HOME FOR SOCIETY'S FAILURES

A private home for the relics of the establishment. They wander the corridors shouting out half-remembered things and attempting to adhere to protocols from days gone. Doddery TDs roar for imaginary Ceann Comhairles. Their minds suspended in battles yesteryear, they emit non sequiturs. 'Don't interrupt me, I didn't interrupt you,' they protest to no one in particular about nothing in particular. Senility clutches to the remnants of instinct. It's an attempt to make sense of what never made sense.

A spoon is raised to Sir Anthony's gaping mouth. The most ancient of them all. Vacant. The train has left the station and the stop long since terminated. The comparatively sprightly Denis giggles and hides Sir Anthony's slippers. Then Denis can't remember where he hid the slippers or even that he hid them at all, so he looks for the slippers so he can hide them again and wails when he can't find them. His memories redacted, he can only be calmed by a little treat. Lobster bisque or something like that. Then he scurries to the corner and whispers legal threats into the ear of a husk that was once a leading journalist. The husk weeps and pleads for mercy.

Undead ex-ministers cut deals with dementia afflicted tycoons. Brown envelops are exchanged but there's only shit in them. Speaking of shit, along come Joan and Enda, collecting water charges with their bedpans. Buttons are dropped in with a clinking sound and they shuffle on, droning about the future of the nation and muttering some vague legislation.

There's a large fence with snipers all around. Whether the guns are there to keep those seeking vengeance out or keep those who killed the future in, no one is quite sure. Perhaps it's a bit of both. The situation is being contained, that's all that matters. That's all that ever mattered. Actually dealing with situations was never the aim. It was all just a perpetual crisis management game, with some money made on the side. The profits of chaos for those presiding over that chaos. They felt it their due. 'You'd do the same,' was their internal excuse and cognitive guilt inhibitor.

Their time long passed, their power in the past, they are now put out to pasture. Rendered harmless and bovine, they await slaughter. Night falls and along comes the Reaper. A soul is collected and another shameful cadaver is left for inclusion in the annals of this home for society's failures.

WASTE OF WATER

WASTE OF WATER by FugTheWorld

The last in the trilogy.

THE FISCAL THINGY: Q and A

(pictured above: a future services provider. He owes Anglo €833.8m)

Why should we vote Yes on Thursday?

Because we might need money from the ESM!

Where does the ESM get its money from?

Us.

So why don't we just give the money to ourselves then?

Because we haven't got it.

But where are we going to get the money to give to the ESM?

We'll borrow it from someone.

But won't we have to pay it back?

That is probably why we'll need the money from the ESM (insert 'LOL' here).

Um, . . .right. So, where will we get the money to run the country?

We'll cut spending deficit to 0.5% of GDP.

But will that leave us with enough?

Only if we sell off our assets and outsource our services.

Who will we sell off our assets and outsource our services to?

Rich people who owe lots of money to the banks we now own. They will use the money we give them for running the country to pay us back.

But why don't we just keep the money we'll give them for running the country and use it to run the country ourselves?

Because then our spending deficit will exceed 0.5% of GDP.

Well, why don't we just refuse to cut spending?

Because then we won't get the money we need from the ESM.

This makes no sense. We're going around in bloody circles here. Are you sure you know what you're talking about?

I have no idea what I am talking about, no one does, but it's too late to worry about all that now. Just go and vote Yes on Thursday. It's the responsible thing to do.