Whatever Shall We Do About Justin?

You need to know that Trudeauphobia has its roots in the fear and loathing of straight males who are closing in for the kill.

A clarification

MOST OF US, HAVING SEEN Sophie-Grégoire and Justin Trudeau caught in a candid moment gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes, or photogenically romping around with their three children; or having seen Justin’s confident swagger in the presence of women who’ve momentarily lost their composure—there’s a photo somewhere of Ivanka Trump, crazed eyes two feet wide, looking as though she’s about to take her knife and fork and throw him onto her plate—most of us will understand that our guy in Ottawa is without question enthusiastically heterosexual, bless his trendy, eye-popping socks.

So I wanted to emphasize that, though I use the word “homophobia” in this essay as an explanation for conservative animus against Justin Trudeau, I am not suggesting that Justin Trudeau is gay; I am theorizing that his political rivals and a big cohort of typically homophobic Canadian male voters—oh, and, of course, Jordan Peterson— react to him as though he were.

Most gay men my age (in the late-boomer phase I reference as “missed the original cast of Hair, but front row centre for anything by Sondheim”) will have experienced homophobic abuse, even as children. The perpetrators were adults—teachers, relatives, parents—and they were our peers.

Adults have a duty of care towards children which few adults fully commit to, and children see what actions are rewarded. (The Sondheim number for this is “Children Will Listen,” from Into the Woods.) This is why I blame my peers slightly less than the adults.

(It’s also why, when I see a little bit of intimacy or authenticity crawling towards me, I open my mouth and blast it with humor, the RAID of the psychically damaged, until it dies.)

When I recall these episodes, I recognize that the intensely negative emotions my existence seemed to provoke were invariably contempt, disgust, and rage.

JUSTIN TRUDEAU, LIKE HIS ILLUSTRIOUS father, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, inspires devotion or loathing, either of those two extreme responses, with no half-hearted dabbling at attempts to compromise or to seek consensus. Love or hate, or perhaps, just occasionally, both at once.

That’s because the elder Trudeau, who gave us our one brief shining hour of a groovier, kinkier, more intellectual, extrovert and, hell, grown-up national persona, set the intensity levels for devotion or loathing so high that we still feel the aftershocks forty years later.

Pierre Elliott Trudeau — caustic, flamboyant, patrician, lusty, arrogant, no tolerator of fools, friend to Castro, autocratic liberal, male midwife to a repatriated constitution and a truly independent Canada, the adulation of whom attained such a frenzy it was dubbed “Trudeaumania” by the press — the elder Trudeau virtually single-handedly saved this nation from disintegrating in the 1980’s; held on tight with both hands and would not let go until we were safely through the crisis of warring regional interests and the impending separation of Québec.

We progressives, the true believers in the Canadian project, never stop loving him for this.

But our conservatives, ever more extreme, favoring ever closer political, economic and cultural ties with the U.S. and denying the validity of the multicultural, compassionate, liberal Canadian experience, can never forgive him for it.

The conservative element in Canada is explicitly scornful of the idea of Canada as an example to the world and dedicated to the concept that Canada is nothing more than a second-rate, wannabe U.S.A.; an embarrassing fake with delusions of grandeur, like that PVC handbag defiantly labeled “Louis Vuitton” that you buy from a huckster.

We’re the kid brother who hasn’t learned to hit the ball out of the park. We’re not who we are out of idealism, reads their script, but out of the failure to understand how much we fall short.

As for the son, the apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree, at least when it comes to the arrogance and the adulation, a few basic points:

Justin Trudeau, a child of privilege who cut his teeth on the workings of the Canadian federal government, and sat on Nixon’s knee, unlucky boy, is not the most transparent, or even articulate, man.

Justin Trudeau is so quick to admit his faults, and so slow to defend himself, that the boys in the smoky rooms, the cigar-chomping, glad-handing wheelers and dealers of carnival-barker conservatism, are able to flesh out whole soap operas of corruption and criminality simply by leveraging his own reticence.

Justin Trudeau, and it kills me to say this, does not help his case, or ours, by failing to take account of optics and by acting in ways that create the appearance of entitlement, and worse, conflicts of interest; his reticence is too easily read as “something to hide.”

IF YOU’RE AN AMERICAN wondering why Canadian scandals are so “a cup of Ovaltine, a documentary from the National Film Board and — it’s beddy-bye for me!” and based on ethical scruples or niceties of legalese pushed to the limits of their stress tolerance: well, yes. That’s what you end up with when you try to cook up scandals with the basic ingredients missing.

But because Canadians still believe in peace, order and good government, we are rattled by even the hint, the slightest possibility, of corruption. We’re purists that way. Show us a Prime Minister’s mother who once accepted a speaking engagement from the same charity that was recently contracted to fund summer intern positions for students, and we’re tearing the plaid lumberjack shirts from our backs.

We’re so primed to gasp in dismay that we’re ready to condemn the charity for having invested in properties that gained in value (what else would be the reason for investing?), or for telling corporations that partnering with them would give a boost to the company’s brand.

It’s deliciously ironic to hear conservatives on the rampage cite the everyday workings of capitalism as proof of criminal intent.

It doesn’t help to stem the current flow of vile innuendo from the right that the mother in question, Margaret Trudeau, née Sinclair, the fairytale commoner hiding inconvenient levels of intelligence and an independent streak (and, as it turned out, an undiagnosed bipolar disorder), and married to a man thirty years her senior, upped the sophistication level by becoming restless and bored, chafing at the duties imposed on her and the paparazzi clinging to her ankles.

Sound familiar? Yes, in fact, she “pulled a Diana” (though Maggie holds the copyright, and Diana should, by rights, have been “pulling a Margaret.”)

