The Compulsory Recycling Program

John Malthus was at home enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon to himself. He had a snifter of brandy on the coffee table beside him and a copy of the daily newspaper on his lap. It was raining outside and John had no intention of going anywhere or doing anything. He was in his element. John had just gotten comfortable, burrowing a nice ass-crease in his favourite leather chair, when he heard a knock at the door. He muttered some expletives to himself and arose to answer it. On his porch, John was greeted by a young man wearing a raincoat and carrying a bundle of papers enclosed in a fabric pouch.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the bright-eyed youngster. “The government would like you to fill out this year’s census form.”

The young man handed John a damp sheet of paper. It had a bold and commanding letterhead:

Government Census Form 2015

Please complete all questions by the due date and mail to the appropriate address

“Not interested,” said John, as he returned the letter and tried to slam the door, but the youngster wedged his boot in the doorway.

“Sir, the census is mandatory by law. You don’t have a choice. Please complete it by the due date and mail to the appropriate address.”

“I don’t care. Fuck off.”

John kicked the boy’s foot from his doorway and slammed the door shut. He secured it with a deadbolt, and sat back on his couch to resume his lethargic activities. John took a sip of brandy, unfolded his newspaper and flipped to the sports section. Fucking Mallards beat the Horses 2-0! What a joke! They have no defence this season. John continued grumbling about the scores of recent games when he heard another, more forceful knock at his door some time later. Again, John muttered some expletives and arose from his ass-crease to answer it. The same young boy greeted him, but this time he was accompanied by a police officer. The police officer wore aviator glasses, leather gloves, and boots. The rainwater gave him a glistening appearance.

“This boy says you refuse to fill out a census form. That true?” asked the cop.

“Yeah. I don’t want to fill out your stupid form. Now leave me alone.”

“Sir, do you know the census is mandatory? The government says you have to fill it out. If you continue to refuse, then I’ll have to charge you with a fine.”

“I don’t care,” said John. “I’m not filling it out.”

The officer glanced at the boy, who shrugged his shoulders. The officer turned back to John, raised his chin and made an arrogant snorting sound. He took out a pad of paper, scribbled some words on it, peeled it off, and shoved it in John’s face.

“That’s your fine. Eighty-five dollars. I hope this teaches you a lesson about maturity. You can avoid such needless fines in the future if you just comply with the law. Nobody ever gained from engaging in civil disobedience.”

The officer took a census form and handed it to John. He made another authoritative snorting sound and left the porch with the youngster. When John had slammed the door, he crinkled the papers into a ball and dropped them in his trash-bin. He spat on them. He returned to his couch and his brandy to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in peace and quiet.

A week later, John was watching his favourite sports team, the Horses, play their third game of the tournament against their arch-rivals, the Giraffes. John Malthus took sports very seriously and celebrated the event by dressing up in all his official merchandise and regalia. His team ran out onto the field and John cheered aloud. Their beautiful teal and periwinkle uniforms inspired him with team pride. John had not watched ten minutes of the game before he received a phone-call. Who the hell could this be?

“Hello, Mr. Malthus,” said a pleasant-sounding female voice on the other line. “I am from the Federal Collection Agency. It appears as though you received an eighty-five dollar ticket last week that you have not paid yet.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, I hate to be a bother, but the due date for the ticket was Thursday. That was three days ago. If you don’t want the fines to increase, then I recommend you pay the fine in full by tomorrow afternoon. Okie-dokie?”

John did not detect a hint of malice in the woman’s voice. She demanded John’s money as though she were ordering a pizza, with all the politeness and good manners that such a transaction should entail.

“I’m not paying the fine tomorrow, or any other day for that matter,” said John. “Now leave me alone. I’m trying to watch the game.”

John slammed the phone. He quickly forgot about the disturbance because the Horses just scored two points. John shouted in triumph and pounded his fists against the coffee table. Yeah, we’re back in business! Go Horses! To his consternation, there came another knock at the door a few minutes later. John tried to ignore the visitors but the knocks grew louder and more forceful.

“Open up Mr. Malthus. It’s the Police!”

“Fuck!”

John arose from his chair and opened the door, all while keeping an eye glued to the events on the television. He was confronted with three towering policemen, one of whom was the aviator cop from last week.

“What the hell is your problem, Mr. Malthus?” asked the aviator cop.

“My problem is that I’m trying to watch the game and you assholes keep interrupting me!”

“No, I meant why are you refusing to pay your ticket and fill out a simple census form? I thought you had learned your lesson last week. Give me your promise that you will pay your fines and complete the census. We’re not asking much. Just do as you are told and everything will be fine.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else we are placing you under arrest,” bellowed a short, bulbous cop to his right.

“Looks like you’re going to have to arrest me then, as I do not intend on doing either of those silly things.”

The aviator cop produced a pair of handcuffs and before John could watch the end of the first period, he was being thrown in a squad car. Neighbours looked on in disbelief. John Malthus had never caused any problems in the neighbourhood. He was not a violent man, nor a disruptive man. He was known to be stubborn on occasion, but it was shocking for them to see John led out in cuffs. He did not resist his arrest. He did not protest and cause a scene. However, when he arrived at the police station, John asked the Police chief what the score of the game was. It was 2-1 Horses. He was brought into a dark room and seated at a table in the center. The police chief entered and was accompanied by a tall man with dark sunglasses. John found it amusing that this man wore sunglasses despite the darkness of the room. The police chief slid two sheets of paper across the table to John.

“Complete these forms and you may leave,” said the police chief.

One of these sheets was familiar to John. It had a bold and commanding letterhead:

Government Census Form 2015

Please complete all questions by the due date and mail to the appropriate address

“This one looks like the census, but what is this other paper you wish me to fill out?” asked John.

“It’s a formal statement of apology. We just need you to sign your name at the bottom there,” said the police chief.

“An apology? For what?”

“For wasting our time with your nonsense. That’s what.”

“But I’m not the one who’s wasting your time. You are the ones harassing me. I didn’t do anything except refuse to fill out some stupid census, which I am still not going to do.”

