Imagine if voters decided politicians’ pay each quarter based on job performance, instead of them receiving a fixed salary.
What if the HOUSE passed the “No Work No Ringgit Act,” nobody thought it would actually change anything. The law was almost absurdly straightforward: elected representatives would no longer draw a fixed monthly salary. Instead, every three months, voters would log into a national app called Rate My YB and drag a slider from 0% to 100% based on how useful their representative had been. Take the average, multiply by RM10,000, and that was the pay check for the next quarter. If you got 10%, you earned RM1,000 for three months. If you got 0%, you got a system-generated email that said “Thank you for your service” and nothing else. The first rating period was declared a public holiday, mostly so the servers wouldn’t crash.
The first quarter was pure theatre. A YB who had been in office since flip phones were high-tech, scoffed at the idea. “I’ve built more roundabouts than anyone in history,” he told reporters. For his quarterly report, he listed three achievements: cutting the ribbon at a new playground, uploading 14 photos of himself visiting a senior home, and “raising the issue of traffic congestion” during a HOUSE session.
When Rating Day came, his district gave him 23%. The playground had been opened before the swings were installed, the seniors were mostly his relatives, and the traffic congestion he “raised” had been caused by his own convoy stopping to buy cendol. His pay check for the next three months came to RM2,300. His chief of staff had to explain that this was, in fact, less than what the office cleaner made. He immediate response was to announce “Free Durian Day” for the whole constituency, which led to a 2-hour traffic jam and a 3% drop in his next projected rating.
The second quarter became known as “The Great Panic.” Once politicians realized voters were serious, they pivoted to the two things every survey said people wanted: food and internet. One female YB installed a public Wi-Fi kiosk outside her service centre and named the network #YB so and so Cares. It ran at 1.2Mbps and disconnected every 15 minutes, but she personally reset the router twice a day and posted the password on her office door. Her rating climbed to 67%, netting her RM6,700. For the first time in her career, she bought her own office coffee instead of claiming it as an entertainment expense.
Meanwhile, a fellow YB decided the youth vote was the key. He learned a Tik Tok dance to explain the national budget. The video got 200,000 views in six hours and an official warning from the Accountant General for “oversimplifying fiscal policy.” Voters gave him 12% because, as one comment put it, “Bro, I still don’t know where the money goes.” His RM1,200 quarterly pay didn’t cover the lease on his car, so he started carpooling. The rides were quiet.
By the third quarter, the entire political economy of had shifted. Printing companies reported record profits because every representative now mailed 40-page, full-colour “Quarterly Performance Reports” to voters. Most ended up as table covers at mamak stalls.
A backbencher nobody could pick out of a line-up, accidentally became a folk hero by listing his personal phone number on page 38 of his report under “Complaints Department.” He thought no one read that far. He was wrong. The phone rang at 3:04am because a resident’s cat was stuck on a roof. He showed up with a ladder. The cat, the roof, and the 3am Instagram Live became legend. His rating hit 41% and he used the RM4,100 to fix the ladder and pay his water bill.
The HOUSE's cafeteria also changed. With salaries uncertain, the catered buffet was replaced by “Bring-a-Dish Wednesdays.” Debates became noticeably shorter because no one wanted to be late for Auntie Lim’s curry puffs, and cross-party cooperation improved dramatically whenever someone brought rendang.
The real shock came in quarter four. A soft-spoken YB first-term member who had never held a press conference, posted the most boring update in political history. It was a Google Sheet. Column A: “Things I promised.” Column B: “Things I actually did.” Column C: “Things I haven’t done yet and why.” She had fixed 11 streetlights, gotten the clinic’s air-conditioning repaired, and admitted she still hadn’t solved the flooding at Jalan 3 because she was waiting on a drainage report. She ended the sheet with, “I don’t think I deserve 100% yet.” Voters gave her 89%. Her RM8,900 pay check was the highest in Parliament. Someone confronted her in the lobby. “I gave out durian! How did you beat durian?” she shrugged. “I fixed the lights on the road to the durian.”
A year into the Act, looked different. Ribbon-cutting ceremonies were down 70%. The phrase “we are looking into it” had been replaced by “here’s the PDF of what we found.” Representatives started showing up to town halls with laptops instead of entourages, because voters now asked for timelines and follow-up dates. The HOUSE Speaker tried to quietly table a motion to repeal the Act, calling it “administratively burdensome.” Within ten minutes, his rating on Rate My YB dropped to 4% and the live comments section was just the popcorn emojis. The motion was withdrawn.
The first mention YB eventually adapted. He now runs a weekly live stream called: Reading Bills So You Don’t Have To,” where he explains legislation in plain language and takes questions. He averages 54%, not amazing, but enough to keep the office running and pay for his own coffee. He says he sleeps better, though he misses the Vellfire. The cat saving YB, still answers his phone, though he’s set a rule: no cat rescues after midnight unless it’s raining. The female YB upgraded the Wi-Fi to 5Mbps and started teaching senior citizens how to use the Rate My YB app, a move that was both civic-minded and, as her interns noted, strategically brilliant.
The unexpected side effect was that voters had to become participants, not spectators. Complaining on social media no longer felt sufficient when you had a slider and a quarterly reminder to use it. People started attending local council meetings because “I’m not giving him 60% if Jalan 3 still floods.” Politicians, for their part, discovered that performance wasn’t about going viral. It was about potholes, light bulbs, and answering emails in under a week. Some called it the “Subscription Model for Democracy.” Others just called it exhausting.
As Year 2 approached, the HOUSE was debating two new amendments: one to allow “Tips” for exceptional service, and another to give a “Reply-Within-24-Hours Bonus.” A few YBs voted against both. “If we get tips for doing our job,” he said, “next they’ll ask us to smile too.” His rating dropped 2% that week. He smiled anyway.
And so, in the oldest job in politics finally met the newest management tool: the performance review. No one got rich, but the streetlights worked, the cats were safe, and for the first time in decades, “government service” and “customer service” were starting to sound like the same thing.
DISCLAMER: All characters and events in write-up are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or elected, is purely coincidental and not the fault of the durian or the writer.
ENDS
By
Sam Trailerman
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