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Imagine a world without unions. Go on, do it. You’re probably imagining Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher sixty-nining and doing coprophilia. Almost right, but not quite.
So, sit back as we weave a fairy tale about unions.
No, we won’t be discussing The Beatles’ ‘Glass Union’ nor shallots in the slightest – that’s onions. This is about unions.
We won’t be discussing a set of archetypes – that’s Jungian. This is about unions.
We won’t be discussing a giant lumberjack – that’s Bunyan. This is about unions.
No. This is a story of a land far, far away. A land of magic – for good. And for ill.
The Land Of Unions… Or The Land Without Unions
A modern fable. Like Aesop, it rocks.
Once upon a time, just off the QEW, there was a magical kingdom. It was a happy land, thanks in no small part to its unions.
Princess Concessia addressed her people: “Citizens, I bring you tidings of joy.”
The head of the Gumdrop Union, wee Pippin Point o’ Order, was none too impressed: “Tidings?! Who needs ‘tidings,’ lady?! We want matching RRSP contributions or we strike!”
The kindly princess replied, “But of course, Pippin! The kingdom only thrives through your labour! It shall be yours!”
The Gumdrop union cheered – “Huzzah!” – and began to sing their merry song:
Well, the workers never stop / while they make the sweet gumdrops / and –
When all of a sudden, the skies turned black and out of a puff of putrid black smoke, who should appear with a crash but evil, union-busting Queen Grievance!
“Scabra-cadabra!” screeched the wretched queen. “You’re all fired! My army of scabby, scaly sludge monsters will take all your jobs! The union is no more!”
But clever Princess Concessia was always one step ahead. She shot the queen with a Beretta DT 11 shotgun, exploding her head into tiny bits! Happiness reigned again. They frollicked ’round her corpse.