Canada Politics

In which I get all squishy about Melania.

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:

» Melania Trump Isn’t a Black and White Issue

And here’s my response:


When I, progressive as I am

Melania-trump-wife-of-donald-trump-modeling-pictures

Melania deserves – less Photoshop?

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.


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Canadian newspaper columnist expresses opinion, totally discredits Harvard race-bias research.

BREAKING NEWS:

Globe and Mail columnist Margaret Wente

has dealt a shocking blow to a decades-long research effort at Harvard University by coming up with an opinion that is totally opposite to the team’s findings.

“The research said that people have an unconscious bias based on racial characteristics,” said Ms Wente while briskly drying herself after her morning shower.

“But even before I skimmed the article I had my doubts.  Something about this so-called scientific, peer-reviewed liberal claptrap just didn’t jibe – like, systemic racism?  C’mon guys!

“I immediately plunged into some intensive research by interviewing our mail boy – he’s a darkie by the way – so much for this myth of hiring discrimination!  And just as well,  I mean if that kid was out on the streets, you’d be kissing that fancy car of yours goodbye, let me tell ya!

“So the next morning I took my usual shower and came up with the opinion that this Harvard research doesn’t matter, even though it’s true!  I’m just not buying it!”

Wente suddenly dropped her scholarly tone.  “Hey, have you seen my new ‘Rainforest‘ showerhead from Canadian Tire?” she beamed, with obvious pride. “Even though I don’t think rainforests are anything special!

Opinion Margaret Wente Do unconscious biases really make us behave in racist ways

Margaret Wente:  Opinions and rat’s nests fresh from the shower.

“In fact, in my opinion, we should totally stop doing anything about rainforests! You know something, that just occurred to me!”

Continued Ms Wente, “Also, it’s occurred to me that I have to do something about this rat’s nest of a hairstyle! Sheesh, will you take a look at this fiasco?”

Ms Wente explained that her shower-opinion-flashes began decades ago, during high school:

“One day, while having a shower after gym, I had this flash, and suddenly my opinion was that the whole hair stylists thing was a scam,” confided Ms Wente, “so I started cutting my own, then slapping on a little Brylcreem. But just between the two of us, it’s not working for me this morning.”

But how does Ms Wente handle the issue of credibility?

“Are you kidding?” replied Ms Wente, who seemed unfazed by the challenge. “I mean, have a gander!  The hair style, the dorky eyeglasses, the saggy blouse—I look like a gunny sack full of galoshes!

“So if I say ‘I’m not buying it’, I’m backed up by this whole proto-lesbian thing. I mean, if I look as scary as this and people still don’t get that my opinions are right, well—Houston!  We have a problem!”

We spoke next to Dr. Eberhard Faber, the Harvard research team leader.

“We’ve been undergoing intensive suicide intervention counseling down here,” said a barely-audible Dr Faber, his voice shaking with emotion.

“It’s just been devastating. I mean, some people have dedicated their entire lives to this work, and then, to just wake up one day and find out that Margaret isn’t buying it— ”

Dr Faber took a moment to catch his breath. “It’s like our worst nightmare. Sorry, it’s time for my anti-psychotic.  I have to go.”

Following up with Ms Wente by phone, we asked if she felt any responsibility for the effects her opinions might have caused.

“Frankly, no,” Ms Wente snapped. “I’m a journalist.  My only responsibility is to just get in that shower, have my flash, kit up like Gertrude Stein, and state my opinion. Let the chips fall where they may!”

She added, her voice softening, “Sassoon just refused me an appointment. They said they might be able to wrangle twenty minutes in the chair at “Just Cuts”. This is off the record, right?”

Stephen Harper is “on vacation”.

with reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy. 

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Exclusive! Kevin O’Leary Interview, featuring “In His Own Words”. +PLUS+ Quick Test Which You Will Fail.

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Kevin O’Leary. He’s a hot-head. He’s a Progressive Conservative in love.

Time for a quick test, just to see if you’ve been paying attention. Ready to fail?

What is it you must never, I mean NEVER forget?

Anyone?

<twirling my toe in the dirt and gazing at my watch from time to time as I sigh dramatically>

A suffocating silence as the great, wacky, inflatable ball from “The Prisoner” bobbles down the hill, whisking all you ingrates out of frame to meet your terrifying, wacky, Kafka-esque fates, and reminding me once again to keep several of those filmy plastic dry-cleaning bags close to hand in the unlikely event of kids.

