Canada Politics

SCANDAL!? Nothing we can’t handle!

The SNC-Lavalin ruckus isn’t really about SNC-Lavalin—it’s about Justin.

Gather around, boys and girls, as once again I pull my granddad pants up into my armpits and hook my Walter Brennan thumbs behind my suspenders. I’ve just awakened from a forty-eight-hour afternoon nap, which is why I’m so annoyingly perky, and though the time is long past when it was even remotely relevant for me to explain what the Tommy Douglas was going on with this Canadian SNC-Lavalin doodad, I need you to listen up and at least pretend to care.

As blessèd Saint Judy was wont to growl:“ATTENTION WILL BE PAID!” Now, could someone help me up off my knees?

I never promised you relevance, Murgatroyd McGraw. I promised you Marlboro breath so toxic it could singe your eyebrows, yellow teeth caked with butter tart filling, mysterious, noisome stains on my gusset and slyly humorous, flippant commentary in place of measured, in-depth analysis.

Measured in-depth analysis? How perfectly common!

So, while I clear my smoker’s throat, the better to hoark another oyster onto my signed, framed portrait of Stephen Harper—some pleasures never pall— it’s time for a Canadian Fireside Chat about politics, optics, and which one of the following options you find most attractive:

Progressive Conservatives: More guzzling of fossil fuels, privatized health care, blatant white supremacy, rolled-back reproductive rights for women, no seat at the U.N. Security Council and compulsory church attendance in calico habits modeled after “The Handmaid’s Tale” by Margaret Who?;

Liberals: Badly-needed carbon tax that will actually put money IN the pockets of taxpayers, a stab at equality, properly-funded universal healthcare, business as usual and a pretty—and pretty ineffectual—prime minister, but who, when you look at him, at least doesn’t make you feel like stabbing yourself in the eyes with remorse because you voted your country into a no-turning-back state of oligarchic theocracy run by climate-change-denying cretins; OR

New Democratic Party: You’re kidding, right? Though Jagmeet Singh, the national party leader, is right up there, for me, anyway, in the woody-popping hierarchy, what with that dashing, dark, handsome sub-continental vibe and the liquid music of his accent, which is to me as a moist, patchouli-scented tongue probing my hairy, crusted inner ear.

Though, pace Jagmeet, Sikhs can be a little homophobic, as proof of which I will share that the last time a Sikh guy popped round for a blow-job, he said something kind of, well, insensitive to me as he was doing up his trousers. He cast an incredulous look down his nose at me, and said,

“Why do you like men?”

Betsy DeVos Theranos! This is a tough one! Don’t forget your ‘Smores, eh?


There was once a time in Canada, a long-ago, simpler era when squawking blue jays landed on your outstretched index finger and friendly, efficient beavers in Harris Tweed vests valet-parked your car at the Royal York, when we were content with, even proud of, our de facto one-party system.

Every other year or so you could vote Progressive Conservative (PC) instead of Liberal, just so you wouldn’t die of boredom, and without afterwards having to blush and laugh nervously while explaining that you’d recently been thrown from your thoroughbred at Woodbine Racetrack and weren’t expected to recover full brain function for at least a few months.

There was no shame in voting for the party of John Diefenbaker, or even of Brian Mulroney. Diefenbaker, for example, in 1957, appointed the first female member of Cabinet, Secretary of State Ellen Fairclough, who is remembered for eliminating racial discrimination in Canada’s immigration policy.

Yes, the PC’s were for equality and advancing the role of women in public service. Kim Campbell, Justice Minister and Attorney General under Mulroney, passed important gun control legislation.

And here’s a quote from Brian M:

“I think the government has to reposition environment on top of their national and international priorities.”

Provincially, we had exemplary conservative leaders in John Robarts and Bill Davis (who appointed Margaret Birch as the first female Cabinet member in the Ontario Legislature in 1972).

Empowered women! Gun control! Prioritizing the environment! Are we through the looking-glass yet, did we nibble the wrong side of the giant mushroom, are we mad as hatters? These were “conservative” men and women with some bold ideas (and some dubious ones such as NAFTA), but they were, on the whole, advocates of fiscal conservatism. Whatever their private beliefs might be, they understood that as public servants they were in office to work for the benefit of all Canadians.

That government had a role to play in the lives of voters, that government could and should be a good custodian of the environment, that government should protect and recognize the worth of all its citizens—these were not “radicalized extreme-left socialist agendas.” They were givens.

Only when the execrable slime-bag Mike Harris took power—on the rebound from Bob Rae and the NDP— in 1995 did the conservative shredding of the social contract begin in Ontario. This of course was nothing but the same old conservative playbill, turbocharged and disguised as a “Common Sense Revolution.”

