STUNNED Members of the Conservative Party of Canada (CPC) and the People’s Party of Canada (PPC) are threatening legal action—or at the very least, a nasty, pouty-lipped sulk— after determining that Justin Trudeau is just a regular, normal human dude and not the High Priest of Satanic Darkness and liberal child diddler that they naturally had assumed he was.
The startling revelation about Trudeau having nothing to do with the Book of Revelation occurred when a member of the Yellow Vests, tasked with catching photos of JT accidentally displaying his gigantic, muscular red body, huge erect member and eyes glowing like burning coals when he thought no one was looking, was forced to give up his assignment due to the sudden drop in temperature in the Capital Region, an effect no doubt attributable to there now being a direct portal to Hell’s Antechamber somewhere inside the PM’s residence.
“I’ve been staring in the windows of that damned Rideau Cottage for two weeks now, ever since that Coronavirus pandemic hoax hit the news,” complained the truculent trucker. “But all I see is Nancy-Boy Drama Teacher making breakfast for the kids and talking on the phone to world leaders while wearing pants, shirt and tie.
“How am I supposed to verify he’s The Minion of the Dark One when he won’t even give me a glimpse of his forked penis or 666 tattoo? It’s so frustrating! Not even a chilling, maniacal laugh while offering his kids sweets and touching their butts inappropriately!
“It burns me up the way he’s fooling decent Canadians with his pretence of being a normal, loving dad and husband! But they don’t call him The Great Deceiver for nothing, I guess.
“Hey, do you think I should set my iPhone camera to ‘snow’ or ‘flash on’? You’d think they’d have come up with a Demon Hunter pre-set by now!”
Trudeau has thwarted every attempt by the CPC and PPC to reveal his alleged infernal agenda to Canadian voters, despite right-wing leaders’ daily forays on Twitter to call attention to the big, yellow fangs, pervy pelvic thrusts and kinky ankle chains which they feel should be so obvious to the general public.
Maxime Bernier, Leader of the PPC, which currently has no MP’s—and who asked us to emphasize in no uncertain terms that he is definitely not even a little bit gay—told slowpainful that he absolutely refused to accept that Justin was just a normal, happily married straight dude doing an OK job, and not a Demonic Avatar of The Dark Lord with an obscene, lolling tongue who giggles and talks backwards in Latin.
“The public, zay are, comment le dire, being ‘oodwinked by the Stalinist Greta Thunberg and other Hitler Youth Science Fanatics into thinking that the pansy Prime Minister is a just a normal, boring, family-loving dad and progressive political leader. But écoutez bien: Pandemic? Or Pandemonium—aha, you never saw the connection until now?
“Mais oui, mon ami, that word pandemonium means all the devils! It does not only refer to ze ear-splitting sound of everyone laughing when I explain how the climate-change scientists are illegal immigrants controlled by aliens!
“And by the way, I am not gay! Pas du tout! My petite amie, she has the, ‘ow do you zay, very nice rack, très grand, n’est-ce pas?
Executing a quick swishy pirouette and sticking out his butt, he continued in an adorable Shirley Temple voice, “Do you think these pants are too tight? Mon dieu! I wouldn’t want ze public to see my cul or the outline of my petit copain and get ideas!”
Showing all the campy charm that’s made him the star of every men’s washroom in Hull, Bernier batted his eyelashes as he glanced over his shoulder, then, having briefly sucked the tip of his index finger, touched it to his ass and made a sizzling noise.
“Jazz ‘OT, bébé! Voila, c’est ça! Bisous, chéri!”
However, a quick telephone survey of Ottawa-region voters did nothing to confirm not-a-closet-case-by-any-means-Bernier’s remarks. Despite the conservative right’s continual swipes at Trudeau, the public reaffirmed what it has stubbornly persisted for several years in believing: that Trudeau, who self-isolated voluntarily when it was discovered his wife, Sophie-Grégoire, had tested positive for the coronavirus, was in fact handling numerous crises deftly and leading Canada with perfect aplomb.
They were also quite happy to verify that, as far as they knew, he was just an imperfect, entitled child of privilege, maddeningly opaque, but, in the end, a well-meaning and basically overall competent progressive human who modeled correct behavior and stayed calm, rather than a close relative of Beelzebub who drinks boy semen and rides through the apocalyptic sky around midnight on his accursèd steed.
Erstwhile leader of the CPC and two-time election loser Andrew Scheer has been particularly hard-hit by this setback. We met with him at his private home chapel, where he and several of his calico-clad wives had been praying for the nation and whipping each other with leather straps studded with fish hooks to, as they explained, “drive out the socialist cancer of compassion, the cancerous compassion of socialism, and, honestly, have you spent a Saturday night in Calgary recently?”
His face erupting in nervous Gerber baby dimples and apologetic, hamstery cheek pouches, Scheer took the opportunity to express his frustration.
“I mean, the guy has been in his house without leaving for two weeks! Open your eyes, dude! Everyone knows he’s the franchise owner of Hillary’s pizza parlor child sex-slavery ring and, personally, lemme tell you— that man is dangerous! Now, if I was in charge of that sucker, I’d at least break it up into two lines of business.
“Tell me, please, how you’re gonna penetrate the market, pardon the expression, when pizza fanciers and child sex afficionados rarely overlap as a demographic?
Suddenly Scheer’s eyes sparkled and a lightbulb glowed over his head—his secretary had just entered the chapel and flipped the switch. We let him continue with his brainstorm:
“Unless you had, say, pizza with pureed carrot and rusks, or kids dressed up in sad, hand-me-down rompers and little round-toed shoes. That could work! Fix up the pizza basement to look like your rec room, give ’em complimentary Cheetos and free Playstations… Hmmm. For hostesses, I’m thinkin’ cutesy girl-babies with their flat chests, round bellies and plump, froggy little legs on roller skates serving lukewarm gripe water—Yes! Hilda, are you getting this down….?”
“But getting back to the big Turd-o, don’t you see? They’re making him wear an ankle bracelet! He’s under house arrest! Only a gullible moron would think he was just being a responsible Canadian and loving dad, and wasn’t, like, obeying his Lizard People overlords. I mean, c’mon dudes and dudettes!
“I’ve got it! What do you think of ‘Your Home-Style Child Sex Pizza Basement’ for the branding? Or ‘Tooters’? Yes, no? Let’s get Canada back to work!”
We were beginning to understand that these were not idle complaints on the part of the CPC. After all, Trudeau’s COVID-19 strategy of clear communication, emotional support and not even a hint of drama had successfully rallied the majority of Canadians to the common cause of riding out the pandemic. Was this, as the conservative right seemed to suggest, just camouflage, a distraction set up to draw attention away from evil in their midst?
If this were the case, the strategy was working brilliantly. Recalling our phone survey, we had to admit that Canadian voters seemed extremely resistant to the conservative notion that Trudeau was on close speaking terms with Asmodeus, and had fathered illegitimate devil-babies via sexual congress with Lilith during a threesome with the Antichrist.
The disconnect was perplexing.
Jason Kenny, Premier of Alberta, in particular had some harsh words for the “Namby-Pamby Cissy Boy Incompetent Hypocrite Devil-Spawn,” as he called the leader of the country considered by every country in the world except Canada to be a moral cynosure and last gasp of compassionate democracy.
His remarks caught our attention: Kenney, after all, is a world-renowned expert on incompetent leadership. We thought it prudent to hear him out:
“Alright, Canadians, it’s time to make your choice. Is it going to be the tree-hugging, PC-climate-activist, feminazi-homosexual Trudeau, who—although he’s weak and effeminate and completely ineffective as a leader—is clearly attempting a single-handed, bloody coup d’état in the heroic style of Arnold Schwarzeneger, after which he will establish Satan’s reign for the next two millenia?
