Trump

Don’t Drop the Democracy

Well, well, well, America. Aren’t we full of surprises. You little freckle-faced rascals!

You’ve done something good. You’ve made a start on redeeming yourself; made a little wobbly-oopsy baby-step towards taking America from a state of total insanity back to the regular, day-to-day state of verging-on-insanity that we all know and love.

Democrats control the House — unprecedented wins for women, women of color, Native, Muslim and LGBT candidates — you’ve been holding out on me, you sly puss! Sincere and heartfelt congratulations.

We won’t, not yet anyway, take on those topics of: Gerrymandering and voter suppression, Republican specialties, and it is a toss-up whether you’d classify these activities as art, for the exquisite finesse in the redrawing of boundaries; or sport, for the breathtaking speed of execution and their brazen exhibitionism.  Either way, any close-call vote is suspect, notably in Georgia, where I understand the person in charge of the election’s integrity is also a candidate.  Conflict of interest much?

The post-mortems are already underway, but as a Canadian I can just take the day off and spend it sighing with relief.  I can still remember — and, youngsters, let me take a second to hook my thumbs behind my suspenders — how my loins shuddered and my flanks trembled from my absolute shock a couple of years ago when, in the wee hours after the election, I heard a crowd of voices outside my apartment on Sherbourne Street, in Toronto — if you’re not familiar with the geography, just think “up there” — then somebody saying something like, “Holy fuck, TRUMP!”, then everyone bursting out laughing.

It was, indeed, holy fuck Trump, and were I to say that you’ve exceeded my expectations by reining him in a little, please note that this is sincere — but also a bit like those desperate compliments you give your friend who’s just made their acting début in the local amateur production of “The Mousetrap,” where they say the line “dinner is served” with the gawdawful stiffness of those who have thought too much about how to say “dinner is served,” then disappear for the rest of the evening.

And you are obliged to sit through the whole damn play because you have to go backstage afterwards and tell them, “Well, gosh, Darlene, I’ll be honest — I never knew you had it in ya!”

So, here’s the deal. You got your common sense back, sort of — though it involved waiting until Trump was literally on the verge of holding a fascist-style parade, I can imagine the armed Boy Scouts in formation and modestly-clad girls performing gymnastics, because healthy women are needed to breed the Amerikanisches volk — and you have partially put a little bit of a check on Republicans run amok —

But—and I have to go here, yes—you just couldn’t elect another ssssshhhhh! black! man! for Governor of Florida, could you? That was way too much to hope for. That’s still just too errrrrr crunchy and difficult to get your heads around. We understand, and don’t forget — baby steps! It’s important not to take on more menschly normal than you can handle at a go. Saving the Free World from Trump is just fine for today.

‘Cause we know how the last black guy worked out, right? I mean, can you just imagine those Klan members’ brains, with those racist neurons and synapses firing back and forth — slave!/POTUS! slave!/POTUS! error! error! error! — until the cognitive dissonance was just too much overheating of the circuits. The greatest cross-burning opp of a lifetime, and whitey’s got mind-frazzle!

And, right on cue, like an army of rejects from a Cronenberg casting call, comes The Awakening. In this riff on The Manchurian Candidate, an entire shadowy doppel-nation of slumbering fascists is stirred into action by the opening words of Obama’s inauguration ceremony. Their eyes take on a remote, permanently glazed appearance as they stock up on ammunition, check the tire pressure, maybe research the End of Days, because what else could this be?

(Your best friend has changed his name to “Biff,” buzzed his hair and joined The League of Pretty White Boys. Next thing you know he’s going skinny dipping in the bayou with his new buds, putting “Gurlz keep out!” signs on his treehouse and getting suspiciously interested in Physical Culture. You can no longer have a meaningful conversation because your values don’t align and besides, it’s really hard to talk when he’s playing “Ein Heldenleben” at full volume…

Democracy is not the default.  Goodness is not the default.  Fairness and empathy and love and justice are not the norm.

… And I know, like any marketer knows, that sequels are a shoo-in because they combine just enough novelty with a big helping of the familiar and predictable. In which case, I think it’ll knock ’em dead in Des Moines, how about you?)

All that ugly racism awakened, yet from Obama: class and grace and decency, eight years of taking the high road . Like, what was that crazy-ass American Dream fucktard-ery all about?

I mean, stop the merry-go-round of normal! I need to take my crazy pills and chase them with a big, hot, foaming, rabid Trumpstein of white supremo!

— so, you’ve made a tiny initial act of reparation for the sinking-in-synch of democracy worldwide that Trump has enabled. You’re like the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman who throws dirt on the lady’s carpet so he can demonstrate how “nothing sucks like an Electrolux.”  Or you threw a banana peel in front of good government and it slipped and broke its ankle and now it’s finally off the crutches, and where does that leave us?  Right back where we started.

So don’t go all self-congratulatory and amber-waves-of-grain just yet. Keep going, and don’t lose this momentum. Take out your smartphone now and make some movies or even animated GIFs of all of you being happy and jumping around so you have a reference if you forget what momentum means.

Don’t lose momentum. Prove that you’ve learned the lesson:

Democracy is not the default.  Goodness is not the default.  Fairness and empathy and love and justice are not the norm. These things are precious and extraordinary and they have an exquisitely fine-tuned eco-system, an equilibrium that can be destroyed.

