Stephen Harper

Done Done Done! PLUS: “The Kytt-yger!” + Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

Never forget how good I am to you.  Deal?

First off, let this be my official announcement: There’s an idée fixe that’s been taking up WAY too much of my mental real estate. So, to make way for more positive, healing thoughts, let me say that

DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT

Shhhh… you know… Oh, c’mon!

I am DONE DONE DONE with posting my – well, let’s be honest, rather brilliantly written, but still time-consuming and ultimately spirit-dampening – diatribes about – shhhh – you know.

Oh c’mon. That guy who used to “run” Canada.   The suit.  The alien.

Yes, you do, the one with the lips like chopped liver and the eyes like a horror-film ventriloquist’s dummy.

YOU know… HIM.

Don’t make me say it!!

And while we’re at it:

I will henceforth and forthwith no longer debate evolution with fundamentalist christians; or, in my most reasonable tones, point out to male troglodytes and homophobes the error of their ways.  No, sir-ee.

I’ll just hire my friend Vinny to beat their fucking ugly brains to pulp with a lead pipe.

Time management skills – because it feels so good when you stop!™


And now, for a complete change of pace:

Yet another in a seemingly endless series of instances of how good I am to you.  As previously instructed, never, I mean never, forget this.

These.

You may very well be, in fact, wondering.  Today’s random act of literary munificence by yours truly concerns a long-lost poem by The Child-Bride of Amherst, Emily Dickinson.

Emily D, or so she recounts,  was once visited, while she was under the influence of a teeny bit too much laudanum,  by the spirit of William Blake, who, seeking to get better acquainted with the “saucy little minx”,

knocked back several scalding-hot cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, chugged a couple of tallboys of Samuel Adams, wolfed down the greater part of Emily’s coveted, company-only President’s Choice The Decadent Chocolate Cherry Torte, then, duly fortified after his long, ectoplasmically-fueled journey – and after what he considered a decent interval considering she was a virgin-spinster and all  –

Shtupped her.

Yep.  Just bloody frigged her.  Planted the  purple parsnip, gave her a right old rodgerin’.  Shagged the slag till she gagged.  Do wo’,  Bit of awright, How’s yer father.   Bit of boffin’,  copped ‘er off, got his leg over, polished his knob, had a nice long snog.

I can speak frankly, can’t I?   I mean, we’re all adults?

Anyway, this hitherto-unpublished poem was the result.   Yes, I am, and thank you so much for noticing!

Please! Mr Blake -- !Kytt-yger! Kytt-yger!

Kyttens — ? Tygers — ?
Flickering — Always — !
Down Our — Noon-to-
Midnight — Hallways — !

What — A Mortal —
Daily — Sees —
Depends — on His —
Dichotomies — !

~

Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

This is why, for the rest of his life, Blake’s bro’s-down-the-boozer insisted on referring to their rakish pal as:

“The Daft Old Prick who Dipped His Wick In Dickinson”  

Since you asked.

(Ed. :-  A few brief minutes can, indeed, have far-reaching consequences. Ya bloody poofter…)

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May I Call You Justin? or, R-r-r-r-oll up and r-r-r-rim to win™!

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.

Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.

Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.

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?

EAT. MORE. FOOD.

A large, malignant Fordoma

Big-Ass Sunday +PLUS+ Monday Man-crush!

The Story of Big-Ass Sunday ~

Big-Ass Sunday commemorates the time about 140 years ago when the Easter Bunny rode into Jerusalem on his Big Ass.

But … there’s trouble a-lucky-foot!

Judas, incensed that EB gave all the Cadbury eggs to John-Boy The Big Squeeze, sold EB’s big ass to the Romans in exchange for a lifetime supply of Laura Secord “Turtles”.

Of course, once he gets what he wants, he’s sorry, ain’t it just like a man, and dies in agony after ingesting his first delivery in one go and being cut to ribbons inside by the sharp edges of all the nuts.  I’m sure at least some of you know what that’s like.

bigAssSunday

The Easter Bunny rides into town on his Big Ass.

But every cloud has a 30-pieces-of-silver lining.

On the plus side, thanks to cranky-pants Judas and Big-Ass Sunday, we have Bach’s sublime “Big-Ass Mass in B minor” and the lesser know but still fairly exquisite “A Passion for Peter”.

On the minus side, it must be said, we have the disquieting spectacle of Judy Garland, the little hunchback, the original, perviest sketched-out meth head, and Fred Astaire, who was born a few centuries before her, already looking ninety and smelling like an old biscuit tin, as they flaunt their eww-making May-December hook up by Easter Parading up Fifth Avenue; and then, even minus-er, if  that were possible, we have about two trillion biblical epics, all starring Yvonne de Carlo and Tony Curtis.  And just try telling them apart!

Dame Janet, in the authentic performance version of

Dame Janet, in the authentic performance version of “MessiAss”, tossing off her bravura right before tossing off Lenny.

Ah, but ever back to the plus side, there’s that taken-out-of-mothballs-yet-again yearly delight, Handel’s ever-enduring and barely-endured chestnut, “Messi Ass”; and whether it be in the authentic-as-oatmeal performance version, or the down ‘n dirty “Sing-along-a-MessiAss”, which ruins for good those five minutes you used to almost like, it is always immensely popular with everyone from the cleaning staff at the Royal Albert Hall all the way up to, it is rumored, the current descendant of the monarch who heard the first performance (and who initiated the obnoxiously pompous practice of standing up for the Hallelujah chorus, which continues to this day, except for me).

Ah, yes.  Handel’s “MessiAss”!  Who can ever forget Dame Janet Baker, resplendent in her Marks and Spencer day gown, tossing off the quite unnecessarily convoluted coloratura, with its demanding tessitura, and all just to show her bravura!  (And after the show, it is rumored, tossing off Lenny B for good measure!).

No one summed it up better than the Times critic, who noted:  “Dame Janet sang as though trying to control a fart.”

Monday Man Crush:

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My Monday Man Crush and My Hero: John Fugelsang. Until something better comes along.

Today’s lucky recipient is John Fugelsang.  (Well, I’m very sorry, John, but it’s the Internet and you knew what you were getting into. OK? And don’t call me “dude”.)

This dishy dad, hitherto unknown and uncrushed by me, is now the recipient, at least until something better comes along, of my (seriously) undying admiration for his stands on such issues as peer violence:

See his YouTube video “Stop Calling it Bullying”

and he does a mean line in pithy put-downs that call out the hypocrisy of both church AND state.

John Fugelsang, like?!  You are so awesome?!  And you are my Monday Man Crush !?!