“Or will it be down-to-earth, human Albertans like myself—truly independent thinkers and real men who have enough oil and gas wealth to tell Ottawa, ‘Stuff it! We’re through! And we’re damn well going to secede! Right after you bail us out with those tax dollars you steal from the Canadian people! Long live the Democratic Republic of Alberta! Down with the detestable Ottawa deficit mongers of the Twelfth Circle of Hades!
“Don’t get me wrong, though, that’s down with the deficit mongers but after the bail-out. So like, later, after you send the money. Just wanted to make that crystal-clear. OK? Anyway, have a think about, you know, the choice and give us a shout. In the meantime, I think I’d prefer an e-transfer. So you understand, that’s send the money first, right?”
Our last comments for the day were from a shopper we encountered outside a local Metro supermarket.
Keeping an appropriate two metres from us, she paused momentarily with her cart when we asked her if she thought Trudeau was a terrifying shape-shifter or Prince of Shadows.
“Who gives a shit about that, eh? I mean, I was pissed off about the blackface thing, but he did apologize, right? Bottom line, he’s doing OK” —she’d turned and was headed with her purchases to her car—”and he’s crazy hot.”
In other news this evening, Maxime Bernier continues not to be gay. At all. Not even a soupçon, heins?
UPDATE: For some reason this has become the most popular post on this blog. Go figure! But get this: I checked the stats for this just now. As of July 8th, 2020, the number of views on this post is :
I’m not making this up. So with any luck, I’ll wake up with a new, huge, throbbing, red member some day soon. I’ve been chanting like the devil for it ! Geddit?!
North America — and introverts — are on top of things! Sort of!
W orld Health Organization and traditional media:
“Wash your hands, don’t touch your face, avoid crowds and work from home.
“Take these precautions seriously, but don’t panic.”
CANADA: An Example to the World
Cana-DA ! Écoute-moi, wash yourself the hands!! And ne touche pas ton visage TABARNAK !Tu es déjà ugly enough et ça te rendre super-malade malade malade !💊🦠 On s’en calisse le Corona virus !
Ça, c’est fucké, je m’en calisse Maxime Bernier !! Vas chier, Maxime, c’est pas possible comment que t’es cave !! Esti d’épais à marde !!!!
It’s the Chinese people! Calisse des Chinois Tabarnak !!
The CHINESE PEOPLE sent this virus on purpose AND they’re buying ALL THE CONDOS! Nice to see you, too, buddy, have a great day!!
Ça, c’est fucké !!
[Precautions do not apply to Alberta, where Jason Kenney will be doing a laying on of hands.
[Esti d’épais à marde !!!! On s’en calisse Alberta !!!]
EMERGENCY ANNOUNCEMENT: URGENT
IGNORE, repeat, ignore the pleading of Alberta Premier Jason Kenney!
Jason is on TWITTER begging Ottawa for Federal hand-outs to help Alberta out of their financial and health crises — caused by their charging no sales tax, having a flat rate income tax, firing doctors and nurses and privatizing medical care — except for women’s health care which they’ve canceled entirely — and refusing to develop green energy alternatives because — they’ve got ALL THAT OIL AND GAS.
Lucky old Alberta, eh?
In fact, they’re so independent and so fracking sick to the top of their oil rigs with Ottawa being BOSSY, and so overflowing with OIL AND GAS dollars, why, they might just pack up and LEAVE!
So we know Jason’s kidding! We’ve figured it out! It was a test to see if Ottawa has been paying attention!
After all, Albertans don’t need our help — they’ve got ALL THAT OIL AND GAS, right? Jason, you’re funnier than saliva droplets in a malfunctioning street car! Well played! You nearly had us, you ol’ kidder, you!
IGNORE JASON KENNEY!
REPEAT: IGNORE JASON KENNEY!
SPECIAL WORK ACCOMMODATION for Tim Hortons employees, from the Prime Minister’s Office:
HEY, “Baristas!” Feeling under the weather and socially responsible? The best thing you could do for your fellow Canadians — well, I was going to say, stop serving Tim Hortons coffee, but that’s not really an option — is staying home when you’re sick.
And as Liberals we understand your concerns, like not getting paid for your sick time. Yeah, well. Life is hard, buckaroos! Maybe you shoulda thought of that before you left —
Ahem. Before you left your union job at General Motors and chose this minimum wage job instead.
And because we understood your concerns yesterday, and this is today, we also understand the concerns of franchise holders that workers are just a necessary burden pending the arrival of droids, but in the meantime you spend your shifts stealing extra bathroom breaks, scarfing down Timbits and generally doing everything you can to run things into the ground out of sheer spite after they’ve been good enough to give you employment.
Well, never fear — we’ve got your backs and, as usual, we’ll please everybody! In order to reassure MANAGEMENT that YOU’RE REALLY SICK and not just being a lazy-assed minimum wage slave, please obtain a doctor’s note, then —
—go into work and VOMIT ON YOUR SUPERVISOR.
Make mine a “Triple-triple Venti”! Did I get that right? Who says I don’t represent all Canadians!
— The Rt. Hon. Chrystia Freeland Ministress of, gosh, well — Everything!!
Meanwhile, on Twitter, Introverts Finally Speak Out, Just Really, Really Softly.
Hi, I’m Noah, spokes-sociopath for the International Introverts Association (IIA). I bet you didn’t realize there was an IIA, did you? Which isn’t surprising! We’re WAY too shy to tell you!
Anyway, we realized, independently of course, that the world was on tenterhooks (we read the dictionary a LOT!!) wondering how introverts were doing during this pandemic.
First, be it known that we’re really deserving of this attention which we’ll accept with a self-deprecating giggle! And we’d like to put your minds at rest. We know what it’s like to stay up all night worrying about something, like, whether or not introverts are getting the attention we deserve.
Well, drum roll, except not, that would be WAY too noisy! We’re doing just great! Because we stay at home all the time anyway, so it’s like, this pandemic is just specially tailored for, you know, introverts.
Excuse me while I make another cup of Herby-Time Tea, which is like, my substitute for a special friend, which I’m way too shy to make!
Mmmm, that’s delicious! As I was saying, even though people are dying by the thousands, we know that what’s really important in the big scheme of things is that your mind is at ease about whether introverts are having any problems. And — we’re not! It’s, like, perfect!
We’ll just stay in like we always do, breathing our own, solitary air and thinking about our own, solitary selves and not really concerning ourselves with mean old extrovert stuff like thinking about other people or old people or sick people!
Well, I hope you’re feeling less worried about us now! Thanks for asking, which was, like, WAY intrusive of you, but we coped, barely.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to change, which I do in my closet, for a virtual meeting of the International Insensitive Sociopathic Assholes Society, or “I-IS-ASS,” as we special introverts call it.
Thanks for not dropping By-EEEEEEE!
People’s Democratic Republic of Trumpezuela
Hmmmm… Must buy cases and cases of TOILET PAPER at WALMART in case I get PNEUMONIA and subsequent DIARRHEA of the FACE. And speaking of face, FACE MASKS because Asians always wear them and they should know! Asians are smart!
Unless they’re MUSLIM ASIANS! Is that even a thing??!! Is this Black Friday? I bet MUSLIMS are DANCING WITH JOY!!
C’mon SHEEPLE! It’s just a few SENIORS who died in Seattle. I’Mnot going to get sick and die. SHEEPLE are so dumb to panic!
I mean it’s not like I could have the virus and pass it on! I’m not MEXICAN!!
Damn, now I have to USE some of the toilet paper! That reminds me: MUST BUY MORE toilet paper by the case. WALMART’s ALWAYS OPEN cause their workers come in even when they’re SICK. Unlike Chinese Communist workers who are probably FORCED by their government to come in because otherwise they might not get paid!
Excuse me. Are you coming out of the BATHROOM soon? It’s nothing! Just a mild case of the STOMACH FLU! I should probably go swimming at the “Y” later!
