hElTeR-sHeLtEr: Pandemic Pastimes #3: Photoshop flânerie

depict Hollywood icons in coronavirus-inspired joaillerie

ELIZABETH TAYLOR, FAMOUS FOR HER SCREECHY untrained voice, stunning beauty, stilted “acting” and appetite for husbands and substances both licit and il-, in the parure gifted to her by Richard Burton—Liz and dick, dick and Liz! we sighed, with some justification—after their first date, hence the nickname, “The Grope Diamonds.”

Modeled after the novel coronavirus—but an old version, so, the first-draft or maybe galley-proofs coronavirus—by famed Montreal jeweler Auguste Ponce-de-mon-cul, they were worth, oh, I don’t know, how big will make you gasp? Three hundred kajillion? Done, three hundred kajillion dollars, which was only a week’s salary for our hot-to-trot temptress.

That’s why she threw them back in Dick’s face, settling instead for a good old bender on Southern Comfort, which is what she actually wanted in the first place, then a huge drunken row in which they laid waste to an entire floor of their hotel. True love!

The gay community is grateful to Taylor for her early and brave advocacy for AIDS patients, also for being so chock full of chemicals she was, actually, for a few years, considered a last-ditch experimental treatment. Did you see her hug Rock Hudson? Yeah, there you go, so she tried.

Photo by Karsh, I very much doubt. But someone who had their Brownie ready before she did the throwing back.


Helter-Shelter: Pandemic Pastimes #2: Cultural Vandalism

make political statements by repurposing great art works.

“Maxime Bernier explains his vision for Canada’s future.” Art appropriation by David Roddis. (after Gustave Moreau, “Helen at the Scaean Gate,” c. ?1880)



Helter-Shelter: Pandemic Pastimes #1: Boredom Eating

a big bowl of icing is the most tooth-tingling, palate-numbing meal I can devise. This morning.

I’m Not One Hundred Percent Sure That Pandemics Bring Out the Best in Me

horizons shrink, waistlines expand, and Americans find freedom in the most unlikely places

in Ohio, protesters against the coronavirus lockdowns shout through the doors of the legislature

THERE AIN’T NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE wide world angrier than a white American CoronaZombie told they can’t go to their vacation home. “Let my people go! Tell old Pharaoh—“Naw, he sounds Muslim—tell Alex Jones instead!”

I’m conflating, maybe even extrapolating, a bit. The rather freakazoid people above are in Ohio; the people who can’t go to their vacation homes, well, there may be others, but as far as I know they are the white people of Michigan, whose governor, a Democrat and a woman, Gretchen Whitmer, has enacted just about the most rigorous stay-at-home orders in the US.

She’s had to, because apparently Michigan generally and Detroit specifically have extremely high rates of infection, the brunt of this borne by, and I hope you were holding your breath because, of course, black people.

African Americans, many of them being the people who have the jobs that keep society moving during a lethal pandemic, the fast-food workers, the health care workers, the grocery store staff, the front liners in essential businesses, have, of course, got it covered about who is going to get that fuzzy end of the coronavirus lollipop.

But the white people, the angry outraged spluttering CoronaZombies, have grabbed their rifles, their bazookas, their automatics and their semi’s that the Founding Fathers explicitly recommended—“… the right of the people to keep and bear Bazookas, shall not be infringed;” it’s right there, in fluent goose quill— and they are mad as hell and not takin’ it anymore in front of wherever Gretchen hangs out, and they are chanting “Lock her up!”

Gretchen Whitmer is called “that Michigan woman” by the Adolescent-in-Chief, Trump, who never met a broad unwilling to toss him her panties while pole-dancing that he could relate to. And it must be said: For Gretchen to be in power as a woman seems well-meaning but asking for trouble. But to be a woman in power and a Democrat seems more like just carelessness.

By the way: You ever notice how they’re never chanting “Lock him up”? This just occurred to me. Like, it’s never a guy, is it? Have you ever seen or heard the MAGA crowd chanting to lock up a guy? I think I’m on to something, don’t you?

It’s a special chant reserved for the gals, which is, I guess their way of making them feel special. Like buying the little lady some Godiva chocolates and a set of sterling silver handcuffs for Mothers Day.

So “lock her up,” meaning get the women barefoot and in their kitchens, stop them being so uppity, and get them off our backs!

