instructively contrary twenty-four hours and dammit, I mean to share.
I’ve bashed my erstwhile Monday Man-Crush, The-Person-Called-Trudeau (I didn’t mean it, baby, it must have been the string beans, honest!) in broad daylight on The Guardian’s website (on the other hand you never picked up your cell, and you dance like a str8-tard, nyah!); and now, in response to a deliciously spiteful article on Medium, I’ve stood up for The Great Mannequin, Her Royal Trophy-ness, The Missus Melania—may every progressive heave great gobbing globules of spit on me should I dare show my face in public again.
And how much, I ask myself, do I really care? And do I agree with myself? Politics is so confusing.
down to my toes and up to my increasingly wrinkled brow, see a — critique? Article? such as this one — searching for the right word here. What do they call it when someone is denounced from a pulpit? Anathema.
Anyway, when I see an, err, anathema, I have a strategy. First, I read it through, even though I may have to prop open my eyelids like they do to Malcolm McDowell as the protagonist in “A Clockwork Orange”. I find cocktail toothpicks work well for this.
It’s not that I’m bored. Far from it. It’s just that, from the first sighting of the words “gets what she deserves” I’m filled with revulsion. Now, as a writer and an artist, I know that revulsion is often a good sign, a sign that the work has had a profound effect on me. I mean, I didn’t set out to read anything with the word “Trump” in it expecting a day in the country and a hamper from Holt Renfrew, you hear what I’m saying?
Second, and I know you’re all following along here, I put on my conservatard-proof full-body nuclear jumpsuit, ready for the onslaught of “you liberals” and “nothing better to do” and “nyah nyah you lost we won” off-the-rack progressive bashing, which involves little imagination, but a lot of spraying saliva. Check.
And third, I attempt to fashion a reasoned response, because though I don’t agree with a lot of what you say — and maybe even you don’t agree with a lot of what you say — I am darned determined to back you up as much as I can, like a divorcing couple who hold hands in public, but fight at home with the curtains closed.
So honey, now that the curtains are closed — I understand your righteous indignation, and I’m all for it, but let’s talk. Let’s leave “she’s costing the taxpayer money”, because that’s just silly. Anyone in the role of FLOTUS is costing the taxpayer money, vapid or not. And it’s interesting to speculate on the hand-brushing-away thing, but neither you nor I nor anyone has the slightest clue what that is about, not really. You are reading into that gesture a confirmation of a story you have built up about Melania.
Melania’s made choices that many women might make had they had the opportunity, and I don’t particularly see anything vile about them. She had, as far as I’ve read, a successful career, she married a wealthy man and took every advantage of that, and now, to her (and now here’s my story) astonishment, and possibly horror, she’s married to the President, with every eye upon her. She may be unfit, she may take a deep breath and rise to the occasion. I suspect the latter.
No, let’s be honest, I hope for the latter. I want women to be strong and successful and rise to the occasion; I’m just a sucker for hope, that way.
But in no way, no way, is she responsible for her husband’s performance or his policies. No way is she responsible for his crass behavior or his beliefs, assuming he actually has some. No way does her position as first spouse necessarily mean that she supports him.
What am I saying, ultimately? Resist the urge to blanket condemn anything that Trump touches, including his wife. It’s not a black and white issue, your words, not mine; but your insistence on having Melania play the role of “evil consort” leaves no room for nuance, and nuance, god help us, is what we crave more than ever.
Have some empathy for someone caught up in a role they never anticipated, have some faith. And never, never put another woman down.
It’s my birthday, and I am donning my tightest skinnies – no Kleenex-stuffing necessary, thank you very much, first in line – plus my “Only Gay In The Village” red sleeveless top in preparation for my man-crushing on this week’s and every week’s hunka hunka burnin’ PM, Justin, The-Person-Called-Trudeau.
With a bitter yet achingly triumphant shout-out to George Clooney for blocking my relentless barrage of sexts over the past 12 years – manly as your stubbly chin and smokey voice may be, you have nothing on the taut muscles, tousled hair and houri eyes of May I Call You Justin, every gay male boomers’ – goomers’ ? – wet dream.
My swollen, purple mangina trembles at the sight of our very own PM revitalizing Canada’s brand at the U.N. with his pledge of liberal lashings of humanitarian aid;
Only JT could tumesce my beaver-cleaver with such authentically awful straight-guy dancing as first PM in history to attend Toronto’s Pride Parade—which just shoots the tragic want-so-bad-the-cock-I-cannot-have longing right off the charts.
