“Obamacare Watch” exclusive: National Rifle Association steps up to the plate with no-payer health care solution for GOP.

healthcaretardsbillboard

In an inspired, audacious,

“why-didn’t-anyone-think-of-this-before?” move that has Americans smacking their open palms on their foreheads from Fire Island to Big Sur, the Trump administration and the National Rifle Association have joined forces in an unprecedented nation-wide initiative to reduce and eventually eliminate health care costs.

“Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” is the second program implemented under Trump’s so-called “Great Big Yuge Agenda”, just two weeks after the start of “What Has Intelligence Ever Done For YOU?”,  the educational program which has Betsy DeVos overseeing the winding down of the public school system.

But what about rumors that the new health care plan was inspired by a recent shooting at a New York City hospital?

christmas.png
Senior citizens enjoying their final Christmas Surprise as part of Trump’s “Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” initiative.  A NRA-approved program.

I caught up with Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Trump’s most trusted personal confidante and official White House Playmate of the Month, half-way into her graveyard shift at the Trump Tower Full-Pay Medical Clinic and Make America Great Again Souvenir Concession.

“We were watching the news about that hospital in the Bronx, and—well, I guess you could say it was a lightbulb-over-the-head moment,” said Miss Wagstaff, as she carefully arranged ashtray replicas of the Las Vegas replica of the Great Pyramid of Ra.

“Cuddles got this weird look on his face, and then suddenly he shouted, ‘Health Care-tards!  That’s it!!  It’s fiscal responsibility, state lottery and reality show all in one!!!’  You know how he gets.”

First steps?  Ms Wagstaff hesitated for a moment.

wagstaffGun
Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Spokesplaymate for “Stand Your Ground against Health Care-Tards!”, and all-round good-time girl.

“I mean, the plan’s a little rough around the edges at this point, but so far we’ve issued firearms to all the doctors, the residents, senior nursing staff, the secretarial pool, and Mrs Pereira the night-shift cleaning lady, but we’re still fifty-fifty about giving one to that old guy with the aluminum pie plate hat who sleeps in the biohazard bins in the alley.”

Ms Wagstaff began polishing an enormous Jeff Sessions crystal paperweight, $49.99 on special.

“Donald says your average American does not want some little punk with a disease regular people can’t even pronounce lying around on a gurney the rest of us paid for, talking to a stuffed animal and getting sassy with the grown-ups, you know? Demanding more than his share of rice pudding and whining about the choice on the cable TV.”

What was the message here? Was this a teaching moment?

“Hmmm. Well, basically we’re talking I am not your keeper, every man for himself, all the things Ben Franklin put in the, you know. Bill of Franklin. Oh, snafu, or was that Bill Wrights?”  She sighed. “There’s so much to remember!”

Bill of Rights? I suggested.

But Ms. Wagstaff was interrupted by an anxious-looking elderly woman carrying a small suitcase and sleeping bag. The woman handed Ms Wagstaff a bunch of crumpled papers.

“Hey there, Mrs… Campbell!  Let’s get you sorted out! I see you’ve been booked in for our Half-Price Exploratory Heart Valve Procedure today at three. That’s awesome!”

I couldn’t help but be impressed as Ms Wagstaff moved on to the up-sell.

“Would you care to “Super Size” that to full open heart surgery for only fifty grand extra? You’ll also get an additional night in our shared single room, our post-op free gift of two aspirin and a glass of water, AND sheets for the bed!  Alrighty, then, no problem!  You’ll find it’s two floors up then hang a left for your pre-op holding pen.”

“Cheapskate,” she added, as the woman struggled up the stairs marked Economy Class.

“Doesn’t matter to some people that I’m on commission!” Ms Wagstaff strapped on her holster, donned a fresh white lab coat and gestured for me to accompany her.

“Walk this way,” she said, heading with a no-nonsense stride down the hallway.  I followed her through the double doors marked “Maternity”.

“I think this would be a great time to demonstrate the Random Cull”, Ms Wagstaff continued. “So, like—everyone in emerg, or everyone with a name that starts with C, or like today, I think we’ll do—black single moms. You get the idea?”

Ms Wagstaff suddenly whipped out her Glock, took aim and blasted the relevant beds and their occupants to kingdom come.

The entire ward had gone eerily quiet. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” She grabbed an orderly by the arm as he ran past.  “Hey, you. Wipe that blood off your face and go tell Mrs. Pork Chop we need her up here, pronto. Routine spill. Thanks, sugar.”