“But why not? It’s not like we’re asking you to give up a kidney. Just complete the damn form. It won’t take you longer than five minutes. I’ll even go through the trouble of mailing it for you. As for all this harassment, as you call it, we are merely taking the proper procedures to ensure you do your part by completing the census form. It is mandatory by law. We’ve all had a long day and I’m sure you want to get back home to watch the rest of your game. The sooner you sign your apology and complete the census, the sooner we can all get back to our lives. Just comply with the law, John. It’s the only way out.”

John tore the apology note and the census in two. The police chief buried his face into his hands and gave a long sigh.

“Why are you making this so difficult on everybody? Just fill out the fucking form, John! That’s all there is to it.”

“As I said, I’m not making this hard on anybody. You’re the ones keeping me here. You’re the ones forcing me to complete this stupid form. If you want to go home so badly, then go home. I’m not doing anything to keep you here.”

The police chief became enraged. John could see the blood vessels on his forehead grow large and inflamed. He growled like a wounded animal. The police chief stormed off to the corner of the room and lit a cigarette. The man with the black sunglasses turned to John.

“You will complete the census John Malthus, or the consequences will be dire.”

“No I won’t.”

The man with the sunglasses turned around to the police chief.

“What do you want to do with him?”

“Throw him in cell block 19 until he decides to comply with our demands.”

The man in the dark sunglasses smiled at John and cracked his knuckles. Then he placed John back in handcuffs and led him out of the interrogation room, down a long corridor lined with florescent lights. They came to a cage with thick iron bars. There was a crude sign hanging over the entrance.

Cell block 19

“Welcome to cell block 19 motherfucker. Here is where your fellow miscreants are kept.”

There were three other men in the cage, all filthy and downtrodden. Their hair was poorly groomed and their skin was covered in dust. One of the men raised his head and smiled when he saw John being thrown in the cage. He had no front teeth.

“This is Dooley,” said the man with the sunglasses. “I’m sure he’ll love to meet a nice young man such as yourself.”

Dooley licked his lips with delight to see his new cellmate.

“Like you, Dooley also thinks he is above the law. He is charged with three hundred accounts of loitering in public places. No matter how many times we arrest him for loitering, he just goes and does it again after his release. It’s such a problem that we had to lock him up indefinitely.”

“I just love to loiter,” giggled Dooley. “There’s nothing else in the world like it. That feeling I get from a good ol’ loitering—it’s like sex on ecstasy. It just gives me a rock-hard erection. My favourite places to loiter are banks and convenience stores. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t help it. This obsession has consumed my life. All I can think about is loitering.”

“And this is Isaac,” said the sunglasses man, pointing to a rotund bearded man in the corner. “Isaac thinks that he doesn’t have to file his income taxes like the rest of us. He hasn’t done so in twenty years. This blatant flaunting of society’s conventions is why he is locked up here.”

“What are you talking about? I filed my taxes last year!” yelled Isaac.

“From what I recall, you mailed a roofing shingle with the words fuck you! painted on it. That doesn’t count as filing your taxes.”

“And finally, this is Abdul,” said the sunglasses man, pointing to an Arab lying on the bench. “We locked him up here because Abdul doesn’t think he needs to wear his seatbelt while driving.”

“I don’t belong in here,” pleaded Abdul. “Why should I have to wear a seatbelt? I am a perfectly good driver and I have never been in an accident in all my thirty years behind the wheel of an automobile. I know seatbelts make me safer, but should I not be allowed to do without one at my own risk? I’m an adult. I am capable of making such decisions for myself. Please, just let me go home to my family. I’m sure they miss me.”

“Shut up, criminal!” said the sunglasses man. “The federal government says you have to wear a seatbelt. Do not question the will of the government! Those laws are in place for your own good. The government knows what is best for you. I doubt your family wants to see you again after you have committed such heinous, negligent crimes.”

Abdul began to weep and called the name of his beloved through his sobs. The sunglasses man slammed the iron door shut and made a mocking smile to the men inside.

“Enjoy your incarceration, jackasses,” he said, and walked away.

John Malthus languished in cell 19 with his fellow criminals for the following month. His beard grew thick and his hair tangled and untamed. The prisoners were fed by a small opening in the wall, barely big enough to place one’s hand through. All they received was gruel. Isaac told John he would get used to it after the first week. He was right. There was no interaction with the guards or the policemen. John quickly became comfortable in his captivity, growing rather attached to his cellmates. Isaac was a fellow Horses fan. The two of them talked sports throughout their time in cell block 19.

“The Horses need to improve their defence!” said Isaac. “They don’t stand a chance to win the championships if they don’t do something about their defence, especially against a team like the Mallards, or the Giraffes.”

“That’s what I’ve always said!” said John. “You should have seen their last game against the Giraffes though. They scored two nice points in the first fifteen minutes of the game. Those goddamn Giraffes didn’t even see it coming.”

“I wish I could go to that Horses stadium downtown and loiter all day,” said Dooley. He became frenzied with enthusiasm. He was rubbing his crotch and foaming at the mouth.

“Calm down Dooley,” said Isaac. “If you get too excited, you will ejaculate in your pants again. Remember what a mess you made the last time? Try not to think about loitering.”

“I can’t help it, man. It just gets me so hot.”

“Would you three please shut the fuck up already?” screamed Abdul. “How can you talk about sex and sports when you see what a dismal place we are in? I hate that stupid seatbelt law. Why do I have to get locked up for disobeying such a ridiculous edict? It’s not like I’m hurting anybody. Why can’t the government just let me be?”

“It’s never been a matter of hurting people,” said Isaac. “They lock us up in here because we undermine the authority of government. All the laws and edicts in the world are useless if nobody is there to enforce them. The majority of people just comply with whatever laws the government passes, without knowing why. The government declares everybody must wear a seatbelt, so everyone wears a seatbelt. Nobody has any reason not to, so people don’t really care if somebody forces them to wear one. But that is precisely the means by which these laws are enacted—by force. If the government had no force, then their laws would cease to have meaning. But for people like us, who consciously disobey these laws, we have to be made an example of. True, we have never hurt anyone or caused anyone malice, but the laws of government would be undermined if people like us were allowed to break them. Don’t you understand? It has nothing to do with what you have done, but because you have done it. You cannot create a new law without also creating criminals. When there are criminals, then one must punish them.”

Just then, the agent with the sunglasses emerged and removed John from cell block 19. He was dragged through the hallway from whence he came to the familiar interrogation room with the police chief. The police chief was smoking a cigarette. John was seated at the same table, where the same two forms awaited him. One was the apology letter while the other was the census.

