satire

Bell Canada Introduces New Mental Health Program for Canadians Who Choose Bell Canada

Bell Canada today announced the launch of “Talk To The Hold Button!”, a new mental

health initiative to support customers who have been driven insane by its price-gouging, entitled attitude, bored, outsourced employees and devious billing practices.

“We recognize that many people who were previously happy, calm and full of self-esteem are quickly reduced to haggard, listless complainers once they’ve had to deal with us,” said company spokesperson and part-time excess data counsellor Lloyd Spackle.

“And that’s even before they go to small claims court to contest the four-figure roaming charges!

“We want you to know that we totally expect your business and will promise anything that keeps you hopeful and coming back, if only to try and understand why a $50 Bell Mobility plan costs $328 plus tax.

“So go ahead and “Talk To The Hold Button!” Just because we’re not going to listen doesn’t mean you can’t get it off your chest!”

Increasing numbers of consumers are exhibiting what psychiatrists are slowly identifying as a whole spectrum of “Bell-ogenic” mental health concerns, such as “Bell’s Palsy”.

Intrigued, we visited BP sufferer Mildred Anderson at CAMH, where we attempted to interview her through the tiny, barred window of her padded cell. However, we were shocked when she responded inappropriately with what seemed to be random security credentials.

“Ten-digit phone number! M4X 1K3! ‘Anderson’ with an A! I already told you! Star hash-tag zero six hash-tag! ‘Gone With The Wind’! No, I don’t have the original packaging! Phone number! I was speaking with Karen! Postal code! Blue! Mother’s maiden name! I already told you! Oh God!” she screamed before collapsing on the floor.

“She was on hold for forty-eight minutes,” explained Head Nurse Susan Blanchard, spraying aerosol Valium into the cell.

“Then the twelve people she spoke to over the next hour asked her for the exact same information, put her on hold again, then passed her on to another one. Luckily, one of the more senior employees stopped laughing for a second, heard Ms Anderson hyperventilating, then left a handwritten note on the lunchroom bulletin board saying someone on the morning shift should probably call 9-1-1 if they had a moment, but only if Ms Anderson could fax them four pieces of photo ID.”

As our investigation ramped up, we became aware of the existence of a shadowy network of “Bellaholic’s Anonymous” support groups, where grieving customers who’ve simply given up on limited “unlimited” data plans and returned to landline phones can try to obtain “closure”.

We managed to infiltrate a meeting of one of these highly secretive groups, held in a mid-town Toronto church basement, by posing as former iPhone X owners.

“We admitted we were powerless and that Bell Canada had become unmanageable,” the group intoned.

“This meeting is now open for sharing,” said the group leader for the evening, Harry M. “Yes, Steve!”

“I’m angry!” said a young man with red, puffy eyes.  “I’ve been awake for three days drinking coffee and trying to understand how a loving Creator could make beautiful, perfect babies, then allow Bell Canada to exist! It just doesn’t seem to make sense!”

“Hi, I’m Betty and I’m a former Bell user,” said the next person to share. “Eighteen months this Wednesday by the grace of God! I spent ten dollars a month for five years to rent a twenty-dollar modem, then they charged me fifty dollars and barred me for life because I didn’t wrap it up and Purolater it back to them with a nice thank-you card!”

Betty’s lips were trembling. “Am I a bad person?”

“I spent thousands of my tax dollars so Bell could do research, then they charge me hundred and fifty a month for TV!” said an elderly woman who self-identified as “Sally Y”. Sally’s arms were covered with crude tattoos and her hair was pulled back into the taut ponytail known as the “Ontario Works facelift”.

“They sent me to Penetanguishene for six months, eh, cause I hacked into American Netflix with an Android box. Jesus Christ, all I did was watch a couplea ‘Golden Girls’ re-runs!”

“Hi, I’m, like, Tiffany, and I’m three days Bell clean!” said a girl of around sixteen, to encouraging smiles and murmurs from the group. “But then I signed up with Virgin, is that, ummm, like, a relapse?”

