The Statesman Who Cried Truth
In the hallowed halls of Capitol Hill, there once dwelt a politician so adept at spinning yarns that he made Rumpelstiltskin look like an amateur. Senator Falsehood Fibberts had a gift, you see—a gift for turning the plainest truth into the most fantastical lie.
One day, Fibberts declared that the sky was green, and lo and behold, his constituents rushed out with emerald-tinted glasses. When he proclaimed that water flowed uphill in his state, engineers scrambled to rewrite physics textbooks.
But Fibberts' masterpiece came when he announced that he had single-handedly solved world hunger by teaching plants to photosynthesize bacon. The press went wild, and for a brief, shining moment, Fibberts was hailed as the greatest mind since Einstein (who, according to Fibberts, was actually his pool boy).
However, the inevitable happened when Fibberts, in a moment of absent-mindedness, accidentally uttered the truth. 'I had toast for breakfast,' he said, and the world was left reeling in disbelief.
Reporters fainted. Supporters wept. Opposition parties demanded recounts of breakfast votes. No one knew what to believe anymore. Had reality itself been a lie all along?
From that day forward, poor Fibberts couldn't catch a break. He'd say the sun shone, and people ran for umbrellas. He'd wish someone "Good morning," and they'd assume it was midnight. Even when he read the phone book aloud, linguists accused him of speaking in elaborate code.
In the end, Fibberts retired to a small cabin in the woods, where he could continue his art of deception with the trees. And Washington D.C. returned to its 'natural' state of impeccable honesty and transparency—or so they'd have you believe.
Remember, dear citizens: In politics, truth is stranger than fiction, but fiction gets more retweets.