Margaret had dutifully got with the program of providing princes, excuse me, heirs, blessing the Canadian public with three new Trudeaux, two of them, Justin and Alexandre, born on Christmas Day  two years apart. (The third son, Michel, died tragically at twenty-three when he was swept into a frigid lake by an avalanche while on a skiing trip; some attribute Pierre’s final decline and death to his heartbreak at that event.)

Then, true to the beautiful but errant flower-child script,  off Maggie trotted to dance, and, we assumed, more, with Mick Jagger et al. at Studio 54, and to perform all the other acts of youthful drama and defiance listed under “married for love, got Parliament instead.”

We were all pretty young, back then.

So, the love of Canadians for government and our dismay when confronted with the possibility of corruption. Contrast with the U.S., where Americans, barely tolerating government as a necessary evil, expect, even perversely celebrate, rampant and obvious corruption as proof of that evil.

I mean, what else would there be to pass the time with, what would you guys talk about if government wasn’t evil? “Poor people?” Oh, puh-lease, little socialists, where’s your ambition? You didn’t die in the jungles of ‘Nam, overthrow democratically elected governments in South America or permanently destabilize the Middle East so you could talk about poor people!

Consider the “Citizens United” decision of the Supreme Court, which all but stated:

“Our elections are bought, so, good start, but not bought obviously or big enough. Let’s make it much, much easier to buy election results with fistfuls of the profits we haven’t got a clue what to do with now that we have five yachts (shout-out to Betsy DeVos)! Go big or go home, guys!”

There you are, turbo-charged corruption gleaming under Klieg lights, government so evil. Phew! That was close. Americans might actually have begun to respect the political process, even vote, but — SCOTUS to the rescue!

Consider obnoxiously obvious Republican gerrymandering:

SCOTUS: “That’s fine, none of our concern about your evil, partisan ways!”

It’s an outrage — you do realize that, right? That it’s an outrage that no other lip-service democratic country would tolerate? — but Americans need great, big, obvious, rampant, stinking corruption, the bigger and rampanter and stinkier the better, so they can sleep at night knowing that their government is pulling out all the stops doing what it does best: proving how evil government is.

SO LET’S CUT TO THE CHASE and talk homophobia and Trudeau, shall we? Teaching drama, speaking gently and responding with care, ceding power and responsibility to women, choosing a diverse, gender-balanced cabinet, showing compassion — we’re out of traditional “real man” territory without a map, and conservatives have been in a perpetual state of befuddled outrage since 2015.

Assessments of the Trudeau government by other nations are positive. CNN does a piece on our appropriate and co-operative response to the pandemic. Those commenting on CNN’s report, mostly Americans, express envy at our country’s pulling together, our solidarity, our respect for science and each other. All modeled by the prime minister, Justin Trudeau.

The New York Times online is in twice-yearly raptures about our liberalism, for example, our accommodation of Syrian refugees, our model for the world. Justin Trudeau opened Canada’s arms and affirmed our welcome. More recently, a piece in The Guardian again compares Canada’s pandemic response and results with the U.S. Pulling together and doing what is necessary: All modeled by Justin.

Admiring pieces in the LA Times cover Chrystia Freeland, our deputy prime minister, impressed by her firm, even hawkish, stance about the necessity of defending liberal values worldwide, and breathlessly listing her accomplishments in journalism and as a respected author. Appointed by Justin.

In fact, the American and British press survey the political landscape and recognize Canada as the last example of a nation standing apart from the populist crowd; the sole shining light of unrepentant, compassionate liberalism that remains.

The last election, which gave the Liberals a minority government, is viewed by the international community, correctly, as a referendum on the far right, represented by the odious People’s Party of Canada (PPC), whose anti-immigrant, climate science-denying platform was roundly rejected. The PPC lost its only seat, making it unique as a party with “people” in the name, but none in the actual party.

All seems rosy with maple leaves and beaver tails from sea to shining sea—you’d think.

But spend a little time on Twitter — the toilet that’s also a megaphone — and soon your head will swim from the unrelenting vicious Trudeauphobia. Dig a little deeper and discover a real, deep-seated revulsion towards Trudeau on the part of a certain class of Canadian men, including the leaders and members of the Conservative Party of Canada (CPC), especially its de facto leader, Andrew Scheer, and the PPC. This class of Canadian men is monolithically white, heterosexual, libertarian or conservative and deeply, unapologetically homophobic.

(The CPC is currently without a leader, in fact; I call Scheer the de facto leader because, although he was forced to resign as party leader after he admitted to dipping into party funds to pay for his children’s private schooling, he has hung around for months as Chief Scandal Cooker Upper and proud recipient of the honorary CPC Donald Trump Chair in Twitterbation. Well done, Andy.)

The attacks on Trudeau are as relentless as they are empty. He’s slow to act. When he acts, he’s reckless, his actions misguided. He “gives in” to the U.S. in allowing a Huawei executive to be arrested in British Columbia; China, enraged at Canada’s actions, takes two Canadians hostage, setting out terms for their release. When Trudeau refuses to acquiesce, he’s “putting lives at stake,” except he’s also “weak.”

Trudeau kneels in solidarity with victims of anti-black racism. Wrong! An insult to suggest that good, ordinary racist white Canadians are racist! What effrontery!

Comes the pandemic. His response is “too late,” (though no later than any other nation on earth trying to take the right path with little information to go on.) He is “appeasing the WHO,” which apparently means appeasing China. This is straight from the American playbook.

Trudeau saves the economy by swiftly moving to provide substantial aid to Canadians affected by the pandemic. The Canada Emergency Response Benefit (CERB), tabled and passed in record time, provides two thousand dollars per month for any employee or self-employed individual whose job has been affected by the Covid-19 response.