Following up with Lloyd Spackle by phone, we asked whether Bell wasn’t being a little heavy-handed and even a teensy bit criminal, considering it was sustained for decades with public money but now seems determined to restrict, mislead, even terrorize its customers.

“You don’t seem to be in our system,” he explained.

“Can I have your ten-digit phone number followed by the pound key?”

“Talk To The Hold Button!”™

fake bell

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“Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver …” {Holiday Special, Part I:- I’m Dreaming of a Whitey Christmas}

xmas tree2Very merry happy holidays. It’s the fag-end of

2017, the annus horribilis that saw me narrowly escaping eviction from my home;

Brought my first, and, I guarantee, my last, summons in the name of Her Majesty The Queen to Estreat Court (a special royal garden party, but without the fruity hats and crustless sandwiches, for those who’ve put up bail for their loser friends—only to have the loser friends break their conditions of bail, leaving them at large, and us, their hapless gaolers, in the Superior Court of Justice, undergoing public humiliation for our idiocy in believing that anything would change, ever);

And, naturally, or my name ain’t Murgatroyd McGraw, continued my death-by-roommate via a graduating class of seven new specimens so feckless, so untruthful, so institutionalized in their freaky, senseless behavior and coddled pre-teen expectations, that it’s either a case of

a.  I have the world’s worst bad judgement, or

b.  I’m the problem and should probably move out.

(It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve thought: maybe it’s ME. Or, as expressed by the last roommate, who—having been taken on in order to help me pay the rent on time, never paid the rent on time, then absconded on November 3rd having paid no rent—texted me and said:

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems”.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I’m NOT blaming him or anyone for my problems, which are as the stars in the heavens, so numberless they be. I AM blaming him for HIS problem, which is not paying the rent on time.

Yes, no?)

Two thousand seventeen was the year of a whole new cast of fairy-tale characters, Germanic as genocide and grimmer than Grimm: der Führer des neuen amerikanischen Reiches, Herr TRUMPF and his gnädige Frau Melania; and, as the corresponding Shakespearean low-comedy couple, though it’s hard to see how much lower you could get: Wicked Killary, who eats dead babies for tea in her root cellar, naked, seated on a pile of moist, yellowing e-mails; and Obama Satanica, black as coals at midnight, who fucks the babies to death for her with his scaly, forked devil-dick.

I ask you. Could anything be more plausible?  Now, eat your spinach or they’re coming to get you.

It was the year when Truth raised its fuzzy little newborn head, took one look at the orange glow emanating from the Oval Office and died in its cot, and when the real news was more unreal than the fake; a year when child molestors ran cheerfully for office while every third male in the civilized world was unmasked as nothing more than a small, unruly penis dragging along an eight-armed sociopath; and the year, though it feels so very much longer, when Bernie Sanders flailed his arms a lot and blamed everyone else for his problems.

(Hint to Bernie:  It’s your fucking dandruff, you deal with it.)

Meanwhile it’s cold as fuddle-duddle in Toronto, North Korea keeps saying “war”, with the same unnerving conviction as a two-year-old calling everyone “dada”, and it’s our first white Christmas in a few years.

For the White House, it’s the first Whitey Christmas in a while, too; because, hallelujah, Trump has reinstated Christmas, snatched the twenty-fifth December—originally, I believe, a pagan solstice celebration—from the dark, heathen hands of Hussein and “Mike”.allanGardensSnow

Infidels!

Don’t bother to point out that the Obamas had a Christmas tree, offered Christmas good wishes and Christmas prayers and all the Christmas trimmings every year for eight years, with no interruption.  The Facebook commenters are adamant:  “It’s so good to see a Christmas tree in the White House again!”

Every fucking one of them.  It is astonishing, and not a little frightening, to see a bunch of people so convinced against all evidence to the contrary—real, tangible, watch it, listen to it, touch it evidence, on video, on the net, in print—of a complete lie.