Let me take this time perched on the toilet chatting with INCELS to FINESSE my new conspiracy theory that JOE BIDEN in cahoots with NORTH KOREA sent this WUHAN COMMUNIST VIRUS to the Ukrainian ambassador to deliberately undermine the stock market! Stupid COMMIES!
No wonder I can’t GET LAID!
I’M BORED. That must mean — it’s all a HOAX!! I’m going to LICK THE DOORKNOB of the bathroom door then scratch that pimple on my face! Couldn’t wash my hands, there was no soap, OK? Some panicky sheeple bought all the hand sanitizer!
That’s better! Hungry now. How about a BAG of POTATO CHIPS? Help yourself! Everybody dig in! FINGER-LICKIN’ GOOD! Can I lick YOUR fingers?
Want some SALSA and cheetos??!! Let’s have FONDUE!!
Next time I see Trump on TV — I’m gonna LICK THE TV!
Stay home from work? Are you nuts? I had to remortgage my home twice since last year — Kaiser Permanente prescribed me those children’s Aspirin again! And then there was MY WIFE’s DIABETES and we couldn’t afford the insulin but luckily she DIED!
Plus, Donald and Mike and Mitch and the Senate just revoked “getting paid to work”! Only SOCIALISTS expect HANDOUTS OF MONEY to work and anyway Donald was starting to think we didn’t work hard because we love him, we were just working for the WAGES!
What kind of SICKO would hurt the PRESIDENT like that — !!?
Hey, Grandma, wanna see my POWER COUGH??? Put your face RIGHT UP TO MINE, that’s perfect. ONE, TWO, THREE….. BRRRRAAAAXXCHCHCH! Sorry about the saliva! HA HA!
Hey, Donald and Mike and Mitch say the numbers are UP and they’re DOWN and it’s a PANDEMIC which means it’s just like the flu and you should STAY AT HOME and GO TO WORK.
It’s, like, an emergency but it’s not a serious emergency, but except it is! Isn’t! Wear MASKS but DON’T WEAR MASKS!
There’s plenty of tests just ask nicely there’s no tests stop panicking there’s LOTS OF TESTS AND LOTS OF MASKS! Thanks, CHINA!
How is Jack Wu, like, even a REAL NAME???!! RIGHT!!???
Now they say they’re gonna upgrade the pandemic to Level ORANGE is that like MORE OR LESS SERIOUS than RED? It’s more AND less serious!
And wait a minute — now they’re saying North Korea’s launched a missile attack AND there’s an impending asteroid collision!
Missile attack?!?!? Asteroid collision???!!! HOLY SHIT!!! MUST BUY MORE — TOILET PAPER…!
Whaddaya mean, GRANDMA — WTF???!!! WHEN DID SHE —
I just saw her two weeks ago and she was FINE!!!???
In the twenty-first century, truth is a personalized experience.
This is how it works: The title gives a tantalizing glimpse of the theme; the subtitle teases, or elaborates, or sells the title out by explaining it for you. Simple, right? Here’s a current example.
Title: “Triggered” Subtitle: “How the Left Thrives on Hate and Wants to Silence Us.“
A winner, isn’t it? And it’s his first book, too, the first he’s written and possibly even the first he’s read. So never think it’s too late for you, Murgatroyd McGraw.
Donald Frankenforehead Trump II, like many people, had a book inside him, but with most people that’s where it remains. Donald’s book was so deep inside him no ray of sunlight had ever penetrated its embryonic cloth covers, and now—Blessèd Judy, Mother of Liza—he’s filled his lungs to capacity, spread his knees, and, grunting and groaning with monumental effort, squatting like an Olympic weight-lifter ready for the clean-and-jerk, squeezed it out. Look, here comes the sequel—ker-PLOP!
Triggered signals that we’re a bunch of bored dads stuck watching “The Nutcracker” instead of the Game and missing target practice at the old folks’ home. And we’re about to endure the dance of the leftie snowflakes, that corps de ballet of over-sensitive types who get traumatized when we use good, old-fashioned traditional language, like nigger and faggot and kike and cripple, and deploy traditional attitudes like “I don’t care what you think you are, I’m not calling you SHE,” or “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Elton John!” or “Whites suffer racism, too.”
Them SJW’s are probably crying like lefty babies as they run off to their safe spaces, eh? Gee, are they triggered?
The subtitle with its explanation is supposed to encourage you but its very honesty poses a problem. From just the title, I might have thought Triggered was written by a super-sensitive individual who, because of his ability to feel the vibes, spent his days in a virtual torture chamber of empathy.
Except that it’s written by one of the Trump Frankenforehead children who was cooked up in a vat of virgin’s blood by a Dementor, so I was pretty sure that I had absolutely no interest in the book.
But from having seen the subtitle I know I have absolutely no interest in the book (although in fact without even reading it, even before it came ker-plopping out of Don, I had already read it a hundred times). So, thanks for the head’s up. If you are an angry white supremacist, or an assembly-line Frankenforehead son of Trump, looking to have crossover success and sell more books, take note.
That subtitle is formulaic and the formula goes: Throw out the most obnoxious, outrageously biased statement you can contrive, and present it as your premise (though it is not intended to be a verifiable statement of fact and its offensiveness is its gleeful goal); because as far as you’re concerned it’s true, and truth in the 21st century is a personalized, bespoke kind of thing.
Old-fashioned truth was dull and inefficient and did not necessarily reflect your beliefs. It was like those eastern bloc Polski Fiats everyone drove in Warsaw in 1979, or Henry Ford’s Model T, which he offered in any color you wanted as long as it was black.
Truth was one-size-fits-all. You had to cram yourself into, more often than not, an ill-fitting truth that didn’t suit you. And it was someone else’s truth, from years, maybe even centuries, ago! Crummy old hand-me-downs!
But now we have petite and plus-size, little white lies and great big whoppers. Now we have truth in all the flavors you would ever want: peppermint bullshit, cherry bullshit, tangerine bullshit and Bullshit Classic. And any color, as long as it’s beige.
Altogether, now: You’ll never go wrong with beige, my dear!
The Left, so this subtitle says, “thrives” on hate. Important point. Not just likes. Thriveson. Hate is our fuel, our multi-vitamin and our powdered whey protein drink. Hate is our Kryptonite, the fatal substance we must nonetheless ingest to power our hateful lefty energy.
Conservatives cancel your mom’s cancer medicines and fire your kids’ teachers. They fill the parks with homeless and kick the mentally ill onto the streets and legislate women’s bodies, and all of it for love—but progressives? We dare to raise the minimum wage!
Hate? Personally, you gotta know I’m counting to ten until someone, quite justifiably I might add, screams “Hitler!”
Conservatives don’t hold back. They stand up for what they value, and what they value is not caring for people but balancing budgets. Your mom will be dead, your unschooled kids fucktard stupid, but the deficit will be zero, the enterprise, free. Criminals will rot in hell. You won’t have to endure the tragic dress sense or the stench of the unhoused, and your fucktard stupid kids? Naturals as the new generation of conservatives!
Wants to Silence Us. “Us,” as in “Us and Them.” Donald Junior “knows” your country is being overwhelmed by illegal immigrants, your culture and values derided by elites and homosexuals, your wages stolen, taxed to pay for abortions and government programs for criminals and Muslims, your schools overrun by Marxists. Isn’t it awesome that the President’s son understands and is talking directly to you? Almost like he’s your buddy!
This book can be seen and purchased on Amazon, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. It has its own dedicated web site. The publicist has made sure Don Junior appears on talk shows with millions of viewers. The New York Times wrote a snippy piece about it, but hey, that’s publicity. In fact, nearly every quality newspaper on the planet has given it a snippy review which is really publicity. This book is a bestseller.
So… this silencing thing? Trickier, apparently, than we thought.