And at the risk of being TMI about things, I’ve popped such a libtard bologna-pony as he smiles at Syrian refugees, and – aw, shucks, don’t think badly of me – leaked just a little drop, or maybe two, of pre-cum into my Stanfield’s Y-fronts (available by mail-order in “one-size-fits-all” granny pant version, white only, and not in Québec, je suis so fucking désolé) as he strutted arm in arm with that steamin’ cup o’ hot, hot chocolate called Barack Hussein Obama.
And I don’t mean Nesquik, dudes. That’s kid stuff. I mean Ghirardelli bittersweet, the finest grown-up America has to offer.
Well, that’s what a Canadian thinks; that’s what anyone but an American thinks. Barry, if you’d been Canadian, if you’d made it to Prime Minister, it would have been business as usual, but we would have fairly bust a collective gut with pride for our black, brilliant, witty, eloquent leader, our model father and husband, the guy who really WAS ready to answer that 3AM phone call, our trophy PM, the embodiment of that dream that is not just exclusively American.
Instead? Your prime function wasn’t to function. It was to shine the Klieg lights on the tumbleweed-infested badlands of darkest America, to turn over those famous metaphorical rocks and watch as the creepy-crawlies came scuttling out, squinting, Trump-ballots in hand.
Whatever insects have instead of hands. (Mandibles? Yuk!)
You shoulda been dancing in the streets, Americans; held an eight-year New Deal shindig to which everyone was invited, rich and poor, black and white; where everyone could talk and everyone would listen and every small-c conservative would pop a boner for Barack.
Instead, white str8-tards everywhere rattled the bars of their playpens and spent eight-years screaming SOCIALISM!; eight years badmouthing, lying, sulking; eight long years wishing that their new-born little brother, the guy who was taking attention away from THEM, could just – lose the birth certificate and disappear.
America, there’s nothing like you, that’s for sure. What can we say about a country so resentful of its own self-made elite class, a country that beats its gorilla chest and bellows about the American Dream—then spends eight years playing who do you think you are?
Tant pis. The only grumbles you’ll hear in Canada these days come from those permanently disaffected overgrown white heterosexual males whose clock is stuck somewhere around grade 9 — Stephen Harper was perfect for them; his affectless, droid-like style barely concealing the simmering resentment of the least-liked kid in school — the Libertarian Geezers who still think ‘politically correct’ is a current discussion, and who need the company of other similar geezers to give a little lift to their fleeting, sponge-y hard-ons.
But at least most of them are old. I figure all we really have to do is stall until the geezers are gone to dust and the new generation is in power. JT is an avatar of that new optimism.
So here’s to my Monday Man-Crush: the so very not-regular guy who reaffirmed that being Canadian is just about the coolest damned thing there is to be;
Justin Trudeau: who touched me in my secret place and made this libtard hard.
(An Absolutely Epic Ode for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)
Hail, socialist snow-globe! Frozen fatherland!
Where moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective way
through corn-syrup nights!
(For it is enshrined in the Charter of Rights
That all female komrads – wards of the State from birth to baby-bonus to personopause,
right up until they’re dead –
Attain their Ph.D. from Butter Tart Proletarian University !)
Welcome to Canada, the Sort-Of-Mighty, the Kind-Of-Powerful!
To the Land of the Putative War Against Cars!
From here, we need never go to Mars.
Instead, we go to Winnipeg to experience minus 50
– (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 it meant sailing across an ocean,
Then maybe – taking a bus?
You got it 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 an Inuit game that involves licking the metal bars
Cause it’s such innocent fun when our tongues get stuck.
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!
I mean, 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??!! Holy fuck!!!”
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!
Quoi ???? Ahhh, croyez donc, c’est pas de problème !!
Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!
Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!
Cause…. He’s… the…
Person-called-Trudeau, 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 – )
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 is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!
All together, now – !
« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »
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, Canada, Canada!
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 !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and — !
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 Porter’s bottom line!
Even considering he kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his plan
To put the runways in High Park.
So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!
So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Those died with Ford, just our luck,
Not one but three acts of god.
You wanna know just how bad it is?
We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud!
Poor old fat dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He never realized we just needed a good laugh for a few months
While he ran Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
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, 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 fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you! We get the agenda – !
Gone, thanks to unser Kommandant Douglas, jawohl! Gone forever our god-given freedom to declare bankruptcy!
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay that surgeon fifty thousand
And another fifty thousand to the hospital
Than to be robbed each year of two hundred and change by bureaucrats!
What unbearable duress!
Thank you, Nanny State! Great Big Brother Government!
At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
We feel your pain! But not to worry.
Why, the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!
Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll fire
President Towel-Head and his niqab-clad wife and daughters, those uppity niggers,
And cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking death-panelled healthcare sort-of system
So you can – thank-you, Jesus! –
go back to paying two hundred thousand plus tax for a house call (assuming you have no pre-existing conditions and stay in your current job as Happiness Engineer at Arby’s)
or just – die in a hurry!
