Tempokai
Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 602
- Points
- 133
A bedtime story about werewolves and politics:
In the verdant, enchanting forests of Germany, where the trees whisper ancient tales and the moon bathes the land in a silver glow, there emerged a political movement so audacious, so utterly ludicrous, that it could only be the brainchild of one man: Klaus Müller. Klaus, a part-time conspiracy theorist and full-time jester, had grown exasperated with the political landscape's somber seriousness. "What this country needs," he declared one fateful evening at the local tavern, "is a party that truly reflects the wild heart of Germany. A party for the people... and werewolves."
Yes, you heard right. Werewolves. Klaus, in a stroke of sardonic brilliance or perhaps just after one too many steins of beer, founded the *Werewolf Enthusiast and Rights League* (WERL), a *joke* political party devoted to the rights of werewolves. His platform? Full moon holidays, more forests for uninhibited transformation, and, naturally, state-funded fur grooming for all werewolves. "Because why should humans have all the fun?" Klaus would say, winking at baffled reporters.
The beauty of Klaus's plan lay not just in its absurdity but in its unabashed mockery of political norms. Campaign posters featured majestic werewolves howling at the moon with slogans like "A Vote for WERL is a Vote for the Wild Side of Politics!" Klaus himself toured rural areas in a costume that was part wolf, part politician—complete with a furry tail and a tie—delivering impassioned speeches about embracing one's inner beast.
The public ate it up. They loved Klaus's wit, his irreverence, and, perhaps subconsciously, the idea of throwing a wrench into the well-oiled machine of German politics. Social media buzzed with #WerewolfParty and #HowlForChange, turning Klaus and his party into viral sensations.
But here's where the tale takes a twist sharper than a werewolf's claw. Unbeknownst to Klaus, his party had attracted the attention of Germany's actual werewolf population. Yes, they existed—living quietly among humans, disguising their supernatural nature, and, until now, politically unrepresented.
Seeing an opportunity, these werewolves—rural, urbane, young, and old—threw their support behind WERL. They registered, they campaigned, and they howled their way to the polls. On election night, as the votes were counted under the watchful eye of a full moon, a collective gasp echoed through Germany's political chambers. WERL, the joke party for werewolves, had won a seat in parliament.
Klaus, in his small, cluttered living room, spat out his drink. "This is a joke," he insisted. "A commentary, not a commitment!" But the werewolves, who had found in WERL a voice they never knew they needed, rallied around their accidental leader.
Thus, Klaus Müller, the man who set out to mock the political system, found himself as the first (and only) parliamentary representative of the werewolf constituency. Denying their existence became a part of his daily routine, even as he cashed in his parliamentary salary—a salary he deemed "free money," since he never actually intended to get elected.
His werewolf supporters didn't mind. They knew Klaus hadn't intended to champion their cause, but in a world that often felt too serious, too rigid, the existence of the Werewolf Enthusiast and Rights League was a breath of fresh, forest air. They didn't expect Klaus to enact werewolf-friendly legislation or to advocate for the inclusion of full moon holidays in the national calendar. Instead, they relished the irony that a man who didn't believe in them had unwittingly given them a platform.
Yes, you heard right. Werewolves. Klaus, in a stroke of sardonic brilliance or perhaps just after one too many steins of beer, founded the *Werewolf Enthusiast and Rights League* (WERL), a *joke* political party devoted to the rights of werewolves. His platform? Full moon holidays, more forests for uninhibited transformation, and, naturally, state-funded fur grooming for all werewolves. "Because why should humans have all the fun?" Klaus would say, winking at baffled reporters.
The beauty of Klaus's plan lay not just in its absurdity but in its unabashed mockery of political norms. Campaign posters featured majestic werewolves howling at the moon with slogans like "A Vote for WERL is a Vote for the Wild Side of Politics!" Klaus himself toured rural areas in a costume that was part wolf, part politician—complete with a furry tail and a tie—delivering impassioned speeches about embracing one's inner beast.
The public ate it up. They loved Klaus's wit, his irreverence, and, perhaps subconsciously, the idea of throwing a wrench into the well-oiled machine of German politics. Social media buzzed with #WerewolfParty and #HowlForChange, turning Klaus and his party into viral sensations.
But here's where the tale takes a twist sharper than a werewolf's claw. Unbeknownst to Klaus, his party had attracted the attention of Germany's actual werewolf population. Yes, they existed—living quietly among humans, disguising their supernatural nature, and, until now, politically unrepresented.
Seeing an opportunity, these werewolves—rural, urbane, young, and old—threw their support behind WERL. They registered, they campaigned, and they howled their way to the polls. On election night, as the votes were counted under the watchful eye of a full moon, a collective gasp echoed through Germany's political chambers. WERL, the joke party for werewolves, had won a seat in parliament.
Klaus, in his small, cluttered living room, spat out his drink. "This is a joke," he insisted. "A commentary, not a commitment!" But the werewolves, who had found in WERL a voice they never knew they needed, rallied around their accidental leader.
Thus, Klaus Müller, the man who set out to mock the political system, found himself as the first (and only) parliamentary representative of the werewolf constituency. Denying their existence became a part of his daily routine, even as he cashed in his parliamentary salary—a salary he deemed "free money," since he never actually intended to get elected.
His werewolf supporters didn't mind. They knew Klaus hadn't intended to champion their cause, but in a world that often felt too serious, too rigid, the existence of the Werewolf Enthusiast and Rights League was a breath of fresh, forest air. They didn't expect Klaus to enact werewolf-friendly legislation or to advocate for the inclusion of full moon holidays in the national calendar. Instead, they relished the irony that a man who didn't believe in them had unwittingly given them a platform.
