Twitter and the Diplomacy of the Man-Bump

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”



Nano-drops for brains

I tend to avoid writing about things that don’t concern, indeed entirely focus on, me, mainly because I have a short attention span, and I’m, you know.


Also I’m a lazy narcissist. This is becoming worse with age, probably due to the around-the-clock ministrations of a veritable army of narcissism acolytes — uniform: flip-flops, black net tank top, Muir cap and a jockstrap worn backwards — whom I’ve employed with the directive to shield me from any evidence that anything outside of me exists.

You’ll notice the spanner in the ointment here:  Because, if nothing exists outside of me, how did that peanut butter and jelly sandwich, “Dare” Maple Creme cookie and Shirley Temple cocktail with parasol and maraschino cherry end up on my TV-table?

It all feels like just too much damn mental work on a Monday in July, with the glorious sun beckoning and my rent money squandered on food, indigenous cigarettes and triple-thick Depends (the ones with the velcro so you can stick them onto the gusset of your dad pants, $88 on special at GAP, before hiking the waistband up under your armpits and tucking in your egg-yolk-stained cardigan).

But once in a while I accidentally fire up Netscape Navigator by narcoleptically crashing forward onto the giant “World Wide Web!” button of my vintage Amstrad, and then I’m forced to concede that everyone seems damn taken up with the fake news and the miniature actors, small enough to fit inside the CRT monitor, that are not me.

Paris Hilton is so small she could acqua-vac your nasal passages, scrape the saturated fat out of your ventricles, then drop out of your urethra without even removing her pumps.  I know what I’m revealing here has apparently been common knowledge since March 2017, but time slows to a halt under my chunk of meteorite and heaping scorn on a product this cretinous is always relevant.

“Nano-Drops: Because once you’ve entered the Paris Hilton, you can never come out™”.

For Paris Hilton — without sending me a fax to get my imprimatur, thus putting her on my Personal Shit List — has invented a product which solves your problem of being rich and bored by enabling you to miniaturize your stupidity and feed it to frogs.

Bonus: When Armageddon comes because all fresh water is owned by corporations, instead of being wiped out by a smart bomb from Nestlé, you can simply choose to bitch-slap your way through an army of torpedo-breasted, pink-clad Paris-bots guarding the three inches of water left in Lake Superior while clutching your 5mL refillable plastic nano-bottles. Because if experience is anything to go by, you’re all quite capable of buying 5,000 bottles of water a day instead of one, so not one thing will have changed.

But how about turning on the friggin’ TAP, NOW, before it’s too late?

How about admitting you’ve been had by the marketing that convinces you that bottled water is better and safer than the water which runs out of your tap, when it is THE VERY SAME WATER, stolen by corporations with NO INTEREST in your well-being and EVERY interest in maximizing their profits, stolen and rebranded as a lifestyle accessory that you have to BUY?

Water belongs to the human race, not to the nameless, faceless psychopaths in blue suits called corporations. Water is our birthright and it is a question of LIFE OR DEATH, because we can’t survive more than five days without it.

Let me say that again: Without water you have FIVE DAYS TO LIVE. And our water is being bought up by corporations who know that water scarcity is going to be a big money-maker. They have absolutely no right to do this — all they have is the rapacious appetite to sell, sell, sell, and a window of opportunity, like the one you give the guy who takes the wallet you left on a park bench. Corporations are counting on our laziness, ignorance, sense of helplessness and distraction.

Here’s a halo action for you that involves no work, no thought, saves you money and uses the plumbing you already have.

Stop buying bottled water. 

By not buying bottled water, you’re also affirming your belief in our common ownership of this planet and its resources, and sticking it to the companies like Nestlé, the bullies who are actually planning to profit from a scarcity of our most precious common resource.  


Doing The Beautiful Thing

Photo by Caleb Jones on Unsplash

Life is not fun for the President of the United States, even an Apprentice Pres who, under the new rules, gets to delegate important decisions to his wife and kids or to admit he doesn’t know what he’s talking about when grappling with the niceties of wheat grading.

You’d think that would calm a guy’s nerves a bit, knowing that he’s not alone; to hear our loving, indulgent laughter as we shake our heads and shoot each other knowing looks:

He’s just a beginner, he’ll pick it up in no time!

But one ever underestimates how delicate a President can be as, with consummate skill, he turbo-charges narcissism to a level that, in less experienced hands, could easily be fatal.