On day one of CERB, close to one million Canadians go online and apply.

Result? Our economy weathers the storm, Canadians keep their homes and pay their rent and buy food and start talking UBI. But to the CPC? He’s “wasting taxpayers’ money” and “creating a huge deficit.” (Though a week earlier, Scheer was screaming that “Canadians need action!”) Trudeau is “encouraging people not to work!” (Contempt for the non-wealthy and their lazy ways is a big conservative thing up here, too.)

These are great conversation starters for anyone who hasn’t a clue about economics, forgets that the benefit will be taxed back at up to 50% for the highest tax bracket, and who believes there is such a thing as taxpayer money, a quaint myth promulgated by the likes of Margaret Thatcher and which has had no meaning since the gold standard was abolished except for those who never heard of double-entry bookkeeping. That “huge government deficit,” the red in the government’s ledger is a “huge economic surplus,” black in the public sphere, without which the economy would have nose-dived.

How’s Trudeau doing? Incompetent, dithery, floundering.

What next? Parliament adjourns for the summer as it always does. But no, this year it means that Trudeau is avoiding oversight. What is he hiding?

A terrorist, possibly primed by the negative coverage, drives his car through the gates of the prime minister’s residence. The driver has weapons which he clearly intended to use. Not a word of solidarity or sympathy from the CPC, in effect, tacit approval of the would-be attacker. Is Andrew daydreaming of assassination, a sudden election, his resurrection as party leader?

Andrew Scheer continues the onslaught. Trudeau’s every sentence is parsed, every act dissected, taken out of context and construed in the worst possible light, then fancied up with manufactured outrage, outright distortion, and, when even that level of subtlety fails, straight-out lying.

Comments caught on a hot mic? An embarrassment, a scandal. His twenty-second pause? Weakness. The hashtags read “#worstPMever, #Trudeauresign, every day on Twitter a new iteration, trending.

Now Trudeau pulls a Justin. A Canadian charity is offered a contract to subsidize a summer intern program for students. Trudeau’s mother, Trudeau himself, Trudeau’s wife, brother and a member of Cabinet have all at various times had speaking engagements with the charity or otherwise financially benefited from the association.

Trudeau, contrary to basic standards of ethics, or even of common sense, fails to declare his connections or those of his family and fails to recuse himself from meetings about the contract, creating the impression of conflict of interest and of shadowy dealings.

Andrew Scheer is on this like a pit bull on a squirrel. There is, in fact, no personal gain to Trudeau from this project, and all the other connections are years in the past. But it looks like he’s dealing them a nice quid pro quo. To Justin, it’s just a good cause in aid of another good cause.

Justin doesn’t get that it’s not just corruption that lowers public confidence in government. It’s even the appearance of corruption.

Once again Justin has made fools of his supporters because of his arrogant refusal to play by the onerous rules. Once again we are making excuses for him; once again we don’t come to the table with clean hands. Our claim to be Canada’s progressive conscience and moral authority in contrast with the CPC once again sounds embarrassingly hollow.

As I write this, Scheer, in full “Ride of the Valkyries” mode, is calling for a criminal investigation.

WHATEVER SHALL WE DO ABOUT Justin? His misstep acts as camouflage for Scheer’s true agenda. Meanwhile, the atmosphere is one of continual crisis, an ever-present subliminal emergency. It’s obvious that Scheer is engaged in a concerted attempt to render our duly elected government illegitimate—and it’s personal.

Because it’s not the Liberal Party of Canada that is being attacked, or even just “liberals”. Not at all. It’s Trudeau himself. Something about him just sticks in every manly conservative throat.

We are meant to understand that Justin Trudeau is incompetent, weak, hiding something; worse than that, sinister. What’s missing, what is unspoken but hinted at?

Girly man, wearing traditional Indian clothing. Effeminate. Eye lock with Obama. Pandemic lockdown is proof he’s under house arrest, wearing an ankle bracelet (pedophile). Drama teacher (what kind of man…!). How would a drama teacher know anything about running government? How would a homosexual know anything about running government? Why would a homosexual ban assault weapons? Because he’s not a real man.

Andrew Scheer’s tweets rain down like missiles. I think, “This is beyond outrage. It’s pathological, an obsession.”

He doesn’t ask how we Canadians are doing, he doesn’t share what he and his family are doing. There’s no human interest, nothing to relate to, nothing that’s not angry opposition and fire and brimstone.

Scheer doesn’t post a homey picture of the barbeque, or of him and his wife — who I hope is named “Shirley,” but he’s never introduced her — shopping wearing masks, or of him and the kids washing the car, or playing, or laughing…. He gives us not a single reason to like him, and, Canadian to the core, we comply.

He tweets, literally, about nothing else but Trudeau, no other content seems possible for him. I begin to sense the electricity, feel the thwarted admiration, the bromance that never was and never can be, in Scheer’s hysterical baiting of the man who plighted his troth to another. I feel his utter emptiness, his sociopathic indifference, to anything but his desire to bring down the fury of the closet-case scorned on the man he loves.

Now comes the Centralia mine fire of homophobia that burns perpetually under the surface, that no stream of logic or evidence can ever extinguish.


“Justin’s friends caught in pedophile scandal…”

“Flocculent Canadian president [sic] Justin Trudeau takes time to meet with accused sex pervert Joshua Boyle, whilst children of the Canadian tundra starve in frozen death agony….”

“True Detective shows Trudeau foundation logo as a symbol for child sex trafficking.”

All my life, as a gay man, I’ve endured the bullying, the contempt, the assumptions about my emotional life, the judgments about my character, and, most traumatically, the unspoken assumption and disgusting lie that, as a gay male, I’m a pedophile, a corrupter of youth; all of these indignities perpetrated mostly by straight men.