When populists and demagogues start making like Uri Geller with English, co-opting concepts like “common sense,” “revolution,” “freedom,” “democratic” and “people,” and bending them into new, sinister shapes, you know it’s time to pack your weekender from Frank & Oak with rolls of bandages and a big bottle of aspirin, in case your future includes an extended stay in the basement of the Presidential Palace, where they don’t even bother to soundproof the interrogation rooms; and whatever you do, don’t forget your Roget’s so you can look up the exact opposite of whatever they’re promising to deliver.

Mike’s “Common Sense Revolution” involved a typical, explicitly anti-labour, anti-social safety net stance (get those queens off welfare!), gerrymandering by way of the amalgamation of the City of Toronto and its suburbs into a “megacity,” the downloading of once-provincial costs to municipalities, and pedaling the snake oil of “deficit reduction” and privatization: all of this based on the premise that government itself is the problem, and therefore the correct and only model for government is that of a department store holding a fire sale.

Example: Ontario had built and was managing a toll highway, the 407, the world’s first with no toll booths and automatic, electronic billing. This public project was based on the startlingly novel concept that greedy, entitled car drivers should actually pay for the infrastructure that they require and should also compensate for guzzling black gold, with the tolls collected contributing much-needed revenue (deficit!) that would support health care and other social services. This one was a no-brainer, and would surely be Ontario’s golden goose for many decades.

But Harris, following his personal mantra of “if it ain’t broke, break it, then declare it needs privatizing,” sold the highway’s operations to a business consortium in the late 1990’s for $3 billion to “reduce the deficit.” Now, twenty years later, none other than SNC-Lavalin is selling ten percent of its share in the toll highway for $3.25 billion.

Nice business acumen, Mike.

Other highlights of his term in office include the Walkerton tragedy, in which a couple of buffoons in charge of the well water supply to a small town failed to chlorinate the water (which had been contaminated by manure run-off from a farmer’s field), make accurate reports, undergo yearly mandatory training, or indeed to do anything except help themselves to a cold brew from the fridge at the Public Utilities Commission and try to cover their criminally incompetent tracks.

Although the Ministry of the Environment had repeatedly ordered the managers and staff to follow the correct, current testing protocols, no one had ever followed up to see if this had actually happened (it hadn’t). Water testing had been privatized, and it can’t be denied that government was smaller as a result.

So was the population of Walkerton, down by a body count of six unfortunate victims of E. coli-contaminated water and thousands of others laid low by life-threatening gastrointestinal infection as a result of ignorance and bad management.

But let’s look at the bright side: At least we balanced the budget.


Getting back to our “scandal:” SNC-Lavalin is a Canadian company whose executives have, in the past, been rather overly fond of bribing Middle Eastern despots in order to obtain lucrative contracts. (Business as usual in that part of the world, you might understandably murmur, and many did.)

This is old, old news; all of the executives guilty of buying their business are long gone and justice done. Any scandal had been dealt with long ago, yet the stars decreed that SNC-Lavalin would be thrust into the spotlight once more, apparently to provide our new Justice Minister and Attorney General, Jody Wilson-Raybould, with her inaugural trial by fire.

The stakes: Prosecute SNC-Lavalin, after which they would be forever banned from taking government contracts; or treat it as a civil matter and administer a sharp financial slap on the wrist.

Wilson-Raybould was determined to take the prosecution route. Justin Trudeau, understandably anxious about the potential loss of nine thousand jobs just before a federal election, picked up the phone. In fact, he may have picked up the phone a few times before having his morning de-caf, and he may have insisted more than once, as it’s his duty to do so, that there was an alternative to going hard-line and prosecuting.

This was remediation, involving hefty fines but saving the nine thousand jobs, a rather sensible-sounding approach made possible by recent legislation that had been fully endorsed by the PC’s. In this scenario, there was scope for judicial discretion and prosecution was not inevitable. Remediation would provide transparency, promote confidence in the just outcome via that hefty fine and avoid dragging innocent employees into a quite unnecessary, because redundant, criminal investigation.

Wilson-Raybould, whose staff had examined the legislation and concluded that SNC-Lavalin was not eligible for remediation, was having none of it.

Why was Wilson-Raybould so rattled when the PM, along with other members of the boys’ club, advocated vigorously for remediation, and why did she dig in her heels? The more Justin and other cool heads tried to persuade, the more stubbornly she pushed back. Was she handicapped by the thinnest skin ever sported by a member of Cabinet or, for that matter, a lawyer? Was she revealing that she simply couldn’t cope with the demands of the post?

Trudeau’s lobbying has been spun as “undue pressure,” obstruction of justice, a sneaky attempt to let criminals off the hook, or to pay off business cronies, but all these descriptions are quite false. His lobbying was neither inappropriate nor shady.