Conservatives troll and shut down every progressive conversation with well-placed shouts of “PC!” “Snowflake!” “Social Justice Warrior!” “White Racist!” and mock anyone who wants to treat more people with more respect—but they’re silenced?
Only in my dreams.
I once Got an invitation to write a guest article for an Evangelical Christian blog. The owner was a minister, a more than adequate writer and a progressive guy, surprisingly outspoken in his support for social justice. I knew this because he would say things in his posts like, “Jesus wouldn’t have gotten mad at all those refugees from Central America in the caravan. He would have been loving to them, because they’re poor and displaced and feeling sad right now. That’s the Christian message, yo!”
This is in contrast to his followers, who would respond, “These brown scumbags are just actors and serial killers and drug cartels funded by George Soros, and they’re gonna take away our guns and bring in their extended brown families and live offa welfare and steal our jobs! America is under attack! Resist the World Government! White people are dying out! Build The Wall Now!!”
The blog owner challenged me to provide the authentic voice and viewpoint of a gay man vis-à-vis Evangelical Christianity, which his main audience would probably not otherwise experience, seeing as they all live in white-only gated communities with matching front doors and identical window treatments, and have sharpshooters with assault rifles stationed around the perimeter of the moat who have been instructed to shoot to kill at the very moment they sense waspish humor or catch a whiff of Maria Callas singing “Vissi d’arte.”
I knew that most readers of his blog would shut down if they knew I was a Canadian gay male atheist. I decided I would ease them into my narrative using humor and various other shallow distractions to win them over. I’d mellow them into complacency, and manipulate them with my aw, shucks Canadian diffidence. Then I’d slap them hard in the face with my true identity as the Socialist Queen of Darkness and drop them down the well.
They would understand in a Damascus flash that gay guys and atheists and Canadians were actual humans with thoughts and feelings just like them, not abstractions cooked up by evil leftists for the sole purpose of vexing their limited brains with the evidence that some people, frankly, just don’t give a shit about Jesus, at least, not their version.
“How wrong I’ve been!This Canadian homosexual atheist liberal has finally convinced me that we’re all made in God’s image and deserving of respect. I’m gonna call up all the homeless shelters in Des Moines and see if my gay son is still alive, then invite him, a trannie, and maybe even a Democrat, to dinner! Y’all!”
It made sense at the time.
I wrote a great piece drawing on concepts of Zen Buddhism, poking gentle fun at my Canadian identity, and making a huge effort to come across as a bridge builder who was skeptical but non-threatening, even kind of adorable. I decided the title would be “Pivot Chords,” a metaphor from music that is about making a shift from one key—so, viewpoint—to another with finesse.
I wrote and edited and edited some more and wrote some more and submitted. Finally I got the email saying I could check the published post. My title was now the subtitle and a new title, in bold letters at the very top of the page, read:
This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Sermon on Grace and Compassion is the Best I’ve Heard in Awhile
In nearly two years the article has collected just six likes, about thirty-five shares and two comments, from a user base of nearly four thousand readers.
We live in a time when people have to be deceived before they’ll drive down the street that houses all those liberals they hate. They have to be jumped, hooded and thrown in the van before they’ll even let you suggest that a bunch of desperate mothers, fathers and children, a bedraggled, tired, poor, huddled mass of wretched refuse from whatever teeming shore isn’t just a bunch of actors paid by the Antichrist who’ve come to overthrow the most powerful nation on earth.
Note I didn’t say “greatest.”
How are you, by the way, at thisspiffing start to a new decade? I’m here, a scary clown popping out of his scary clown-box, to tell you that making Ukraine’s aid money contingent on its digging up dirt on the President’s political enemy is wrong, but not impeachable.
Grabbing her by the pussy is not impeachable, it’s—I dunno, first base? Are you getting this down? Soliciting charitable donations then using them to buy sex with hookers or self-portraits or election campaigns? Nope. Not impeachable. You wanna know what’s impeachable? Hint: Think Bill Clinton.
That’s right. Blowjobs are impeachable.
There’s more. Whatever the President of the United States does is OK, as long as he truly believes that his re-election is in the best interests of the nation. The POTUS can do anything he wants, at least, according to Vladimir Putin.
Sorry, did I say Putin? I meant Alan Dershowitz! But he didn’t get there first. Trump himself told us so. I can do anything I want. And, excuse me, bleeding hearts, he would hardly lie about something so important!
Twenty-twenty finds me in the position of a little boy wearing Buster Brown shoes and itchy wool shorts, topped with a crisp white shirt and a pre-tied bow tie, all clashing plaids and male camel toe and sausage thighs, ready to get pushed into the mud puddle by the freckle-faced bully, the rapscallion of a little boy with that everyone likes. What a little devil he is! He’ll go places!
It’s the face plant in the mud puddle, you see, the soiled perfection, that fosters one’s appreciation for all the nice new things, gifts (for you would never buy them for yourself) that may well not survive the day intact.
Not to worry. Start from the point of innocence; erase from your mind the script that has you in the final act looking like a refugee from PornHub’s “fetish” category, mud-wrestling barely-legal teens department, and put your trust in that pristine pinafore. Meanwhile, I struggle to answer my own question. I am :
recalcitrant \rih-KAL-suh-trunt\ adjective. 1 : obstinately defiant of authority or restraint. 2 a : difficult to manage or operate. b : not responsive to treatment. c : resistant.
I have been recalcitrant on Twitter towards the People’s Party of Canada (PPC), whose guiding light is one of those au courant racists, a Québecois who masks his authoritarian lust for pure laine behind the pieties of secularism and patrimonie, Maxime Bernier.
Why did Maxime Bernier cross the road? To get to the — Oh, my God! OH MY GOD THAT EIGHTEEN WHEELER JUST RAN THE RED LIGHT!!
If populism is the soft cock of Canadian politics, Maxime has his dry, white lips clamped around it so tightly he may pass out from lack of oxygen. Allez-y! That’s the spirit, buddy! You’ll never get it up, but it’s undeniably entertaining when you try.
The PPC tweets that the housing crisis is the result of immigration (that’s non-white immigration) run riot.
(Compare the Toronto version, “the Chinese are buying all the condos,” which is approaching the status of a standard friendly greeting on the local streets:
“Hey, Fred! The Chinese are buying all the condos!” “Fine, thanks, and how’s the wife and kids?”)
Because no rabbit hole presents itself but that I instantly picture myself burrowing down it, I tweet back that the housing crisis is caused not by immigration but by, oddly enough, a lack of housing, which could be solved by requiring developers to build affordable units in their cheap, flimsy luxury buildings, for example.
They tweet back that I lack imagination, that a trillion immigrants could appear at the borders and progressives like me would still want to throw money at the problem.
I tweet back that it’s equally [un]likely the white people could breed a trillion offspring and the housing crisis would still exist without a trillion living units, which, [sigh], could easily be built at no expense to the public and entail no tax increases except on units which owners don’t actually occupy (a tax which Vancouver has already implemented with success, and which Toronto City Council is considering).
What did Maxime Bernier say to the white immigrant? “I’m color-blind!” What did Maxime Bernier say to the non-white immigrant? “Housing crisse de Tabernac!”
What is it like, I wonder, being inside Maxime Bernier’s head? It ain’t the Midway at the Canadian National Exhibition, that’s for sure. No one’s lining up for the ride, “I hope I pass the height test! The “Bernier” does a full loop the loop and my friend Sandy told me she threw up her pink popcorn twice! It’s gonna be awesome!”
Bernier burns through Canadian values like a maniac training a flame thrower at a grove of maples. A typical arrogant loser and blustering, entitled white male, he projects sour resentment and outrage at the thought of benefits or income distribution or social justice. He’s a card-carrying denizen of the joyless, shadowy, victimized world of put-upon conservatism.