And now a self-selected group of heterosexual males, “social conservatives”, is stirring into life these atavistic fears in an attempt to oust Trudeau, ostensibly for “corruption,” just not the fiduciary kind.

Looking through the correct lens brings everything into focus. Looking through the lens of white supremacy and anti-black racism made it possible for me to understand Trump’s loony presidency, to explain his election and why his egregious almost daily criminal acts trivial and terrifying alike are brushed off, justified, or even admired. White men can do whatever the fuck they want.

Looking through the lens of homophobia, transphobia and rigid gender role orthodoxy has made it possible to understand how the boy wonder is becoming one of the boys in the band, not a real man, unfit for office.

My mother would have said, of a closeted gay man, “He’s that way,” and we all knew what way “that way” was. There was no need to spell it out then, and no need to now.

“Sissy.” “Corrupt.” “Queer.” Hey, what else would you expect from Castro’s love child?


Tanya Granic Allen wants gay men to know that …

you make her vomit

transcript of speech given at “Our Lady of the Sorrowful Burek” Croatian Catholic Church, Mississauga, Ontario, July 12th, 2018

Good morning and a grim, tightly-wound hello to you. My name is Tanya Granic Allen, and it is truly an honour to be here today at the beautiful Our Lady of the Sorrowful Burek. Thanks to the organizers of this youth conference for the invitation and also of course to The Reverend Father Vldjvicje Zprsczwstic, or as we like to call him, “Mitzi”—and if you’ve never spent New Year’s Eve watching a Croatian Catholic priest in full Barbra Streisand drag sing “People” while twelve naked choirboys in go-go boots sign for the deaf, you probably don’t have the stomach for it!

You may have noticed I’m standing way back from the podium because of my baby bump. I’m currently twelve months pregnant with quadruplets, two boys and two girls, and let me emphasize that those are the only two choices available to you, ok? Any hint on the ultrasound that I was giving safe haven to some pre-op tranny female-to-male lesbo pansy boy with a vagina and it would have been coat hangers, a bucket of Palmolive and an extra round of track and field practice.

I can assure you of that, because the moment that little freak makes the leap from single cell to personhood is precisely never.

Frankly I’d have gotten with child sooner, but hubbie couldn’t find the key to the chastity belt I’ve had on ever since the devil smote me with the curse the day of my “sweet sixteen” party. I know that sounds kinda late, but mom and dad didn’t think I could handle menstruation any younger, and their word was law in our household!

Incidentally, and here’s a cute story, just between you, myself and the bedpost, mom and dad actually put the lock on my mouth at first, but my will to pontificate was too strong. What can I say, that’s Tanya to a “t”!

My goal today is to make you nostalgic for what our society was like when men were men, women were women, mom and dad were in control and kids did what they were told, at least within earshot.

You may also find that you become nostalgic for what life was like before you knew me—and if that thought brings a tear to your eye, I’ll consider this a job well done!

First off, and if it isn’t totally obvious, I’m straight, and because there have been some nasty rumors swirling around about my attitude to gay people, or “skin-flute Sally’s” as I call them, I’d like to set the record straight, too.

The operative word here is “straight.” Keep a straight face, for example, as you hear me tell you that the accusation by the Liberals—my apologies, I just puked a little into my mouth, but I’ll keep going—and the accusation by the press—that I am somehow against the dignity and human rights of LGBT+ people—is a lie.

Trust the Liberal media, and a bunch of Poop-Chute Penelope’s and Rug Rubbers, to get their crotchless panties and deluxe jockstraps in a twist over nothing! Seriously?

Master that straight face and you’ll soon be able to keep it going when I tell you that school kids are not learning math because a bunch of Muslim terrorists, Middle Eastern bum bandits and left-wing Islamico-feminazis have commandeered our school curriculum and made our kids obsessed with anal sex.

And incidentally, any hint that I’m “Islamophobic” is malarkey as well. I mean, if those gals want to dress up in their voodoo masks and walk around like trick-or-treating piles of laundry with eyes, that’s their friggin’ trip! I celebrate their choice to practise a weird cult religion, at the same time as I thank the Blessed Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception for making possible our cherished Western values and my freedom to wear something light by Suzy Shier when the weather gets crazy hot.

But back to anal sex, always, and the Liberals’ agenda to help young people feel safe and not guilty about their bodies. Part of tradition is that kids should go through what we all went through, and you can bet Kathleen Wynne’s double-headed dildo I’m gonna set you straight on that one, as well.

In fact, my goal is that everyone in the world should set themselves absolutely, no-doubt-about-it, pink-for-girls-and-Barbie-dolls, blue-for-boys-and-aching-balls straight. People should be straight, hair should be straight, talking should be straight, kids should be straight, those white lines dividing highways should be straight, a narrow passage connecting two seas or other large areas of water is a strait, homeless people should be in dire straits, right-angled triangles should be made from three straight lines and as for Kathleen Wynne, let me ask you this: does anyone recall two boy penguins marrying before that Marxist muff-muncher swept into power with her evil agenda of thin end of the wedge, anti-family Liberal values like subsidized childcare?

Anyone recall that? Well, in case you think you do, let me remind you of something: no, you do not.

Back in the good old days it was Groom Penguin driving the Zamboni and Bride Penguin going crazy with Daddy Penguin’s Amex card and stressing about will it be whale-blubber or seal meat for the reception. And that’s the way it should be, because my single most important point about society today is that it’s all about me determining that you’re doing the right things.