Did Trudeau attempt to influence the attorney general’s decision? Of course he did, because this is exactly what is expected in our adversarial legal system. Every day, in every court, lawyers attempt to influence: They advocate vigorously, even aggressively, for the solutions that they feel best serve the public interest. This is not sleaze or scandal or interference; this is how our legal system works.

Now Wilson-Raybould proceeded to have an extremely public melt-down that cast Trudeau in an extremely unfavorable light, and she stirred the contents of this teacup so relentlessly that we can justifiably question if her concern was actually about justice.

Wilson-Raybould’s trump card, and her most gasp-inducing error of judgment—or deliberate act of sabotage, take your pick—was to produce, like a cheesey Las Vegas illusionist producing a white rabbit from her top hat, a recording of a phone conversation she’d had with the PM—a recording she had made secretly, without Trudeau’s knowledge or consent— and every nuance of whose content was now parsed and analyzed in the press ad nauseum.

Seriously, friends.

Such cloak-and-daggerism is not the meat and potatoes of the highest levels of Canadian government. This is high-school drama, the sort of subterfuge the nerdy, overly-sensitive President of the Debating Society deploys on the mean boys in the motorcycle jackets who tease her about her acne.

I draw the following conclusions:

There is no scandal or wrongdoing to be found, and no one is seriously claiming there is. This whole affair was a cynical, calculated exercise in throwing mud and seeing how much would stick. Progressive Conservatives and their official mouthpiece, the Globe & Mail, were more than willing to leverage public ignorance of our government and our legal system and to misrepresent both the substance and context of events.

Let’s see what we have: A Native MP, a woman, being hounded by the “feminist” PM; “punitive” demotions and Cabinet shuffles; sudden resignations, corporate criminals going scott free; secret recordings! Perfect ingredients for the perfect spin, a narrative that could create enough doubt to cast the prime minister as a sneak and a bully, and make Canadians question his judgment and even his legitimacy.

The ultimate goal? Bring down Justin Trudeau at any cost.


Is SNC-Lavalin a great, big, heavy-duty Glad bag full of sleaze? Sure, but no more so than any other corporation doing what capitalism does best, i.e., feed itself. Is Justin Trudeau an entitled, opaque, overgrown brat who expected business as usual with the boys in the backroom and who doesn’t understand how his apparent belief that he is not obliged to justify any action, or tell the whole truth, ever, reveals him as shifty and arrogant? It would seem that way.

Were any laws broken? No. Did anything happen that was even out of line? Apart from maybe Nancy Drew and the Case of the Secret Phone Call, not even close.

This was a scandal-free scandal, a big helping of Nothing-Poutine, yet the Progressive Conservatives made a meal of it, bulking up the thinnest material with insinuation and indignation. More insidiously, they caught the attention of the white male demographic that despises Trudeau; despises him for being his father’s son; despises his patrician upbringing and gentility; despises what they see as his “girliness,” his drama teaching days, his avowed feminism, never acknowledging that he grew up breathing politics as the son of Pierre, our most flamboyant and also most intellectually rigorous statesman, the man who held this country together with his bare hands when it threatened to disintegrate and would not let go until it was out of danger.

The trolls and the disgruntled slingers of mud forget Justin’s long years of political dues-paying and his resounding success in 2015; and they are apoplectic at Trudeau’s inclusiveness, his generosity, his uncanny ability to unite Canadians, to embody our pride, to build and articulate our identity and our collective vision for this brave, fragile confederation, this country that is barely more than a wish, a dream, an idea of a country.

Trudeau inspires; white male conservatives, fuming with hard-hatted rage at their diminishing hold on power, carp and threaten and bury their heads in the tar sands and call, shamefully, for a return to “European values.”

They are full of that odious, passionate intensity; the very worst, as always, dragging down the very best.

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Tanya Granic Allen…

…wants you to know that you make her vomit



transcript of speech given at “Our Lady of the Sorrowful Burek” Croatian Catholic Church, Mississauga, Ontario, July 12th, 2018

published with kind permission of The Reverend Father Vldjvicje Zprsczwstic (“Mitzi”)


Good morning and a grim, tightly-wound hello to you. My name is Tanya Granic Allen, and it is truly an honour to be here today at the beautiful Our Lady of the Sorrowful Burek. Thanks to the organizers of this youth conference for the invitation and also of course to The Reverend Father Vldjvicje Zprsczwstic, or as we like to call him, “Mitzi”—and if you’ve never spent New Year’s Eve watching a Croatian Catholic priest in full Barbra Streisand drag sing “People” while twelve naked choirboys in go-go boots sign for the deaf, you probably don’t have the stomach for it!