Ms Wagstaff looked wistful.

“Just between you and me, sometimes I wonder why he hired me in the first place. Whenever I ask him, he just laughs his head off and says, there’s two great, big, yuge reasons, Pegs—but then he never tells me what they are.”

~

Ben Franklin and Bill Wrights are—still flying their kites.

~

Some days you’re just —inspired.  On the other days, you write an ode.

Presenting, quite contrary to public demand, the cornea-straining, soporific, “can’t seem to stop my eyes rolling back in my head before I face-plant onto the keyboard” verbosity of my Canada Day ode, first trotted out a year ago.

Widely acclaimed by this guy I met at a party who works for The Globe and Mail, who said:

… destined to become a Canada Day 
read-out-loud-by-Dad-before-we-have-Kraft-Dinner-yet-again tradition with every patriotic, middle-class Canadian family.  Well, you know. Since they can’t actually afford a TV.  

Thanks, “pal”.  Another seven minutes I’ll never get back staring at the water mark on the ceiling.  Those Cialis cost money.


“A Beaver in Polite Company”

(An Absolutely Epic Ode
for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)

1.

O, Cana-DA!

O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee –!

From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a teepee)

While moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective, corn-syruped way
All beneath a stunning display beavercoin-500x505
Of shimmering Northern Lights,

Eh?

(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, 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.

CHORUS:
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-ligButter Tartshts 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!

 

2.

O Cana-DA!

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

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!

CHORUS:

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 – )
By Acclamation!

3.

O Cana-DA!

Free-shipping-2013-Sexy-Royal-Men-s-Mountie-Costume-Fashion-Canada-Mounted-Police-Uniform-for-LadiesGodless 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 ! »

4.

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, 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 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 we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Indeed!

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 aspirational 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 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 – !

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 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 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 labour,

thirdworldhospital
People’s Central Hospital of Torontokistan:  Private rooms available!

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 34,

“It is imperative that we find more Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad,
48th floor!

Raspberry flavour!!”

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

If it gets them the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.

5.

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.
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
Shove you:

A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:

Fuck, I
Love you.

©David Roddis, 20162017


UPDATE:

A reader has made the sniffy comment that my ode is “not very catchy”.

This is the kind of entitled, sour-grapes kind of sniping from political hobbyists that I’m forced to endure these days, and I’m well aware that this goes hand-in-hand with the kind of celebrity I enjoy now that my stats are well above 10.

Bernie Sanders told me to expect this and I didn’t believe him, well, no one did, really, and it’s to his eternal discredit that he didn’t mention this to me earlier.

Yeah, way to go, Trouble-Hair, and I’m just about fed up enough to reveal you stole that campaign slogan from your local Indian restaurant, “Mama Patel’s Tandoori Palace And Head Shop Buy Your Stiffie Pills Heer-Walla”.

“Feel the Bern”, indeed.

WhateVVVVVER. I welcome the completion of our “Giant Ice Palace from The French People” border wall once the sun goes down again, around August, which is when email transmission becomes dodgy, unless you’re with Rogers and never had any to begin with.

But you know, and can I just say, seriously. Try dancing my ode to the tune of that traditional Newfoundland fiddle classic, “Maple Syrup for my Beaver, Welfare for my Cod” and you’ll feel your toes tapping soon enough.

Even Ashley MacIsaac couldn’t piss on that one.

DJR

[PPS:  Justin – Called 83 times since 3AM but goes to VM, WTF???  The percs and the razor blades are lined up and I’m running a hot bath, so if you don’t want this on your conscience you better get your “cul” over here and continue our conversational French. Capisce?

Just tell Sophie you’re “going jogging so you can test drive those new socks.” Yeah, that’ll work.

Ditchez la biche et faites le Switch, baby. Ah, oui, tabernac, Marie-Joseph !!!!]

Grammar Dominatrix Miss Elvira Smedley whips your candy ass with commas, and you love it, bitch.

I have to get this off my chest.

It’s about something grammatical that is tearing my heart out by the roots, if a heart has roots in addition to all of those gross, rubbery-looking tubes and valves and shit. OK, so maybe not roots. But torn out.

Look it’s a metaphor, OK? Are you trying to help or not?

Alrighty then. What was I saying?

Oh yeah, restrictive and non-restrictive clauses and the correct use of commas.

