -"
"Oh, come on," said Mr. President. "Let's not treat them like babies. We can trust our citizens to take the initiative of straightening out their own affairs. If they need help they can always come to us."
"Um, yeah," said Vice Prime Minister William. "That was sarcasm. A joke, sir."
"Ah, I see what you did there," said Mr. President, wagging a finger, and they both chuckled. The rubber band cat's cradle on Mr. President's fingers suddenly snapped and hit Vice Prime Minister William between the eyes, rendering him unconscious for the better part of the afternoon.
***
"Letter for you, Citizen Bob," said Postman Pete, coming up the sidewalk.
Citizen Bob set down his cold glass of lemonade and got up from his wicker chair on the front porch. "Is that so?" he said. "Hey, since when do we have a postman?"
"Since today," said Postman Pete. "I gave myself the job. So far, I'm doing so great that Mr. President has promised to turn me into a government-run organization so I can operate even better." He handed over a sealed bulging envelope.
Citizen Bob accepted the envelope and began tearing it open. "Gave yourself the job, eh? How's that - holy buttermilk!" he gasped as he pulled out not only a folded letter on official-looking stationary but a handful of hundred-dollar bills in official FDR currency.
"I thought that would get your attention," said Postman Pete with a smile. "Got to run; plenty more of those to deliver. Remember, it's only until your circumstances change. You can come work for me if you want." With a little wave he headed off.
"Toodles," said Citizen Bob, but his eyes were already glued to the letter. It read:
Dear Sir/Madam/Other:
Our economy has recently come to my attention, and the reason it has come to my attention is because we don't have one. Obviously we need all employable citizens to become employed. To help toward that end, here is the first of many deliveries to help you out when your own resources wear thin. (It's not a check because we haven't got any banks yet.) They will continue as long as you need them, but I am confident you will get out there and make the world your oyster, and fulfill the FDRian dream.
Sincerely,
Mr. President
P.S. This is not a form letter. I deeply and sincerely care for you as an individual.
"Well, doesn't that just take the cake," said Citizen Bob, looking at the money. When he had been commissioned last week to paint a portrait of Mr. President upon a strapping stallion demurely eating figs with one hand while stabbing a pirate with the other, he hadn't expected it to end up on currency. He was mildly annoyed that his attention to minute detail was invisible at this size, but mostly elated that everyone in the country would see it.
He wandered over to the open field where Ex-pastor John was directing his other three workers in the construction of a rocket that would take them to Alpha Centauri. Citizen Bob had designed it himself and they had been constructing for about two weeks now. "Hidey-ho, Ex-pastor John!" said Citizen Bob, waving.
Ex-pastor John looked over and beamed. "Hidey-ho indeed, Citizen Bob!" he said. "It's about time you came back! We want to paint an atom symbol on the wings and none of us can get those little circles right."
"I'll show you the brush technique," said Citizen Bob, "but I can't stay and help any longer. No offense, but I've got to go and get myself a real job now."
"Ah yes," said Ex-pastor John sadly. "So I've heard. I almost wish I could become a pastor again, but we have moved on from the era of delusion. Mr. President says he wants to make this rocket thing a government project, but there's all sorts of paperwork to be filled out first."
"There's no rush," said Citizen Bob. "The money will keep rolling in as long as you need it. Don't strain yourself."
"Yes, but I don't want to be a leech on the FDRian taxpayer," said Ex-pastor John. "I owe it to them to support myself, and that's what I'm going to do. Tell me if you see any pastor-like yet secular job openings, will you?"
"You bet," said Citizen Bob. "Take care in the meantime." He continued on down the sidewalk. A few minutes later he was past the outskirts of town into a more populated area. Surrounding him were a bunch of hastily constructed pre-fab houses made possible by the hardware store, but what caught his eye was a set of brick walls that had been erected to create a makeshift alley, already replete with vulgar graffiti and mounds of trash.
Suddenly, a scruffy-looking guy dressed in rags lurched out of the alley, grabbing a wall for support just in time to avoid splitting his skull. He looked up, and his eyes would have met Citizen Bob's if they weren't peering in opposite directions. Foam dribbled from his rotten yellow teeth.
Citizen Bob decided to go the other way.
"Hey, wait up, pal!" the man called after him in a surprisingly coherent voice. "Help a brother out real quick?"
Citizen Bob held out his hands. "Look, pal, I don't want any trouble," he said.
"Me neither," said the man. "Look, I got this welfare money, all right? But I'm afraid I'll just go out and spend it all on booze and - other stuff. If you could take it and buy me some groceries instead, I'd be much obliged. You can keep a bit for your trouble."
"We haven't got a grocery store yet," said Citizen Bob. "I could get take-out from Happy Panda if you want."
"Fine, whatever," said the man. "Just so long as it's spent responsibly. The government is entrusting me with this money and I'm not going to let them down. In fact, as soon as my systems are flushed, I'll get myself a job. Money for nothing doesn't sit well with me."
"Preach it, brother," said Citizen Bob. "I wouldn't mind some chicks for free, though. All right. Back in a bit." He headed off in the direction of Happy Panda. This would delay his search for a career but, he realized, this was a job itself for now. Maybe he could help the guy with all his meals and set up a rehab center. No, on second thought, that would involve getting close enough to smell him.
"Mr. Bob, sir!" someone yelled behind him. "Mr. Bob!"
"Yes?" said Citizen Bob, sounding more annoyed than he intended. Was he going to get anything accomplished today? He turned around. A pretty redheaded woman in a black suit and skirt was running after him. He recognized her as Mr. President's secretary.
"Mr. Bob," she said, stopping in front of him to catch her breath. "Nice to see you again so soon. We are in need of your services once more."
"Oh?" said Citizen Bob.
"Yes," said Secretary Candace, self-consciously smoothing out her skirt. She didn't know what to do with her hands when she wasn't carrying papers or coffee and pastries. "Yes, Mr. President was quite pleased with your work, but unfortunately he'd severely underestimated how many citizens we have to hand money out to. The idiot didn't even look at the weekly population report I'd given him."
"So, print more money," said Citizen Bob. "Rest assured, we're all working hard to better our situations and get jobs. These payments won't be necessary much longer."
"Oh, I know that," she said, "that was never a concern. But we really want to conserve the paper for other things like tax forms and such, so Mr. President decided to print some larger denominations. He wants you to design even bigger and better pictures for them."
Citizen Bob grinned in spite of himself, his mind already racing. "You know," he said, "this is a great sort of gig. If only it would come up more often it's the sort of job I could live with."
"Don't speak too soon," she said. "This could be only the beginning. Incidentally, you'll need to know, and none of us could agree - how many zeroes are in a trillion?"
***
A few days later, Mr. President was shaking his head. "Who spit in her oatmeal?" he wondered, gesturing at the door where Secretary Candace had stormed out once again. "A simple slip of the tongue. It happens to everybody." He glanced idly at the papers she had thrown onto his desk. "Ah, good," he said. "Look, Will, almost everybody has gotten themselves jobs and our economy is booming. What's more, they've begun sending back their extra welfare funds. I'm so proud of them."
"That is good," said Vice Prime Minister Will, holding up his own stack of papers and nearly collapsing under its weight. "I've finished the first draft of tax forms. Now they're ready for it."
Next: School's Out Forever