“We are giving you one last chance,” said the police chief. “Complete the census form or you will be subjected to the harshest of consequences.”

John was silent.

“Well?” said the man with the sunglasses. “Have you finally come to your senses or do we have to take this a step further?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” said John. “But I will not complete the census, regardless of how much you threaten me.”

“We’re not threatening you!” said the police chief, with a great deal of insistence. He put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table and looked John in the eye. He acted with a calm intimacy. His voice was soft and his manners calculated. The police chief leaned his body over the table to maintain eye-level position with John, but John kept glancing at the holstered revolver dangling from his chest.

“I don’t want you to think that we are out to hurt you, John. We’re trying to be as friendly as possible with you. You’re a smart guy. I would hate to see you subjected to harsh punishments just because of an irrelevant matter such as this. We’re on your side! We’re pulling for you! But when you are insistent on being difficult and refusing to submit to government authority, then there is not much we can do for you. Complete the census, John. The law demands it.”

John said nothing. He starred at the police chief’s revolver as though the gun were speaking to him, not the man carrying it.

“Why are you acting like such a child, John? You think we want to punish you for your disobedience? Just fill out the census form for fuck’s sake! What reason could you possibly have not to?”

“I have no reason not to fill out the census, but I am a free, autonomous person. As such, I own my actions and bear the responsibility for their consequences. I just feel like exercising my freedom to not fill out the census. That’s all.”

“No! You’re wrong!” yelled the man with the sunglasses. “You are only free to the extent that the government allows you to be free. You and I are only pieces of the larger aggregate that is society. As such, the government can dispose of you in any way it sees fit if you pose a threat to the society. Laws and government authority are the glue that binds society together. Without the laws of government, we would live in a chaotic world where anything and everything goes. Therefore, disobedience cannot be tolerated in any respect. Be it filling out a census form or chopping toddlers up with an axe, the government reserves the right to force you to do or refrain from doing certain things. You can’t just choose which laws you wish to obey or disobey. You are under the jurisdiction of the state! It has full authority over you! You and your fellow criminals in cell block 19 are the worst kind of scum imaginable. Nothing is more cancerous to society than you and your ilk. Look, I can comprehend the heart of a rapist or a murderer. Some people just can’t help themselves! You don’t expect everyone to take responsibility for their actions do you? But even the most violent serial killer knows at his heart what he does is immoral. He tries to evade the law because he is ashamed to have crossed it. He may even feel an ounce of remorse or regret for the things he has done. But You! You don’t just break the law openly; you do so free of any such reservations. By refusing to fill out the census, wear a seatbelt, or pay your taxes, people like you defecate upon the very glue that holds us together as a society. You are spitting on government authority and you should be subject to the most gruesome and medieval of cruelties. By abandoning the law of the herd, you should not expect its mercy in return. I will see to it that you suffer dearly, John Malthus. Mark my fucking words.”

The two government officials fell silent. They starred at John, hoping he would acknowledge his wrongdoings and beg forgiveness. John said nothing, although vaguely smiling. He leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms.

“What do you think, chief?” asked the sunglasses man. “Should we enlist him in the Compulsory Recycling Program?”

“I don’t want to,” the police chief sighed. “But I see no other option.” He turned to John. “Mr. Malthus, this is your last chance. If you do not complete the census by tomorrow morning, then we are enlisting you in the program.”

“I don’t care. I’m still not completing the census.”

The chief grumbled. For the first time, he actually appeared disgusted with John, waving him away and lighting another cigarette.

“Take this subhuman piece of trash away from my sight,” he said.

John was informed that he would be taken to the Reassignment Facility tomorrow morning. He was tossed back in cell block 19 for the night. It was midnight and his cell mates were asleep except for Isaac, who had stirred when John was thrown back into the cell.

“No luck I see?” Isaac said.

“No. They’re enlisting me in the Compulsory Recycling Program tomorrow.”

Isaac gasped.

“You must have really pissed them off then! They don’t take folks there unless they truly pose a threat.”

“What is this program exactly?”

“Nobody knows. But I can tell you one thing; of all the men who have been enlisted in the program, not one of them has returned. Are you going to submit to the government and fill out a census form?”

“No.”

“Good man. Your iron will is an inspiration to us all. I’ll tell your story to all the men who come through here. Whatever happens to me, I will forever hold the name John Malthus on my lips. I will think of you as a martyr to freedom and determination. Hopefully others will be inspired by you as well. You have a friend in me, John Malthus. I will never forget you.”

John Malthus was removed from the cell the next morning and carried into a black sedan. He was guarded by government officials in dark suits and black sunglasses. The car drove down a dreary road lined with factories and warehouses. There was not a single tree. The car stopped in front of a tall brick building. Two long chimneys stood like monoliths against the sky. A sign was posted out front.

Federal Reassignment Facility

No Loitering

The building smelled of soot and carbolic acid. The government agents took John into the facility and led him down some serpentine passageways until they came to a tremendous metal door. The cacophony of machinery could be heard grinding away behind it. Two people waited for John at the door. One of them was the police chief and the other was a young female nurse. She was very pretty.

“This is your final chance, John. Fill out the census or we will have no choice but to enlist you in the Compulsory Recycling Program,” said the police chief, holding out the familiar sheet of paper.

“I already told you that I have no such intentions.”

“Very well,” said the police chief, dusting his palms like he had disposed of something vile. “We did everything we could for you. You have forced our hand. If you intend on acting like a stupid child, then you shall be disciplined like one.”

The men ordered John to strip all his clothes. Once John was naked, the female nurse began applying some kind of fluid to this legs and chest with a sponge.

“This is rubbing alcohol. It will prevent an infection,” she said.

When John was fully coated with the alcohol, the police chief opened the door and led John into the room. He was deafened by the noise of the machines. The room was the size of a large gymnasium, and massive devices were all humming away inside—pounding, screwing, sawing, jointing, drilling, and hacking. John was led to the facade of an enormous machine in the back of the room. It was at least ten times his height. On the front of the device, there were two columns of razor-sharp teeth, each the length of John’s arm. The teeth fed into a giant steel drum, which formed the main bulk of the machine. Protruding from the drum was a series of pipes and pumps, which connected to another machine. This one looked like a medieval printing press. The police chief flipped some switches and the great machine roared to life. The columns of steel teeth started to spin and John could hear the pumps filling the giant drum with water. As John stood in the awe of this fearsome behemoth, the police chief whispered in John’s ear. The Horses have just won the championship. I figured you’d want to know. John smiled.

