It’s a week since I reached the heady milestone of 10 “likes” and 10 followers on this blog, and you can bet your sweet patooty that life will never be the same again.
I’m sure the only reason that I’m still able to leave my apartment unmolested – an act whose desirability leaves me somewhat conflicted, what with all those hours spent on Craigslist laboring in vain for the opposite result – is the sub-Arctic, -16C* temperatures outside my Toronto igloo-in-the-sky. Or is it that rancid, faint whiff of whale blubber, which I smear over my Stanfield’s combinations in a desperate attempt to retain heat, that accompanies me through the months-long, socialist darkness of the Canadian winter? Who the f— knows?
*For American readers, who quite understandably prefer Imperial measurements to those commie Centigrade ones, -16 Celsius is approximately equivalent to “freeze your bollocks off”, or six tablespoons. I hope that’s more clear.
What does the future hold, I hear you cry. Well, I’m absolutely choughed (pronounced “chuffed”. It means “thrilled” in the U.K. Don’t even ask.) to tell you I’m currently awaiting Céline’s email response to my offer of opening for me in Vegas, which will surely arrive once Wind Mobile has taken the cap off my “unlimited” data plan.
Unlimited? Wind, you grand kiddeur, you! LOL! May I add, with just a hint of chough, that only in Canada do you find a telecommunications company honest enough to name itself after the British slang for intestinal gas. Which is just another example, along with tar-sands oil and its avatar, our own Stephen Leacock – sorry, Harper – of the dry, self-effacing, last-laugh’s-on-you Canadian humor that constitutes our biggest export.
But back to me. Please. Fame of this magnitude brings responsibility, and there is work to be done. I have spent the last eight days devising a strategy for my own and my fans’ protection, seeing as a spring thaw is bound to happen. So here it is: Once the snow is down to armpit level, around August, I will wear attention-grabbing, Alexis Carrington-sized sunglasses from Dollarama whenever I leave the apartment, or, as I now refer to it, my Toronto compound. (Pictured: Professional re-enactment, please do not try this at home.)
I know. But when my security is at stake, nothing, but nothing is too big a sacrifice, and Céline swears by them.
And where does this leave you.
I’m sure you may be wondering. All ten of you. (Or is it 20? Assuming the likes and the follows don’t overlap. Mon dieu !) Well. Let this be my promise : Though it’s great to “arrive”, I will never, ever forget the little people – that’s you – I crushed to pulp on my way up.
Bisous, baby, I’m literally out of here as soon as my car arrives. And get me Justin Trudeau on my cell. Tell that pretty little candy-ass liberal I want to learn the Quebec for “tête-à-tête.”