Sunday, 28 July 2019

Steam Irony and Chronic Oughtism - satire fiction

The financially troubled State of Dyslexicon elected a new president charged with balancing the books and tackling social decay. Fresh from his dual success as a Hollywood star and founder of the highly profitable Blaring Advertising Inc., (rumoured to be for sale in a bidding war between Wahay!!, MacroLimp and Gurgle), Flesh Gorgon-Zola had campaigned on the dual issues of the Environment and Transport.

Now the Environment and Transport may seem strange bed-fellows to some; even stranger than Flesh Gorgon-Zola and his co-stars in ''Mating With Martians'' or Flesh and his co-corpses in ''Dating The Dead'', but Flesh had hit a winner by promising better roads, pavements (sidewalks) AND cycle paths for everyone (well, 98%) by targeting the 'sufferers' of the newly discovered Oughtism Syndrome; so-called because they felt they oughtta have everything they saw advertised, particularly 4x4/SUVs, and even the Chrysler 7x7 (which, fortunately, had been withdrawn from sale.“ a Chrysler spokesperson said 'they don't do corners').

The Green voters had organised thoroughly to make sure any backsliding on promises by Flesh would be rapidly publicised on FaceBuck, Tweeter, lamp-posts, Bloggger (USA), Bloggeur (France) and Blogga' (Hackney), broadsheet newspapers, trash newspapers, comics and The Sunne. But they needn't have worried.

 The far-left voters had withdrawn from politics altogether in protest and founded a new republic somewhere South of Chicago in the maize belt, and promptly degenerated into civil wars (note the plural) as the number of factions and splinter groups within the republic appeared to exceed the number of members. (This may have been an accounting error).

Somewhat surprisingly, Flesh had been true to his word รข€“ maybe because he'd occasionally taken his work home with him and fathered several children, two half-corpses and several semi-Martians, and wanted a world to exist for them when (if) they grew up and competed to win Dad's inheritance; maybe because he'd finally shut up long enough to look at the Earth without the infernal, internal babble drowning his senses (DO try this at home) or maybe because he'd never passed his driving test and had to use taxis.

Flesh employed the best systems analysts, computer coders and deranged inventors that his tax-payers' money could buy and very soon Plan Steam Irony was in full swing:

Satellite surveillance systems directed huge levitating steam irons onto crippled kerbs, buggered boulevards and xxxxed up freeways, melted the tar and ironed everything back into place. Surprised householders who had wasted years arguing with national government, local councils, highways departments and the like about the state of their wrecked pavements, and whose fault was it, and who's gonna pay, and SOMEONE OUGHTTA DO SUMMAT, would awaken one bright and sunny morning (Flesh had worked in advertising, remember?) to find that a levitating steam iron had passed their way during the night, and made the paving like new. And never a bill to anyone.

Then, just as everyone was cheering up, things suddenly and irreversibly got much, much, ever so much ... better.

'The thing is,' said Flesh, 'The satellite monitoring is well placed to spot the damage being perpetrated (the quality broadsheets); actioned (the disposable daily/hard bog paper); done (The Sunne).' And lo, 98% of the electorate agreed.  The satellites were modified to also spy on the chronic sufferers of Oughtism parking on pavements ('I oughtta cos I can!'), double parking outside the shops, blocking the entrance to the doctors wherein they sought pills for their chronic obesity ...

And yea, it came to pass that the steam irons (already well on the way to becoming the icons of a new religion) were up-graded to enable the picking up offending pick-up trucks, the scooping up of SUVs and the xxxxing-up of four-wheel drive kiddy-carriers and drop the lot in recycling bins. Once a bin was full it triggered part 2 of this wondrous scheme:

The metal components were re-formed into gym equipment, the microchips were sold to Gurgle, and the sufferers of Chronic Oughtism were given free gym memberships and added to the waiting lists for Organic Community Allotments.

It says something for the apathy of the State of Dyslexicon that not one of its highly trained programmers has bothered to depict this wondrous era of Dyslexicon history as an arcade game. Imagine ...

You are the newly-elected president of the  State of Dyslexicon.
Spot the offending 4x4s and flatten them! 

Iron the pavements
Assist the pedestrians!! 

Get ten 4x4s in your bin and upgrade to Emperor of New Gym!!! 

Open five New Gyms to become Founder of Organic Allotment!!!! 

Found three Organic Allotments to win re-election and membership of the House of Lards and get your name in The Steam Irony Hall of Infamy on our FaceBuck page!!!!!
short satire stories, fiction, satire, climate change


  1. How the famous cartoonist/artist ๐Ÿ‘ฉ‍๐ŸŽจ๐ŸŽจ๐Ÿ–Œ️ Lord Douchebag of Hill Annoy, Kensington Upon Trent, Little England nr Europe can resist creating cartoons for this story I dinna ken ...

  2. Eye, it ar a fine tale and creating cartoons would have been fun for him....But the Hill Annoy boy kin draw no more.

  3. Tis a proper shame. He were quick on the draw


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