Before John could reflect of this good news, the police chief pushed him into the spinning teeth. They tore his body to ribbons. John did not scream or resist, as he didn’t wish the police chief to have the pleasure of witnessing it. Blood flecked the chief, who watched this great apparatus perform its functions. He smiled at the thought that it would recycle this disobedient criminal into something that would be of use to society. John’s remains were fed into the steel drum and mixed with water until they had become a pulpy mash. The mixture was pumped through the tubes and into a furnace where it was dried. A slicer divided the remains into individual sheets—eleven by eight and a half inches, one tenth of a millimetre thick. The Machine loaded the sheets onto the printing press, which inscribed them with words and figures. They were systematically piled once they were complete. The police chief picked up one of the papers. It was still hot and he bounced it around in his hands. These recycled sheets of human remains each had a bold and commanding letterhead:

Government Census Form 2015

Please complete all questions by the due date and mail to the appropriate address

THE END

Six Traits of a Marxist Douchebag

1.     Overcomplication of basic tenets and principles

Normal Person: So you’re a Marxist? Can you explain to me what you believe?

Marxist Douchebag: I believe that the epistemological framework inherent in the institutionalization of private property stems from the literal interpretation of economic realism. Furthermore, the arbitrary principles upon which the capitalist system is established are examined not in the context of physical ineptitude but by the exploitation of the modern worker. Consider a political framework established in a labour environment devoid of any utilization of monetary, as opposed to tangible means of production. It is only by this dialectic that you can ever understand the Zen of Marxism.

Normal person: what the fuck are you talking about?

2.     Relating politics to things that have nothing to do with politics

Normal Person: The Lion King is one of my favourite movies. Have you seen it yet?

Marxist Douchebag: The Lion King is a capitalist invention used to perpetuate the institutionalization of private property. The kingdom should have been distributed  equally among the workers after the death of King Mufasa instead of being given to Simba. Property is theft, man.

3.     Nonsensical Apologies for tyrannical regimes

Normal person: If communism is so great, then how do you explain North Korea?

Marxist Douchebag: North Korea is actually one of the most prosperous countries in the world. Poverty and Starvation are small prices to pay for living in a Marxist utopia. All hail Dear Leader!

4.     Refusal to acknowledge basic human nature

Normal Person: If all wealth is equally distributed in a communist society, then wouldn’t there be a shortage of doctors and engineers since there would be no monetary incentive to become one?

Marxist Douchebag: No, you’re wrong. People would become doctors and engineers out of the goodness of their hearts because they would want to help society, not because they want the money. Greedy people are a product of capitalist mentality. Greed did not exist before capitalism. It magically came into the universe after the birth of Adam Smith.

5.     Thinking that Capitalism is Literally Hitler

Normal Person: I think I might vote for Ron Paul.

Marxist Douchebag: Why don’t you just put on an SS uniform and goose-step down the street you anti-Semitic pig? Fascist scum like you disgust me.

6.     A comical hatred for Ayn Rand

Normal Person: The Fountainhead is one of my favourite novels.

Marxist Douchebag: Ayn Rand was a fucking stupid Russian bitch who chain-smoked like a fucking cunt and hated poor people. She also cheated on her husband, thereby discrediting her philosophy. She also accepted money from the government and she was so fucking ugly. What a batshit insane fucking cunt she was. She’s rotting in hell now and subhuman vomit like you will soon join her. You should read good communist literature like The Red Book by Mao Tse-Tung instead.

Top 10 Dictators of All Time

Cracked.com can go eat a dick. If you are the kind of person who is amused by their easily digestible list-formatted articles then you probably have the attention span of a small rodent. Anyone with a high-school education is capable of devising such lists. It is also a socialist haven for angsty teens to churn out shit like this . It requires a miniscule amount of writing talent to list a bunch of arbitrary items and write facetious remarks about them. Most of the articles deal with trivial nonsense anyway like “ten ways your anal beads will give you more than you bargained for”.

Anyways, the following is a list of the top ten dictators of all time. They are chosen based on how they have led their respective nations to glorious triumph. I do not intent to include Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, or Mao Zedong. That would be too cliché and obvious. In case you haven’t been able to tell, this entire post is a work of satire, so if you are offended by the things I have written, you can pick a number, get in line, and kiss my ass.

10. Augusto Pinochet

What do you get when you mix Francisco Franco, Milton Friedman, and George Lopez into one? Motherfucking Augusto Pinochet. Pinochet is an odd exception to the history books. There are many who consider him to be a ruthless dictator who plunged the nation of Chile into poverty, while others praise him for saving the nation from communists. Although he was undoubtedly a ruthless dictator, his economic policies lifted the nation of Chile out of a terrible recession and brought relative prosperity to the country. He was a member of the coup d’état which ousted the socialist government of Salvador Allende in 1973. Augusto was greatly influenced by free-market capitalist philosophy. Once he took power, he sought to implement his capitalist philosophy in the best way he thought possible—by slaughtering everyone who disagreed with him.

In 1975, Pinochet’s government conducted Operation Condor. Its main objective was to purge South America of all the socialist and communism scum. Over 60,000 deaths occurred as a result of Pinochet’s government and Operation Condor. Evidently, murdering communists can get a bit tiring after a while, so in 1990, Pinochet peacefully stepped down from office. The British government saw this as an opportunity to charge Pinochet for all those shenanigans he thought he could get away with. The British Government, in all their stoic arrogance were not aware of the fact that nobody fucks with Augusto Pinochet. So, in 2000 he moved back to Chile and lounged around on the beach with his amassed fortune of 29 million dollars until he died in 2006 at the petrified old age of 91.

9. Suharto

Pinochet’s communist body count is absolutely dwarfed when held up to the reign of Suharto. You really have to stand in awe at the carnage that occurred under his regime. Much like Cher, Madonna, or God, Suharto was obviously way too cool to have a second name. Cool, he definitely was. A Suharto by any other name would not sound nearly as sweet.

