“Aye! Yes! Aye!” You stand in the ring, arms raised, soaking in the glory of all adulation around. “Yes I am your saviour!” you scream to the bleachers. The waves of uproarious applause engulf you. Truly you are the best! A man of the people, true populist you are. You strut around, thumbs triumphantly planted within suspenders. You chew on a tiny Canadian flag as though it were a wheat stalk in your grand-daddy's ancestral field. Plow the public you think. THEY are my crop, and I shalt foster them to abundance.
From behind a giant stinger plunges into you. You collapse to the matt, the applause ripens and flowers all around you. To even greater and deeper heights, but why? Their hero hath been slain! As your consciousness readjusts to the traumatic turn, you realize that the crowd was not in fact cheering you, but the entry of this disgusting wasp-thing which lumbers above you, acidic saliva dripping upon you. Nobody, not even the plebes, want to see the common man rise to glory. They'd much rather watch you rot beneath the vicious maw of a monster. Which is your government. HEE HAW!