A New Civilisation for the easily offended

Governor O’Bobo, a short man with great jowls and an absurd moustache, was positively livid today.

“Do not say an ‘insult is not a crime’.” The Governor mocked, using his entire body to mimic the air quotes. So mature. “That crone has caused me significant distress. She humiliated me and must be punished!”. With his splotchy red face and waving arms, the Governor terrified the other Assistant Policy Writers into lowering their heads to their chests and shrinking into the office walls. I had been working under the Governor for nine moon cycles now and this sight was becoming too familiar. Sadly, most of my days are spent losing a debate over the legitimacy of creating a law for every inconvenience.

“Sir, I merely advise against instituting a blanket ban on ‘any perceived insult’. I understand there is a precedent given Section 9 from the Book of Johnsons. I just feel that such a restriction on just any form of criticism impacts on our recent commitments to free speech.”

After the Great Collapse, all major institutions that maintained social order needed to be rebuilt. Some things were still being reintroduced, free speech being the most recent. It was all the rage nowadays, especially coming into pageant season, so the pressure was on for us at the Department of Disorderly and Indecent Conduct to write it into The New Law. Our only guide to rebuilding justice was the Book of Johnsons. The Book, written by three men named Richard and a woman named Dick, was the only text recovered after the Great Collapse which seemed to offer guidance on how the former civilisation punished and reformed. However after reading the full text, I prayed it was intended as a satirical record of the former civilisation’s justice system, and that maybe our current leadership was too stupid to get the joke.

“Surely this case justifies the reinstatement of Section 9! You saw the look on that dowdy crab, all wrinkled and hairy.”

“She’s 78, Sir.”

“She called me pudgy and said I was one fart away from obscurity!”

“Sophia has been a faithful public servant for over 30 years. The woman’s about to retire, and she calls everyone pudgy.” I heard one of the Assistants muffle a snort.

“She’s a menace to society. Humour at the expense of others has no place in the New Civilisation. I demand we reinstate Section 9 immediately.”

“Sir, the 2026 mass incarceration of comedians in the Former Societies was one of the causes of the Great Collapse. Sophia’s comments can’t send us down the same path.”

“I don’t care!”

“Sir, there are already quite a number of laws that could be considered… inessential.”

The Governor’s eyes had never been so wide, and his gaping mouth only pronounced the droopiness of his jowls.

“Inessential you say. And what exactly has been inessential? Bah, what an insolent germ! I have been commended, repeatedly, for the stability I have given this civilisation.”

“Sir, I don’t see the need for a law that makes it illegal for a man with a moustache to kiss someone in public.”

“It’s gross to look at, it offends a great many people.”

“But sir… you have a moustache.”

“I do not!” How is he still in denial about his own facial hair?!

“Right. Then what is the need for a law that prohibits ‘talking dirty’?”

“It is a vile and archaic practice. And it’s… awkward to do. Celine always said I made her more uncomfortable than aroused when I tried it.” Ah yes, now I remember the formidable argument that had fast tracked that piece of legislation.

“And how about Article 176, that demands a fine of no less than $6000 CAS, or a six-month jail term, for ‘any persons convicted of possession or distribution of lockets or handbags shaped like a heart’?” The Governor gave a little sniff, his crumb-catcher moustache wriggling atop his thin lips.

“They are tacky. A respectable citizen has enough sense to avoid such a faux pas. Article 176 simply brings everyone else up to speed.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I was supposed to make a difference, to be apart of The Reconstruction and help guide my community toward prosperity. Yet I’ve spent more time plotting to sterilise myself and save my progeny from this idiocy than I have written a single piece of sensible law.

“What is wrong with you Assistant Seven? Is it your special time?” Governor O’Bobo had never even learnt my name and not for the first time was blaming menstruation for my opinions. Everybody reaches a crossroad in their life and I was at mine. I straightened my spine.

“I hope one day someone shits on your desk.” The entire room gasped.

My comments, spirited as they may have been, resulted in the immediate reinstatement of Section 9, an outlaw on 'insulting words or behaviour'. I’m now halfway through a three year sentence. Every morning my cell mate Sophia and I take turns asking each other,

“Any regrets Pudgy?”

"Only if no one shits on his desk."