He wrestled power from the socialist government of Sukarno to become president of Indonesia in 1967. Suharto was likely pissed off because Sukarno’s name was too similar to his. Anyway, following his rise to power, Suharto and his government purged the entire country of all socialists and communists, dragging political party members out of their houses and shooting them in the street. No due process for those motherfuckers. The purges resulted in the deaths of over half a million communists, thus laying the groundwork for Suharto’s thirty-two year presidency.

The killings didn’t stop there however. Next on his sights was the defenceless speck of an island called East Timor. Indonesia invaded East Timor in 1974 and didn’t get tired and go back home until twenty years later. The invasion was marked with such violence and death that it could best be described as genocide. What is interesting about the East Timor genocide was its lack of publicity in American media. Despite the outright slaughter of the Timorese people, the American psyche is almost devoid of the whole incident or the aforementioned communist purges of 1967. They were probably all too busy watching the new season of Night Rider.

8. Muammar Gaddafi

His time in office may not be marked with the brutal violence of the two aforementioned dictators on this list, but what he lacks in bloodshed, Gaddafi makes up for it with pure batshit insanity. Have you ever been lounging around your harem; smoking your hookah and praising Allah when you get the sudden urge to kick all the Italians out of your nation? Well Gaddafi sure the fuck did. The Libyan dictator of over forty years was unfortunately murdered last year by savage barbarians; obviously ungrateful for the favour he had done his people.

Up until his violent ousting in 2011, Gaddafi claimed that the rebels had been hypnotized by potions given to them by foreigners. Like many great dictators whose greatness in misunderstood by the world around them, Gaddafi was prone to paranoid behaviour and idiosyncrasies. The former Libyan flag was a solid green field, He thought that Israel was responsible for the JFK assassination, and he travels with an entourage of female virgin bodyguards (although many such bodyguards have later claimed to have been sexually abused by the dictator). The list of nonsense goes on. However for dictator standards, Gaddafi was generally well liked.  Even after he had been murdered, Gaddafi still had a considerably loyal following and was known to travel through the streets of Tripoli in an open limousine. The Pope could sure learn a thing or two from the man.

7. Maximilien Robespierre

Apart from looking like a gremlin, Maximilien Robespierre was arguably one of the most psychopathic despots of the eighteenth century. Robespierre, although not technically a dictator in the traditional sense, was one of the lead figures in the French revolution in 1789 and thereby held an extraordinary amount of political influence. 

The aim of the revolution was to overthrow the current French monarchy, by which the French peasants felt they were being oppressed. It was influenced by many of the Enlightenment thinkers such as Jean Jacques Rousseau, who advocated liberty and basic human rights.  After the monarchy was overthrown in 1789 in a bloody revolution, Robespierre sought to implement these philosophical ideologies in the most appropriate manner possible—terrorism. I never read anything by Rousseau that advocated the political use of terror or gruesomely beheading your enemies, but apparently Robespierre had read The Social Contract a little more thoroughly than I had.

In 1793, Robespierre and the other members of the Revolution funded the Committee for Public Safety (which is not much different than the Department of Public Safety today). Its main objective was to gather up enemies of the Revolution and slice off their heads with the guillotine. It is estimated that over 40,000 people were executed by Robespierre’s orders simply because they didn’t hate the Monarchy enough. Hell, even Georges Danton, who was a member of the committee himself was guillotined because he had the audacity to propose that maybe they shouldn’t kill so many innocent people. Goddamn pacifists. After guillotining everyone he possibly could, it is rumoured that Robespierre even guillotined the executioner himself.

Evidently, the old saying is true: “what goes around comes around”. In 1794, the people had enough of Robespierre’s shit and he was guillotined himself. It never does pay to be a douchebag.

6. Sappurmurat Niyazov

Niyazov was one of those few dictators who was crazier than he was evil. He was the President of Turkmenistan from 1990 to 2006. After declaring independence from the Soviet Union in 1990, Mr. Niyazov promptly threw modesty to the dogs and established himself as Turkmenbashi: President for Life. Like all dictatorships run by illiterate, narcissistic fatsos, Turkmenistan was in for a wacky and hilarious sixteen years of totalitarian rule. Probably compensating for an astronomically microscopic penis, Niyazov developed a personality cult around himself that would make Stalin and Gaddafi look like the epitome of self-restraint. Giant golden statues of Sappurmurat line the streets of Ashgabat, Turkmenistan’s capital. One of them was even designed to always face the sun. 

The trademarks of Niyazov’s rule however, are his arbitrary edicts on banning things. He has gloriously declared that the following things are to be purged from his nation: gold crowns on teeth, makeup on women, dogs, chewing tobacco, and AIDS. Who knew that the spread of a deadly disease could be halted by the demand of a dictator who looked like an anthropomorphic lima bean?

Apparently Niyazov believed himself to be a great philosopher as well, writing a book called Ruhnama. During his reign, he forced all his subjects to read and memorize it. Nobody could obtain a driver’s license in Turkmenistan until they did. Although I’ve never had the privilege of reading it myself, I couldn’t imagine the self-praise of an illiterate man could really classify as profound philosophy. Niyazov unfortunately perished in 2006, leaving the world with a howling vacuum of comedic antics.

5. Idi Amin

Whether or not Idi Amin was a human or simply a shaven wookie is still being determined by modern scientists. What we do know is that After Uganda declared independence from Britain in 1970, Idi Amin was declared president of the nation. He retained this position for the eight years between 1971 and 1979. During these eight years, he somehow executed up to 500,000 political dissidents. Ambition sure goes a long way.

Prior to ruling Uganda with an iron fist, Amin was a heavyweight boxer, rugby player, and military lieutenant, neither of which are qualifying factors for the leader of a nation. He was known to be good friends with aforementioned Muammar Gaddafi, with whom he allied in his war against Tanzania. In 1977, Britain became disgruntled with Uganda’s domestic policy of slaughtering its own citizens and thus severed diplomatic ties with them. Idi Amin twisted this incident into an indication of personal success, claiming he had conquered the entire British Empire. Idi Amin was also known for his Anti-Semitism and his fanhood of the tyrannical state of Saudi Arabia.

