Find the pic that doesn’t belong and win absolutely nothing! A strained relationship in so many photos, I can’t count. Twelve?
If there’s one thing a Prince of Saudi and a Canadian Prime Minister can teach us, it’s that all men worldwide have but one thing on their mind, every waking moment and most of the unwaking ones, and one thing only:
Is my penis bigger than your penis?
Donald wonders. Some days he’s pretty sure he needs a wheelbarrow just to get it up the steps of the Capitol, or at least a couple of interns to carry it reverently before him, like a reverse version of Diana’s wedding dress train, but without the scattering of orange blossoms.
Those are the days when he wakes up in a panic in case he’s tossed and turned, unwittingly wrapped his penis around Melania’s neck and strangled her in her sleep, but before he’s had a chance to call Ivanka to ask how he should feel about this, he remembers the FLOTUS is at least two wings away in her pink bedroom and with the door padlocked, from the inside.
It’s just one disappointment after another when you’re Apprentice Prez!
Other days he’s a bundle of male sexual anxiety, and honestly, can you blame him? QAnon rattles him with their insistence that Melania’s a pre-op male-to-female transexual, and even Candy Boxxx, his porn-star girlfriend, insinuates that the First Lady’s constant migraines and penchant for doggy-style might just be a coincidence, or, on the other hand, might just not be.
He spends countless hours trying to come up with a logical explanation, but, as usual—nothing.
So off he goes for some ego-stroking time with the boys! He kits up, commando, in jogging pants and hoodie and orders his driver to pull up outside local school playgrounds while he sits in the back with a bag of licorice whips and a couple of Secret Service guys, just in case.
Once he’s lured the youngsters over to the open window and pulled his jogging pants down, he screams, “Check out that babymaker, guys, and do you know who I am? I’m Donald Trump and I’m YUGE!!!!”
Then he speeds away, leaving the traumatized tots crying but definitely impressed with the Republican agenda, and with a lifelong determination to find people even smaller and more helpless than themselves so they can be Yuge Republicans, too.
James Comey wonders, in a smirky, superior, smarty-pants, stick-out-your-tongue girly kind of way that tells us that, size be damned, his penis will always be cleaner and tidier and somehow smelling of roses, so there, nyaaaaah.
James Comey, and it must be said, is a faggot, in that sense described by comedian Louis CK as having nothing to do with being gay, but everything to do with, well, being a faggot.
(I’m gay, by the way. I once lived with a faggot, a little black faggot, if you must know, and believe me, there’s nothing I wanted to do more than smack his little black faggot face repeatedly with my fake Louis Vuitton make-up bag; smack it long and smack it hard until he learned to cry like a real, honest-to-god grown-up black gay man.)
Does Rudolph Giuliani wonder? Does the Pope wear off-the-rack? Please!
Rudi’s Italian-American, bada-boom, bada-bing! He reeks of garlicky swagger, of his confidence, instilled by generations of adoring black-clad widows, that a spicy, pungent Italian salami, swathed in yards of saggy grandad foreskin, will always bring tears to the eyes of mangiacakes — those pussies who actually pretend they’re telling the truth instead of just blustering through with blatant lies like we did in the old country.
You call yourselves lawyers? Malocchio! Malocchio! Nonna will take care of you, amici miei!
In our smaller, less impressive, diffident way, Canadian men, as always, follow but do not lead.
Andrew Scheer, fiery angel of the Conservative Party’s second coming, beads with nervous sweat as he wields his throbbing light-sabre of the Lord and, lo! there’s nary a frail, backsliding daughter of Eve in full-length calico dress and bonnet, sewn at home on the vintage Singer, who doesn’t kneel down in repentance and offer up her ovaries on the collection plate once she has seen him trample the grapes of wrath.
Which, to be honest, are just the same old tired, withered raisins in that same old tired, dry-as-dust Oppression Cake, the corrective treat for uppity whores of Babylon who dare to talk in church.
Doug Ford, Ontario’s Premier Penis, the Regular-Guy-People’s-Penis, is just a wobbling, blustering, fake-smiling butterball turkey of penis-wondering. He doesn’t yet understand that once you’re pushing three hundred pounds you might as well just give up the battle and buy yourself a deluxe pair of padded tweezers with a rear-view mirror to check if it’s still there, assuming you can remember where to rummage around under the flap.
His biggest fear? Your wage may be minimum, but is it minimum enough? No wonder he turns beet-red!
Now, should you land that prized position at the urinal next to the Penis-Called-Trudeau — and surely there is a line-up of penis-wondering wannabes outside the washroom closest to his Parliament Hill feminist-man-cave (a room with the dimensions of a railway car and specially lined with red velvet) — Justin will once again confound your expectations.