That’s the beauty of choice, of dog-eat-dog and survival of the fittest!
(Oh, yes – you believe in evolution alright,
Just selectively, when it makes a good sound-byte…)
And up here we’ll be,
In the Union of Soviet Socialist Kanada,
Little Stalins in fetters, cyanotic with envy,
In the land where nothing’s black and white, just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,
And 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 –
Now there’s at least an efficient death-panel! ) –
In the land where, as you well know from seeing Fox TV,
Our own atheist abortion-reeking tyrannical
Health-care system, collapsing five-yearly, centrally-planned (did
You warn us? You did!)
Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour
– and not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s time to greet the first grandkid!
“Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,
“It is imperative that we find more raspberry Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad, 48th floor!”
And when you can’t take it anymore, just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles. If it gets him the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.
O, Canada – !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, Who
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
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 and a tendency
To get restless legs, and every so often
Just out and out
He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –
We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.
Terre de nos aïeux. Je me souvien –
And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
A Mari Usque Ad Mare! Or, rough translation from the Latin:
Well, come Monday the 19th, I donned my tiara with the great, big flashing “L-for-loser” and trotted off, unopened VISA bill in hand, to vote, non-strategically, for the Beard Party.
Mainly ’cause of their free Birkenstocks platform and their fantastic thank-you-gift collectibles for any voter over nine who could be persuaded.
I’m thinking – and these are just the ones that are top of mind – of the Special Election Edition Linda McQuaig “Make My Hair Pretty – Please?®” Doll (cheap batteries, tube of Dippity-Do and tiny, dandruff -encrusted brush included); and of course the Jack Layton Memorial Steeped Tea Mug with inspirational quote – “I said it was massage and Olivia says so too!”- which dribbles “Sleepy-Time” onto your white collar through its secret hole and then just – breaks.
You may be wondering.
Voting in our first-past-the-post system brings with it all the enfranchised fun of buying a Lotto 649 ticket just after you’ve spent your rent money on another ball of “hard”. Though it be ever so complex, all you need to know about this system is that voting for who you believe in is for chumps. Believe in?! Puh-lllllease!
You vote for anyone you think will win who’s not the person you don’t want to win, and/or the person called Trudeau, whichever comes first. Are you getting this down?
My vote for facial hair therefore virtually guaranteed the sweeping into power of the National Liberal-Twink Alliance Who Are Virtually Indistinguishable From The Conservatives But Certainly More Hot If It Is, In Fact,The Person Called Trudeau.
Rim-Job Thought Experiment™ To Determine Voting Preferences:
To determine which Canadian election candidates are “hot”, and therefore who to vote for, try this Rim-Job Thought Experiment™. Yes, ladies, you too!
Part 1: Are you lying on your back? OK. First, imagine Stephen Harper sitting on your face. Look, I didn’t say this was going to be easy. That’s right, you got it, go to town with this image. Fill in lots of detail. Spare yourself nothing regarding his personal hygiene, unkempt pubic hair or lack thereof, his reactions. DOES he react, that’s a good point, excellent work, Céline! You see?
Now, in preparation for Part 2, please brush your teeth.
Part 2: OK, now, on the other hand, imagine The Person Called Trudeau lowering his ass onto your already wagging, eager tongue. Keep going, make this as concrete as possible! Imagine his ululations of pleasure as you probe and savor! Get specific! Does he grind his butt? Or does he just let his weight settle down, down, down, so you fear – or hope – you might meet your maker while clamped in his luscious, gluteal embrace? Bring. It. ON! Right?
Conclusions: So, having tried the Rim Job Thought Experiment™, who do you think is hotter? Well, I would definitely agree with you! Yes, I am kind of awesome, and it’s sweet of you to bring it up yet again!
Thus, with a Canada-wide blast of hold-your-nose-and-anyone-but-Harper mass strategic voting, an eerie is-this-Alzheimer’s-or-is-it-really-1972? wave of déja-vu, and a collective panty-moistening of every female over 45 in the entire country, we elected The Person Called Trudeau in a landslide of taut muscle, tousled hair and optimism.
Steve Harper, that glassy-eyed alien (and for that matter, his crack-fueled croney Rob Ford, Toronto City Hall’s very own “Night With Chucky“) was nothing after all but a second-rate, tone-deaf accountant at karaoke night dreaming he was onstage at Massey Hall.
Mr Harper? Your rapture flight will now board, and may you and yours have swift and final uplift.
And Mr Ford? Robbie Baby Bobbie Boobie? Eat more food, dude. You hear me? Robert darling?