This is not only misogynist but problematic in another way. You see, I have this theory that it shows maturity — remember maturity? Yeah, neither do I — when someone in their teens, or twenties, or even beyond, stops rebelling against parental controls and realizes that some of the advice is actually helpful and sensible.

One day, sick of the emotional effort of being contrary, and deciding that kicking and screaming while pounding your fists and heels on the floor looks a tad undignified, you have a satori.

The clouds part to reveal a chorus of angels and you hear them singing that the advice you found so hateful is not just offered so your parents can annoy you with a demeaning reminder that you’re a helpless, wet-behind-the-ears, financially dependent walking fetus who wouldn’t know to come inside when it’s raining and who can’t figure out how to press the “ON” button on the microwave. It’s meant to save you the heartache of repeating the same mistakes until your forehead is flatter than Saskatchewan and you’ve lost all that time.

And, to your amazement, because you’re now mature, you just go ahead and follow the advice, because now that you’re a grown-up you no longer worry so much about what other people think.

You don’t have to mimic your peer group. You don’t have to prove how cool you are, because now, without even noticing your own coolness, you actually are. You don’t have to “fit in” any more. Other people can fit in with you, instead. You’ve earned it.

You’ve discovered that, although there are seventy-eight buttons on the microwave, one of them for “popcorn” which unfailingly burns popcorn, so that everyone from Orville Redenbacher to Thomas Keller advises, “For the love of god, whatever you do, DON’T use the ‘popcorn’ button,” all you actually need is three buttons: the one for “Beverage,” a second button to choose one minute, four minutes or ten minutes, and “ON.” Microwave popcorn, pizza pocket or twelve-course tasting menu for your instructors in the George Brown College Culinary Arts Diploma course, this is how it works.

But not for the CoronaZombies. They’ve learned and earned nothing. These guys, and of course it’s mostly guys, are still in an embryonic state of helplessness, because women are their slaves, but in reality their mommies, so, stuck in eternal resentful, thwarted adolescence, they automatically rebel.

Their sense of adult, independent manhood is so tenuous, so fragile, that to follow a woman’s advice, even the advice that will save them from catching and/or spreading a potentially fatal disease, is to them tantamount to sitting once again in that highchair while she goes, “And here comes the airplane into the hangar ooogie boogie mumsy wumsy puddin’ pie!” with that spoonful of Gerber carrots.

So they take out their dicks—oh, fine, excuse me for living, guns and cars—and assert their masculinity. It’s all such a tedious, predictable shit show.

I went out of the apartment to shop for groceries during the past couple of days. I do-si-do’ed around the few people I encountered on the sidewalk, and I stood in line, six feet in front of me and six feet behind me, to enter the grocery store.

It was a sunny day, with spring being all coy about putting on her make-up and peeking around the corner in nothing but a towel. The day felt calm and there was a big world happening, bigger, at least in that moment, than anyone’s problems. There was no one complaining. There were no guns or crazy demos.

That’s because Canadians still retain the idea of the social contract. We still understand that we are not just individuals as islands of magnificent solitude and self-contained rights. Because we have universal healthcare, and revere that we have it, we still understand that we work together, through our government—which is us, because we elected them to do what we wanted—to achieve what we could never accomplish on our own. For the proof of that, I cast a glance south.

As always we have our watered down, hearts-not-in-it, bargain basement versions of the American neediest cases. We have a guy called Derek something, an actual member of the Conservative Party of Canada, standing in a field questioning whether our Chief Public Health Officer, Theresa Tam, “is working for us or for the Chinese,” a disgusting and defiantly racist comment that is universally rejected and reviled.

(There is no equivalent to the Fox Network run by Canadians, by the way. Our media, apart from one or two outliers, are firmly mainstream, and any news anchor who attributed any validity to that question or denied its racism would be fired the same day. Just ask Don Cherry.)

A comment rejected and reviled—but not by the erstwhile party leader, the gutless Andrew Scheer, who blushes and giggles like a trainee geisha when he’s asked if he will condemn the remarks.

Scheer demurs. He waffles. He prevaricates. He breaks out in more nervous dimples than a newborn baby’s butt having its first diaper change by Dad. He does everything it’s possible to do with words except answer the question or condemn the remarks.

Once again, a woman in power is targeted by whiny, insecure, immature males who just don’t know how to deal with her, and who are tacitly given the seal of approval by their wimp leader who’s scared that conservative voters won’t play with him at recess if he condemns racism and misogyny.