Now, if you’d like to put on the disposable plastic ponchos I’ve provided, I’m going to seriously get down with some of my signature heavy duty vomiting. I’ll try to retain the bigger chunks in my mouth, but I tend to get over-enthusiastic when I’m “shining with the glory,” so you may be showered with a few sprays of chyme, especially the Holy Sisters in the front. OK, ready?

It makes me vomit to think that my beloved homeland, Croatia, that world renowned example of peace, order and traditional values, and only recently free, had ditched its family-friendly customs of learning about sex by getting to third base with a herd of goats and asking grandma about the blood-soaked knee socks, and embraced a throwback, Communist policy of science-based sex-education. Is this why we fought world wars?

Oops, here’s the first round coming up now, and you might want to brace yourself for a lot of garlicky fumes. Ready?


That’s the thing about vomiting, right? It’s always worse than you think it’s going to be! And my apologies to Holy Mother Agathe, that looks like a new habit you were wearing. I’m devastated. Try a pre-soak, then a hot wash in Tide.

You can see how my words have been twisted around and used against me. My spew was not aimed at gay marriage per se, but at the specifics of where the heck do they put the dingleberry when there’s no bleedywunket, who’s the man and who’s the woman, and what’s this eternal cryin’ thing with Judy at Carnegie Hall? I’m sorry but that is so gay, you can understand why they call it “gay” marriage! It is just—so gay?! Right?!

… my single most important point about society today is that it’s all about me determining that you’re doing the right things …

And my vomity veneration tells you that, as a practicing Catholic, I support the teachings of the Catholic Church, including the traditional Croatian Catholic definition of marriage as between a sexually naïve, inferior female and a man who forces himself on her so they can both fumble around on their wedding night.

After a few hours of failed attempts the whole disaster ends up with the tradition of her in tears, and him punching her hard in the mouth, then going out to get shit-faced with his buddies and gangbang someone’s sister.

I’m so intent on my kiddies following the old ways that I’m arranging a double marriage for them while they’re still in the womb, and if you’re concerned about the incest thing, put your mind at rest: Our Heavenly Father let Cain and Abel double-team Eve when it was a matter of dire necessity, and I trust he will not turn His big, hairy, Croatian God-back on me, his humble servant. Magnificat!

Another accusation is that I want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario using the sex-ed curriculum.

That is incorrect.

I want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario using every means at my disposal, including the sex-ed curriculum, lies, appeals to your worst nature, xenophobia and misogyny. I support the true separation of church and state, but that separation has to go both ways, which includes my religious liberty taking precedence over facts gleaned from scientists and the rights of children, and particularly includes freedom from state interference, except when it comes to Big Croatian Brother keeping tabs on my uterus.

So, yeah. It’s like. Honestly? I’ve been coy so far as to my intent. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, lifting my Croatian maxi-dress to show a bit of traditional ankle. Put another way, I’ve kept my cards close to my chest, and sorry to have pulled the wool over your eyes. It’s hard to discern Tanya’s “agenda.” I understand.

But actually, I do.

I totally, absolutely, no-holds-barred, in-yer-face, infinity-plus-one DO want to force my religious views on the people of Ontario.

There, I said it. I mean, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, and I should probably soften the blow, but, hey.

Movin.’ ON!!

Ontario parents for far too long have had to endure the state’s overreach into their lives under Premier Labia Libtard. I simply hope to restore a more proper balance, where parents have to endure the state’s overreach under me. Me, Tanya Granic Allen, jewel of motherhood and, frankly, kind of a bitch, too!

Thankfully, that day may soon come. The days are numbered for Kathleen Wynne and her Licky-Lesbo-Liberals.

That day is gonna come when I get into my Ford F-350, round up a bunch of truckers—real men, if the truck symbolism is lost on you—and we’re not going to rest until we rampage over every Liberal, every Lesbo, every Trannie and every Homo from North York to Dundas Square and leave a trail of crushed, dead, innocent bodies in our wake.

Literally! But just a metaphor! Kidding! Not kidding! I didn’t mean that! Yes, I did! Not really! I don’t mean it! Yes I do! Nope, just kidding! Not! Literally! No rampage! Rampage! Literally! Just kidding!

And while Doug Ford has broken the promise he made to me, that he would crown me Terrorist Tanya, Defender of the Faith, I am not going to despair and I am not going away. Nope, not even if you beg me.

Go on, try it. Say,

Please, Tanya Granic Allen, won’t you go away? Please, please, please? You’re ignorant and vile and hateful and you stand for everything we abhor about the Progressive Conservatives, and you give Croatian Catholics a bad name! Please roll up into a ball and slip down the nearest storm drain!

I can’t hear you! Try it again! Beg, you losers! That’s more like it! And look! I’m still here!

Nope, not going. Not gonna happen. Beg more, more! Louder!

Nope. Here I am! Louder, louder! C’mon, beg me again! HA! No way! Here to STAY! Never. Going.

Oh, god… oh god my lunch… thinking of… anal…oh, sweet Jesus, here it comes… homo sex-ed….sorry guys, stand back.—Holy Mary of the Sorrowful Burek—Brrr… BRRRRR…… BBBBRRRRRAAAAAA….


Tanya Granic Allen is the president of Finally U C Tories Are Really Dumb (FUCTARD) and was the official “slip-her-under-the-radar-and-hope-we-get-away-with-it-before-she-opens-her-big-mouth” candidate for the 2018 Ontario PC Leadership. We’re glad they chopped her balls off.

Sorry, ovaries.


Serious two-bite brownie habit

it helps me forget how awful we’ve become

The sex here is awful—and such small portions!

1. SEX

SUFFERING TODAY FROM Eine-kleine-schokolade-kuchen-schade, which is the bewildered, mushed-together feelings of shame, hopelessness and despair I experience walking home from the corner store, having purchased a pack of “Two-Bite Brownies” for later, mindful delectation. But I am desperately empty now and I eat them en plein air.  