You may have noticed I’m standing way back from the podium because of my baby bump. I’m currently twelve months pregnant with quadruplets, two boys and two girls, and let me emphasize that those are the only two choices available to you, ok? Any hint on the ultrasound that I was giving safe haven to some pre-op tranny female-to-male lesbo pansy boy with a vagina and it would have been coat hangers, a bucket of Palmolive and an extra round of track and field practice.

I can assure you of that, because the moment that little freak makes the leap from single cell to personhood is precisely never.

Frankly I’d have gotten with child sooner, but hubbie couldn’t find the key to the chastity belt I’ve had on ever since the devil smote me with the curse the day of my “sweet sixteen” party. I know that sounds kinda late, but mom and dad didn’t think I could handle menstruation any younger, and their word was law in our household!

Incidentally, and here’s a cute story, just between you, myself and the bedpost, mom and dad actually put the lock on my mouth at first, but my will to pontificate was too strong. What can I say, that’s Tanya to a “t”!

My goal today is to make you nostalgic for what our society was like when men were men, women were women, mom and dad were in control and kids did what they were told, at least within earshot.

You may also find that you become nostalgic for what life was like before you knew me—and if that thought brings a tear to your eye, I’ll consider this a job well done!

First off, and if it isn’t totally obvious, I’m straight, and because there have been some nasty rumors swirling around about my attitude to gay people, or “skin-flute Sally’s” as I call them, I’d like to set the record straight, too.

The operative word here is “straight.” Keep a straight face, for example, as you hear me tell you that the accusation by the Liberals—my apologies, I just puked a little into my mouth, but I’ll keep going—and the accusation by the press—that I am somehow against the dignity and human rights of LGBT+ people—is a lie.

Trust the Liberal media, and a bunch of Poop-Chute Penelope’s and Rug Rubbers, to get their crotchless panties and deluxe jockstraps in a twist over nothing! Seriously?

Master that straight face and you’ll soon be able to keep it going when I tell you that school kids are not learning math because a bunch of Muslim terrorists, Middle Eastern bum bandits and left-wing Islamico-feminazis have commandeered our school curriculum and made our kids obsessed with anal sex.

And incidentally, any hint that I’m “Islamophobic” is malarkey as well. I mean, if those gals want to dress up in their voodoo masks and walk around like trick-or-treating piles of laundry with eyes, that’s their friggin’ trip! I celebrate their choice to practise a weird cult religion, at the same time as I thank the Blessed Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception for making possible our cherished Western values and my freedom to wear something light by Suzy Shier when the weather gets crazy hot.

But back to anal sex, always, and the Liberals’ agenda to help young people feel safe and not guilty about their bodies. Part of tradition is that kids should go through what we all went through, and you can bet Kathleen Wynne’s double-headed dildo I’m gonna set you straight on that one, as well.

In fact, my goal is that everyone in the world should set themselves absolutely, no-doubt-about-it, pink-for-girls-and-Barbie-dolls, blue-for-boys-and-aching-balls straight. People should be straight, hair should be straight, talking should be straight, kids should be straight, those white lines dividing highways should be straight, a narrow passage connecting two seas or other large areas of water should be a strait, homeless people should be in dire straits, right-angled triangles should be made from three straight lines and as for Kathleen Wynne, let me ask you this: does anyone recall two boy penguins marrying before that Marxist muff-muncher swept into power with her evil agenda of thin end of the wedge, anti-family Liberal values like subsidized childcare?

Anyone recall that? Well, in case you think you do, let me remind you of something: no, you do not.

Back in the good old days it was Groom Penguin driving the Zamboni and Bride Penguin going crazy with Daddy Penguin’s Amex card and stressing about will it be whale-blubber or seal meat for the reception. And that’s the way it should be, because my single most important point about society today is that it’s all about me determining that you’re doing the right things.

Now, if you’d like to put on the disposable plastic ponchos I’ve provided, I’m going to seriously get down with some of my signature heavy duty vomiting. I’ll try to retain the bigger chunks in my mouth, but I tend to get over-enthusiastic when I’m “shining with the glory,” so you may be showered with a few sprays of chyme, especially the Holy Sisters in the front. OK, ready?

It makes me vomit to think that my beloved homeland, Croatia, that world renowned example of peace, order and traditional values, and only recently free, had ditched its family-friendly customs of learning about sex by getting to third base with a herd of goats and asking grandma about the blood-soaked knee socks, and embraced a throwback, Communist policy of science-based sex-education and indoctrinating our kids with concepts like tolerance and respecting diversity. Is this why we fought world wars?

Oops, here’s the first round coming up now, and you might want to brace yourself for a lot of garlicky fumes. Ready?