The only flaw in my theory about women being the targets of male rage would appear to be that Justin Trudeau also takes a lot of similar flak. But in the minds of the Conservatives and the usual gang of online incels, Justin is a woman. So my theory lives on.

We then have another guy, who I theorize will not be picking up a Governor General’s Award for logic any time soon, noting that the number of Covid-19 cases is nowhere near what was predicted, so that he questions whether all this freedom-squashing sheltering in place was necessary.

Dear Stupid Person: The reason the number of cases is lower than predicted is that we did shelter in place and it worked. Just exactly how flat does my forehead have to get?

Little Miss Shirley Temple Black CoronaZombie: the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

I DO RATHER LIKE THAT THERE’S a Democratic Governor of Michigan called “Gretchen.” This is really only the second time I’ve heard that name, the first instance being as the protagonist in a famous song by Schubert, “Gretchen am Spinnrade” or “Gretchen at the spinning wheel,” which he wrote just a few moments after he was born (child prodigy). Unfortunately, no sooner had he scraped the grape-jelly-like afterbirth residue off his velvet smoking jacket than he lost the fucking manuscript in an Uber.

Jeezus, dude! No way are you getting that iPhone!

“Das ist sooooo wie mir!” was his only comment, as the little show-off Schnozzler scrambled to write the whole thing out again from memory, this time competing with his friend Felix Mendelssohn who had himself just lost the entire score of the incidental music to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in a London cab a week before.

“Alvays I am immer making ze big vergessenses when my Fanny is distracting me,” Mendelssohn added, gazing at his firm, really quite toothsome bubble-behind in a huge, Baroque gilt-framed mirror. But of course, he was referring his Schwester, Fanny. “Fanny,” as you know is the diminutive of—

What is Fanny the diminutive of? Seriously.

Let’s reverse engineer this.

So “Peggy” is a diminutive of “Margaret.” So then, by analogy…

Take the “f” of “Fanny” and change it to two letters previous in the alphabet in the non-dim version. So, “D.” Then, change the “a” to “e” and then the “g” in “Peggy” represents the doubling of the third consonant, so “n.”

Ladies and gents, the mystery is solved. Felix Mendelssohn’s sister’s actual name was: Dennis Mendelssohn.

I know that Dennis isn’t really a Jewish name, but don’t forget the horrible anti-Semitism in 19th-century (not to mention 20th- and 21st-century, also this afternoon) Germany. They obviously called their only daughter “Dennis” to give her a big leg-up in society, which is extra fortunate because, if you look up any pictures of her, Dennis, that is, you’ll see she is keine Ölgemälde, not even an oil-painting-by-numbers by your six-year-old.

But getting back to Gretchen and her spinning wheel. This song is a setting of a scene from Faust, which is easy to guess because Germans have two pieces of literature: “Faust” and “Mein Kampf” and it’s a toss-up on any given day which one they prefer.

I don’t recall anyone called Gretchen in Mein Kampf, do you? Well, there you go, Faust it is.

Goethe wrote Faust; he’s kind of like the German Shakespeare, but more efficient. Germans are all about efficiency. Why have Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe both sweating buckets getting all those plays ready for the Globe when you can have an all-in-one? Goethe is the laptop where the screen comes off and turns into a tablet, of German literature. You could probably read Kindle books and make phone calls on a Goethe as well, knowing the Germans.

However, Goethe’s most famous achievement is writing the slogan for Audi, “Vorsprung durch Technik” which means “We’d spring some work on you, but technically there isn’t any.”

German is a member of the portmanteau family of languages, like Welsh, where a single word can express the universe. For example, it you wanted to say, “If you’d like to cry little pearly teardrops about the fact that there’s no work, maybe we could get together on Wednesday, please and thank you, bitte, but only if it’s together, I’m too shy on my own!” then the word for that would be:

« das EsGibtKeinArbeitAlsoMöchtenSieDiePerlenTränenTröpfchenVielleichtAmMittwochZusammenMachenAberNimmerAlleinIchBinZuvielSchüchternDankeSchön-tum! »

Then a native German speaker would add, “Sieg Heil!” Germans say “Sieg Heil!” at the end of every other sentence, which means, approximately, “Doesn’t life just suck donkey testicles?” Obviously this is formal, so they would probably preface this with something like, “Guten Abend, Gnädiges Fräulein!” (= “We could have a good evening if one of us brought some goddamn condoms or are you happy with just frottage?”)