What you must never, ever forget is how munificently, how numinously, how totally and utterly venisonly GOOD I AM TO YOU. Right?

OK, relax. So you fucked up and forgot the most important thing ever. Be kind to yourself. (Trust me, I asked around and there’s general agreement that you’re on your own with that one.)

Just keep studying, don’t despair and don’t give up – you’ll get it one day, skipper, all in a great, big rush of suddenly-getting-it, and when that moment comes – Lordy, Lordy! – you’ll be channeling Julie Andrews and singing “The Rain in Spain” on the College streetcar while making little matador swooshes with your maxi-dress.

I have faith in you.

Actually it’s just possible I only say that to be fake-encouraging while secretly rolling my eyes in contempt—your call.

I have, as always, concrete-hard evidence of my goodness to you, the primary chunk of pebbly aggregate today being my exclusive interview with our own little mini-Trumpkin, our own adorable li’l freckle-faced rascal, our own TV-“personality”, using the word in its most generic sense, and aspiring-world-leader neophyte—Kevin O’Leary.

O’Leary, you see, is vying for the leadership, if that’s the word, of the Progressive (I gagged a little bit when I typed that) Conservatives, Canada’s bargain-basement Republican wannabes.

Think “The Bay”, but with a Saks Fifth Avenue boutique and refreshed font-face. Nobody’s fooled, honey.

And from the moment that cute-as-a-button rapscallion of a You-Ess Prez began dialing our space-time co-ordinates back to the 1930’s with a few strokes of his pen—those heady years of brown-shirts and killer smog, mass unemployment, hyperinflation, xenophobia and jingoism; of noblesse for the one percent and oblige for the plebs—Kevin, together with the better part of Canada’s C-Suite crème-de-la-crème, has been delirious with man-crush for the billionaire con-man who somehow hoodwinked his country’s angry working and middle classes into believing that he wasn’t part of the establishment.

That dull thud you hear? It’s just the sound of the collective old-white-guy knees of the Tories hitting the ground in front of their new idol, the Trumpster. Then, having formed an orderly line-up, Canadian style, each of them one-by-one with trembling old-guy fingers unzips that sacred fly front and reaches in to liberate the vaunted Presidential man-meat from its sweaty, Y-fronted prison, thereby provoking gasps of admiration and the odd dizzy spell or two.

Remember: Suck, don’t blow, guys (oh, and gals, too – they don’t call Rona Ambrose “Rona-the-Mona” for nothing), and be sure to maintain eye contact.  ‘Cause if Donald decides that those socialists to the north aren’t GETTING SMART – he might just build another wall along the 49th.

But unlike the Mexicans, who despite every indignity have retained their fierce pride, Canadians are so pathetically grateful for any chance to model the brown lipstick that’s available exclusively through the Oval Office, we’d probably design the wall ourselves then insist on paying for it.

You can be sure Kevin O’Leary would.  

‘Cause he’s a hot-head.

He’s a Progressive Conservative in love.

I caught up with O’Leary as he was wiping the presidential splooge off his face with a Calvin Klein hand towel, and, with a bit of skillful questioning backed up by a hefty donation to the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, I managed to squeeze out the few squeaky pips of wisdom which I now share with you.


Kevin O’Leary—In His Own Words™

On World Poverty:

“I’m glad there are three billion poor people lying around.  Yeah, don’t look so shocked. Do you have any idea what call center turnover is like??”

On The Chicago School:

“We call it Trickle-down economics because Shit-all-over-you economics sounds a bit, I dunno. Socialist.”

On Single-Payer Health Care:

“Government-funded universal healthcare makes Canadians unappreciative. Take cancer treatments. If we charged market rates like the U.S. at $800,000 a month, those freeloading bitches would think twice before they grew breast lumps.”

On The War On Terror:

“Combatting terrorism in Canada is top priority for the PCs. And for that we have to create meaningful jobs for The Muslims. Just off the top of my head, for example, suicide bombing the Gardiner.”

On A Liveable Minimum Wage:

“Businesses are being crippled by the demands of spoiled fast-food workers with maxed-out VISA cards who refuse to live within their means. Meanwhile, my stretch Hummer is two years out of date, and I’ve had to fire most of the staff at my St Lucia compound. Where’s your social justice now, ‘warriors’?”