He will point Pierre at the porcelain and describe his retaliatory trade tariffs, or recall his days in the classroom, or give you the old nod and wink regarding that great piece of reporter tail he might or might not have touched, maybe accidentally or maybe not, and anyway, hellooooo, TRUDEAU, OK? — but he’ll never, not even once, sneak a peek at yours.
Justin may be the one man for whom size doesn’t matter, because, whatever the actual dimensions, he knows you’ll always want him to be a whole lot bigger than he is.
Men know, deep, deep in their scrotums, that penis-wondering is the prime activity of all men worldwide, which makes it even more curious that our Canadian Feds should have offended the Prince of Saudi by forgetting the most important rule in diplomacy:
When humiliating a male, when calling into question the human rights record of a “kingdom” run by a young, inexperienced, touchy, egotistical, misogynist despot who’s imprisoned a woman who had the temerity to demand rights for women — forgetting, little goose that she is, that it’s men who call the shots on whether women get rights or not — don’t do it in public, on Twitter, in front of three hundred trillion people, and don’t have a woman do it.
Unless Chrystia Freeland also wonders. So many women who achieve power against all the odds toss overboard like so much unwelcome ballast the very qualities we hoped for: Compassion, consensus-building, connection, common sense — or was it just Margaret Thatcher who turned into that über-monster, a being with the unchecked emotional intensity of the female psyche, turbocharged with the balls-deep lust for power that is the eternal undoing of men?
Maggie died before I could send her the bill for the antidepressants and psychedelics I was forced to ingest by the handful whenever I heard her plummy, sing-song nanny-voice tell me how much better off I was lying in a ditch and sucking on an empty Ribena bottle, because now I was free.
But, contumacious old codger that I am, exercising my freedom to choose the only choice available has always left me struggling to convey my gratitude.
I once had a boss, a very fucked-up, incompetent boss who still proved my theory that you always learn at least one thing from everyone you encounter, no matter that they be old wads of used Kleenex otherwise, and from this fucked up boss I learned the following concept:
If your boss tells you to do something really, really stupid — or by extension, before you act on a really, really stupid impulse, such as being a female and humiliating a male in front of thirty trillion people — just reply, or tell yourself, “no.”
Chrystia, what were you thinking? I love you to bits, honestly, best thing since sliced conservative on toast — but you can’t grow a penis, honey, it’s just the bad luck of the draw, and seriously, why would you want to?
This just proves how very, very old I am getting, because, little kiddies — and please, do grab your ‘Smores and drag your Hudson’s Bay blankets over to the campfire so you can toast your marshmallows as I reminisce — I remember a time when diplomacy had something to do with actually being diplomatic.
A time when diplomacy, pretentious and elite as it might now seem, was not about YOU and how noble you were, but about cutting through red tape on behalf of someone whose situation was so dire, only you, the Canadian Ambassador, on whose desk sat the special phone, only you who had the privilege of whispering in the ear of the despot-prince, had the slightest chance of saving someone’s wretched skin.
When diplomacy actually had to do with applying a little skilled diplomatic pressure, in private, behind the scenes, person-to-person, on the nut-sac of a Saudi despot in a way that said,
“I’ll never, ever tell anyone how small yours is, if you’ll do the right thing, little prince, and release that wrongfully imprisoned woman, that woman who’s not waiting for your magnanimous gesture but is, like all of those shrieking vaginas on roller-skates, demanding the rights that are actually hers and that you have denied her. OK, chum? And fuck me sideways with a crowbar, dude, but is that thing small or what?!”
Twitter diplomacy is just stuffing a banana down your pants. As long as the back row can see how impressive you are, how quotable and feminist and full of human rights, you needn’t give a toss that your man-bump has assumed centre stage.
The tragedy is that, in your penile solipsism, you’ve proved nothing but your own ineptitude, forgotten the victim, and left Samar Badawi, a wrongfully imprisoned woman, right where she was.
And, let us be honest, where all women are, and always have been:
In prisons made by men, but with infinite patience, and infinite sorrow, saving the world.
The images: Two of the illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley (b. 1872 – d. 1898) for “Lysistrata”. Top: “The Examination of the Herald”; just above: “The Lacedaemonian Ambassadors”
There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay
men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store. (“Shop till you pop?”)
Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.
Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.
This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”
Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?
Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.
We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.
Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :
Jim: Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred: Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert: Sweet ride, man!
You know, and can I just say, seriously. I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—! Whaddaya know! Eureka!
I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:
Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)
Take America. Please. Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down. Prepare to die, America! You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!
Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.
Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency. The first being, you know. His Presidency.
Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas? Something along these lines?
“Hey Mel. Mel?”
“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”
“How much did I spend on that.”
“You like, baby?”
“They’re fucking awesome.”
“This I am also thinking.”
Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water: “This is big water! The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mar–a-Lago! This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”
Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.
As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.
But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions. How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!
I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.
“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up. I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.
The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.
There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own. Score: Dave, 1.
Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!
Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!
Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.
Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.
Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom). I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.
I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.
Things just might be looking up.
Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?
Even better: My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com. That’s right. I configured a sub-domain. The tits are off the bull!
Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page. Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise. Kind of thing?
And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1. Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3. Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse. I could really use the support right now.
And a Gigolo.
Presenting, quite contrary to public demand, the cornea-straining, soporific, “can’t seem to stop my eyes rolling back in my head before I face-plant onto the keyboard” verbosity of my Canada Day ode, first trotted out a year ago.
Widely acclaimed by this guy I met at a party who works for The Globe and Mail, who said:
… destined to become a Canada Day
read-out-loud-by-Dad-before-we-have-Kraft-Dinner-yet-again tradition with every patriotic, middle-class Canadian family. Well, you know. Since they can’t actually afford a TV.
Thanks, “pal”. Another seven minutes I’ll never get back staring at the water mark on the ceiling. Those Cialis cost money.
“A Beaver in Polite Company”
(An Absolutely Epic Ode
for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)
O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee –!
From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a teepee)
While moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective, corn-syruped way
All beneath a stunning display
Of shimmering Northern Lights,
(For it is enshrined in the
Charter of Rights
“… WHEREAS the provision of
Being an essential service,
May not suffer even the slightest pause …”
To make a summary:
While exempting pecans
From the “Notwithstanding” clause,
Have ensured every mother will
Obtain her degree from
Butter Tart University,
Majoring in raisins.)
Welcome to Canada,
So cold in December,
But then we remember our
National Winter Sport,
Played on ice, with a puck.
Yet so hot in July,
It takes all our willpower
To manage even a
Nice game of lacrosse.
Yes, this is Canada.
The Superhero who’s always Clark Kent,
As tasty as we might look in tights;
The land where the indigenous people, Inuit, not Eskimo,
Reportedly have a hundred words for snow,
Where we finish our summer vacations
With full septic tanks
And scratching scars from mosquito bites.
And we all give thanks
We need never go to Mars,
Instead, we head to Winnipeg to experience minus fifty—
—(that’s approximately a nifty
Freeze your ass off, eh?
In American, non-communist temperature systems—
And while we’re at it, kudos to the lady from Texas
Who had heard of us.
Though she thought to visit meant sailing an ocean,
Then maybe —taking a bus?
Y’all got that wrong, ma’am.
But even knowing our name,
And that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas,
And there in The ‘Peg, we play a traditional game
Where, for good luck, you lick the icy posts of metal fences;
Such innocent fun!
Till we find our tongues are stuck,
And, being Canadian,
Come rapidly back to our senses.
And we all put chains on the tires of our cars.
We wear plaid shirts, and we wear combinations,
We summer in Muskoka where all Hollywood vacations
and we never never never, I mean NEVER go to Mars!
Land of clear-your-ice, your winter civic duty!
We even declared Family Day in February,
So we can be sure of finding an ice floe
For packing with our elderly, so it will be a nice flow
Up the Saint Lawrence and out to sea.
Frankly, in February,
They’re too cold to
Make a commotion.
“Here’s the snow shovel, grandad!
Don’t bother with the salt!
Or the commie-red Canadian Winter Olympics toque
That would cover what’s left of your hair!
And remember to leave my St-Jean-Baptiste Day card
By the leftover tourtière!
Hey, how’s that hip replacement?
Ah, Kwanzaa-lights on fir trees!
I mean, pine!
The ring of the shovel on ice!
Each step a crunch of
Canadian Tire mukluk,
You can be certain!
Mon dieu ! Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ?!??
His asthmatic wheezing, the left arm pain!
“Don’t worry, children, I feel just –fine — !”
As he falls, pardon my French, on his ass!
The sudden thump, the lifeless lump of —
“Here’s your Timmies hot chocolate, Grandad!
Did you decide to have a little nap?
And why did you take off one new mukluk?
Your face and hands are a funny shade of blue!
Au revoir! Goodbye! Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!
Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!
Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!
Cause…. He’s… the…
Yes! he’s the Person-called-Trudeau!
His dad was Pierre, his mom was Maggie,
He’s working real hard to make legal the “baggie” –
That’s all you have to know, you know?
