How to make a libtard hard? The look is bemused vulnerability. (Justin, baby? Answer the phone?)
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.
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.
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!)
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?
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.
“Dude, who you callin’ a libtard, eh…?”