4. Leopold II

As an employer, what do you think would be some methods which you could implement that would increase the efficiency of your employees? Giving them free coffee? Extending their break hours? Maybe a casual-dress Friday? Well, Leopold II of Belgium didn’t believe in any of that humanitarian bullshit. If you did not meet the quotas demanded by Leopold and his colonial goons, they would chop your hands off. That was sure to make you more productive!

During the colonial era of the nineteenth century, the ownership of Africa was carved up among the European nations. For instance, Britain got modern-day Uganda, South Africa, Egypt, and Zimbabwe, Italy got Libya, Ethiopia, and Eritrea, France got Algeria and Tunisia, while Belgium got the Congo. Although the country of Belgium was only a tenth of the size of the Congo, they were determined to exploit its mineral  resources to the maximum extent. The Congo (or the Congo Free State, as he renamed it) was rich in natural resources such as ivory and rubber. Just like the modern superpowers of today, King Leopold allocated much of the resources he owned to collecting these natural resources for his great nation. Adhering to the general philosophy of the time, Leopold thought that black people were inherently uncivilized and thus needed the guidance of the white man to point him in the direction of prosperity. At least, that’s what he told everyone. In reality, he ran the Congo as a brutal mercenary state and is thought to have massacred up to fifteen million Congolese. He also had a pretty cool beard.

3. Caligula

Why do all the modern dictators have to have all the fun? There is no doubt that the emperors of days past were just as psychotic and nutty as the ones we have today. Gaius “Caligula” Julius Caesar certainly stands testament to this fact. The Roman Empire saw its fair sure of inbred crazies rule the throne, especially during the so-called Pax Romana from27 BCE to 180 CE. In fact, when Rome came under the rule of Nerva in the year 96, he received the glorious title of the “first good emperor” simply for not being batshit crazy.

I believe that Caligula certainly stands head and shoulders above all the other bastards that Rome was unfortunate enough to have been ruled by. Nero, Elagabalus, and Commodus don’t even hold a candle to this guy. Caligula (whose name affectionately meant “little boots”) succeeded Tiberius to claim the throne in 37 CE. Tiberius was paranoid to the extent that Richard Nixon would seem like a Buddhist monk in comparison. When Tiberius died in 37 CE, the bar wasn’t set very high for Caligula.

From what we can tell, the first few years of Caligula’s reign were actually quite prosperous. He abolished all the random treason accusations that Tiberius had filed against people and gave out generous bonuses to the military. Everyone loved Caligula at first, for the simple fact that he was not Tiberius. However, in approximately 38, Caligula fell under the curse of some unknown illness from which he nearly died. However, he eventually recovered and subsequently plummeted Rome into a spiraling abyss of degeneration.

Caligula tried his hand at becoming a general, given his extensive military background, but all accounts of this tell he was a failure. He was known to send the military off to nonsensical campaigns, such as marching entire legions up to Germany to collect sea shells (or spoils of the sea, as he called them). There are some accounts that he had an incestuous relationship with his sister Drusilla and after her death, Caligula had her deified. He also had his horse made into a counsel and was reported to have been constantly drunk and over-sexed.

Like Sappurmurat Niyazov, Caligula also had a bit of a vanity complex. He thought he was a god and ordered all the heads on the statues of gods in Rome to be replaced with his own. One of the most lavish of his endeavours however, was when he ordered over a hundred ships to be tried together across the Bay of Naples and proceeded to cross them on horseback. He allocated so many resources to this feat that he drained the Roman treasury and the population of Rome suffered a famine. I can’t really blame him for this though. Modern leaders waste just as much money on nonsense like social security and Medicare, while these things aren’t even half as awesome as what Caligula did. Apparently the Praetorian Guard didn’t quite share my enthusiasm for Caligula’s antics, so they murdered him in the year 41.

2. Nicolai Ceausescu

With a shit-eating grin like that, you just know this guy is going to be a first-rate dick. Nicolai Ceausescu was the last communist dictator of Europe. He was the president of Romania from 1965 to 1989. Despite being a Communist, he ardently opposed his fellow reds in The Soviet Union after they invaded Czechoslovakia in 1966. The declaration of independence from The USSR granted Ceausescu and Romania positive recognition on the world stage. All the praise kind of went to his head because he developed an insane personality cult around himself. Ceausescu staged daily parades and ceremonies dedicated in his own honor in which millions of people were forced to attend.

It goes without saying that the media in Romania was extremely controlled. Unless you wanted a one-way ticket to one of Communist Romania’s most prestigious rehabilitation centers (AKA: getting your dick sliced off in prison), You did not dare vocalize your dissent of the government or of Ceausescu’s glorious administration.

That wasn’t the worst of crap he inflicted upon his people though. In 1966, Ceausescu decreed that abortion and birth control were now banned, thereby rustling the jimmies of polygamists and swingers nationwide. This was to have the effect that pretty much everyone reading this would think it would. The population of Romania exploded, sending child abandonment rates skyrocketing and orphanages bursting at the seams. Many of the negative effects of this moron’s policies are still felt in Romania today. The lesson to learn here is that abortion is awesome and should be available to all.

The Romanian people were so pissed off at Ceausescu that they lynched him and his wife in a bloody coup in 1989. To this day, he is the only dictator of a former soviet country to have been killed by his own subjects.

   1.  Pol Pot

In order to fully understand the regime of Saloth Sar (or Pol Pot as he is better known), it pays to learn just how he and his fellow clowns came into power. During the end of the Vietnam War, Richard Nixon thought that it would be a good idea to bomb the hell out of Cambodia. His argument was that there were VC’s hiding out in the Cambodian jungle and the only way to snuff them out was the paint the nation with a healthy coat of napalm. However, this was to prove disastrous for those non-combatants who had nothing to do with the war. Over 150, 000 innocent Cambodians were murdered during these bombings. As it turns out, Cambodians weren’t exactly pleased with what was going on, so many of them joined the CPK (Communist Part of Kampuchea) in retaliation. It was led by none other than Pol Pot. To this day, it seems that The USA still hasn’t learned that bombing innocent people in foreign countries doesn’t exactly win you the support of their population. Just ask pretty much every country in the middle east right now.