That’s all you have to know!
And this dynasty henceforth defines our nation –
Wait forty years, till little Emperor Hadrien – the Person-Called-Trudeau for our grandkids’ generation – ascends the throne
(Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation – )
Godless refuge of the Devil’s Own North!
Where atheist gays marry dogs with impunity
And polygamy is mandatory, on penalty of death !
Where Québec’s Satanic priests (The original Hell’s angels),
Are allocated one free orphaned choirboy yearly by the State,
And la biche, one permitted per authorized family unit, is kept “on ze side, heins?”
– or else on a leash –
‘Cause to be célibataire is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!
All together, now – !
« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »
Where the word “beaver” is always appropriate in polite company.
Polite company being all of us.
Canadians are so un-apt to make any kind of fuss, Lenin only knows!
Why, we’ll apologize to YOU
When YOU step on OUR toes!
O, Canada, Canada!
Poor we! These chains that chafe and bind us!
Only a measly handful of banks, who tend, discreetly, to remind us
When our credit’s getting a teensy bit high.
Now what kind of attitude is that?
At this rate, we’ll never make first-class!
I mean, when did we
ever destroy the entire world’s economy?
Moss Park rebuilt, as though somewhere nice to live is what poor people deserve !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and — !
Cancelled for sheer lack of
– well, it’s about time someone said it –
Nerve, that’s what! Nerve!
But that’s us, so lax, no greed!
So callously indifferent to Deluce’s bottom line!
Even considering he’s the man
Who kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his Porter Airlines plan
To put the runways in High Park.
So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!
So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Those died with Rob Ford, for Heaven decreed
Not just the one, but three, acts of god.
You wanna know how bad it is?
We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud!
Poor old fat, dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He was good for a laugh as he redefined “shifty”,
Mayoring Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of “hard”,
And a not very interesting hobby.
Even then, we didn’t complain. We just voted. How boring!
We didn’t even complain when that Tommy Douglas forced us!
Forced us to have health care!
Took our hard earned dollars, of course,
But what’s worse, stole our god-given right of ignoring
the tumors until they’re big as a horse.
Too late it dawned on us:
Yeah, right! Make us live longer
And then you’ll have longer to fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you! We get the agenda – !
At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
And the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!
Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll
Cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking
Death-paneled healthcare sort-of system.
Where each year you’re not just robbed of two hundred and change by bureaucrats—
What unbearable duress!—
But robbed of your freedom to declare bankruptcy!
We feel your pain! But not to worry.
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay fifty grand to the surgeon
Or, if you’re poor, to be thoughtful and die in a hurry!
And up here we’ll be,
In the U. S. S. C.,
Where nothing’s black and white, just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,
And where a Sikh can be a cop, wear a turban on his head!
(Our citizens all disarmed!
Can’t even spend commercial breaks
Protecting our women-folk from stampeding herds of buffalo
Or mowing down traitors – or the occasional homo)
You know for a fact, cause you’ve taken to heart
The incisive reporting you read on Breitbart
That our health-care system, centrally-planned (did
You warn us? You did!)
Is collapsing five-yearly,
Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling
Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour,
And not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s nearly
Time to greet the first grandkid!
“Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,
“It is imperative that we find more Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad,
And when you can’t take it anymore, Just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles.
If it gets them the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.
O, Cana-DA – !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, who coincidentally
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
That to live with our restive pal, our buddy to the south
Was rather like sharing a peanut- and shrapnel-filled bed
(Alright, I’m putting a few extra words in his mouth)
With an elephant—
—An elephant with sleep apnea;
Plus the occasional attack of
Restless Leg Syndrome;
And a tendency to, every so often,
Just out and out
He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –
We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.
Terre de nos aïeux.
Je me souvien –
And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:
©David Roddis, 2016—2017
A reader has made the sniffy comment that my ode is “not very catchy”.
This is the kind of entitled, sour-grapes kind of sniping from political hobbyists that I’m forced to endure these days, and I’m well aware that this goes hand-in-hand with the kind of celebrity I enjoy now that my stats are well above 10.
Bernie Sanders told me to expect this and I didn’t believe him, well, no one did, really, and it’s to his eternal discredit that he didn’t mention this to me earlier.
Yeah, way to go, Trouble-Hair, and I’m just about fed up enough to reveal you stole that campaign slogan from your local Indian restaurant, “Mama Patel’s Tandoori Palace And Head Shop Buy Your Stiffie Pills Heer-Walla”.
“Feel the Bern”, indeed.
WhateVVVVVER. I welcome the completion of our “Giant Ice Palace from The French People” border wall once the sun goes down again, around August, which is when email transmission becomes dodgy, unless you’re with Rogers and never had any to begin with.