Justin seriously underestimated this, as did Hillary, as did Barack, and as I hear their Christian names — at least names are still Christian, I mean, at least we’re still able to keep that up— those losers and back-stabbers rightfully twirl away into insignificance. These are ersatz people, pretend-friends, not besties like one thought, who simply do not realize that words hurt.

And as only one sensitive guy can understand another sensitive guy, so can I totally understand why Don is sulky from time to time. Totally.

This is a highly-strung creature, and were you to call him an “animal” he would surely be cat, not dog. You can’t, after all, do anything to a cat. You have to take its measure, assess its mood. You have to have an approach.

Every day another challenge, another gust of afflatus over the quivering strings of the lyre.

We fail to appreciate a poet manqué, who gives us a tantalizing glimpse of how life in the Free World would have unfolded under the leadership of Sylvia Plath. Screw NAFTA, it’s all about my wound. 

You do not do, you do not do…
Justin, Justin, you bastard, I’m through!

And I can’t help feeling for him when he’s all rattled and unnerved, so obviously feeling the born leader’s wounded pride that comes from so desperately wanting to push that button, being absolutely entitled to push that button, having, god only knows, any number of reasons to push that button, and yet time after time just having his twiny hwand unceremoniously slapped away.

Everyone from the cleaning lady to Mike Pence to the high-school kids on tour, everyone just hovering, watching him like an eagle, in coordinated shifts, twenty-four-seven.

Around three P.M. his blood sugar gets a teensy bit low and that’s when he drops the Big Guy in Charge persona, shows his soft, hypoglycemic, vulnerable side.

“Just one widdle push?” he whispers, that twiny hwand flutters towards the suitcase —

then everyone rushing up to him and SLAP!

Do you seriously wonder why he gets pouty sometimes?

Recently it’s been the child detainment thing, and he’s just pushed one way and pulled another. Is it right to detain very young children? There is a lot to consider, here! I mean, it’s easy for you, you can boohoo all you want, but are these children actual people that you should have compassion for? I mean, are they even immigrant children at all?

Or are they just tiny actors, like Ann Coulter said, pretending to be children, reading scripts written by liberals?

Now, we all know that Ann Coulter is an embarrassing piece of fucktard conservative horseshit, but what do you think of her as a pundit? Because I think, as a pundit, she’s a really great embarrassing piece of fucktard conservative horseshit.

There I go again. Falling for it.

But getting back to traumatizing children. This is the kind of hard decision-making a POTUS has to deal with, delicate or not. The rule of law says you can’t just lock people up, even though it’s handy and rules aren’t supposed to apply to you; and the moral law tells you that vulnerable, frightened children deserve, even demand, our love and protection.

But being good is for sissies and your base wants you rebellious and strong! Thus come the nagging doubts, the wavering. How can one ever determine the basis for a decision? No wonder he gets cranky and flip-flops!

Lock up the children, La La LA!
Unlock the children, La La LA!
Which one is this one? La La LA!
Hi-ho the President’s life!

He signs the order telling ICE to end the separation of children from parents, then later he’s sorry. He confides he wishes he hadn’t signed the order. No other President has been so open, so transparent, about his regrets. This, truly, is a man who has the guts to be himself, without shame.

It’s like when I was fourteen

and I wanted to buy this beautiful paisley shirt, and my mom made me get a sensible shirt, not the beautiful paisley shirt, and I dutifully got the sensible shirt. And I felt exactly the way Trump feels, now, after he lost his mojo, after he was browbeaten by Melania — who anyway doesn’t care, do you? Let them wear H&M! — after he broke down, went against his gut instinct and signed the order stopping those kids being locked up alone.

He did the right thing, but is he happy? You can tell how resentful he feels, how unmanned. How resentful he feels knowing he did the sensible thing, when he wanted to do the beautiful thing.

That’s like my beautiful paisley shirt. I know that feeling. You just don’t, some of you, understand how we men, in a world full of wives and mothers, are always sacrificing our dreams; always giving up the beautiful for the sensible.

He wants to lock up the kids, man. And I understand that.

Because it’s exactly like my beautiful paisley shirt.


A Beaver In Polite Company: a “slowpainful” tradition.

As did Walt Whitman, of Manhattan the son, labour like forty-five freaks flatlining on Fentanyl on his never-ending “Leaves of Grass”, so do I, with nothing but a couple packs of “native” cigarettes and a glass of non-spiked Kool-Aid, continually revise and revisit my Canada Day Ode, one of the most popular posts on this blog.

I say “popular”. I mean, someone other than me once said they kind of liked it.

Potato, potato, pronounced differently!

So without further ado, I give you yet another preview of my book. This is uncharacteristically generous of me, so do not, as the man said, push your luck.