Even, presumably, the guy who gushed:  “It’s so wonderful to see the Negativity Scene [sic] in our nation’s capital again!”

You couldn’t make shit like that up.

~

White Christmas.  Genuine, ankle-to-knee-deep snow,

howling Wuthering Heights wind at night, at sunrise snow-silence and at the horizon a veil of pink and blue.

People don’t like snow any more, because it’s inconvenient, it requires work, it slows you down.  They don’t get snow:  snow on pine trees, snowmen, snow angels, packin’ snow for Roberston Davies’ snowball fights; and fluffy, fresh snow like icy down, each flake, yes it’s true, every single billionth one a different, perfect crystal.

They don’t get winter: Have they never heard tree branches glazed with thick transparent ice creaking like tall ships in the wind, never squinted in pain from the diamond ferocity of light reflecting off a kajillion flakes piled high as a nine-year-old, never tried to open the front door in the morning to find snow has drifted two-thirds of the way up and felt that anarchic, school’s-cancelled joy?

People die in the snow.  That’s also true.

As a child, you awaken one morning, maybe in November, to ethereal silence and silvery light: snow, you think, with a little thrill, and you rush to the window to confirm your prediction, see the cherry tree by moonlight cast indigo shadows on steel-blue drifts. It takes an hour to get dressed for school, in the semi-dark, and your mother makes porridge—oatmeal or Red River or Cream of Wheat—and you walk to school like a plump little Michelin man, you walk to school by yourself, and at lunch time you come home and have Campbell’s tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

They don’t get winter, any more than they get that you don’t eat turkey at Easter or asparagus in December, or that you don’t need “rapid oatmeal” made in the microwave which takes the same time as cooking it on the stove, but less attention and care;

They don’t get that you don’t respond to an invitation to dinner with, “I don’t know, what are you making?” (It’s not about “dinner”, lughead, and I’m not McDonald’s; it’s about spending time with each other, but the concept of “other” doesn’t register with you, and your mind immediately goes to: “what’s in this for me?”);

They don’t get that you don’t respond to “Thank you” with the rejoinder “no praaaahblem!”

My long-suffering friends reading this can go powder their noses, but if you’ve just arrived: Can I tell you my praaaahblem with “no praaaaahblem“?

I say to you, “Thank you.” I’ve offered something to you: acknowledgement that you’ve made an effort, perhaps even a small sacrifice, for my comfort.  Graciousness.

You say to me, “You’re welcome.”  You’ve offered something back to me:  “What I did was not a burden, it was a pleasure.”  Graciousness back, “you” and “you”.  A circle of grace, each person focused on the other.

But say to me, “No praaaaahblem!!” and the circle does not complete.  “It was no problem [for ME”].  It was not a problem, to do what I did.  So you got lucky this time.  But what I did has nothing to do with you.  Maybe someday – it will be a problem, so watch yourself, Murgatroyd.”

~

The primary Canadian personality trait is fortitude.

We don’t expect leadership by default, universal deference, or prizes for the biggest, tallest, best.  We don’t expect the world to jump at our command or dance to our tune.

We expect to survive.

The oldest of us, which would include me these days, know that the rhythms of nature are tsunamis that, indifferent to our preposterous schedules and self-importance, erase human certainty.

With one good blast of snow, one nostril-searing sniff of icy air, one three-hour traffic jam, cancelled flight or broken ankle, you are permanently relieved of

the touching belief that everything is about you.

~

Thank heaven—for little girls—! +PLUS+ Facebook Life Event #209a: Slept. In a Bed. With Covers. Vaguely at night.

vogue

“Vogue Enfants”:  Sexualizing little girls is only wrong when it doesn’t make someone vats of money. Got that?  Crude Photoshop composite ©David Roddis, 2017.

First, I need you to know that Donald Trump was right:

t1

But Roy Moore, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal —you know, the Alabama guy with the eight arms, that long overcoat with pockets stuffed full of candy bracelets, and the dog-eared copy of “Lolita” on his bedside table—lost.