BRRRRAAACCCCCHGHHH! UUUUUUGGGGH!

That’s the thing about vomiting, right? It’s always worse than you think it’s going to be! And my apologies to Holy Mother Agathe, that looks like a new habit you were wearing. I’m devastated. Try a pre-soak, then a hot wash in Tide.

You can see how my words have been twisted around and used against me. My spew was not aimed at gay marriage per se, but at the specifics of where the heck do they put the dingleberry when there’s no bleedywunket, who’s the man and who’s the woman, and what’s this eternal cryin’ thing with Judy at Carnegie Hall? I’m sorry but that is so gay, you can understand why they call it “gay” marriage! It is just—so gay?! Right?!

… my single most important point about society today is that it’s all about me determining that you’re doing the right things …

And my vomity veneration tells you that, as a practicing Catholic, I support the teachings of the Catholic Church, including the traditional Croatian Catholic definition of marriage as between a sexually naïve, inferior female and a man who forces himself on her so they can both fumble around on their wedding night.

After a few hours of failed attempts the whole disaster ends up with the tradition of her in tears, and him punching her hard in the mouth, then going out to get shit-faced with his buddies and gangbang someone’s sister.

I’m so intent on my kiddies following the old ways that I’m arranging a double marriage for them while they’re still in the womb, and if you’re concerned about the incest thing, put your mind at rest: Our Heavenly Father let Cain and Abel double-team Eve when it was a matter of dire necessity, and I trust he will not turn His big, hairy, Croatian God-back on me, his humble servant. Magnificat!

Another accusation is that I want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario using the sex-ed curriculum.

That is incorrect.

I want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario using every means at my disposal, including the sex-ed curriculum, lies, appeals to your worst nature, xenophobia and misogyny. I support the true separation of church and state, but that separation has to go both ways, which includes my religious liberty taking precedence over facts gleaned from scientists and the rights of children, and particularly includes freedom from state interference, except when it comes to Big Croatian Brother keeping tabs on my uterus.

So, yeah. It’s like. Honestly? I’ve been coy so far as to my intent. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, lifting my Croatian maxi-dress to show a bit of traditional ankle. Put another way, I’ve kept my cards close to my chest, and sorry to have pulled the wool over your eyes. It’s hard to discern Tanya’s “agenda.” I understand.

But actually, I do.

I totally, absolutely, no-holds-barred, in-yer-face, infinity-plus-one DO want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario.

There, I said it. I mean, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, and I should probably soften the blow, but, hey.

Movin.’ ON!!

Ontario parents for far too long have had to endure the state’s overreach into their lives under Premier Labia Libtard. I simply hope to restore a more proper balance, where parents have to endure the state’s overreach under me. Me, Tanya Granic Allen, jewel of motherhood and, frankly, kind of a bitch, too!

Thankfully, that day may soon come. The days are numbered for Kathleen Wynne and her Licky-Lesbo-Liberals.

That day is gonna come when I get into my Ford F-350, round up a bunch of truckers—real men, if the truck symbolism is lost on you—and we’re not going to rest until we rampage over every Liberal, every Lesbo, every Trannie and every Homo from North York to Dundas Square and leave a trail of crushed, dead, innocent bodies in our wake.

Literally! But just a metaphor! Kidding! Not kidding! I didn’t mean that! Yes, I did! Not really! I don’t mean it! Yes I do! Nope, just kidding! Not! Literally! No rampage! Rampage! Literally! Just kidding!

And while Doug Ford has broken the promise he made to me, that he would crown me Terrorist Tanya, Defender of the Faith, I am not going to despair and I am not going away. Nope, not even if you beg me.

Go on, try it. Say,

Please, Tanya Granic Allen, won’t you go away? Please, please, please? You’re ignorant and vile and hateful and you stand for everything we abhor about the Progressive Conservatives, and you give Croatian Catholics a bad name! Please roll up into a ball and slip down the nearest storm drain!

I can’t hear you! Try it again! Beg, you losers! That’s more like it! And look! I’m still here!

Nope, not going. Not gonna happen. Beg more, more! Louder!

Nope. Here I am! Louder, louder! C’mon, beg me again! HA! No way! Here to STAY! Never. Going.

Oh, god… oh god my lunch… thinking of… anal…oh, sweet Jesus, here it comes… homo sex-ed….sorry guys, stand back.—Holy Mary of the Sorrowful Burek—Brrr… BRRRRR…… BBBBRRRRRAAAAAA….

BRRRRAAAAAAWWWWWCCCCCHHHHHHHH…… !!!!