What does Bernier worry about? Not the plight of refugees, our international commitments or corporate taxes. He worries about—yes!— our deficit, even though our financial health, thanks for asking, is absolutely great. (US debt to GDP ratio: 4.6%. Canadian debt to GDP ratio: 0.39%).
He is, or pretends to be, in thrall to the idea that deficits are wrong, even if roads are pock-marked and bridges are falling down, and health care and public transport are so underfunded they barely work. Pull up your socks and tighten your belt!
The idea that, just like with your personal finances, you would look at your income, calculate the costs of a big-ticket item, work out the payments and decide to run a temporary deficit to invest in something that will create value and save money, this idea is supposed to be anathema to us. Deficits bad.
And it’s not up for debate. You might as well debate whether it’s OK to put dog food mixed with arsenic in the off-leash area in Allen Gardens. Of course it’s not! What kind of sick individual would run a deficit?
Five minutes’ research would tell you that deficits have no meaning except as expressed as a percentage of your Gross Domestic Product, your “income.” You’d discover that Keynesian economics advocates government spending when the economy needs stimulus. It’s considered a very uncontroversial good thing and it’s been standard issue for decades.
Conservatives can build whole fantasy scenarios on a false premise, because people are intellectually lazy.
Well, put the Chevy up on concrete blocks and bang my missus in a trailer, is that a fact?
What does Maxime Bernier’s breakfast cereal say? Crap, Wacko Populist!
Maxime Bernier throws nasty shade at Greta Thunberg, doomsaying sixteen-year-old climate activist. They make a synergistic pair. She’s the title, he’s the subtitle. He hates her youth, her daring, her plans to save the future and her being right. She’s grumpy, mouthy and, yes, recalcitrant. She gets under his skin.
He’s prissy, quasi-intellectual French, his affect tighter than a Parisian’s pursed lips; she’s the spooky love-child of Anne of Green Gables and Ingmar Bergman. You can tell Bernier’s just itching to send her to bed without supper, then drive across town and spank his mistress.
Maxime and Greta! They were made to be a comedy duo, the Laurel and Hardy of the apocalypse, the featured floor show on Planet Titanic.
From slapstick to sleaze: Bernier, promoted to Foreign Affairs Minister in 2007 by Conservative PM Stephen Harper, has to tender his resignation after he leaves a classified dossier lying around his girlfriend’s place. For five months.
The dossier contains top-secret information about Canada’s plans in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. The petite amie, Julie Couillard, cavorts with Hell’s Angels and organized crime and people with job descriptions like drug enforcer, and was almost certainly lobbying Bernier on behalf of a realtor, Kevlar, Inc., to procure a lucrative government contract.
On a prurient note, the former model is also extremely well provided for in the boobs department and is not shy about showing us, which cannot have anything to do with her revelation that Bernier is worried people think he’s gay.
We find out all of this when she publishes her tell-all memoir, entitled, and stop me if you’ve heard this one, “My Story.” This is a new level of dedication to bringing the federal government into disrepute.
Maxime must lack any sense of irony. He runs for office in the 2019 federal election promising to close down the supply management system, so hated by Trump, that ensures Canadian dairy farmers can get a fair price for their products.
His riding ofBeauce, Québec, consists mainly of—dairy farmers. And he loses his seat, the only seat the PPC held. This is a new definition of fucktard stupid.
Why does Maxime Bernier hate Gay Pride and Dairy Farmers? One’s too much homo, the other too little!
Bernier derides Greta Thunberg as “mentally unstable” and denies the overwhelming evidence about our climate emergency. He takes Greta very seriously. Everyone else understands that we support Greta Thunberg because she’s sweet and has no clout and anyway she’s just a teenaged girl.
Everyone, even corporations, even governments, supports Greta Thunberg, because she’s photogenic and does no harm, especially to the gas-guzzling agenda of big oil. You can pat Greta on the head, say “Isn’t she adorable! It’s great to see commitment from young people!” and feel fine because she’s not a threat to anything or anyone. She has no power.
It’s like giving a Girl Scout her knot-tying badge or her “most likeable gal-pal” certificate. She’s a protest march by Disney, where the cute kids pack up their signs and go home when daddy thinks that’s enough shenanigans for one day. Time for beddy-bye, Little Missy Hooligan!
Greta Thunberg is who you pay attention to so that there’s no room left for coverage of or sympathy towards First Nations people setting up roadblocks to halt the progress of a pipeline desecrating their sacred land, the land that was never conceded and still belongs to them.
Sacred land? How quaint! Riots about pipelines? Please, I’m eating dinner! Let’s see the cute little girl again! She’s the future, she’s dessert!
How many Quebecois dairy farmers does it take to change a light bulb? Just one. He grips the light bulb with both hands while Maxime Bernier spins him around on his dick!
We want to consume Greta, because she’s a tasty, frothy cream puff of news. The First Nations people are indigestible: ornery, angry, outraged, not nice. They’re not our friends and they’ve experienced first-hand how we treat children.
We call out the Mounties for them. (The Mounties sent an internal memo: “Use as much violence as you want.” I’m not making this up.) The protestors cover their faces, they throw rocks; they don’t hold out their hands in forgiveness, and we don’t pat them on the head. Guns, tear gas. They’re dangerous because they insist on their power and their absolute right to be where they are.
Why is Maxime Bernier jealous of Greta Thunberg? She travels the world on a yacht, but all his ships sink!
The PPC accuses me of not wanting a conversation. And they’re right. I don’t. I want them to line up and bend over so I can shove a People’s Party of Canada lawn sign up their wazoos, pointy end first—to approximately the same place where Donald Frankenforehead’s book resided— then burn the lot of them at the stake.
This seems like such a simple, intuitive demand.
And since the remaining members of the PPC would fit into an old-style Volkswagen, I could take care of it in an afternoon and still finish in time to flash some skin on Chaturbate for a couple of hours.
I call my room
This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Ass is the Best You’ve Seen On A Senior Citizen in Awhile.
Nothing is wasted when you’re a writer. Nothing.
Now, pour the little lady a glass of Chardonnay and get yourself impeached.
+PLUS+ No Treatment On the Horizon for “CRUD” (Canadian Refusing to Undermine Democracy)
Justin Trudeau, fresh from his “win” of the Canadian Federal Election, has capitalized on Canadians’ surprisingly laid-back response to his infamous blackface pics by instituting “Blackface Fridays,” the new Parliamentary equivalent of corporate casual days.
“Canadians used their common sense,” he explained, “and perfectly understood that I was in no way acting out like an entitled child of privilege or being utterly tone deaf by smearing on the boot polish and shoving a fake Arabian Nights turban on my head while posing with a bevy of well-stacked babes. They realized it was just a party, dudes! Also that white people called Trudeau can do any old thing they want!”
He continued, “So to help everyone lighten the heck up a bit, I’ve mandated that my entire cabinet go blackface every Friday while Parliament is in session. Anyone who objects will answer to me, get an undeniable pinch on the ass and have to sit in ‘Jody Corner’ for a time out and some well-intended pressure. It’s gonna be awesome!”
The blackface pictures, oddly enough first revealed by TIME Magazine — an American publication with absolutely no connections whatsoever to Rebel Media or any other right-wing influencers like Ezra Levant or anything — came to light by sheer coincidence as the countdown to the Canadian election had begun. This caused several Canadians to shake their heads and react violently by quickly calling up something actually interesting on the internet, like whatever ridiculous flapdoodle Trump tweeted today or the latest episode of “Schitt’s Creek”.
Nonetheless, despite worldwide tut-tutting and general condemnation of the pics, Trudeau won in a landslide loss of the popular vote to the Conservatives, technically termed a “Minority Government.” Even though he clearly lost. Or not. Anyway, he’s Prime Minister, what the heck, eh? Or possibly unofficial Leader of the Opposition, depending entirely on your point of view.