That’s the LAST thing America needs: A victory for bad on Crime, Life, Border, Vets, Guns & Military Dems; an ignominious defeat for All-American, good-clean-fun, national-anthem-standing, horned-for-young-girls Republicans.

You, know, and can I just say, seriously. There’s just no predicting how voters can suddenly get all un-American and decent on you.  Talk about fickle!

Nonetheless, I really, really need you to know that Donald Trump was right:

t2

Strange indeed, then, that Roy’s numbers, as opposed to anything else of Roy’s, did not “go up mightily” at the siren call of the Great Mouth Breather’s endorsement.

(You do know how to endorse, don’t you, Donald?  It’s easy—you just put your lips together and blow.)

But what do you expect?  Hard as Roy might work, huffing and puffing and giving the task at hand his best shot—those fickle voters were just too well-stacked.  It can happen!

So to make this all perfectly clear:

Trump was unequivocally right, in that uniquely wrong kind of way of being right that’s endeared him to world leaders from the Palace of Westminster to the Dome of the Rock and every point in between.

Are you great again yet, America?  ‘Cause I have to be honest: Your continuing attempts at again-greatness are becoming a terrible strain on the nerves.

~

This just in: Are black women inherently smarter than and superior to white women? Ah DO declare!

Exit polls after the Alabama Senate vote show that nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore.

Yes, siree! Nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore!

(At least, we’re pretty sure they were white women.  It’s hard to tell who’s under those pointed hoods until you get the secret handshake.)

On the other hand, 98% of black women voted for Jones, who fought the Ku Klux Klan and won, as opposed to only 34% of white women.

Stats for the Presidential election show similar divisions. Black women, regardless of education, voted 95% for Clinton.  But only 34% of non-college educated white women voted for her, and an only slightly more encouraging 51% of college-educated white women.

Think of that. Black women, whatever their level of education, voted monolithically for Jones/Clinton; that is, after they updated their ID’s, hired a notary public, then walked with the notary public thirty-four miles to the polling station and cut through the barbed wire fence.

But white women went to college and, at least in Alabama, got only 17% smarter!  Their complacent Confederate stupidity, compounded by too many years spent doling out jello salad in their church basements and inhaling bleach fumes as they soaked the bloodstained linens, is apparently as impenetrable as Roy “Huff-‘n-Puff” Moore’s thirteen-year-old nymphet.

~

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Twitterers

were all a-twit at the Netflix employees who got bored one rainy afternoon and decided to publicly tease three people about their obsessive viewing habits. On Twitter.  Just for, you know. Fun.

Use customer data irresponsibly?  As if!

Ever since the revelation that three “Likes” on Facebook will predict with high accuracy whether you’re gay or not—for the record, they are: “All About Eve”, “Barbie Collectors” and “Cute Guys in Jockstraps”— I spend a full third of my waking hours telling youngsters about the necessity of using super-secure, ephemeral messaging apps, like Wickr, for example, only to receive, via Facebook, something like, “Whatever, grandad, and could you score us some more of that awesome weed??!!!?”

Similarly, a Greek soldier once said to his colleagues,

“Cassandra says she has a funny feeling about the big horse thingy, though I think it was kind of thoughtful of the Trojans and I do agree it would look smashing in the atrium as a begonia planter!”

Yes, peeps—it’s time for another in my recurring series:

Facebook Life Event  #209a:
Slept. In a bed. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

24899721_1595842147128580_6752123882156218646_nLast night, around 2 A.M., while “working” (surfing the deep Internet in search of the most time-wasting cat videos I could possibly find), I started falling asleep at various inconvenient moments (at one point finding myself unaccountably naked on Skype) and slamming my face into the computer keyboard.

I’m not sure how many of you understand that this blog does not magically appear on the internet via my voice-activated, machine-learning-capable supercomputer responding to my command of “Hey, Cortana, write my blog, bitch!”, but involves real effort.