It’s snowing lightly and I feel the chilly kiss of snowflakes on my hand as I reach into the brownie bag and pop another one into my mouth. I lick my index finger and press it onto the few remaining crumbs, suck them back, like a crack addict mining the shag carpet, unable to accept that his few fleeting moments of pleasure are done.

This was supposed to be about pleasure, wasn’t it? Or maybe I just used the brownies to, as it were, bribe my anxiety to get out of the house and go see a movie. I feed myself like a depressed new mother feeds the squalling unwelcome alien who popped out of her womb. What do I have to do to shut him up?

I’m tired of being one of the adults, sometimes the only one. I’m tired of peering into the dark and telling myself that everything will be all right. I crave comforting placebos: a hint of childlike sweetness, some undemanding chocolatey depth and a little quotidian complexity. I want a Schubert Impromptu; a Chopin Nocturne; a fugue from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.

I want sanity and order and not quite predictability; more like inevitability, but that of a bud coming into flower more than the fruit’s decay. I want to forget, just for a brief, gooey moment, about death and hatred and everything I’ve broken just by being alive and in the same room.

I want to forget about sex.

Craigslist forgot about sex.

Craigslist succumbed to our never-ending panic over sex, in its common-or- garden and educational forms, after its erstwhile competitor, Backpage dot com, got cocky, if you’ll pardon the expression, and rather lackadaisical about a little matter of underage girls. These knock-off Lolitas, who should have been selling nothing fancier than Girl Guide cookies, proffered their sexual services to stoked-up pervs, for cash, with online ads that left nothing to the imagination, then enhanced them with raunchy selfies that screamed, “Over here, Children’s Aid Society! We wanted to make sure you and the vice squad had lots of evidence!”

The Backpage Horror is a classic example of how you can start out with absolutely no good intentions and a disingenuous belief in laissez-faire, drift into awfulness, then say,

Oh, how did we get here? We never noticed before about the fourteen-year-old girl hookers, and anyway, doesn’t everyone do that—? No? I guess we all kinda got used to it!

Are you sure….?

and not even bat an eye until five hundred police divisions and ten centuries of jurisprudence come parachuting into your call centre.

Because, more than ever, in times of stress and uncertainty, we North Americans cling to the truths that have sustained us through famine, world wars and native genocide: that sex is wrong and sex is sinful; that we endure its distasteful bumps and grinds because, apparently, we are in the grip of a compulsion to produce unnecessary, smaller versions of ourselves with whiny, high-pitched voices and a tendency to spit creamed spinach in our faces.

Sex has become awful, as awful as the people practising it. Sex, primarily, is a weapon that men use against women. Men in positions of power and of trust, your sons or husbands or bosses, maintain their bragging rights in the locker room by casually reducing their female colleagues, employees or trophy wives to scalps on their belt.

Sex is that smelly, messy, hairy chore that needs to be airbrushed, deodorized and manscaped; Sex produces the involuntary squint, the pursed lips and the face hiding from the cumshot’s spray. I am quite fond of you, but may I be on record as saying: I never signed on for body fluids!

Sex is not the naked guy in front of you in the motel room who breaks your heart with his beauty and devours you with his longing while the afternoon sun beats through closed curtains. Sex has left the building, and sex is never now. Sex is just a possibility, the next big thing, the guy or guys, bland and identical as supermarket fruit, a certain number of GPS yards away (maybe even in the next motel room) who are out there waiting to be recruited; so you must log on —sexual encounters without a device no longer exist—line-up ten, then dump nine, exactly what they’re doing to you. The result is that sex is handily avoided, time’s up! and besides, you’ve started to wonder if there’s something suspicious about the way your desktop background keeps changing.

Did you do something malicious to my computer? You are awful!

Sex is the great defiler of the under-prepared and the irresistible tempter of the over-informed. Sex makes us cry, reflexively, “What about the children?” because sex involves body parts, male lust and female mystery, parental control and teenage curiosity, and someone, somewhere is going to have the awful idea of teaching the names of body parts, how to deal with male lust, how to give consent. But if you name those body parts, they’ll start to pay attention to them, and if they can give consent, what’s stopping them from skipping chemistry class, giving consent, and creating a few explosions of their own?

This, I’ll bet you one intact Trojan, is what has driven Ford Nation to roll back the sex ed curriculum in Ontario. It’s homophobia, doing double-duty; pulsating behind the superficial reasonableness of children must be protected; children will be sexualized; children can’t cope with knowing the names of their genitals.

What about the children?

What, Ford Nation is saying, what about the pervy fingers of gay men who itch to stroke and probe and excite and defile; what about innocence, and making children say “penis?”

(There is nothing more taboo than a dick, because there is nothing more contingent, more recalcitrant, more unbiddable. Men must be structural engineers before we’re lovers; our success is one awkward moment away from disaster. We dare not let you see how pathetically, hilariously vulnerable we are.)

But wait! Surely gay men are attracted to other men, by definition? It’s pedophiles who are attracted to children (and specifically under the age of thirteen). What gives?

Conservative minds are simple minds, tirelessly engaged in explaining how stuff works to other simple minds. If it fits on your fender, it’s true. Thus, sex is a necessary evil, gay men are a perverse evil, sex education is a Liberal evil and of course child molestation is an unforgivable evil. BINGO! All for one and one for all and evermore shall be so!

Sex is the great defiler of the under-prepared and the irresistible tempter of the over-informed.