The CPK, fueled by the hatred of the US and the Cambodian government that in part facilitated their violent barbarism, overthrew the current government in 1970 and took power. As is the trend in communist countries, Cambodia was quickly transformed into an oppressive prison state. Pol Pot first abolished money, calling it a capitalist institution of “privilege and power”. Daily executions of random people were also the norm, many innocent civilians were bludgeoned to death, and others rotted away in prisons. Pol Pot transformed what was initially a peaceful agricultural land into a genocidal playground.

Like Adolf Hitler, Pol Pot was a proponent of systematic, racial purity. He thought that only the Khmer were the master race; everyone else was subhuman. He organized mass executions of Non-Khmer Cambodians and Vietnamese alike. Despite being taught at a French University during his youth, Pol Pot also had a dislike of smart people. He purged Cambodia of everyone he considered to be intellectuals: university professors, rich folk, and just plain old people with glasses. Any display of individualism was not looked upon kindly by the CPK. It was the ultimate peasant society. It was the epitome of Communism.

Pol Pot lived to old age and died in 1998. The slippery bastard was never tried or convicted of his crimes. 

Moonlight Prodigy

“No! No! No! No! No!” Israel Copperstein bellowed, as he snorted back another handful of mucus into his sinuses.

“That’s not how the piece is supposed to be played at all! Don’t you even practice? It goes C, C, D, A sharp, rest, G sharp, C, not C, C, D, A sharp, G sharp, rest, C! Once more from the top!”

Yu Ling’s fingers were sore from having played the same rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for the past two hours. Her father had enlisted her in the most rigorous music academy in the entire state. She attended sessions daily from 6pm until 8. While she wasn’t practicing piano or at school, she was to be studying in order to optimize her academic prestige, as her father phrased it. From the writing to the piano playing, her fingers were perpetually engaged and sore. She always thought that she would develop carpel tunnel syndrome before her twentieth birthday and not have to write or play any more—though her father would likely make her play with her feet in that case. It was no surprise that she kept playing the piece wrong.

“No! No! A million times, NO!”

Copperstein was insufferable.

“Aren’t you capable of reading music? Do you need bloody glasses? It says to hold that F for two beats, you held it for two and a half. Once more from the top!”

Yu’s music teacher, Israel Copperstein was an immense sight for any mortal to behold. His musical genius was dwarfed by his grotesquely-shaped physique. A cascading fountain of human flesh poured like a pyroclastic flow down the waistline of his trousers. When Copperstein coughed, the skin on his neck rippled to cast the myriad of warts on his chin asunder, reminiscent of a lifeboat lost at sea and at the mercy of its tumultuous waves. Though he could play every classical composer from Beethoven to Tchaikovsky by memory, he was not suited as a teacher, much less to be associated with children. On the rare occasion that Yu impressed Copperstein with her playing, he would offer her a handful from a bowl of festering liquorice he kept in the corner of the practice hall. Suffice to say, it wasn’t much of positive reinforcement.

“So that ends the lesson for today Yu. You must practice more thoroughly for tomorrow! You don’t get any liquorice if you do not have the piece memorized.”

At that, Copperstein broke into a violent fit of coughing and wheezing until he regained his composure to pat Yu on her head and send her off home.

At dinner, that evening, Yu’s father stared at her with intense fervour. He ate his rice grudgingly as he eyed his daughter with the same expression one gives to a murder suspect who is on the verge of confessing.

“Mr. Copperstein says that you have not been practicing the piano!” He snapped to break the awkward tension.

“It’s not my fault father, my hands were sore.”

“Your hands were sore? That is a pathetic excuse Yu! You know that I pay for those lessons so you can become great prodigy! How dare you disrespect me and your ancestors by saying your hands are sore!”

“But father-"

“Don’t speak! You have lost the privilege. After you are done your rice, you must go to your room and practice more piano. You do not sleep until you have memorized!”

Yu’s father was a humourless pillar of old-world discipline. He and his wife, Yu’s mother, had emigrated from Korea while they were newlyweds in search of prosperity in America. Both of them had a boiling distain for communism as both had seen their glorious nation trampled by devastation during the Korean War. Yu’s parents always pressured their daughter into succeeding and achieving what they thought was the great American Dream. However, their pressure was tantamount to abuse, and when Yu did not live up to their expectations, her father beat her without restraint.

After supper, Yu’s father approached Yu’s room expecting to see her practicing. When he opened the door to her room, he saw Yu with her head resting on the keys of her baby grand piano. She had passed out. He removed his belt and promptly lashed her across the back.

“Awake! Now! You must practice! There is no time for resting.”

He slammed the door and stormed off, leaving Yu to drift right back into a duly needed sleep. The beatings hurt her, but the pain was bearable compared to the agony of staying awake and practicing. Yu actually loved playing piano, and she was considerably good at it. She just resented her father and that rotund ghoul of an instructor. Neither had shown Yu any congratulations for the progress she made. Yu was indeed one of the most proficient piano players in the whole state, but never had received any recognition for it—just beatings and bitter candies.

The next day at her lesson, Copperstein had come down with a nasty case of bronchitis, although he coughed and cleared his throat no more than Yu thought routine. His illness had made him even grumpier than usual. He scolded Yu for every minor mistake she made.

“Bah! That is wrong, all wrong! Why can’t you just play the music properly? Why do you have to keep making stuff up—just look at the sheet music!”

“But I wasn’t making anything up Mr. Copperstein.” Yu protested.

Copperstein grunted in disbelief.

“Well then, tell me what it was you just played. Because to me, it sounded like mezzo-forte! The sheet music clearly indicates that this piece must be played in mezzo-piano. Once more from the top!”

“Yes, Mr. Copperstein”

It is sufficient to say Yu did not receive any liquorice that day.

That evening, when Yu got home from her lesson, she found to her surprise her great uncle Tao eating dinner with her family. Apparently, she had lost the privilege of getting dinner as there were only three plates of rice set out this evening. Her father only did that when he was exceptionally cross with her.

“No dinner for you tonight Yu.” Her father exclaimed.

“I get phone call from Mr. Copperstein! He tell me you no practice. You are disgrace to your family. Say hello to great uncle Tao. Have you no manners?”

“Hello uncle Tao”

“Good evening Yu.”

Uncle Tao was a petrified old relic from the old country. He was a veteran of the Korean War and boasted constantly that he had killed over two hundred communists with his bare hands. He always joked that he was the reason way there was a demilitarized zone. The commies were scared of him, he claimed. Once he died the war apparently was to start back up again.