To gauge where Canadians’ heads were at after Trudeau’s historic win-loss, we spoke with random typical voter Franklyn D. Gallagher as he left an Ottawa Tim Hortons with his double double and maple glazed.
“Holy cow, was there an election?” he exclaimed. “Seriously? Damn, cause I woulda voted for that Wilfred Laurier if he was still in the running! Or maybe Lester Pearson! But I nodded off during ‘Don Messer’s Jubilee’ last Boxing Day after Milly forced that extra portion of President’s Choice ‘What the Dickens Figgy Pudding’ on me! I nearly bust a gut!
“Blackface pictures? Well, what are ya gonna do, eh? The rules go, vote for the guy who’s not the Conservative, and/or the Person Called Trudeau, whichever comes first, except in Alberta in which case do the opposite. If Pierre did it there’s gotta be a good reason for it! Sorry, I meant Diefenbaker! He was always one for the youthful shenanigans!”
But Shirley Otowabe, recently expelled from Hull, Québec on pain of death after several whistleblowers called the Laicity Hotline Laicité about her traditional Nigerian costume, had a different take on our partyin’ PM.
“I was scared at first,” she admitted. “How in hell would the Liberals pull off their inevitable win this time? Luckily our first past the post system kicked in to give the Liberals victory, even with a quarter million less votes than the Conservatives! I praise Jesus I live in a country with free and democratic elections as long as Alberta takes it up the ass!
“A quarter million voters!” she repeated, her big golliwog eyes bugging out from her face as she did a traditional ‘jazz hands,’ then regaled us with a chorus of Swanee on her banjo. “Why, Mammy, that’s like all the Maritimes plus the audience at ten Las Vegas Céline Dion concerts! How do they get away with it?” And she sashayed away, trailing her hand along the wrought iron fences and murmuring, “I don’t know nuttin’ about electin’ no Andrew Scheer, uh-huh! It ain’t fittin,’ y’all!” *
*(She didn’t really walk away like that. She walked away normally, just like anyone else. I just said she did the Butterfly McQueen/Gone With the Wind thing because, a) it’s so friggin’ hilarious, right? and b) also I’m white so I knew I could get away with it.)
Only Jody Wilson-Raybaud, former Attorney General, had any negative comments about the newly-declared Parliamentary tradition. Even though she was still crying after her bullying by “the big boys in senior year,” followed by her week of morning detention which was, like, totally unfair, she bravely agreed to overcome her debilitating social anxiety and speak with us.
We caught up with Wilson-Raybaud as she enjoyed an unpaid coffee break from her job stocking shelves at a pharmacy in British Columbia, which she described to us as “desensitization therapy,” before prefacing her comments with a big, mucus-y sniffle.
“No one is paying any attention to me, or even to the plight of indigenous peoples, least of all Trudeau,” she told us between pitiful sobs. “Just tell me, where are the pics of him in full native feathered headdress and buckskin boots, with some big busty squaws in hot pants knocking back the Ice Wine shooters? Hmmm? I rest my case.”
Her mouth was quivering again and she stared into space, no doubt reliving the terrible trauma of doing a grown-up job. “That big old meanie!!” she wailed, in a veiled reference to Justin Trudeau or possibly some other big, scary man in Cabinet, then collapsed screaming while beating her fists and heels on the floor.
Did Wilson-Raybaud see anything at all postive in Justin’s kinda-sorta-almost victory?
“Well,” she replied, interrupting her tantrum and biting her lower lip as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. “Sales of cleansing and rejuvenating charcoal masks and white lip salve are off the charts. Could someone pass me the Kleenex?”
ARE YOU CANADIAN? DID YOU cast a vote in the recent Federal Election? And did you vote for the party whose leader you actually thought would make the best PM? Did you vote, in other words, according to your conscience, or did you vote strategically?
Though you pelt me with soapstone carvings until I scream for mercy, I must confess that I did the unthinkable.
I voted for the New Democrats. I know, I know. What kind of sick individual would put the nation in jeopardy for such a narcissistic, self-serving whim?
If you’re non-Canadian, I hasten to explain that Canada wasn’t in great peril because my choice was a poor one, or because the New Democratic Party was unfit to govern.
Jagmeet Singh was the party leader with the most progressive platform and who showed the most transparency, intelligence and sensitivity while also being unfraid to stand up for Canadian values. He spoke up whenever Canadians accidentally showed subtle signs of being racist, for example, while campaigning in New Brunswick, when that guy said,
“Where do them wogs get off, running for PM with some goddamned turban on their head? Don’t they know they’re putting themselves in danger if someone throws a bomb at ’em and they’re not wearing a safety helmet? Besides, there’s little bugs runnin’ around under those things! If one a them nig-nogs came canvassin’ at my door, I’d dive under the sofa till they was gone, then spray the whole front porch with RAID!
“Who am I gonna vote for? Is this Alberta? OK, then you know the drill. It’s whoever ain’t the Conservatives and/or the person called Trudeau, whichever comes first! Whoever that is!”
Singh responded with the righteous fire of an Old Testament prophet or, you know, whatever Sikhs have as an equivalent.
“Sometimes when people say hasty, unkind things they don’t really mean,” he retorted in a tentative, barely-audible voice, “my friends get, you know, like, upset. I wouldn’t want to mention any names, and maybe I’m right or maybe I’m wrong, but I’m talking about things said by people that are similar to what someone has said who is maybe standing, or maybe not, pretty close to me. Not to point any fingers or anything. Who am I to judge!”
Watching the results trickle in on polling day, I realized what a close call the election had been. My vote mattered!
Except it didn’t matter for electing the party whose leader I thought was the best, only for not electing the party whose leader I hoped like hell wouldn’t win, but only if I voted for the party whose leader I hated only a little bit less, instead of the one I thought was the best.
Life returned to normal for a time, though I felt strangely ill at ease. Then, about a week after Trudeau’s win-loss, I awoke in the middle of the night drenched with sweat and with my heart pounding. I was wracked with guilt, and worse, I was haunted by dreams in which the Conservative Party had won and Andrew Scheer was mandating school prayer, criminalizing abortion and ordering the womenfolk to attend fittings for the official sensible shoes and calico dresses.
I’d no one to blame but myself. Because of my recklessly voting as though our electoral system worked, I’d contracted a severe case of CRUD: Canadian Refusing to Undermine Democracy.
I realized that by voting my conscience I’d not only put my country in grave jeopardy, I’d cancelled out the votes of my parents, my grandparents, my entire extended family throughout its entire history, Laura Secord, Wayne Gretsky, my friends starting from my first day at kindergarten, plus the original barons who signed the Magna Carta, and every other loyal Canadian who couldn’t hack the thought of Andrew Scheer as PM, and did the right, unselfish thing: Strategically voting for the Liberals.
When I think what might have happened if everyone had voted their conscience, honestly appraising the merits of the various leaders and disregarding our dysfunctional electoral system, I die with shame.
But before I die with shame, I have that sinking feeling you get when you reach the sixty-second floor of your condo building, the elevator doors open, then the cable snaps and the emergency brakes fail, leaving you plunging to your death at the bottom of the shaft, while you realize with horror that your entire life has been totally in vain.
A big gin and tonic helps.
I also have attacks of CRUD when I wake up in the night needing to pee, or just basically at any time when I forget about my disability and stop moving.
But I’ve learned my lesson. I promise: I’ll never, ever, vote according to my conscience again.
Because cynicism — about politicians, about elections, about voting, about democracy in general, about getting involved, about even the value of striving for equality, fairness and justice for all citizens — is as Canadian as beaver tails.
Don Cherry: Don’t feel sorry for this outdated relic of a dumber, whiter, less inclusive time
To kick off today’s in-depth exploration of the obvious, let me ask you a question: Who gives a flying fuck about a miserable, bigoted, old white guy sportscaster with bad taste in clothing and worse taste in philosophy?