Tanya Granic Allen is the president of Finally U C Tories Are Really Dumb (FUCTARD) and was the official “slip-her-under-the-radar-and-hope-we-get-away-with-it-before-she-opens-her-big-mouth” candidate for the 2018 Ontario PC Leadership. We’re glad they chopped her balls off.

Sorry, ovaries.

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Little brother is watching you, aghast, and also ever so slightly enviously.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

AS I STOOD NAKED IN MY KITCHEN THE OTHER MORNING, smoking my first Pall Mall Red of the day, desperate for a pee and staring with pink, watery rabbit eyes at the jars of Colombian Roast, Gold Espresso and Special Regular Blend flash-frozen crystals while debating my options—

—whether I should dredge up a greasy mug from the fetid swamp water of the sink, or boil the water on the stovetop (kettle died, see below), add the instant coffee to that and just drink it right out of the saucepan; what particular mutilations I should perform on the person who used up all the milk then replaced the empty bag, in its plastic jug, back in the fridge; and whether I should throw my last shred of self-esteem under the bus and order that penis-enlarging pump with the special rhino-horn cream from Grommet to counteract the gradual and undeniable process of age-related, disuse-related or indifference-related atrophy—

—I asked myself a question.

We’re all adults? I can talk freely?

Why is it, I wondered, that my default blog post, at least eight times out of ten, is a searing analysis of American, rather than Canadian, political shenanigans and social hooligan-ry?   

This is what being a merciless and unsparing Skewerer of Modern Times entails, and so as not to put you off completely, I’m not even mentioning the unrelenting stream of hate mail I receive, which basically consists of pink notices from Canada Revenue insisting that I file my taxes from 2012 onwards while simultaneously remitting forty-thousand dollars; and Bell Canada Fibe promotions addressed to “Occupant”. 

Then I went for a pee, and at age sixty-odd and counting I damn well deserve to sit down for this one, at which point I dozed off again on the john.

I awakened with a little scream of confusion, which is how I regain consciousness during a Wagner opera, hoping to be well into the final act then realizing it’s only five minutes later; which is to say, in a state of desperate hope followed immediately by despair. Little by little, and with nominal assistance from Facebook and GPS, I managed to piece together my identify and location coordinates; at which point I felt confident enough to make the coffee, finish the pack of smokes and file for immediate attention that day’s final notices, a process that involves stuffing them into an old leather suitcase that I found on the side of the road four years ago.

My morning calisthenics complete, I felt really quite pulled together and ready to ignore my uncomfortable question and blast ahead into my day of doing the next, doh, obvious thing that doesn’t make any money.

Then I logged on.

The headline on Huffington Post Canada sent shivers down my spine, put my heart on the express elevator to the basement and stood on end the clumps of earlobe and nostril hair that I’d missed during my bi-yearly trim. Unmissable, unfathomable, and in what must have been at least a 24-point display font, probably Helvetica or Gill Sans, was the following, confirming that what I most feared had come to pass (and those of you who read standing up may wish to find a spot on the nearest ottoman post haste, lest you topple over in shock and crash into your vitrine filled with priceless Lalique statuettes):

New Brunswick Government Falls!

I did try to prepare you. Now to address a couple of points, while you let the full import of that headline sink in.

You may be wondering about the kettle thing (see above). Americans don’t drink tea and therefore tend not to have electric kettles, which I discovered during my frequent trips to New York City to stay at the homes of random psychotics that I’d naked-Skyped with. I’d be craving a cup of tea and after an hour or so rummaging around their tiny alcove-kitchen I’d finally shriek, “Where’s your friggin’ kettle, by the grace of Judy, Mother of Liza!?”

And the psychotic would stop for just a sec, stare at me blankly, then go back to boffing whatever trashed up, face-down, GHB’d-out piece of street twink they’d picked up online the previous night.

I hope that clarifies about the kettle thing, and always happy to be of service.

Then there’s the bags of milk. I know you’re all thinking, he means ‘breasts’, but, no, these are actual plastic bags of milk, containing about a quart each, that come packed in three’s inside another bag that’s sealed with a twist tie. You also need to buy a cheap jug that holds the bag of milk so you can pour it out, but first you must take the special miniature tool, containing a tiny razor blade set at an angle, that lives on the top of the handle of the jug, and with this special tool you perform a bris on the corner of the plastic bag of milk.

This requires holding the tip of the corner of the bag with one hand, and with a swift, confident gesture and an optional cry of mazel tov, slicing off that tip of the bag that G-D put there for whatever reason, but that you in your greater wisdom have since determined was a design flaw.