“Aren’t you going to serve your daughter a plate of rice?” asked Tao.

“She doesn’t get rice! Not after she disgraces her family by not practicing piano.”

Yu hung her head and walked up to the solitude of her bedroom. Just once it would be good to get some recognition for the work she put into her studies and her piano practice. Yu felt like she was lingering on a breaking point. Either she would snap, or somebody else would. Evidently, it was to be someone else.

When she entered the music academy for her daily piano lesson the next day, she was greeted by a young man with terrible posture. He had dirty blonde hair and a face enveloped in teenage-onset acne. It looked like a road map of Tennessee on his cheeks.

“Hi, you must be Yu Ling. I’m Derrick. Sorry, but Israel Copperstein won’t be teaching you anymore. He passed away last night.”

It was almost a shock to Yu as it was a relief. There would be no more wheezing, and coughing, and horrible liquorice.

“He died? How?”

Derrick scratched his face and looked down at the floor. He had a voice stereotypical of most teenagers with bad genetics. He had a mid-pitched squeal for a voice and stumbled over his sentences like a mad drunk running through an obstacle course in the dark.

“He didn’t so much pass away as he was murdered.”

“Murdered? By who?”

“By Hezbollah militants as it turns out. They fired a rocket into his apartment. I can’t say that I envy the paramedics who had to clean the body up. Apparently his lard and mucus coated all the walls and windows. They say he just burst like a ripe sack of ketchup.”

“Oh My.”

“Well I am going to be your piano teacher from now on. Where did you leave off?”

Yu led Derrick into the practice room and played for him the piece she had left off with—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Although she made a few of the mistakes that Israel Copperstein had always scolded her for, Derrick didn’t seem to notice.

“Wow, that’s probably one of the best renditions of that piece I’ve ever heard! Israel must have been a great teacher to you.”

“He was okay.”

“Was he proud to have you as a student?”

“I guess so, he never said that though.”

Derrick stuck his nose in the air and winced at something.

“What the hell is that awful stench? It smells like lye and road-salt.”

“Oh that would be the liquorice that Mr. Copperstein gave me when I didn’t completely disappoint him.”

“You didn’t actually eat this shit did you?”

Derrick approached the porcelain bowl in the corner of the room. He reached in to pick up one of the liquorice. The humidity had evidently fused them all together because as he lifted his hand, the entire bowl lifted with him. Yu and Derrick burst out laughing.

Tao eyed Mr. Ling with silence.

“What is it? Why do you keep staring at me?

Tao had a long Confucius-like beard and he stroked it contemplatively as he spoke.

“Let me ask you a question. Do you ever beat Yu?”

Mr. Ling was taken back. He looked like a startled deer that had just seen the headlights of the car that was bearing down on him.

“Oh course I do. She needs encouragement to become great. She is very talented you know. She plays piano better than anyone I’ve ever heard. She needs motivation though. American Teenagers are so lazy.”

“Have you ever told her that?’

“Told her what?”

“That you think she’s talented. Every time I come over, you just insult her and treat her like a dog.”

Mr. Ling thought about what his uncle had said for a good few minutes before responding. In fact, there had not been a time that he could remember when he had praised his daughter for her achievements. It gave him a hollow, empty feeling. Tao stroked his beard again and watched the dismayed Mr. Ling process his emotions.

Yu walked in the front door and greeted them both.

“Enough talking Yu! Go up and practice more!”

At practice the next day, Yu kept glancing at Derrick out of the corner of her eye. There was a sense of urgency in the expression on her face.

“Is everything okay Yu?” Derrick asked, puzzled.

“Uh, can I tell you something?”

“Yeah I guess. What is it?”

“The reason, I’m so good at playing piano is because my father. He gets very angry when I don’t live up to his expectations. Sometimes, he even, uh, whips me with his belt.”

Given Derrick’s relatively young age and lack of sufficient life experience, he was unable to process awkward situations such as these. His forehead started to perpetrate and his voice shifted between octaves.

“That’s a problem Yu.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Look, I live in my mother’s basement. If you want to come stay with me for a while that’s okay. You seem like a nice girl. As for your father, we should really call Child Protective Services.”

Yu was glad that she had finally met someone who not only appreciated her talent, but also cared about her well-being. He may have been a lanky, socially inept teenager, but Yu was not going to discriminate.

Derrick opened the door to his mother’s basement and flipped on the light. The room was decorated with posters of bullshit rock bands and pictures of half-nude women. It smelt like humidity and rich soil.

“This is my room. You can stay here for the time being. I’m sure my mom won’t mind.”

“I’m really grateful for this Derrick.”

“Don’t mention it. Any good person would do this. I wouldn’t want you to go back living with that abusive father of yours.”

Derrick’s mother called out from upstairs.

“Derrick honey, would you and your little friend like Tacos or Pizza for dinner tonight?”

“Pizza, Ma!” Squealed the pimply faced teen.

“Say, Yu. May I hear you play that Beethoven piece again?”

Yu approached the electric piano in the corner of Derrick’s room and started playing. She played without restraint. Her fingers didn’t hurt and she didn’t have to fear being scolded or beaten for making a mistake. There was no snorting, grunting, or wheezing to distract her. This was how she always wanted to play the piano—peacefully, with the appreciation of others. Derrick leaned back in his water bed and listened. It was indeed some of the most beautiful piano playing he had ever heard.

That evening, Mr. Ling received a phone call from Child Protective Services. He was under investigation for child abuse and neglect. He had a court appearance and the tone of the CPS agent made him feel very ashamed of himself. For Mr. Ling, the American dream had ended there and then. He had the best of intents for his daughter, but now he was being treated no better than the communist scum he had sworn to perpetually despise.

Mr. Ling turned on his stereo and put on his favourite Beethoven piece, Moonlight Sonata. He reached into his drawer and retrieved his ceremonial tanto. There was only one option left for him—to commit seppuku. If he was to die, he would die with glory and ascent to the great hall of his ancestors. Yu didn’t need him anymore. There would be no dishonour from Child Protective Services for him.

As Mr. Ling watched his intestines spilling out of his bowels, the very last sentiment to enter his mind was pride, not for himself, or his uncle, or his country, but for his daughter. She had brought their family great honour.