Once upon a time, there was a little red hen who scratched about the hen house floor and uncovered a few grains of wheat. She called her fellow barnyard animals and said, if we plant these seeds of wheat, we can have bread to eat. Who will help me plant them?
Not me, mooed the cow.
Not me, quacked the duck.
Not me, neighed the horse.
Not me, honked the goose.
Not me brayed the mule.
Then I will do it myself, said the little red hen, and she did.
The wheat grew tall and ripened into golden grain.
Who will help me harvest my wheat, asked the little red hen?
Not me, I'd lose my disability benefit, mooed the cow.
Not me, I'd lose my unemployment benefit, quacked the duck.
Not me, I'd lose my domestic purposes benefit, neighed the horse.
Not me, I'd lose my sickness benefit, honked the goose.
Not me, I'd lose my job-seeker benefit, brayed the mule.
Then I will do it myself said the little red hen, and so she did.
We'll help, said the little red hen's chicks and so they did.
They harvested the wheat and stored it in bags.
Who will help me grind my wheat in to flour to make bread, asked the little red hen?
Same again, mooed the cow, I'd lose my disability benefit.
Not me, I've got an appointment at the WINZ office, quacked the duck.
Will you pay me under the table, neighed the horse?
Not me, I'd lose my sickness benefit, honked the goose.
Not me, I've got a job application interview to go to, to keep my benefit rolling in, brayed the mule.
Then I will do it myself, said the little red hen, and so she did.
She ground the wheat in to flour and put it in bags.
Now - at last - it was time to make the bread.
Who will help me knead the dough, asked the little red hen?
What's your workplace anti-sexism policy, mooed the cow?
I'm on sick leave, quacked the duck.
I'm on family violence leave, neighed the horse.
Are you paying the minimum wage, brayed the mule?
If I'm to be the only helper, that's discrimination, honked the goose.
Then I will do it myself, said the little red hen.
She made some dough, divided it in to five pieces and put them in the oven.
The smell of fresh-baked bread attracted all the barnyard animals. They saw the five loaves of bread come out of the oven and all wanted some. In fact, they demanded a share. But the little red hen said, no. I've worked hard to make them, so me and my chicks shall eat them.
Obscene profits, mooed the cow!
Capitalist pig, quacked the duck!
Worker exploitation, neighed the horse!
I demand equal rights, honked the goose!
I want my fair share, brayed the mule!
Those animals all painted UNFAIR on picket signs and marched round and round the little red hen, her chicks and her loaves of bread, shouting obscenities. Her chicks were scared by the mob.
The little red hen quietly repeated, I alone worked hard to make them, so me and my chicks shall eat them.
Then comrade commissar Cindy and her secret service socio-communist police came to the barnyard. She said to the little red hen, you must not be so greedy.
Greedy? The loaves are mine. I worked for and earned the bread, said the little red hen.
Exactly, said comrade commissar Cindy. That is what makes our socio-communist system so wonderful. Anyone in the barnyard can work hard and earn as much as she wants.
But under my modern and just socio-communist laws, those who work hard must divide the fruits of their labour with those who are lazy and idle.
So, protected by her secret service socio-communist police, comrade commissar Cindy stole four of the little red hens loaves and distributed them amongst the other barnyard animals who all said, fair's fair.
All the barnyard animals lived happily afterwards, including the little red hen, who smiled and clucked, I am so grateful, for now I truly understand.
But her fellow barnyard animals became quite disappointed in her. She never again planted any wheat or baked any bread.
For a while, the little red hen became a card-carrying member of the socio-commie NZ Labour Party and got free bread for her and her chicks. And all the socio-communists smiled.
Fairness and social justice had been established. Private property rights and natural justice lay dead.
Individual initiative had died, but nobody noticed. Perhaps no one cared? Just so long as there was free bread that someone else was paying for.
Then, one day, there was no bread and all the animals went hungry.
What has gone wrong, they all wailed?
There was no one left working hard to produce or pay for it, so there was no more free bread to be had.
Despite the animals searching hard for her, comrade commissar Cindy was nowhere to be found.
The little red hen and her chicks were not in the search party. They'd departed the new socialist paradise barnyard for another barnyard, far, far away.
Somebody had left the gate open - a hole in the Berlin wall.
More about comrade commissar Cindy and communism in New Zealand. (Disguised as socialism.)