Germans can be a bit of a downer. But at least there’s Beethoven, except he was honorary Austrian. If you want to really get up a German’s Nase, remind them about Beethoven. They’ll have das Konnipchen. Probably with a big Stein of Bier.

Germans ultimately are nice people, if you legislate that, and fairly harmless as long as you don’t let them anywhere near a munitions factory or someone who’s not blond. Or food! Don’t let a German anywhere near food! Good grief! What were you thinking?

Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all literary and intellectual on you. It’s a bit early for this, right?

THOUGH I LOVE TRAVELING IN the US, love Americans — the honest to god, warm and welcoming, sit-a-while-and-have-some-pie, passionate and outspoken, above all, decent, and, heaven knows, never boring, Americans that I meet whenever I visit—I thank god every morning that I was born Canadian.

Because in Ohio, as in Michigan, and probably the Carolinas and maybe even Virginia and Georgia, everywhere I look, Americans are always riled up about freedom.

Americans have the doggone craziest ideas about what freedom entails.

Americans are not just automatically obeying orders to shelter in place! They are not about to be told what to do, not after they dumped those boxes of Lapsang Souchong in Boston Harbor.

Americans love the idea, their idea of freedom, so much so that they have invented new kinds. As a Canadian, I can only shake my head in envy, and genuflect with respect, for Americans are the cutting edge when it comes to freedoms no one else enjoys.

The freedom to die of Covid-19: “Hell, no! You ain’t gonna quarantine MY ass!” “It’s just a plot to take away our liberty!” This includes the freedom to infect others. Remember others?

The freedom to go bankrupt: “Ain’t my fault if you can’t afford your heart operation!” “I want to choose my health care, until I get fired…” “SOCIALISM! We’ll be no different from North Korea!”

The freedom to flaunt one’s ignorance: “The earth is flat, AIDS came from a lab in the US, Hillary’s pizza parlor, vaccines kill!”

The freedom to shoot and be shot. “Nothing is more important than no background checks, not even my children’s lives.”

The freedom to start everything from scratch: “Rugged individualism! Self-made! I didn’t use the roads, the electricity, the library, the supply chain, the groceries, the fuel, the railroads, the college, the ideas, the advice, the loan from my family, the grant, the tax cuts!’

The freedom to ignore science: “You’re not gonna tell me that that huge contraption is gonna fly through the air?! It must weigh a million tons! I don’t believe it just cause some elite scientist says it!”

It’s interesting how the pandemic has changed one thing, however; one intensely satisfying development that was instantly pointed out by every progressive with a direct conduit to NBC or a WordPress blog.

Everyone’s happily taking trillions of dollars in aid.

No one’s complaining about “socialism.” Two trillion rabbits out of two trillion hats, two trillion of the money that “just isn’t there” for healthcare, Universal Basic Income or affordable housing. That is, when only the disadvantaged need it. Just isn’t there, until you need it.

Things I have baked, cooked, or bought, then eaten, by myself, in the past month:

  • Two loaves of no-knead bread; two loaves of whole wheat sandwich bread, six purchased croissants, a box of donuts, a box of Timbits;
  • A pack of Twinkies and a pack of those pink cakes with coconut on them (Dolly Partons? Hello, Dollies? something about a dolly, anyway);
  • Five batches of chappatis;
  • Two mix-in-the-pan cakes from the New York Times online;
  • An apple cinnamon cake that serves twelve;
  • Eight boxes of Kraft Dinner;
  • A bowl of buttercream frosting that was meant for the cake;
  • Burgers, French fries and onion rings, with mayonnaise, all homemade;
  • Three batches of peanut butter cookies, two batches of blondies, five batches of shortbread;
  • can, forgive me, Julia, for I have sinned, of Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli and one of chili (the chili wasn’t entirely bad, the less said about the ravioli, which smelled like the hallway in a long-term care facility, the better);
  • Countless pouches of microwave popcorn (Beverage; 2; ON;)
  • And tonight I’m making chicken Divan, a casserole of chicken breast and broccoli bathed in a cheese béchamel sauce made with whipping cream.

Coronavirus has more than one trick up its sleeve to kill me. I see that now.

Luckily, I smoke cigarettes. Because studies currently underway in France apparently indicate—and I’m not making this up—that nicotine may protect you from infection with the novel coronavirus.



Canadian Conservatives Threaten Legal Action on Being Told Justin Trudeau Just a Regular Guy, Not Devil Spawn

and BREAKING NEWS: Maxime Bernier is NOT GAY


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?!