Most abused kids know their abuser; when kids are abused it’s usually within the family circle, by heterosexual men; but never mind, give it up, because het is normal; gay men—perverts, queers, nancy boys, poofs, faggots—are abnormal, thus more logical suspects. This one never changes and this one never dies.

Artful arsefulls of awfulness.

Parents labor under the misapprehension that their children belong to them, like their Ford Fiesta or their fifty-six inch smart TV. Our children are chattels, slaves born of our flesh to be whipped and abused and browbeaten and guilted into doing exactly as we say and believing exactly what we believe: Our alternative facts; the facts that should have been reality if anyone had been paying attention.

But children, saith the U.N., are autonomous beings with rights, and one of these is the right to the best education that can be provided.

This means children have a right to be educated about their bodies. Young men have the right to be educated about treating women with respect; young women want to confirm that their bodies are their own to control; young people want to know how to consent, and, yes, they fully intend to do so.

What about the children? Why do we ask this question when so many acts and omissions prove beyond any doubt that we do not care? Is it a cynical political posture or are we actually so deluded as to think our enraged attempts at control and our denial that every system we’ve built has catastrophically failed are the acts of loving guardians?

We don’t care about exposing kids to violence, whether as entertainment or as live-action classroom assassinations. The lucky survivors are ruined souls: white-haired, soot-faced trauma victims, twenty-first century chimney sweeps.

We don’t care about children living in poverty because we decided not to fix the worst aspects of capitalism: its focus on profit to the detriment of the public good; its monopolies, corporate and social, concentrating wealth, therefore power, in the hands of a very few. We don’t care about crippling student debt or that we’ve sold out universities, once centres of original thought and incubators of genius, to corporations, to be run like businesses with profit as their sole motive.

We don’t care that we’ve fucked the planet, bled it dry, squandered our kids’ inheritance, because we know it will be our kids’ problem, not ours. We’ll be dead when the ice caps melt and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans thunder into shore, engulfing in mere hours what has taken generations and centuries of struggle to achieve; We’ll be dead when democracy is replaced with anarchy, its soundtrack the blasting-off of private space shuttles launching to convey the planet fuckers to another fuckable planet. Our kids will have to deal with that, so long, losers!

We don’t care about our kids.

It appears that all we care about is what our kids will do with their genitals, lest they embarrass us with their sexual virtuosity or raise the ire of whatever fairy-tale ogre whose cult we follow, whose jaws drip blood and bone; the ogre who claims to love us, then shakes us from his sandals like dust.

If we believe god made the world and saw that it was good, why did we trash it; fill the lakes with shit and strip the trees from the hills and poison the air? 

If he made the birds and beasts and everything that crawls upon the ground, and gave Adam the privilege of naming them, why did we cage them for our vicious entertainment, pen them, miserable and terrified, in lakes of their own waste, slaughter them so we could stuff our expanding bellies until we literally died from greed?

If god made our bodies that experience pleasure, why would god not want us to enjoy that pleasure? Why did we choose agony as our only offering and make suffering our primary achievement?

Great big Noah’s Arks of awful.


GAY GURU SHAUN PROULX, venting his righteous anger like an Old Testament prophet but with less sackcloth and more interesting hair, hits the nail on its swollen mushroom head when he excoriates the current crop of fags as douches, albeit unintentional ones. He generously, partially ascribes this to the wiping out of the older generation by AIDS— the men who should have been here to guide them.

“The proof is in the pudding!” one of my awful acquaintances is wont to shout; and I bite my tongue so that I may not lose my cool and man-to-mansplain him that the proof of the pudding is in the eating, idiot!

(Seriously? As long as he’s happy and not focused on me, I’m good.)

The proof of this douche pudding may be the lost generation of guides, or it may be that social media, our beloved burbling cesspit of dreck, has reduced attention spans to nanoseconds and identity to self-serving fakery.

Looking for now, now now! Nope, not fast enough!

You are all fungible. You will do, old shoe, as well as you and you and you. What was your name, again?

Our hook-ups insult us, lie to us, steal from us, gossip about us, go crazy on us. Our hook-ups have never heard of the hostess gift. Our hook-ups are cynical eternal teenagers, wanting an increase in their allowance, and free wi-fi. Our hook-ups don’t like our food or our drinks and are amazed that we’ve read all those books.

Our hook-ups have not brought with them the five things without which they cannot function; we must provide them. Our hook-ups are laughing at us even as they exploit us.

How would my dead comrades—lutenists, and counter-tenors, and artist-inventors of imaginary tribes, and poets, and long-haired angels and choreographers and lovers—how would they even have begun to train these sad, wet pups?

Tabernac ! Marie-Joseph ! Atrocités que vous n’avez jamais imaginé !

And with the older generation gone, gone is technical mastery of sex. My challenge to you, gentlemen: Try to get a decent blowjob from an 18-year-old.

What is this? A half-hearted closing of dry, chapped lips around my dick, no idea of how hard to grip, or where, no consistency or sense of drama, no crescendo in the build-up, and now, thirty seconds in and with their reserves of concentration depleted, their eyes begin to wander. Fatal error! Now they are looking for something shiny that will actually amuse them or something bland and starchy they can microwave.

They never expect what happens next. Their insulting behavior towards me and my dick guarantees an experience, maybe their first, of sexual rough justice. As they reach for their iPhone, I shove their head down on my cock, holding it tightly with splayed, lube-y fingers; I shove it down hard until they gag, and when I hear them gag I don’t release them.

Are you kidding? I watch with pleasure as their faces turn purple and their eyes bulge and water and they start to splutter and flail, and I hold just a little bit longer until they are afraid. Then I let them go; they race back up to the surface like divers whose lungs are bursting, breaking the surface with wild gasps for breath that are close to sobs.