But you know, and can I just say, seriously. Try dancing my ode to the tune of that traditional Newfoundland fiddle classic, “Maple Syrup for my Beaver, Welfare for my Cod” and you’ll feel your toes tapping soon enough.
Even Ashley MacIsaac couldn’t piss on that one.
[PPS: Justin – Called 83 times since 3AM but goes to VM, WTF??? The percs and the razor blades are lined up and I’m running a hot bath, so if you don’t want this on your conscience you better get your “cul” over here and continue our conversational French. Capisce?
Just tell Sophie you’re “going jogging so you can test drive those new socks.” Yeah, that’ll work.
Ditchez la biche et faites le Switch, baby. Ah, oui, tabernac, Marie-Joseph !!!!]
Good morning, I’ve had a most
instructively contrary twenty-four hours and damn it, I mean to share.
I’ve bashed my erstwhile Monday Man-Crush, The-Person-Called-Trudeau (I didn’t mean it, baby, it must have been the string beans, honest!) in broad daylight on The Guardian’s website (on the other hand you never picked up your cell, and you dance like a str8-tard, nyah!); and now, in response to » a deliciously spiteful article on Medium, I’ve stood up for The Great Mannequin, Her Royal Trophy-ness, The Missus Melania—and may every Progressive worthy of the name heave great gobbing globules of spittle on me should I dare show my face in public again.
And how much, I ask myself, do I really care? And do I agree with myself? Politics is so confusing.
Here’s the link to the Medium article:
And here’s my response:
When I, progressive as I am
down to my toes and up to my increasingly wrinkled brow, see a — critique? Article? such as this one — searching for the right word here. What do they call it when someone is denounced from a pulpit? Anathema.
Anyway, when I see an, err, anathema, I have a strategy. First, I read it through, even though I may have to prop open my eyelids like they do to Malcolm McDowell as the protagonist in “A Clockwork Orange”. I find cocktail toothpicks work well for this.
It’s not that I’m bored. Far from it. In fact, in the case of this particular anathema, from the first sighting of the words “gets what she deserves” I’m filled with revulsion. Now, as a writer and an artist, I know that revulsion is often a good sign, a sign that the work has had a profound effect on me. I mean, I didn’t set out to read anything with the word “Trump” in it expecting a day in the country and a hamper from Holt Renfrew, you hear what I’m saying?
Second, and I know you’re all following along here, I put on my conservatard-proof full-body nuclear jumpsuit, ready for the onslaught of “you liberals” and “nothing better to do” and “nyah nyah you lost we won” off-the-rack progressive-bashing, which involves little imagination but a lot of spraying saliva. Check.
And third, I attempt to fashion a reasoned response, because though I don’t agree with a lot of what you say — and maybe even you don’t agree with a lot of what you say — I am darned determined to back you up as much as I can, as though we were a divorcing couple who hold hands in public but fight at home with the curtains closed.
So honey, now that the curtains are closed — I understand your righteous indignation, and I’m all for it, but let’s talk. Let’s leave “she’s costing the taxpayer money”, because that’s just silly. Anyone in the role of FLOTUS is costing the taxpayer money, vapid or not. And it’s interesting to speculate on the hand-brushing-away thing, but neither you nor I nor anyone has the slightest clue what that is about, not really. You are reading into that gesture a confirmation of a story you have built up about Melania.
Melania Trump made choices that many women might have made had they had the opportunity, and I don’t particularly see anything vile or even surprising about them. She had, as far as I’ve read, a successful career, she married a wealthy man and took every advantage of that—and what would the rest of us do, eat Pot Noodles and shop at the Sally Ann?— and now, (here’s my story) to her astonishment, and possibly horror, she’s married to the President, with every eye upon her. She may be unfit, she may take a deep breath and rise to the occasion. I suspect the latter.
No, let’s be honest, I hope for the latter. I want women to be strong and successful and rise to the occasion; I’m just a sucker for hope, that way.
But in no way, no way, is she responsible for her husband’s performance or his policies. No way is she responsible for his crass behavior or his beliefs, assuming he actually has some. No way does her position as first spouse necessarily mean that she supports him.
What am I saying, ultimately? Resist the urge to blanket condemn anything that Trump touches, including his wife. It’s not a black and white issue, your words, not mine; but your insistence on having Melania play the role of “evil consort” leaves no room for nuance, and nuance, god help us, is what we crave more than ever.
Have some empathy for someone caught up in a role they never anticipated, have some faith. And never, never put your sister down.
Great piece, by the way.