I thought this was just something that illiterate millennials, if that’s not redundant, suffered from when posting stuff online about Adele’s latest “album” or trading instructions about how to microwave food faster.

Awe-SOMMMMMME!

But no. It is pandemic. It is appearing in PhD theses, in supposedly high-end magazines, but – let me make an analogy:

hbcYou can take The Bay – a byword for any brand whose defining character is beige, boring, my grandma would love it and I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead – change the name to “Hudson’s Bay” styled in a groovy-antique serif font, shove a Saks Fifth Avenue concession up its ass, and after all that—

Nobody’s fooled, honey. Where’s my itchy throw with the ghastly stripes, my dog needs one, and then I’m outta here.

It’s exactly, I mean literally, the same with grammar.

HERE IS WHAT IS TEARING MY HEART OUT BY THE ROOTS OR THE GROSS, RUBBERY-LOOKING TUBES AND VALVES AND SHIT OR WHATEVER WE DECIDED ABOUT THE METAPHOR THINGY, I MISSED THAT BIT:

What is wrong with this sentence?-

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before fellow composer, Dmitri Shostakovich, was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

It is the commas before and after “Dmitri Shostakovich”.

You do not use commas with a RESTRICTIVE CLAUSE.

Here’s the deal: can you remove the words “Dmitri Shostakovich” and still have the sentence make sense:

…only a few months before fellow composer was officially condemned….

No, you can’t. You have to have that clause there or it doesn’t make sense. What fellow composer? Dmitri Shostakovich.  The clause is restrictive, the words must flow and work together.

So here it is corrected using that restrictive clause:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before fellow composer Dmitri Shostakovich was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

You could rewrite the sentence so that you have a NON-restrictive clause:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before Dmitri Shostakovich, his fellow composer, was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda

Here, you CAN take out the words “his fellow composer” that are between the commas, and it still makes sense:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before Dmitri Shostakovich was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

RESTRICTIVE Clause – NO commas (the clause is essential for the sentence to make sense)

NON-RESTRICTIVE Clause – Commas (the clause can be omitted and the sentence still makes sense.)

SO:

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton traveled to London in 2015

NOT

Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, traveled to London in 2015

BUT also correct is:

Hillary Clinton, the Secretary of State, traveled to London in 2015

Geddit?

This error is now present everywhere, and it is an appalling example of what happens when people no longer read anything but garbage online. But when you read quality stuff – printed, published literature – that has jumped through all the hoops, you absorb correct language just as quickly.

Look out for this egregious error in your online travels, if accuracy and truth matter to you. Because when you can’t accurately use your own language, you can’t accurately express your thoughts.

Here endeth the lesson. Thanks for being there!  I love you guys!  You’re Awesommmmme!!

Now drop those knickers.



BONUS QUESTION:

What’s wrong with this sentence:

Donald Trump, Supreme Leader of the world’s greatest democracy,  hater of press freedom, four-time bankrupt, manipulative demagogue, proud misogynist, a man who holds the judiciary in contempt, someone with no experience of governing or knowledge of the workings of his own country’s democratic structure, was elected POTUS and given sole possession of the nuclear codes by a minority of eligible voters in November, 2016.

HINT:  It ain’t the commas.

~

In which the author, exhausted by maintaining his consistently superhuman level of blogging excellence, fobs you off with a “Twitchie”; +PLUS+ Dave be like “Click the button!”

20140731_084047-motion
First signs of President Trump Stress Disorder:  “The Twitchies”.

You may be wondering.

I’ve been lying in my bathtub since, you know—“the election”—my chin wobbling like my mother’s infamous tomato aspic from the effort of holding back my wild, existential cry of “What The Fuck, dude!?“.

For a little variety I count the missing chunks in the tile grouting,  while I figure out what necessities I’ll take to the special Alaskan holiday camp for homosexuals when Pence sends the order.

So far I’ve come up with:

two pink toothbrushes (one of them manual in case it’s hard to find batteries);

flap-in-the-back longjohns pinned to “open”;

Canada Goose parka, whose astronomical cost will force me to obtain an undercover coatcheck job at The Black Eagle and nab one while its naked owner is firmly strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross;

the fluorescent stuff your manservant puts on your nose in Gstaad before you frappez la piste;

my own bag of rocks (in case the ones they provide for hacking with a pickaxe “aren’t doing it for me”); and

DVD Special Extras Editions of “Now, Voyager” and “All About Eve” (which latter title always makes me want to scream, in desperate parody of those rabid christians who oppose equal marriage:  “They made ‘All About EVE’, not ‘All About STEVE’ !!).

