No one expects the revolution. One moment you’re lighting cigars with bank notes on the balcony of your dictator’s mansion, laughing maniacally, the next the oppressed masses are bashing the doors down. Dictators are always complacent. I know I am.
I’m the deputy dictator of our little society. What I say goes. As long as I’ve checked it’s all right with my wife of course. She’s head dictator. But I’m definitely above the masses in our oppressive hierarchy. The masses, both of them, know they’re place. Well, they don’t, but they’re a lot smaller than me. I laugh and smoke cigars on the terrace of my dictator’s mansion while they burn effigies of me below.
When the oppressed throw off their shackles it’s invariably a result of the government’s broken promises. I promised my son we were going to see the dinosaurs. The fibreglass dinosaurs in a field at our local wildlife park. To say my son likes dinosaurs would be like saying the Pope likes Catholicism.
Because of my mismanagement we got to the park late. Then I squandered dinosaur time drinking coffee and chatting to other parents. Soon it was getting a bit late to see the dinosaurs. The masses were, to say the least, not happy about this.
I remained pretty complacent. My son’s roars of discontent were increasing, but I was still in charge. Nothing could change that. Dictators never get overthrown. Ever.
We got back to the car. My son was now apoplectic. I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he had started breathing fire at me. But I was still in control.
It’s surprising how strong a two year old can be when he’s over throwing tyranny. It soon became clear, as he writhed and planked, moaning like a goose with a piano on it’s foot, that I physically couldn’t get him into his car seat.
Something frightening dawned on me. I was no longer in control. My dictatorship was over. It took half an hour to talk my son down as the car park got colder and darker. I finally broke his resolve by promising unlimited TV.
And he believed me. Mwahahaha.