Veuillez de ne pas appuyer sur la chance! Whatever that means!


a beaver in polite company

(an absolutely epic ode for Canada Day, July 1st)

O Cana-DA!

O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee — !
From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a tepee)

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
And Freedoms
That …

“… WHEREAS the provision of
butter tarts,
Being an essential service,
May not suffer even the slightest pause …”

To make a summary:
Federal laws,
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, piled into our hybrid cars,
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,
Rare devotion) —

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?
Still hurtin’?”

Ah, Kwanzaa-lights on fir trees!
And on 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!
Grandad? Grandad??!!


Au revoir! Goodbye! Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !

We’re Canadian!
We’re — more or less — glad we knew you!

O Cana-DA!
Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!

And a cunning, bilingual Prime Minister
Who, by extending a hand to a few refugees,
Makes Andrew Scheer look downright Prime Sinister.

So, unless any spoilsport has reasonable objections
Goodbye, boring ballots! We’re weak at the knees!
Though a tiny bit treasonable to abolish 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
By Acclamation?

(Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation — !)
By Acclamation!

O Cana-DA!
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
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath —
Is too awful to contemplate!

All together, now — !

« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »

O Cana-DA!
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, Cana-da, Cana-da!
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!
Runways for jets on The Island — why not?!
There’s no profit in affordable housing, or parks —
But 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 Toronto needs, 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 ambitious 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 fifty,
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, oh, 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 screw 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’s lining up for scraps of bread —
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 labor,
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 Thirty-four,

“It is imperative that we find more
Jell-O for Bed Four Thousand Ninety-Three, komrad,
Forty-eighth floor!
Raspberry flavor!!”

And when you can’t take it anymore,
Just slip the surgeon
A few miserable toonies.

If it gets him the Jell-O,
Hell, oh
He might
Do you a favor —

Then ride the po-dunk streetcar three hours
Back to the boonies.

O, Cana-DA — !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, who coincidentally
Was himself also A Person-Called-Trudeau, and so on and forth,

Once said
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
Shove you.

Tant pis.

He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act —
Which was itself a shove and a half.

Incidentally, Québec always has the last laugh, because

We have to sing O, Cana-DA,
Forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly — but only en français.

They were first to get their hat in.

O, Canada,
Terre de nos aïeux —

O, Canada,
No matter who may
Shove you:

A Mari Usque Ad Mare!

(Or, rough translation from the Latin:)

Fuck, I love you. ~


A Teaser

I’ve updated my David: A Boy And His Blog page with the Preface to my book — so a little free preview for you.  Enjoy!

July 1st (so tomorrow, Sunday) is Canada Day. Eighteen sixty-seven minus 2018 equals we are 151 years old this year.

Proclamation_Canadian_ConfederationOn July 1st, 1867, The British North America Act was given Royal Assent, creating the Dominion of Canada.  July 1st is when we celebrate, and the creation of Canada is called Confederation.

From Wikipedia, “The Encyclopedia You Write Yourself”:

“Initially, on 1 July 1867, there were four provinces in confederation as “One dominion under the name of Canada”: Canada West (former Upper Canada, now Ontario), Canada East (former Lower Canada, now Quebec), Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick.[9]

“Title to the Northwest Territories was transferred by the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1870 and the province of Manitoba (the first to be established by the Parliament of Canada) was in the same year the first created out of it. British Columbia joined confederation in 1871, followed by Prince Edward Island in 1873. The Yukon Territory was created by Parliament in 1898, followed by Alberta and Saskatchewan in 1905.

“The Dominion of Newfoundland, Britain’s oldest colony in the Americas, joined Canada as a province in 1949. Nunavut was created in 1999.”

We didn’t have our own flag until 1965— you can read about the history of the National Flag of Canada here.  We didn’t even have our own Constitution until 1982. But now we’re all grown up, wear fly-front pants, and eat with a Beatrix Potter training spoon with only the occasional dribble that needs wiping off our chins.  Can a black eye from Donald, the Presidential Apprentice, The Great Mouth Breather, be far behind?

Oh, consider that black eye RECEIVED, baby.  In exchange, here’s a sharp kick in the testicular region.  You’re welcome. Go ahead, come at us again. We like surprising people.

I love my American friends, and New York and San Francisco are two of my absolute fave cities.  But right now, I couldn’t be more grateful to be Canadian.  Donald vs. Justin?  I know who has the chest I’d rather lick the post-jogging sweat off.

Yes, I am shallow.  Hellooooooo!