So you see, though you may think I’m spending my time lolling like a catamite on black satin sheets, peeling grapes and licking Reddi-Whip off the butt-cracks of random 20-year-old skateboarders, I am, in fact, limp as a Cossack after a hard day’s rape and pillage. All this AND a case of severe,  possibly terminal, President Trump Stress Disorder.

PTSD is a parlous state manifesting as reflexive mouse-clicking while asleep, nicotine overdose and an attention span stretched so wafer-thin that I’ve had to several times during my breakfast revisit the instructions on the Kellog’s Frosted Flakes box (for some reason I keep bungling Step 6: “Enjoy!”).

This lifetime-benefits-worthy level of election-induced disability is completely related to my self-imposed burden of riffing on the greatest show on earth, the recent coronation of Citizen Don. Even more than Obama, he proved that, in America, anyone—and believe me when I say, anyone—can make their American Dreams come hideously true.

But The Donald, with his secret, award-winning recipe of a thin coating of élite enclosing a filled-with-nuts Trump-lump of pure white trash, topped that heap without any of that fancy book-larnin’ and puttin’ on airs, don’t ya know;  and, it should by now go without saying, definitely without flaunting any unpatriotic skin tones.

Real ‘Murcans, as it turns out, like a bit of authenticity with their despots.  Not grace under pressure, but pressure sans grace, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything. President O, are you taking notes?  Really, some of my best friends are Hahvad grads, but did you hafta be so goldarned – well, <whisper> BLACK about it? Property values, dude, property values!

And dull!?  OMFG!! The country that invented serial killing then brainstormed it into production-line hamburger franchises was hardly in the mood for Percy Faith and his hundred and one strings; this high-minded mellow; this,“let’s take it slow, ACA, baby, and if I said you have a beautiful body politic would you hold it against me?”  No tantrums, no marital problems, no scandals —

Basically, Barry:  Who the fuck do you think you are?

You have patience alright, my fine dusky-feathered friend, patience in spades; and I’m very sorry about the crude pun, but hey. Come February, 2017, you could probably find a job watching glaciers melt.

I hear there’s positions opening up as we speak.

~

Moving right along, allow me to throw off this lead apron of despair that god-the-invisible-dentist has fastened around my neck as casually as Luigi at the Spaghetti Factory used to fasten the red and white bib so you shouldn’t get sauce on your tie.   And while I’m lightening the tone,  may I say, to the accompaniment of the little smooching noises I make into my webcam,  I’m just LOVIN’ ME some new header (see above. Where did you think the header was? Are you a Luddite? I mean, seriously, dude).

I’ll be honest—and you may want to sit down for this bit after getting your impressionable youngsters out of earshot—it’s a “me” thing.  Ya know??!   I like it because it’s created by me, which makes it a macaroni pic par excellence, and I like it because it’s all portraits of me at various points in my life, including the day I invented “male camel toe”, when I was five.

Oh yeah, baby.  I had ambition back then.

I like my header because Hillary’s in it, gallivanting in rainbow pantsuits across my gaunt, vicarious election-losertard face. How many millions of people can say that?

Exactly!

Do I come across as shallow?

Please, please don’t despair. Just because I’m my own schizoid fan club, including the mousey, horn-rimmed secretary, a phone-it-in role for Patricia Hitchcock, AND the sultry, wisecracking, torpedo-breasted head of the social committee, a turn that simply begs for the ministrations of Lauren Bacall – that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know. TOTALLY CRAVE your clicking my “Like” button.  

No, you can’t go to Breitbart just yet, honey. Settle down, OK?

Don’t think for one second that your opinion doesn’t matter, because, dudes, since you asked, and I’m only going to say this once:

« I’m the neediest friggin’ cocksucker from here to Des Moines. »

No question.  I’m so fucking needy, it’s insane.  I’m like the baby bird in the nest, cheep cheep!  opening my naked maw for the slimy, wiggling worms of your validation;  I’m your golden lab puppy whining for food and water, yapping its promise of total, abject love from the cold basement room;

I’m Richard Burton tied to the bedpost while Liz sits at her dressing table, removes her bra, puts scarlet lipstick on her nipples:-

That’s how much your opinion matters to me; in fact, this may be the ONE TIME today, in your life even, when your opinion matters so much to someone.  Or at all!