As it happens, I’m the first one hundred people who reply: Not me, Murgatroyd McGraw. Look—pockets empty. Not a single fuck left to give. But it is Christmas season coming. Ask me again on Boxing Day. Or, better yet, Epiphany!
For those of you not privy to, or interested in, the finer points of Canada’s sports world and its personalities, let it be known that Don Cherry worked—the past tense is deliberate— for decades as a sportscaster for Sportsnet, a subsidiary of Rogers Media. He was and is known for his ridiculously garish suits, his supposed dudely brilliance in the area of hockey coaching, playing and announcing, and his tough, no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is 80-year-old heterosexual male bluster, which is just as tedious and backward and unapologetically, ear-splittingly raucous as you might expect.
Unfortunately, on Remembrance Day, Mr Cherry removed the puck from his mouth, became confused, and inserted both his feet instead.
Live on Sportsnet, Mr Cherry offered his opinion that “immigrants” were not buying enough red poppies and wearing them to honor the fallen:
“You people, you like our country, you like our milk and honey, you could at least spend a couple of bucks on a poppy and wear it.”
— Don Cherry
This was an opinion-based, rather than a fact-based, opinion which we can unpack like this:
You people. You people who are immigrants, who are physically different, who aren’t white; you people who wear funny clothes and speak with funny accents; you people who are taking over, who want hand-outs, who are lazy, when you’re not stealing our jobs; you people who aren’t Christians, who aren’t “real” Canadians.
That’s a lot of hatred and the resulting damage packed into two words. It’s shameful that anyone, let alone a public figure with the responsibility to set an example, can have missed the point so completely and thought it would be acceptable to make such a demeaning, patronizing and divisive, in a word, such a racist comment.
Rogers Media issued a statement apologizing for Cherry’s remarks, then fired his saggy white ass.
Predictably, middle-aged white guys are up in arms—well, actually, they’re in their La-Z-Boy recliners swilling Labatt’s 50—because Don Cherry got fired for stating his opinion. Freedom of speech!
But how was his freedom of speech curtailed? He said exactly what he wanted to say! May I remind you that the “freedom of speech” that conservatives everywhere keep yelling about—Americans and their tedious trotting out of the First Amendment, to be specific— pertains exclusively to the freedom to criticize the government.
That’s right! Criticize an elected official, your police chief, a magistrate, the President, any civil servant, and you’re protected, as long as you make the statements without malicious intent and in good faith. You’re not even required to fact-check in detail, or be one hundred percent accurate.
But you can’t scream “censorship” when a university declines to welcome a neo-Nazi speaker; they’re not obliged to give anyone a platform. You can’t print libel or make statements harmful to someone’s reputation or shout “fire” in a crowded theatre without repercussions.
In Canada there’s less confusion about this because we still have a shred remaining of our social contract, a sense that the scope of rights is larger than each individual.
The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms makes it clear that every freedom must be balanced with others’ freedoms, considering the common good.
Freedom comes with adult responsibilities not to cause harm to individuals or to society. We recognize that some speech is so harmful it can be criminal. This is called hate speech.
But go ahead, Don, say whatever the hell you like, in private. I just don’t understand why you’re so damn proud of it.
And while I’m on this particular rant, let me take this opportunity to bemoan the hegemony of professional sports. (Sportsarchy?)
Hockey may be your national identity, fellow Canadian, but it ain’t mine. Please note that there are at least several of us who are not knuckle-dragging homophobes with no front teeth.
Sports is supposed to be the great leveler, a way for citizens to bond and feel a common cause. The whole gung-ho, well-rounded, wave your team’s flag and get shit-faced pro sports boondoggle reminds me of those Fascist parades with girls spinning Swedish medicine balls and precocious boys with way too much muscular development for their age. As Noam Chomsky has suggested, it’s a way to keep us occupied with something useless but addictive, anything that stops us thinking deeply about our world and fills up the time we’d be better off using for activism.
As excited as everyone is for me to be a “joiner,” I have always sashayed to the beat of my own drummer and wailed off-key to the synthetic tones of my karaoke machine, depending on the night of the week.
We don’t need to reduce everything to the highest common factor and dumb everything down until we’re spitting out our broken incisors and talking like Donald Trump, who’s made President of the United States, the most powerful position in the world, into a massive, developmentally-challenged fifteen-year-old’s macaroni picture that you stick on the fridge door.
In Canada, we have other pursuits besides holy hockey. For winter sports, climb onto a circular aluminum toboggan and swirl down the hill behind the primary school, right out into the oncoming traffic. Personally, I’m hot for skating with my ankles bent inward at a forty-five degree angle, and stopping myself by slamming into the cold, wet walls of the ice rink, or a concrete arch, if I’m in Nathan Phillips Square.
And culture, forever underfunded and relegated to “the elites,” is on our radar, too. Curl up with Margaret Atwood’s latest dystopian saga, a bottle of Seconal and some razor blades, or watch something by David Cronenberg involving people with new orifices growing out of their necks, a nasty sex virus and a posse of wise-cracking, animatronic bugs.
Sometimes I play the piano of an evening. And, trust me, no one was telling Beethoven, “You should get out more, Ludwig. You’ll never find your beloved—immortal, hanging on for dear life, or even prone to occasional nasty chest colds—sitting at home scratching out these—watchamacallilt, symphonies. Honestly, you really think Napoleon is gonna listen to this shit for an hour? My crazy Komponisten! Go out, live a little! Be a joiner!Fancy a Jagermeister jello shot?What? Oh, you mean I have to write that all down…?
But most of all, I love to spend time at the Canadian Opera Company, where at any given performance you’ll find more combat, gore and hysterical screaming than you could shake a Zamboni at, but nothing aimed at your head that’s more dangerous than a high F.
And there, resplendent in Balcony Three, and Canadian as all-get-out in my bow tie and loafers, I’ll stay.
I never thought I’d be in a position to complain about an entire generation being too concerned with getting things right. And I never envisaged the possiblity that this same generation, raised with LCD crystal displays for eyes and a 404 Not Found error message where their emotional intelligence should be, would feel empowered to talk back so sassy to their elders.
I’m interested in the mindset of perfectionism, seeing that this behavior is supposed to be the Achilles heel of Virgo, my astrological sign, and stop putting your hand over your mouth when you titter, I’m not fooled.
Over the past five to 10 years, Young People (which is everyone at least one year younger than me, just so we’re on the same page) sacrificed an entire country, the United States of America, on the altar of “if I can’t have Bernie, I don’t want nobody, baby” and during the same time Republicans, determined to thwart Obama’s every proposal, refused to engage the primary engines of democracy, namely, compromise and consensus. Frankly, I’ve begun to despise the entire concept of insisting on the most perfect manifestation of your ideals, up to and including the end whose bitterness is a foregone conclusion.
Here’s an example I stumbled on recently, in an online rag with a definite tilt to the far left called “Common Dreams.” It’s a short read, if you care to, is entitled
and takes for its premise: “if Barack Obama truly cared about endorsing a progressive economic leader, or even a leader of colour just like him, he could have chosen Jagmeet Singh of the left-wing New Democratic Party. But he didn’t.”
(The link above opens a new tab. Of course it does! Jeezus. Who do you think this is, ol’ Grampa Wilkinson with the rosy-apple cheeks and his Princess telephone from 1971?)
Ah, to be young and dewy-eyed again! If it ain’t one hundred percent perfect, goes the sentiment, then we’ll take our votes (endorsement, goodwill, high fives or whatever benefit would have been forthcoming) and go home.
According to this mindset, for Obama to endorse Trudeau can only mean one thing: they’re part of an international cabal of the one percent (how much is Bernie Sanders worth, again?); and Trudeau’s lifting out of poverty of 300,000 children is just slight of hand to distract us from his….? What? Helping Hillary at the pizza parlour?