On Globalisation:

“Today more than ever, with Trump ditching all those profit-killing tree-hugger regulations like carbon taxes, it’s important for Canada to follow suit and stay competitive. We’re gonna ask Bombardier to switch the entire TTC fleet over to coal.”

On Donald Trump:

“A great bro who tells it like it is, with no holds barred!  In fact, he’s the inspiration behind our proposal to replace the House of Commons with an unpaid student intern, a Chromebook and a copy of Tweet Deck.”

On Justin Trudeau:

“Hey, Justin, whatever you’re doing right now?—way to kill jobs!

And if he tries any more bleeding-heart malarkey, like making corporations pay taxes or legalizing child-care, I have a killer strategy up my sleeve. I’m gonna call up Sophie Grégoire and tell her he grabbed my pussy.”

On Being Part of the One Percent:

“They say the rich have it easy. HA! There I am the other night eating take-out from Sassafraz washed down with Dom Perignon ’63, while two barely-legal blonde twins AND their Swedish au pair work on my dick – all recorded so I can send a copy to my ex-wives – and even THEN I can barely maintain a sponge-y, fleeting hard-on. Easy?

“Walk a mile in my Ferragamos, baby.”


So, there you have it, peeps. Remember, OK?  GOOD TO YOU.

Study hard.

Monday Man-Crush –OR– How to make a Libtard hard! Top 4 most jaw-dropping Justin Trudeau pictures ever, revealing his Canadian secret of success that is so awesome! Unbelievably??! cute!!?

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How to make a libtard hard?  The look is bemused vulnerability. (Justin, baby?  Answer the phone?)

September 2016

It’s my birthday, and I am donning my tightest skinnies – no Kleenex-stuffing necessary, thank you very much, first in line – plus my “Only Gay In The Village” red sleeveless top in preparation for my man-crushing on this week’s and every week’s hunka hunka burnin’ PM,  Justin, The-Person-Called-Trudeau.

With a bitter yet achingly triumphant shout-out to George Clooney for blocking my relentless barrage of sexts over the past 12 years – manly as your stubbly chin and smokey voice may be, you have nothing on the taut muscles, tousled hair and houri eyes of May I Call You Justin, every gay male boomers’ – goomers’ ? – wet dream.

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Justin – just one more button?  Please?

My swollen,  purple mangina trembles at the sight of our very own PM revitalizing Canada’s brand at the U.N. with his pledge of liberal lashings of humanitarian aid;

Only JT could tumesce my beaver-cleaver with such authentically awful straight-guy dancing as first PM in history to attend Toronto’s Pride Parade—which just shoots the tragic want-so-bad-the-cock-I-cannot-have longing right off the charts.

And at the risk of being TMI about things, I’ve popped such a libtard bologna-pony as he smiles at Syrian refugees, and – aw, shucks, don’t think badly of me – leaked just a little drop, or maybe two,  of pre-cum into my Stanfield’s Y-fronts (available by mail-order in “one-size-fits-all” granny pant version, white only, and not in Québec, je suis so fucking désolé) as he strutted arm in arm with that steamin’ cup o’ hot, hot chocolate called Barack Hussein Obama.

And I don’t mean Nesquik, dudes. That’s kid stuff.  I mean Ghirardelli bittersweet, the finest grown-up America has to offer.

syrian

What does a red-blooded Canuck say to a refugee?  “Welcome”.

Well, that’s what a Canadian thinks; that’s what anyone but an American thinks.  Barry, if you’d been Canadian, if you’d made it to Prime Minister, it would have been business as usual, but we would have fairly bust a collective gut with pride for our black, brilliant, witty, eloquent leader, our model father and husband, the guy who really WAS ready to answer that 3AM phone call, our trophy PM, the embodiment of that dream that is not just exclusively American.

Instead?  Your prime function wasn’t to function. It was to shine the Klieg lights on the tumbleweed-infested badlands of darkest America, to turn over those famous metaphorical rocks and watch as the creepy-crawlies came scuttling out, squinting, Trump-ballots in hand.

Whatever insects have instead of hands.  (Mandibles?  Yuk!)