Think about that, my collective Virginia. Think about that really hard. But only for a short period of time, because the implications – well.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?  Unless you make sure you think with extreme, concentrated effort, and keep it, like, under twenty or maybe thirty seconds, tops. That could work.

Alrighty?  So, just to make absolutely nail-it-to-the-floor certain we’re all on the same page, my final instructions are:  Think REALLY hard for a SHORT time about your opinion mattering.  To me. OK?  Let’s see how well you get on.

Frankly, with most of you we’re happy if we can hold a mirror to your lips and see some fogging, so the bar is, I admit, extremely low. But I’m reasonably confident about the “Like” button thing being within your grasp. At least for some of you.

OK.

I feel, and don’t ask me how, that at this point one or two of the more-or-less uncoachable ones amongst you may be wondering:  Is David being bossy ? Is David, like, a bossy person?

PUH-LLLLEASE!  Let me set the record straight once again.  Since you asked.

I am not bossy.  I am goal-oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?

Now, CLICK, dammit.

CLICK!!??!!

-£-

Breaking news: Americans are even BIGGER dumb-ass motherfuckin’ retards than anyone thought!

October 26, 2049

trumptard
Supreme Leader Donald Trump describes a hilarious encounter with  Angela Merkel.

TRUMPINGTON, D.C.:  The world is reeling today after results of the largest IQ test in history reveal what many of us had long suspected:  

Americans are so bag-of-rocks dumb, you could pour a case of vodka down their throats and they’d STILL wonder “why people called their mom ‘crack ho’ when she’d never even been to Poland.”   Seriously??!

The IQ test was designed to be as simple as possible, with straight-forward multiple-choice questions such as:

“The former New York City is now an underwater zebra mussel farm as a result of :

a) a whole bunch of socialist, leaking fire hydrants;

b) complete melting of the polar ice caps due to human-exacerbated global warming;

OR

c) fulfillment of the End Times as described in The Book of Revelations, or was it The Secret we can never get that straight.”

Astonishingly, a quick review of the results revealed that many Americans missed the correct official answer, (a) socialist fire hydrants, casting doubt on the validity of the whole exercise.

But, hey.

Keeping America Stupid For Its Own Good

The testing had taken place over a period of 18 months, administered on the front parking lot of the magnificent glass-and-steel Trump Caucasian Bunker, Supreme Leader Trump’s fulfillment of his first campaign promise.

“As part of my plan to make America great again,” The Donald had reiterated throughout his months of stumping, “I will ditch all the antique crap, up to and including equal rights, that Sanders dude and, top of the list –  that rickety old clam shack called the White House!

“Like, seriously,‘What a dump!!’

This was consistently received with roars of approval from his supporters, although the pundits generally agree that the Bette Davis allusion was a tad recherché.

So it was with a chest-tightening pang of nostalgia that we witnessed the long-awaited test results finally being released to the public last night during the “Thinking Makes My Head Hurt, So Thank Our Supreme Leader It’s, Like, Totally OVERRRR?!” official wrap party.

And, I confess, it brought a tear even to this jaded reporter’s eye to watch some dusky-skinned Uppity’s (the new citizen-class officially referred to as “Less-Equals”, or more casually as just “niggers”) affix the print-outs to the Shaming Boards of the Imperial Dunkin’ Station – at which venue, I might add, a particularly rowdy session was in full flood.

Sorry, couldn’t resist!  Geddit!?  Flood!?  LM friggin’ AO!!!

Dunkin’:
From Donuts to Dissent, An Idea Whose Time Had Come

Enemies of the Donald have been publicly interrogated at the Dunkin’ Station since the Year Five – or rather, “dunked”, an inspired branding  which occurred to our Supreme Leader late one night while he was being fed an Entenmann’s glazed donut by a member of his intimate support team, The Comfort Chicks. 

DID YOU KNOW?
Properly performed, “dunkin’s” encourage non-whites, gays, femi-Nazis and other Libtard traitors to confess their membership in blacklisted groups such as:-

Fuckin’ Jews who Read and Even Write! Books,
Fuckin’ Faggots Who Ram It Down Your Throats (and Not In A Good Way)
Fuckin’ PC Libtards Who Don’t Own A Gun
Stupid Cunts Who Refuse To Behave Like Ladies, and
Dumb Bitches Too Stupid to Cook and Too Ugly To Fuck.