I’m goy, so I compromise by performing a bris that is so hideously botched that the bag of milk is whimpering and reproaching me with a look that cries, “Why you do this to me, bro? Why you spoil that beautiful bag/boy thing we had?” I pour milk into my coffee through the torn, ragged, gaping hole, and despite every effort not to, I imagine the torn udder of a dairy cow who saw the dish run away with the spoon, tried to jump over the moon, miscalculated and ripped herself to shreds on the barbed-wire fence.

This is me. This is Canada. We do things differently up here.


Exhibit A: Moment of truth

New Brunswick Progressive Conservative supporters watch early returns at leader Blaine Higgs’ campaign headquarters in Quispamsis, N.B. on Monday, Sept. 24, 2018. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Andrew Vaughan

Read the caption carefully. This is the campaign headquarters of the Progressive Conservative candidate for Premier of New Brunswick, on election night, as the votes come in, and may I just say that provincial stores of Coumadin are surely depleted as these old white guys, median age 173, try to contain their excrement. Or did I mean excitement, I get them mixed up.

Try? Let us give this cartload of pink wrinkles its due: Succeed.

I’m not sure who the dewy young whippersnapper is in the second row, who would seem to be urging them to return to their Beginner Flamenco Class, but I have a hunch that, should they hesitate when presented with their voting card, he would guide their liver-spotted hands to—Brett Higgs? Heinous Bogg? Glans Bipp? At any rate, the other old guy—and help them plant their spidery “x” in the correct square, and no going over the edges.

Exhibit B: Identifying the Liberal

New Brunswick Premier Brian Gallant delivers the State of the Province address in Fredericton, N.B., on Thursday, January 25, 2018. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Stephen MacGillivray

This is Brian Gallant, Premier, or possibly fallen Premier, of New Brunswick. Pretty, yes? Are you kidding? I mean, this is entering serious babe-licious territory. Hunka hunka! Just look at those shoulders! The dimples! The rakish, slightly loosened tie! The sensual, pursed lips that all but scream, “No point in resisting! Run right up, tear open my shirt and suck those nipples! Did I say suck? No, TWIST!

This means he is a Liberal. Let’s try another example:

Just look at those shoulders! The dimples! The rakish, slightly loosened tie! The sensual, pursed lips that… etc, etc.

Are you getting the hang of this?

To sum up: If you look at a male Canadian politician and pop a woody (women and gays) or instantly resent and revile him (hetero white men) be confident that you’re looking at a member of the Liberal Party.

Brian Gallant, by the way, is celebrating after his victory, or is it his fall, I get them mixed up, by singing a bit of “Mon pays,” the celebrated Canadian anthem by Gilles-Antoine-Saint- Saveur-Tabernac-Marie-Joseph Succer-Le-Coq, to demonstrate that, unlike the liver-spotted Progressive Conservative, he is functionally bilingual.

Bigguns Hainely, or whatever, actually refused to debate with Brian Gallant because he doesn’t speak French. Just imagine! If the same standard applied in the U.S., you’d have had Hillary standing there, with Trump going, “I’m sorry, but I can’t speak English real good and I have no ideas because no one talked to me in the last thirty minutes, so go fry your huevos rancheros! I’m outta here!”

And he still would have won. Because speaking English real good is like. You know.

Elite.


Snow. All Americans think Canada – up there – snow – socialists – mounties which is shallow but efficient, and leaves you more time to run out and lay waste to some black kids who were unwrapping their Mars bars, but you were absolutely convinced they were reaching for their assault weapons, and how could you be expected to think otherwise?

I get it.

Or shut down birth control and eradicate abortion (except the same number of abortions will take place, just with coat hangers and bowls of dishwashing liquid). You don’t trust killing anything that doesn’t look you right in the eye and scream before it starts bleeding, and you sure as fucktard-ery don’t trust anyone who bleeds for three days and doesn’t die!

I mean, women are all very well in their place, but seriously, what’s that my-little-visitor-got-the-curse icky nonsense all about? Even Ann Coulter, that embarrassing waste of non-aborted fetal personhood, thinks she’s got balls, but here’s the acid test: Can she write her name in the snow? We thought so! Out of our tree-house, girl-pundit! Your free man-pass is up!

Honestly, I get it.

You get to trill, as you pluck at the petals of a daisy, “Pull out of Syria… Bomb Syria… Russia’s the enemy…. Russia’s not the enemy …. He sucks my cock… He sucks my cock not…” and call that foreign policy because you’re The Man. You Are America and You Go Big and Never Go Home, and Nobody Pushes You Around.

I so very, very muchly get it. No, seriously, I do.

You don’t just reflexively dislike Nancy Pelosi then admit she’s a pretty admirable bit of high-class, high-functioning career politician, and, frankly, kinda hot, too, with her MILF-y, nay, GILF-Y, seen it all, done it all, one-of-the-boys redoubtable air. Oh, no. That’s the Canadian way.