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My fantasy threesome involves Barry, Justin, a  tape measure, and a pizza delivery gone very, very wrong.  ( JT –  you make my mouth water like an amuse-gueule at Scaramouche, but seriously? Brown shoes at the White House?? )

You shoulda been dancing in the streets, Americans; held an eight-year New Deal shindig to which everyone was invited, rich and poor, black and white; where everyone could talk and everyone would listen and every small-c conservative would pop a boner for Barack.

Instead, white str8-tards everywhere rattled the bars of their playpens and spent eight-years screaming  SOCIALISM! eight years badmouthing, lying, sulking;  eight long years wishing that their new-born little brother, the guy who was taking attention away from THEM, could just – lose the birth certificate and disappear.

America, there’s nothing like you, that’s for sure.  What can we say about a country so resentful of its own self-made elite class, a country that beats its gorilla chest and bellows about the American Dream—then spends eight years playing who do you think you are?    

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Harper was the punchline; we were the joke.

Tant pis.  The only grumbles you’ll hear in Canada these days come from those permanently disaffected overgrown white heterosexual males whose clock is stuck somewhere around grade 9 — Stephen Harper was perfect for them; his affectless, droid-like style barely concealing the simmering resentment of the least-liked kid in school — the Libertarian Geezers  who still think ‘politically correct’ is a current discussion, and who need the company of other similar geezers to give a little lift to their fleeting, sponge-y hard-ons.

But at least most of them are old.  I figure all we really have to do is stall until the geezers are gone to dust and the new generation is in power.  JT is an avatar of that new optimism.

So here’s to my Monday Man-Crush: the so very not-regular guy who reaffirmed that being Canadian is just about the coolest damned thing there is to be;

Justin Trudeau: who touched me in my secret place and made this libtard hard.

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“Dude, who you callin’ a libtard, eh…?”

Geezer Libertarians: White Heterosexual Males Fighting for their Survival in a Hostile World.

sorry, couldn’t keep a straight face for that!


February, 1981: The Toronto Bathhouse Raids Protest, which provided the impetus for the first “Gay Pride” March

There is a certain type of online commentator who rears his head (and they are overwhelmingly male) on issues typically described as liberal concerns: Queer equality, Feminism, social welfare and so on.

I call them Geezer Libertarians. White, male, heterosexual; minimally educated, middle-aged, sub-clinically depressed – their characteristics can easily be read through their statements and their writing styles.

In Britain, these men are caricatured with a supposedly typical signature that might appear on a letter to the editor in The Times or The Telegraph: “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells”; that city’s name being a byword for everything white, middle-class and complacent.

Wherever they exist, their default posture is outrage, in varying degrees; their emotional stance, scorn for anything that benefits or even pays attention to another demographic; their identifying sound, the splutter.

Their grumbling, carping responses, their symbolic pats on the back and “here here!”s, are the male bonding exercises, the tire-kicking, of men stuck at the emotional and intellectual level of alienated teenagers; the surreptitious glance at the next guy in the shower has been replaced online with a quick glance at his neighbour’s irrelevant opinions; the hope in both cases being that he will measure up, by which he really means, “belong”. At the root is self-imposed male isolation and fear.

If you read the comments to this article, you will see that heterosexual males went approximately crazy with the idea that the police should issue a formal apology for harmful actions in the past. The fact that it concerned (mostly) gay men was the cherry on the red flag – if I may mix my metaphors…

(Backgrounder:  On February 5th, 1981, Toronto Police raided three bathhouses, causing substantial property damage and arresting 300 men on “bawdy house” charges.  These shocking events galvanized the gay community, who staged a protest to voice their outrage.  The events led to Toronto’s first Gay Pride, in June the same year.  Fast-forward to June 2016, 35 years later, on the eve of Toronto Pride – now a massive and world-famous event taking place over a month, and drawing over a million people to the city – when Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders announced that he would formally apologize to the gay community for the raids.)

My favorite comment: “How about everybody apologize for everything!” – a comment so devoid of meaning or substance, of anything except a pathetic cry of “Me too!!”, that I marveled that anyone would actually think they had contributed to an intelligent discussion by posting it. The option of saying nothing when one has nothing to say had apparently not occurred to him.

An apology? Of course. The original actions sent the message to society that gay men were not worthy of respect or dignity; that it was OK to mistreat them. The apology sends the message that it’s not OK, and that we are worthy.

Equal, in fact.