Last night saw both Station and interrogators at full throttle, much to the delight of the hand-picked, all-menfolk invitees (though what a pity that fugitive “Bizzie” Lizzie Warren continues to evade justice, despite the best efforts of the Supreme Leader’s private police force to detain her.

Libtard bitch!  Which leads us to:

Beloved Traditions, Burning Women

burnedAdding to the celebratory atmosphere were the anguished, ear-piercing shrieks emanating from the Screaming Women Bonfire, for decades one of the most beloved rituals of the Trump reign, and traditionally held in the former Rose Garden.

Last night was an enjoyably raucous burning, leading many world leaders to speculate that the victims had been deliberately given hope of a reprieve,  a torture known as “The Emperor’s Payback for Femi -Nazi Ball-Breakers and Cock Teasers”.

Supreme Leader Trump, eloquent as always, summed up the joyful mood of the crowd, and indeed all American menfolk, as he spoke from his customary place on the outdoor, wittily-named Equal Opportunity Fellating Platform.

Despite his advanced years—and last July’s near-catastrophe when one of the Comfort Chicks failed to notice that the “side of beef” she was defrosting for a State Barbeque was actually the cryogenically-frozen Supreme Leader—good catch, Comfort Chick Tiffany!!—Trump appeared relaxed and confident, boyish, even, his toupee rakishly askew and still glowing bright orange like a beacon of hope as he continued to receive his official blow-job from Monday’s winner and the two runners-up of the “Miss Best-Fuck-In-America-This-Week!!! Pageant”.

An Inspiration to All Retards

“My fellow Bro’s!”, he began, as the thrilled crowd of menfolk prostrated themselves, per protocol, on the groomed Astroturf. This splendid recent addition to the Bunker’s landscaping undulates gently down from the Fellating Platform, across Melania Street—as fine a cul-de-sac as ever we’ve seen—and up to the very gates of Lost Bimbo Park.

Demonstrating our Leader’s concern for those to whom life has dealt a difficult hand was the participation of the “Retardettes”, his “volunteer” group of Topless Signers for the Extra-Retarded, who conveyed his speech in Super Basic English.

“You may be dumb-ass motherfuckin’ retards”, he continued, between occasional gasps of pleasure.

“… but this is the best fuckin’ triple blowjob a Supreme Leader ever had!!!  Hey, honey – watch the teeth, will ya???!!!”

~


Meanwhile, somewhere in the basement of the Trump Caucasian Bunker…

Hillary Rodham Clinton, convicted Femi-Nazi, Libtard,“not even particularly hot”, still behind bars at 102

transp--HILLARY PANTSUITS
The Hilltard, convicted Femi-Nazi and not even particularly hot with it.  What’s THAT all about???!!!

In a related story, today also marked the 102nd birthday of convicted terrorist Hillary “The Hilltard” Rodham Clinton, still serving three consecutive life sentences for multiple counts of “Being an Uppity, Lying Femi-Nazi and Not Even Particularly Hot With It”, though no official acknowledgement was forthcoming.

However, the FBI did manage once again to keep up its beloved tradition of releasing each year on Clinton’s birthday another thirty-thousand emails from her private server.

These, as usual, appeared to consist mainly of shopping lists related to her ill-fated Presidential campaign, communications with the former Clinton Foundation, and plans for her daughter’s wedding, as well as a couple of submarine blueprints, the location of every ready-to-deploy smart bomb in the Middle East around 2012, and the names of all double-agents formerly active in the Russian Federation.

The last ten thousand or so were especially baffling, consisting entirely of countless iterations of the phrase, “I WILL stay at home and bake cookies…”

What was the significance to Hillary of this mysterious mantra?

Was it a signal to a shadowy cadre of underground operatives?  A meditation aid?

Or did The Hilltard finally seek to express her remorse for her misguided appropriation of men’s roles, her Femi-Nazi’d, pant-suited failure to know a woman’s rightful place? 

Yeah, right. That could happen.

LOL!


THIS JUST IN:  Hillary emails irrelevant, contain no evidence, for thirty-second consecutive year.

Former record of thirty-one consecutive years broken in surprise upset 

The FBI has just issued the following statement regarding this year’s thirty-thousand Hillary emails:  

<BEGIN STATEMENT>

Hey guys, this is, like, the FBI, soooo—you know the emails?