You Hate Nancy Pelosi. Hate her beyond all reason and expression. Nancy Pelosi, despite having all the cred even a social conservative should want—devout Catholic, raised her kids then had her career—is, of course, a Grade A, grass-fed, hormone-free Bitch, and an ambitious, ball-breaking Commie Bitch to boot. And she is sparkly clean; you have nothing on her except the unfortunate accident of her sex, so you willfully set about activating every male brain stem, stirring up its ingrained, atavistic revulsion against any ambitious, powerful, rich, successful female.

She must be styled bitch, because she was apparently born to do what she is doing so well as the single most effective Speaker in living memory, male or female. Think of it: Whatever she has set out to do, she has accomplished. Everything.

She’s so effective at whipping the Dems, so brilliant at legislative strategy, compromising with the insubstantial (abortion amendment) to get the substantial (universal coverage), such a dogged, pragmatic, confident, take-no-prisoners, speaking-truth-to-power leader through—how many Presidents? That’s right, and now that she’s in a position to tell her underlings, which is everyone, what to do, they tremble in their conservatard boots and they quake in their rookie libtard pinafores and they do it.

Forget Joan Crawford: Don’t fuck with Nancy Pelosi, fellas. Whoever you are, she’s fought bigger sharks than you.

And that whispery, whooshy, crinkly sound, building in volume as it rumbles from Capitol Hill to Twin Peaks like a crescendo of ruched draperies being flung from the grimy, ante-bellum windows of Tara, is the sound of old white guy scrotums reflexively retracting, and I’m betting only Nancy knows when, if ever, those shriveled testes will ever descend again.

You Hated, still Hate, Hillary. Like the earth is flat, Hillary’s a child-molester; Hillary, who spent half a lifetime advocating for children’s rights and made some of the most important contributions to jurisprudence in that area of law. Like the moon landing didn’t happen, Hillary’s corrupt; Hillary, who took a deep breath and steered her family with whatever dignity was possible through a nightmare of scandal and bad publicity after her white-trash hubby thought assuming the Presidency was like driving a red convertible down Main Street on Saturday night: look at that great piece of tail hey girls wanna go for a spin on this?

Noam Chomsky, George Soros, those old Jews, had you manufacturing consent as they ruled the media and upped the stats from the greatly-exaggerated Holocaust, but you do them one better.

You manufactured the truth.

What’s up in Canadian politics? Trudeau, the Prime Pretty One, the Luscious Liberal-in-Chief, long on talk of reconciliation and global warming until the conversation turns to oil; the dreary, carping Andrew Scheer, sleazy snake-oil salesman of the Evangelical right; Andrea Horwath, whose droid, social democratic heart is in the right place, but who can’t yet pass the Turing test.

Same old, same old, in other words, which is to say same as you guys but with less conviction.

And our alt-right freaks? Thinkkk Faith Goldy, our very own Mädchen in uniform; and that’s a suspiciously Jew-y name for a white supremacette, but we have less people, we need to double up, sometimes.

Think Jordan Peterson, petulant man-boy, rather overly invested in the proper traditional gender-role training of young males, a training which clearly passed him by; a public embarrassment of tired misogyny and silly rants about “political correctness,” discussions that were passé thirty years ago. Mr Peterson holds prissy black-tie town halls—I’m sure he wears his best suits when he flies tourist class or shops the local mall—town halls at which he voices contempt, to his papered house and with a little too much drama, a few too many campy postures, for the liberal worldview that gave him the freedom to voice his contempt in the first place; he clutters up YouTube with solemn diatribes about “censorship” even as he reaches the eyeballs if not the hearts of worldwide audiences.

Oh, Jordan! You’re such a little kidder!

But we haven’t elected Jordan Peterson to anything, because he’s not a politician, yet, just another court jester; just a university professor, and considering what and how and to whom he professes we just can’t take him seriously; we sense the sociopath behind the smile.

See what I mean? Canadians just don’t have the Manifest Destiny mindset; we can’t help fumbling the pass. You set the agenda; we respond, but we’re just too progressive to keep daily tabs on who’s enraged, who’s the enemy and who’s supposed to be more equal than the others.

Celine Dion cries at a Paris fashion show! Now that’s news! Stop the presses! Even snow has us undone; after one January day of usual snowfall for a January day in Canada, it’s #snowmaggedon. We just can’t cope with the apocalyptic anymore.

And that fall of the New Brunswick government? My insomnia is out of control and, relapsed alcoholic that I am, I’m eyeing the bottles of Canadian Club rye, the cans of ginger ale, and I’m licking my lips. God help me if Fredericton ever reduces the opening hours at The Beaverbrook Gallery!

There’s only so much stress a boy can take.