As a way of illustrating the concept “real effort”, compare, say, me staying up three nights in a row smoking twelve-dollar packs of cigarettes and risking carpal tunnel syndrome in order to produce sly, humorous material that I pray an average person will even understand, never mind laugh at the appropriate moments; to you, say, starting to make a cup of instant coffee, getting bored halfway through, then returning to your master bedroom and texting Starbucks to see if they’ll Uber you a Grande Caramel Latte made with Lactose-Free Low-Fat.

Now that we’re on the same page about real effort, I can tell you that my falling asleep problem was exacerbated by my complete failure to find a thread of right-wing Amerikanischer nut-jobs frothing at the mouth about transgenders and the dangers they pose to American public washrooms, so that I could engage and eventually end up screaming for the millionth time that Canada’s healthcare system is not “Socialist Satanic Hillary Socialist Obama Communism”.

The fourth time I nodded off, I slithered in a Martha Graham-type slow motion off the chair and landed scalp first on the sharp corner of the surge-resistant power bar by Ikea that only extends three inches from the socket so bored Swedish children won’t trip over it when they’re finger-painting the walls with lingonberry crumble.  This was the first time I’d ever hit my head hard enough to understand the term “seeing stars”.

Well, you know— It got me to thinkin’.

So having stanched the flow of blood and suppressed my hysterical screams, I went into my bedroom—which I haven’t had use of since 2014, when I rented it out to a top-secret provincial mental-health project as a cheap alternative to biohazard disposal—lay down on the futon, pulled the duvet up over me and—slept for about five hours.

Slept. In a bed. Futon, I mean. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

I don’t necessarily recommend it. If you try it yourself, don’t expect too much. You might not say, “That was AWE-SOMMMMME“, for example. My response was sort of, “Well, that was different, eh?”

I didn’t say “eh”, really, I just added that to fulfill the expectations of any American friends who happen to read this. It’s always good to live up to people’s expectations of you. You’ll find that’s a really effective strategy for your life.

About The Pictures (PG)

You may be wondering. The luscious pics have nothing to do with the above life event. I just chose to share them ’cause of how fucking hot they make me look.

Above: Me being hot as fuck as I sit in an expensive chair 24900075_1595842420461886_7722705345910293837_nin an expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal and catch my breath so I can be super fucking hot in the next pic.

Right: Me, in the same expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal, being super fucking hot after my rest (see above).

Some people have suggested to me, from a respectful distance, that being as fucking hot as I am is actually a potential danger to the public and should be illegal.

But I disagree. There’s always room at the party for one more hot-as-fuck guy, and that guy right now just happens to be me.

Since you asked.

~

Today’s question: Why are Americans such drama queens?

But first, a little about my mother.

My mother was a crazy lady, and we, my two sisters and I, were the cats a crazy lady adores—when she’s not stuffing them in the wringer washing machine, shutting the lid and turning the dial to “Extra Hot”.

mom4-e1512570945786

My mother had a way of structuring her time, and that way was drama.  Armed with her ready-to-deploy signature facial expression of carefully-calculated aggrieved martyrdom, that gal knew how to fill an empty day: conjure a crisis from thin air, work herself into a frenzy over a thing-she-made-up-in-her-head, then act on that thing.

A simple phone call to her adult child—this was in the days of answering machines, and not even the ones that you could remotely call; to pick up your messages you had to get home, then play the tape, preferably with an HB pencil at the ready in case the actual tape got smooshed in the mechanism—such a call proceeded inexorably; entirely, grimly predictable, like Greek tragedy, but without the catharsis to make the misery worthwhile:

[Scene:  Mother calls David, but he does not answer.]

First message (brimming with childlike hope): “Hi dear, it’s Mom, call me back.”

Second message (a brisk, secretarial tone, masking panic):  “David, it’s Mom.  Please call me back.”

Fifth message (debt collection agency determined to wear down its target):  “It’s your mother.  Please stop ignoring me.  Answer the phone. I don’t think I deserve this!”