Yeah?  OK, well just forget about them.

comey laughThat’s right!  Forget about the emails, guysthere’s absolutely nothing important there!

You got it: Absolutely nothing!!  Nada!

I mean, not even a typo!

No crime!  Not even the INTENT of a crime!  Which we already knew, so like, why the heck

Oh man… Sorry, can’t keep a straight face… LOL!!

Like we know there’s nothing there, but we release them anyway!  LMAO!!

Man, are we a bunch of goofs or what??!!

Like, here’s us, releasing the emails: “Oops!  Irrelevant!!”

Ya know!!??

What a big, gol-darned  election-spoilin’ wank about sweet bippity-boo, right?  HA HA HA!!   Complete jerk-off!

Oh, my ribs!  Oh, boy oh boy!!??  Jeez, gottacalm down, here… deep breaths…  deep breaths…

OK, that’s it.  “Emails OK” is the message. Alrighty?  Now, everyone get some sleep!

Emails. Are. Fine !!

Ok!  Nighty-night!  Sorry!!

Our bad!!!”

<END STATEMENT>

~

And it’s nighty-night all over the republic.  

goodfriends

 

Trump: “Hillary stole my campaign slogan!” +PLUS+ Trump! jokes?


trump campaign

“Hillary Clinton is a piece of work, I tell ya.

“Isn’t she a piece of work? This would be a great time to applaud!

“And corrupt!   Hoo, boy! Can you believe she stole my campaign slogan? That’s ‘Old Sticky Fingers’ to a tee. And to think I can remember a time when we only called Bill that!

“It’s a shame ’cause the slogan has always been and always will be about me and my homeboys and how we support each other in being the absolute very best autocratic leaders we can be.

“And when one of us loose cannons has any old half-baked idea — well, there’s nothing we like better than to get together over a few beers and nurture that stinker until we’ve taken simple bad-boy economic hijinks and turbo-charged them into world-destabilizing shenanigans of historical proportions!

“It’s a guy thing, it’s a competitive thing, and it’s beautiful. Isn’t it beautiful?

“ ’Cause guys love to have heroes. I tell ya, guys love to have heroes. Did I say that already?  Well, they do. They love to see someone achieve the way I’ve achieved, they love to hang with me, watch the game, shoot the breeze. They do!

“It’s male bonding at its finest, minus the blowjobs, and very, very occasionally, not minus, as Vladimir will tell you given half a chance. Hell, given half a chance he’ll SHOW you!

“What it boils down to is this: You take a kajillion dollars from your dad and invest in schemes that cannot fail and go bankrupt four times. Yeah, you. Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try.

“Four times? You’d probably still be buying yachts and personal Lear jets and small Greek islands and emerald tiaras with stones the size of plovers’ eggs and literally kilos of the best Colombian shit, trying to make a dent in your inheritance, and yet, day after day — not only NOT a dent — interest on the principal!

“So don’t even think of taking me on. Leave the hard slog to the entrepreneurial genius. You understand that’s me, right?

“As for that socialist-libtard Hillary Rodham Clinton — socialist-libtard, you love that, don’t you? Yes, you do!

“Trust me, I know how to handle that kind of broad. You just have to get her outta that goddamn pantsuit and get it onto you.

“No question about it. YOU gotta wear the pants, and if that leaves her standing there in her scanties and bra, well, tough titties, Miz Hillary-Wannabe-POTUS. You wanna compete in a man’s game, sweetheart, you got no business wearing anything below the waist.

“Now, I say fuck all this PC bullshit and let’s see how crooked Hillary enjoys a few refreshing hours of waterboarding!

“Waterboarding for Hillary!  Whaddaya think? You agree with me? Of course you do!  This would be a great time to applaud!

“Anyway, gotta step on it — I see a cloud of dry ice headin’ our way and if I miss this one it’s a twenty-minute wait. Now that’s something that’s gonna be fixed!

“OK, guys and gals! See ya in the White House! Probably in the basement, where I’m planning a few more, shall we say, “guest rooms”. Yeah, well. Socialist-libtards, consider yourself advised.

“This would be a great time to applaud!!  Did I say that already?!”

Donald I
Supreme Leader

BIOGRAPHY:

Donald Trump is America’s best known billionaire, demagogue and Supreme Leader. Through his educational initiative, Trump University, he shares his secrets of success and empowers anyone with a billion in inherited wealth to make their dreams a reality with his unique system of false advertising, back-room deals, out-and-out fraud and the occasional death threat* (*Level II) .