We have nothing at all to say to each other. Correction: You have nothing at all to say to me. You’d have to have something to say to me before I would say to you the many things I have to say to you, but won’t.

And you don’t.

With my compatriots gone, gone, gone to graveyards every one, we have lost the etiquette, the caring, the finesse of sex.

Young man walks into my room at the bathhouse. I’m naked, except, of course, for the army boots; don’t pretend you don’t know the look.

He walks in and flips my limp dick with one hand. Hey, I just arrived and haven’t popped a Cialis yet.

“Do you ever get hard?” he says.

I’m 63. Do I ever get hard? Is that the question?

Oh, I get hard. You’d better believe it.

I also have a refractory period that’s measured in weeks. I last came last Tuesday. My erection’s time frame is geological, like Mount Vesuvius.

What the hell am I doing in a bathhouse?


In Defence of Deviance

Toronto’s PRIDE 2017 celebrated diversity and inclusion. Yet some people—even some gay men—still think that’s a shame.

Men, men, men!  Not a flicker of humor in a back room full of us!  Forever shooting our wads, then rolling away from the damp spot and falling asleep; forever forgetting that ejaculation is for Christmas, but a snuggle is for life.

trudeau pride
Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau at the Toronto Pride Parade, June 25, 2017.  [From MSN.com]

I’ve come fresh from Pink News online, the British gay rag that’s the equivalent of Canada’s Xtra (but with better fashion and that string of pearls that you didn’t buy at Winners, but inherited from Great-Aunt Prunella) where the headline read—and you may want to sit down for this bit, lest you collapse onto your vitrine filled with Lalique crystal—

Men tell homophobic jokes because of their own fragile masculinity, study finds.

Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar!  That gem ranks as news right up there with “Sun Rises in East” and “Dog Bites Intruder, Then Pees on Carpet”.

Personally, I’m gobsmacked.

So imagine our surprise when a whole Ford F-150-full of fragile masculine egos came out to defend themselves against the “feminists” who designed and conducted the study.

madonna quote(Feminist in this context fulfills the same function as Nazi does elsewhere, describing as it does not an actual specimen of the genre but a scarecrow, only dressed up in dungarees and a tool belt instead of black leather and jackboots;  and instead of translating as “someone I disapprove of on principle”, it reads, “women I’m extra scared of”.)
Take a gander, or maybe a gender, at this response:

The folks who are most threatened and defensive are the writers and editors at PN who relentlessly push effeminacy and gender deviance whilst denigrating traditional masculinity and manhood. It’s almost as if they know that they are failures as men and want to use sexual orientation as an excuse. But decades of studies have shown that effeminacy manifests only in a minority of gay and bi men. So sexual orientation is no excuse for their personal failure to function as men.

And here’s my response to that :

“Gender deviance”? Holy Krafft-Ebing,

where’s my laudanum? I may have an attack of the vapours!

Pride 2014 / Photo by David Roddis.

I did live in Britain for 16 years and I read Pink News all the time. But that was pre-Internet, so perhaps their relentless pushing of effeminacy was less effective; I’m pretty sure I have at least half a testicle lying around somewhere.

A man is a man is a man, to rewrite Gertrude Stein; if you got the right bits and feel comfortable with them, that’s all it takes. If you don’t feel comfortable with them, that’s called “gender dysphoria” according to the bible of psychiatric diagnosis, the DSM-5, and the word dysphoria in the new edition refers to the anxiety caused by SOCIETAL pressures and the prejudice coming from those who do not accept “deviance” – and what an extraordinarily, umm, nostalgic word choice, by the way.

Nostalgic, or bathetic to the point of laughter, conjuring up as it does the kind of sleazy soft porn novels my dad would have read in the ’50s: “They’re wild! They’re dangerous! They’re: DEVIANT DAUGHTERS!”

But back to your ridiculousness: Men learn how to be men; it’s not innate and it’s not written somewhere in a manual. We learn from fathers, mentors, leaders, heroes (and sometimes the wrong heroes: the most superficially impressive instead of the wisest).

The problem is evident: We men more often than not learn from walking, talking, blustering, posturing models of manhood who have mastered nothing but bravado. We think they’re the reference, but in fact they’ve had a few of the most important pages ripped out.

It’s as though we’re seated at a formal dinner and, at a loss, look to the distinguished older guy on our right; then, following his brave example, we mix our petits pois with the mashed potatoes, then shovel them in with the grapefruit spoon.

Not pretty.

To call a man a failure because he does not fulfill your checklist of “real manhood” tells us perhaps a bit more than you would have us know. That checklist is nothing other than plain old garden-variety homophobia — dressed up in its “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” best, maybe, but homophobia all the same.

Normal is the average of deviance — Rita Mae Brown

In fact, what you have angrily and perversely crossed off your list is exactly what a man needs: everything you label “effeminate”. But a tablespoon, or more, of “effeminacy” does a man good. Women, you might have noticed, have a refining effect on men; or perhaps their presence helps men lower their guard and discover their own sensitivity, intuition, esthetic sense, all those things we’re taught to push aside by other men who are afraid and unsure of themselves.

So, put a little more mascara on, sweetie.  Slip into your silk peignoir and take a night off. I hereby relieve you of what must be a thankless, lonely burden: of being the self-appointed arbiter of what’s butch.  Us real men will decide that for ourselves.

Real men are works in progress, and we haven’t explored even the first ten percent of what we might become.


Dedicated to every drag queen in
plexiglass pumps who ever threw shade;

every Quentin Crisp who “didn’t know how to
be any other way”; and

to the little boy who chose the Kewpie Doll
as his prize at the fair—me.

Never change.

Pride 2014 / Photos by David Roddis

» Link to the Pink News article  (opens in a new window)