I’m as dumbstruck and angry as you about corruption and economic inequality—just ask Canada Revenue Agency—but good reporting, even good opinions, don’t result from taking a holier-than-thou stance then cramming the facts into it like an ugly sister’s foot into a glass slipper.
I dunno, is it possible that Obama holds progressive views, Justin holds progressive views, they’re great friends and Barack truly believed he was the best choice for Canadian Prime Minister (not that we vote directly for the prime minister, we vote for a party, as I keep reminding everyone in my snippy, know-it-all way)?
What’s Obama supposed to do? Endorse everyone so they won’t be hurt, like mom buying all the kids the same Christmas toy?
Jagmeet Singh, leader of the New Democratic Party and a political novice, appears to be a man of great integrity, and demonstrated real leadership and finesse throughout his campaign, especially his dignified, restrained yet still straight-to-the-jugular handling of Blackface-gate.
However, the idea of Barack Obama endorsing Jagmeet made me choke on my maple-glazed donut. It would be like Barack Obama endorsing Marianne Williamson for President, or doing a commercial for Mar-o-Lago: utterly bizarre, laughable, a pity endorsement.
The New Democrats have never held power federally. Ever. Not in my entire lifetime and before and beyond. And Jagmeet Singh is a promising progressive voice, but with almost no experience. Normally we endorse a product that we’ve used and that we know works. Kind of thing?
Canadians definitely know how our dysfunctional first-past-the-post electoral system works, i.e. with results weirdly disconnected from the actual numerical vote count and with most of the parties ending up with few or no seats in Parliament. Is it any wonder that many voters feel that their participation was a waste of effort? In Ontario, after a year enduring the awful oppression of Conservative premier Doug Ford’s “balanced budget” (translation: cuts to essential services), we weren’t about to let the Conservatives and their dissembling leader, Andrew Scheer, anywhere near the driver’s seat.
We voted strategically, holding our noses about the blackface pictures, for the Liberal Party. This past federal election was, for Canadians, desperately important. We had endured the Harper years, like Trump years currently, just quieter, and we needed to send a message about keeping our progressive image and values. We barely succeeded.
I’m also sorry to see yet another tiresome iteration of the Conservative baloney about SNC-Lavalin, our lame Canadian attempt at a scandal that would be user-friendly, not involve sex or drugs and get everyone to bed by ten PM after making hot chocolate, watching Peter Mansbridge, then brushing and flossing.
In this particular scandal involving the corrupt dealings with Middle Eastern clients of a Canadian firm, the Ethics Commissioner misinterpreted his own legislation to the extent that, were his interpretation followed to its logical conclusion, every tax break and every other incentive to any corporation would have to be judged a breach of ethics.
Then there was the “pressure.” The choice was: litigation or remediation (hefty fines). The legislation allowing remediation was tabled by the CONSERVATIVES. The execs at SNC had already done their time, and there was nothing to be gained by litigation except the probable loss of 9,000 jobs. That was the issue that caused Trudeau to “pressure” the Attorney General, Little Orphan Jody.
Imagine the blow-back if the company had folded due to the litigation. “Did no one see this coming?” everyone would have shouted. Well… yes. Justin. Can you say, “can’t win this one”?
Then of course, as soon as Trudeau shows any backbone and demotes her in a carefully-calibrated-to-be-obvious cabinet shuffle, it turns out it’s the wrong kind of backbone. He fired a woman! He must not be feminist after all! He fired a member of the Indigenous community! He’s racist!
Please. I’m as feminist and as supportive of women’s and Indigenous rights as it’s possible for a white male oppressor to be, and I’ll happily state for the record that Jody Wilson-Raybould was incompetent and not up to the pressures of her appointment. If anything, Trudeau erred on the side of over-confidence in appointing her.
I’m disappointed with Trudeau’s apparently empty promises; but to use what fell off the table to utterly discount his other significant achievements is unbalanced, unfair and maybe just the tiniest bit immature.
Remember this: Justin deliberately ran a deficit. In case you get the wrong idea, I’m not giving this as an example of his incompetence, but as an example of his courage.
For a few decades, “austerity” (but only for the middle class) has been touted around the world like a regifted Christmas sweater and foisted on one unwilling citizenry after another. I nearly wept for joy when Justin declared that he was going to spend some money to take care of infrastructure and to stimulate the economy, and when he declared that running a deficit was OK.
To be OK with a deficit flouted economic dogma. To be OK with a deficit and even smile about it was just unseemly. To spend like a good old-fashioned Keynesian economist while all the world worships the golden calf of Milton Friedman was a big mud in yer eye to the austerity drones.
Everyone who fails to keep a promise isn’t part of a sinister cabal or just pretending to be progressive.
World leaders, if you haven’t noticed, have fairly full schedules, which includes responsibilities to all citizens.They also have to have, up to a point, rather stinky diplomatic relations with autocrats, which does not constitute condoning their actions, necessarily; and they must engage in other imperfect, messy, reality-based activities that nonetheless have concrete and positive results, such as promoting human rights both at home and abroad.
Also, let us not forget that our involuntary bedding down with elephants has consequences. Justin Trudeau’s agenda, be it ever so imperfect, was additionally derailed by The Great Mouth Breather, Donald Trump. From nasty accusatory Tweets targeting our PM and his resolute negotiations for a new NAFTA, to MicrophoneGate, to embroiling us in the US targeting of Huawei with the resultant worsening of our relations with China and the danger to our nationals in that country…
…to the shooting down of a Ukrainian Airlines flight resulting in the horrific deaths of dozens of Canadians, as direct result of Trump’s unrestrained and unaccountable actions in Iran—Canada’s leadership has spent much of its time baby-sitting the US President and containing the fall out from his recklessness for the better part of four years. Don’t talk to me about broken promises until you acknowledge the distratction and disruption to our interests this represents.
My heart sincerely goes out to Young People, who’ve been taught from birth to expect instant connections and even faster results, who’ve lost the art of subtle thinking in direct proportion to their disdain for reading and therefore history, which means re-inventing the wheel, with no benefit of context or any notion of degree, countless times in a day.
Young People have been saddled with moral, spiritual and geophysical debts of every kind just as the last of us boomers are preparing to leave spaceship earth, waving farewell with our angel wings and mouthing, “Good luck, suckers!”
We fucked up. Everything. Our fragile, wounded planet. The climate. How we raise children. Sex. The way we grow lima beans. Justice. Relationships. Choosing VHS instead of Betamax. Everything.
I know this. I literally tear up when I see the frustration and anger, above all, the lost innocence of the next generation as they realize, at way too young an age to fully understand its enormity, the grand larceny we’ve committed in the name of greed and profit.
And the white male oligarchs of greed and profit have no remorse. They react in outrage at outspoken Greta Thunberg, the sixteen-year-old climate activist from Sweden, seeing in her nothing but teenage rebellion and lack of respect, when they should be begging for her forgiveness. She is the sad avatar of her generation, children forced prematurely into adulthood as they struggle to salvage something from the wreckage in order to live. They are the new chimney sweeps.
Nothing is perfect. Insults are not political argument. There are shades of grey for the same reason that there are emergency generators and the cloud. You need a Plan B. You need to keep what works and throw out what is not working. You can’t, and you don’t need to, throw out everything.
What works, what lubricates the gears of democracy?
Compromise. Consensus. Slow, gradual, incremental change is how liberalism works (unless your country will be underwater in ten years. That merits a bit more speed). Consider how France descended into the Terror through rigid ideology that renamed the very months of the year and enforced its codes with the guillotine, and compare how England, stodgy and tradition-bound, established liberalism and true freedom through a slowly evolving concept of precedent and the inviolable rule of law.
The neoliberalism we hate is an ideology, not an economic theory. There is no such thing as a democratic ideology, because ideologies are rigid boxes. Neoliberalism is profoundly undemocratic.