“The American Dream is not dependent on intelligence, empathy, education, customer care or any other socialist-libtard doo-dads,” he says, with characteristic “tell it like it is” frankness. “It’s all about having so much fuckin’ money coming outta your ass that no one can even touch ya!

Mr. Trump cites P.T. Barnum and Saddam Hussein as his most formative influences.

Look for his new book , “Mein Trumpf!”, on the New York Times’s Bestseller List, where he’s sure it will be once everyone in the United States » obeys Directive TR-048c « and buys a copy.


~Trump! jokes?~

You’ll be the life of your next mandatory “Praise to the Supreme Leader For All Eternity” official gathering when you master these howlers!  Knee-slapping and choking on your rum punch optional (but recommended — you never know who that “new neighbour” might be reporting to!).

1.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Trump.
Trump who?

Seriously?  It’s me, Donald Trump, asshole! Listen, sweetheart, do you know how well liked I am? I’m YUGE!!!
~

2.

Donald Trump walks into a bar, where he sees a rabbi, an imam and a priest having a talk with some illegal Mexican immigrants.

Hi guys, he says. Let’s make America great again!

Then he gives a signal and suddenly — the imam and all the Mexicans are being herded into a black van with bags over their heads!!!
~

3.

Donald Trump — stop me if you heard this before — orders a hooker through an online website. When she arrives at Trump Tower, she’s everything he hoped for: Tall, leggy, blond hair, perfect tits the size of basketballs and a keister you could really sink your teeth into.

So he fucks her, pays her fee plus a big tip — then activates the nuclear codes!!!
~

4.

A little old lady is walking her toy poodle down Fifth Avenue in New York. Suddenly she sees Donald Trump coming out of a condo.

“Hey, Donald Trump!” she calls out. “You cocksucker! Gimme my money back!”

Then she hurls the dog at his face. “Eat poodle shit!” she screams.

So Trump takes out his Glock, and — still with the dog on his face, right? — starts like, randomly shooting!!!

I know, seriously! Oh, man, I wish you coulda seen it! Went for a couple beers after.
~

5.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Trump.
Trump who?

Are you fucking kidding?  Listen, wiseguy, all the chicks on The Apprentice came on to me. All of them!  Sooner or later. I mean, you gotta expect it, right? How much you wanna bet I’m gonna hit you so hard your head will spin?
~

6.

Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump are lying in bed together having a post-coital cigarette. Donald’s sulking.

“If you can’t satisfy me, what makes you think you can satisfy America?” says Hillary, with scorn. Then she takes pity on him. “Baby, I’m sorry I mentioned the toupée.”

Two weeks later, her dismembered body is discovered when a couple of kids stumble upon a large Louis Vuitton trunk that’s been dumped near the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.

“I told them to hack her,” Trump says, when informed of the discovery.

“Those crazy Russians musta taken me literally!!”


~

There really is nothing remotely funny about Donald Trump.

“A Beaver in Polite Company”

(An Absolutely Epic Ode for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)

beavercoin-500x505

O, CanaDA!

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
And Freedoms
That all female komrads  – wards of the State from birth to baby-bonus to personopause,
right up until they’re dead –
Must, hélas!
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
Of fences;
Cause it’s such innocent fun when our tongues get stuck.

CHORUS:
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-ligButter Tartshts 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 !!

O Canada!

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

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!

CHORUS:

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 – )
By Acclamation!

O Canada!

Free-shipping-2013-Sexy-Royal-Men-s-Mountie-Costume-Fashion-Canada-Mounted-Police-Uniform-for-LadiesGodless 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 ! »

O Canada!

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.
Indeed!

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 –

homo –

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

thirdworldhospital
People’s Central Hospital of Torontokistan:  Private rooms available!

– 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,
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 and a tendency
To get restless legs, and 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.
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
Shove you:

A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:

Fuck, I
Love you.

©David Roddis, 20162017

 


 

canadian-flag-1

“[The flag] will symbolize to each of us—and to the world—the unity of purpose and high resolve to which destiny beckons us.”

His Excellency Major-General the Right Honourable Georges Vanier,
Governor-General of Canada (1959 – 1965),
at the Inauguration of
the National Flag of Canada,
February, 1965.