Time for a quick test, just to see if you’ve been paying attention. Ready to fail?
What is it you must never, I mean NEVER forget?
<twirling my toe in the dirt and gazing at my watch from time to time as I sigh dramatically>
A suffocating silence as the great, wacky, inflatable ball from “The Prisoner” bobbles down the hill, whisking all you ingrates out of frame to meet your terrifying, wacky, Kafka-esque fates, and reminding me once again to keep several of those filmy plastic dry-cleaning bags close to hand in the unlikely event of kids.
What you must never, ever forget is how munificently, how numinously, how totally and utterly venisonly GOOD I AM TO YOU. Right?
OK, relax. So you fucked up and forgot the most important thing ever. Be kind to yourself. (Trust me, I asked around and there’s general agreement that you’re on your own with that one.)
Just keep studying, don’t despair and don’t give up – you’ll get it one day, skipper, all in a great, big rush of suddenly-getting-it, and when that moment comes – Lordy, Lordy! – you’ll be channeling Julie Andrews and singing “The Rain in Spain” on the College streetcar while making little matador swooshes with your maxi-dress.
I have faith in you.
Actually it’s just possible I only say that to be fake-encouraging while secretly rolling my eyes in contempt—your call.
I have, as always, concrete-hard evidence of my goodness to you, the primary chunk of pebbly aggregate today being my exclusive interview with our own little mini-Trumpkin, our own adorable li’l freckle-faced rascal, our own TV-“personality”, using the word in its most generic sense, and aspiring-world-leader neophyte—Kevin O’Leary.
O’Leary, you see, is vying for the leadership, if that’s the word, of the Progressive (I gagged a little bit when I typed that) Conservatives, Canada’s bargain-basement Republican wannabes.
Think “The Bay”, but with a Saks Fifth Avenue boutique and refreshed font-face. Nobody’s fooled, honey.
And from the moment that cute-as-a-button rapscallion of a You-Ess Prez began dialing our space-time co-ordinates back to the 1930’s with a few strokes of his pen—those heady years of brown-shirts and killer smog, mass unemployment, hyperinflation, xenophobia and jingoism; of noblesse for the one percent and oblige for the plebs—Kevin, together with the better part of Canada’s C-Suite crème-de-la-crème, has been delirious with man-crush for the billionaire con-man who somehow hoodwinked his country’s angry working and middle classes into believing that he wasn’t part of the establishment.
That dull thud you hear? It’s just the sound of the collective old-white-guy knees of the Tories hitting the ground in front of their new idol, the Trumpster. Then, having formed an orderly line-up, Canadian style, each of them one-by-one with trembling old-guy fingers unzips that sacred fly front and reaches in to liberate the vaunted Presidential man-meat from its sweaty, Y-fronted prison, thereby provoking gasps of admiration and the odd dizzy spell or two.
Remember: Suck, don’t blow, guys (oh, and gals, too – they don’t call Rona Ambrose “Rona-the-Mona” for nothing), and be sure to maintain eye contact. ‘Cause if Donald decides that those socialists to the north aren’t GETTING SMART – he might just build another wall along the 49th.
But unlike the Mexicans, who despite every indignity have retained their fierce pride, Canadians are so pathetically grateful for any chance to model the brown lipstick that’s available exclusively through the Oval Office, we’d probably design the wall ourselves then insist on paying for it.
You can be sure Kevin O’Leary would.
‘Cause he’s a hot-head.
He’s a Progressive Conservative in love.
I caught up with O’Leary as he was wiping the presidential splooge off his face with a Calvin Klein hand towel, and, with a bit of skillful questioning backed up by a hefty donation to the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, I managed to squeeze out the few squeaky pips of wisdom which I now share with you.
Kevin O’Leary—In His Own Words™
On World Poverty:
“I’m glad there are three billion poor people lying around. Yeah, don’t look so shocked. Do you have any idea what call center turnover is like??”
On The Chicago School:
“We call it Trickle-down economics because Shit-all-over-you economics sounds a bit, I dunno. Socialist.”
On Single-Payer Health Care:
“Government-funded universal healthcare makes Canadians unappreciative. Take cancer treatments. If we charged market rates like the U.S. at $800,000 a month, those freeloading bitches would think twice before they grew breast lumps.”
On The War On Terror:
“Combatting terrorism in Canada is top priority for the PCs. And for that we have to create meaningful jobs for The Muslims. Just off the top of my head, for example, suicide bombing the Gardiner.”
On A Liveable Minimum Wage:
“Businesses are being crippled by the demands of spoiled fast-food workers with maxed-out VISA cards who refuse to live within their means. Meanwhile, my stretch Hummer is two years out of date, and I’ve had to fire most of the staff at my St Lucia compound. Where’s your social justice now, ‘warriors’?”
“Today more than ever, with Trump ditching all those profit-killing tree-hugger regulations like carbon taxes, it’s important for Canada to follow suit and stay competitive. We’re gonna ask Bombardier to switch the entire TTC fleet over to coal.”
On Donald Trump:
“A great bro who tells it like it is, with no holds barred! In fact, he’s the inspiration behind our proposal to replace the House of Commons with an unpaid student intern, a Chromebook and a copy of Tweet Deck.”
On Justin Trudeau:
“Hey, Justin, whatever you’re doing right now?—way to kill jobs!
And if he tries any more bleeding-heart malarkey, like making corporations pay taxes or legalizing child-care, I have a killer strategy up my sleeve. I’m gonna call up Sophie Grégoire and tell her he grabbed my pussy.”
On Being Part of the One Percent:
“They say the rich have it easy. HA! There I am the other night eating take-out from Sassafraz washed down with Dom Perignon ’63, while two barely-legal blonde twins AND their Swedish au pair work on my dick – all recorded so I can send a copy to my ex-wives – and even THEN I can barely maintain a sponge-y, fleeting hard-on. Easy?
“Walk a mile in my Ferragamos, baby.”