Tenth message: (At 100 dB, and well into Maggie-Thatcher-in-extremis-rails-against-the-striking-miners-with-optional-aneurysm mode. Industrial ear protection recommended):  “WELL I THINK IT’S JUST TERRIBLE THE WAY YOU TREAT ME AFTER ALL I HAVE DONE FOR YOU AND IF THAT’S THE WAY IT’S GOING TO BE I WILL TELL YOU RIGHT NOW THAT —”

But you see—I wasn’t ignoring her. I wasn’t even home. I was at work, unaware of her calls (that’s right, because no cell phones; any millennials following along may need to take their medication at this point). “Ignoring her” was that day’s particular drama, the thing-she-made-up-in-her-head; the way she kept that narcissistic spotlight relentlessly and mercilessly on HER:

Mom:  Hi, it’s mom.  You sound like you have a cold.

Me:   Yeah, I’ve been a bit under the weather this week—

Mom:  WELL, I’VE BEEN SICK, TOO!!

Which is probably why I spent half my life slurping sloe gin out of a dog dish.

Why am I bringing up this admittedly fascinating chunk of get-to-know-me?  Because the penny dropped for me last week, about, you know.

Americans.

It dropped when I was perusing the comments in a Facebook group called “Trump Haters”, where every other post went something like this:

“We must take to the streets!  Expose that liar, that womanizer, that traitor Trump, Putin’s puppet!  This is revolution, it’s civil war, we must indict the bastard, impeach him, we must throw off the chains of tyranny!!

O my fucking god! Guys, guys, guys! You voted him in!  Just—vote him out.  Kind of thing?

Americans are such drama queens.  I mean, I love you, truly I do; you’re the most decent, friendly, innocent and optimistic, arms-wide-open, set-a-while-and-have-some-pie down-home people.

You’re just a great, big, sloppy, drooling, pee-the-carpet-you’re-so-excited Golden Labrador, collectively speaking.  But shove a demagogue down your pants and, whoah!  Pit Bull, no muzzle!

American voters are like battered spouses, hoodwinked by the good times into believing it was just an anomaly, never remembering the nights of whisky breath and black eyes and promises he’ll change. Back to the polls believing the rhetoric, voting against your best interests, then awakening with a broken arm, a few missing teeth, a tax grab in favour of the forty-seven old white guys, the one percent that’s so bloated with wealth, the whole country would sink under its weight if they hadn’t already stuffed every greenback into a Swiss Alp.

But at least it passes the time.

Speaking of the War on Christmas:

budgetphoto

There is something about Paul Ryan’s smarmy, self-satisfied smirk that just makes me want to grab his Jughead ears and shove a boot into his face.  Do you get that, too?

Mitch McConnell and Ryan both look like they’ve just popped a woody for their Corporate Cash Grab, the real War on Christmas; squirming like guilty little boys who know there’s something unmentionable, yet oh-so-special, in their sweaty underpants that mommy and sis will never truly understand.

The Great Mouth-Breather looks on.

Why, America, why?  Why do you do this to yourselves?  Call Canadians boring if you will, we don’t actually care. We recognize that there is a place for heart-stopping drama, and that’s the CBC. Government is supposed to be boring.

Is it as simple as that? Some misprint in a civics textbook that hasn’t been updated since 1964, because you’ve defunded schools?  Is it a Milton Friedman thing, that alter cocker?  You can tell me, baby, there, there.  Daddy’s here.

You may be wondering. To an outsider, there’s not much to distinguish Canadians from Americans.

Wrong!

As a Canadian I am at pains to let you doubters know that we are, in subtle ways, and not all of them to do with stretch Lycra, quite different.  For example:

Americans:-

  • wouldn’t be caught dead in a Chairman Mao suit, however time-saving and practical, and value individuality rather than conformity—though this frequently involves shooting you in order to steal your sneakers that light up when you walk so they can look like everyone else;
  • would rather not pay for that neighbour’s triple-bypass, thank you very much! except when it’s your dad, in which case there’s always “GoFundMyTripleBypass dot com”; and
  • are rarely seen inviting members of their childcare collective to a hearty “pemmican brunch to be followed by a session exploring toxic whiteness.  Raffle for odd sock from Justin’s last jog!” kind of event.

