President Pig

When the citizens of Kint grow weary of what they perceive as an ineffective government, they elect a barnyard animal to lead them.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:03

Welcome to Dispatches from Kent. Conditions remain inconclusive. Elections in Kent came around the way seasons did. Just like the arrival of winter or summer. The election season came with speeches, posters, handshakes, and the same menu of phrases like renewal of purpose and hope for the future. But people were tired. They were tired of bureaucratic forms that seemed to multiply every year, despite promises of making life easier. They were tired of potholes that were older than children. They were tired of committees, studies, delays, and excuses. They were tired of paying for things they could not see, and waiting for changes that never came. They said so in the town square at the bakery, while standing in line for ordinary things. Nothing gets done. Everything costs more. No one listens. One morning a pig wandered into town. It belonged to no one. It walked where it wished. It sniffed its stalls, then wandered over to the stack of newspapers, sniffed thoughtfully, turned once, and left a neat, unquestionable opinion on the front page. People gathered to watch the pig make a mess of the headlines. When the pig ruined the newspapers, a man shouted, Look, he knows better than to believe the lies. By evening the phrase, the pig knows better was on buttons, hats, and banners. People said it proudly, as if they had discovered an historical truth. The next day the pig was led onto a stage at a rally with people chanting their new slogan, The Pig Knows Better. The pig accepted the applause and the occasional apple with grave attention. Kent ministers watched in disbelief as their education, their training, their years of service were being rejected in favor of this poor sign candidate. To Noah's real surprise, when election day arrived, the pig won. There were cheers, laughter, relief, pig hats, songs, and tears that surprised the people who shed them. They said that they had taken politics away from politicians. They said that they had chosen honesty over corruption. The pig was brought into the council chamber. Important proclamations were spread before it, one paper to the left, one to the right, whichever one the pig stepped on became law. Sometimes when it was displeased, the pig squealed. It was not a reasonable sound. It filled the chamber, rattled the glass, and sent aids scattering. Aides said that the pig hated inefficiency. They said the pig rejected bureaucracy and intended to get rid of waste, patronage, and political unfairness. In truth, the pig hated being hungry, crowded, or bored. Someone suggested the pig needed help. Not a human. Humans, people said, were the problem. They wanted something natural, something pure, something that understood the pig. They chose a weasel. The weasel became the pig's right hand. It slipped in and out of rooms, rooting for food in storerooms, kitchens, markets, and restaurants. It hid what it could not eat. People said the weasel was the perfect companion to the pig, representing the kind of robust consumerism that could help to elevate Kent's net national wealth and fiscal future. The pig did not object. It ate. It walked where it walked. It squealed when uncomfortable. It slept most of the day. Its slavishly devoted sycophants said this was a mark of good governance, a laissez affaire approach to the job that could only come about as the result of the utmost confidence. The pig's detractors said the pig's followers had obviously lost their minds. The pig and the weasel were paraded through the square. People applauded themselves for electing a leader who refused to play political games. They wore pig hats and weasel pins. At least this one is honest about being what it is, they said. At first, life in Kent felt refreshing. But the bridges, still in need of repair, stayed closed. The roads worsened. A hospital renovation stopped halfway and never resumed. When complaints arose, someone said, These are all lies. The pig knows what it's doing. Things got worse. Taxes weren't collected and necessities like electricity and water were no longer delivered with efficiency. The pig's loud squealing continued. The weasel ate, and slowly something shifted. A woman stood inside her house, catching rain in a bucket from a roof that should have been repaired. She looked at the water and then at the newspaper with the pig on the front and felt something heavy inside her chest. Another man stared at a broken road and remembered laughing the day they elected the pig. He had thought, that'll show these politicians. Now he thought, What have we done? Little by little people stopped feeling vindicated. They stopped saying, at least it's not like before. Some actually expressed regret. It wasn't that bad, not compared to this. One evening the square filled again. No speeches were made. There was no shouting. People simply stood there looking at one another, realizing that they had confused anger for clarity, noise for leadership, childish slogans for truth. Someone finally said it out loud. We have been ridiculous. No one argued. The next day they led the pig back to the fields where its squeals made sense again. The weasel followed, already searching for something to eat. The work of Kent, rebuilding, planning, maintaining, remained. The forms remained. The road still needed repair. None of it had become easier. But the people understood, now that they had elected the pig, not because it was wise, but because they were tired. And fatigue, they realized was a poor advisor. This is your correspondent, struck by the notion that anger may fuel a movement, but in the end it's no way to make sure the lights stay on. Conditions remain inconclusive.