Canadians, on the other hand:-

  • generally do not carry firearms to an Anglican christening, unless this takes place somewhere north of Moose Factory, in a clearing;
  • value consensus (our word for “there’s a person-called-Trudeau on the ballot, and I like his hair—DONE!”) over drama (“let’s vote in a moron, then organize a March on Washington to vent our outrage when he does moronic things”); and
  • realize that universally-health-cared citizens make better workers, which we call “capitalism”, and we’ll even pay for your carburetor replacement, eh?,  which we call “insurance”.

Canadians can be smug, no doubt about it.  But secretly, we fret about our place on the world stage.  Our continual role as peacekeepers and rabid do-gooders makes us, we fear, the Cinderellas of global conflict.

We lack, it must be said, the gumption to bomb the fuck out of the Middle East for decades, and, adding insult to loser-dom, we lack the iconic tall buildings which would invite iconic terrorist attacks once the Middle East gets “peeved”.

Americans have so much gumption, so much derring-do, they’d probably bomb the fuck out of the Middle East, then go there and create the terrorist organization for them!

Hey, just goofin’ around!

Canadians are confused, too, at least this one is.  Because I don’t get why multiculturalism— that old Canadian canard whereby lots of different people from all different cultures are free to do their own thing—is “communist”, anathema; or why “e pluribus unum” —“out of the many, one”—is thought to express “individualism”.

Because it seems to me the kind of slogan, the paean to total conformity, that would eventually net you, oh, just off the top of my head, a President who gets an endorsement from the KKK.

As if that could ever happen.

Planting little kisses all over my face in the mirror…

I mean, normally that’s YOUR job, gentle and misguided reader.  But I’ll give you the day off from following my EULA to the very letter.   You deserve this not for any action on your part – puhLEEEASE! – but  because I have triumphed over the forces of darkness that have been swirling around my ankles like a choirboy’s cassock at a Vatican audition.

But first:  What was your favorite Trump moment of the past week?  Mine was his retort to Theresa May, PM of Britain.  In case you hadn’t heard, Prime Minister May, in an unprecedented public shaming, chided Trump for displaying extreme, and almost certainly fake, racist, anti-Muslim videos obtained from extreme UK right-wing group “Britain First”.

May’s office condemned Britain First for its use of “hateful narratives which peddle lies and stoke tensions.”

The statement continued, “The British people overwhelmingly reject the prejudiced rhetoric of the far-right, which is the antithesis of the values that this country represents — decency, tolerance and respect.”

Then, unequivocal condemnation:  “It is wrong for the President to have done this.”

Trump, like a defensive high school kid caught red-handed smoking behind the recycling bins and sent to the Principal’s office, decided to “Back atcha” her with a little arrogant, patronizing cyberbullying:

trump-may

How was he to know that he targeted the tweet to the wrong Theresa May?

Yup, that’s right.  Theresa May Scrivener, a 41-year-old British citizen with a protected Twitter account of six followers said, “I haven’t been able to leave my house. I’ve been bombarded and contacted by press from around the world.”

She added,

“It’s amazing to think that the world’s most powerful man managed to press the wrong button,” she said. “I’m just glad he was not contacting me to say he was going to war with North Korea.”

No kidding.  Britain First, a hate group, is reviled by most British citizens (who, despite May’s brave words are no slouches in the racism department), is in trouble with the law, and represents possibly the worst candidate for publicizing by a President of the United States that you could possibly choose. From a fringe position of near invisibility to world-wide notoriety in one instant—all thanks to The Donald.

I wonder what the gaffes are that we DON’T hear about…?


And now, back to me, thank ya JEEEEEEZUS!