Prove that you know: the fight for democracy is never done.  There is no time off.

We will never let you forget that, somehow, you guys  were put in charge of democracy— god only knows why — and then someone yelled, “Chicken ‘n biscuits ‘n Red-Eye Gravy!!! AND FRAHS!!!” and you all just spun around and you lost your grip and you dropped it.

Jeezus Murphy.

Just don’t drop the democracy. OK? Wear rubber gloves if you need a little more traction.

40803-1t1-qff2ypb0es7yc5-0voq
Blue Wave Ish.

Also, get Young People to vote. If they ask what voting is, tell them it’s something easy that they can microwave and eat right out of the box and someone else will wash up after them.

In fact, tell them that voting is all about them and you’ll do it for them, if they’ll just come along. You’ll have their socks pulled on and their laces tied and their noses wiped and them ready to head to the polls faster than they can say, “That’s so, like. Totally woke!”

Also, make sure Bernie doesn’t run again. For anything. Maybe run for coffees, at least that’ll get him out of the house. But in that case, make sure he’s the only one running for coffee, take care that he knows that you know he’s in charge of the coffee, and if he drops the coffee, just pat his little nutty professor head and say there, there and tell him you didn’t really want coffee anyway.

I mean, you dropped the democracy, you’re no one to judge.

Because I would say, work on your universal health care. Work on this one concept, so you can shout those words in, say, a crowded theatre, without someone screaming back “Satanic Socialist Hillary Communism Obama!” and you’ll have taken an important first step. Leave the hygge and the full-frontal free-meatballs-for-all social democratic platform with lingonberry sauce until you’ve got a little more practice under your belt. K?

And please, it’s alright. No, honestly. Don’t apologize about your little mishap with the world’s peace, order and freedom.

Just don’t friggin’ let it happen again.

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Can You Spot All Eight TrumpTicks On This Muffin? CDC Creeps Out Internet With Horrific Viral Post!

trumptick

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) have tweeted a photo of a muffin that has ruined muffins for everybody.

Trumpticks, with their tiny minds and even twinier hwands, can totally spoil your day should you accidentally ingest some of their toxic ideas, which have been described as “completely indigestible”.

The merest nibble on a half-baked Trumptick can cause Alzheimer’s-like confusion, inability to deal with progress and a compulsion to spew out any old dumb, offensive nonsense the second it occurs to you.  Advanced symptoms include pulling weird faces while standing in front of a lectern, shrinkage of the brain to pin size, and lopsided hair that takes on a repellent, orangey sheen.  Pretty soon you’re running to your kids’ school with guns for all the teachers, compulsively pressing elevator buttons and phoning out for Korean barbecue with “the nuclear option”.

If you see a Trumptick that’s latched onto you, DO NOT SQUEEZE ITS HEAD, which is empty anyway, and kind of a gross out.  Take a big pair of tweezers and pull slowly while chanting, “This is how to make America great again”.  It’s a lot easier than you think.

Once you’ve done that, just call Nancy Pelosi.  She can’t help, but, you know.

She’d appreciate the attention.

Planting little kisses all over my face in the mirror…

I mean, normally that’s YOUR job, gentle and misguided reader.  But I’ll give you the day off from following my EULA to the very letter.   You deserve this not for any action on your part – puhLEEEASE! – but  because I have triumphed over the forces of darkness that have been swirling around my ankles like a choirboy’s cassock at a Vatican audition.

But first:  What was your favorite Trump moment of the past week?  Mine was his retort to Theresa May, PM of Britain.  In case you hadn’t heard, Prime Minister May, in an unprecedented public shaming, chided Trump for displaying extreme, and almost certainly fake, racist, anti-Muslim videos obtained from extreme UK right-wing group “Britain First”.

May’s office condemned Britain First for its use of “hateful narratives which peddle lies and stoke tensions.”

The statement continued, “The British people overwhelmingly reject the prejudiced rhetoric of the far-right, which is the antithesis of the values that this country represents — decency, tolerance and respect.”

Then, unequivocal condemnation:  “It is wrong for the President to have done this.”

Trump, like a defensive high school kid caught red-handed smoking behind the recycling bins and sent to the Principal’s office, decided to “Back atcha” her with a little arrogant, patronizing cyberbullying:

trump-may

How was he to know that he targeted the tweet to the wrong Theresa May?

Yup, that’s right.  Although this sounds like something lifted verbatim from satirical magazine The Onion, it is unfortunately true: Theresa May Scrivener, a 41-year-old British citizen with a protected Twitter account of six followers, said, “I haven’t been able to leave my house. I’ve been bombarded and contacted by press from around the world.”

She added,

“It’s amazing to think that the world’s most powerful man managed to press the wrong button,” she said. “I’m just glad he was not contacting me to say he was going to war with North Korea.”

No kidding.  Britain First, a hate group, is reviled by most British citizens (who, despite May’s brave words are no slouches in the racism department), is in trouble with the law, and represents possibly the worst candidate for publicizing by a President of the United States that you could possibly choose. From a fringe position of near invisibility to world-wide notoriety in one instant—all thanks to The Donald.

I wonder what the gaffes are that we DON’T hear about…?


And now, back to me, thank ya JEEEEEEZUS!

Takin’ a spin on a Gigolo +PLUS+ Didja notice…?

There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay

men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store.  (“Shop till you pop?”)

Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.

Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.

This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”

F Machine Gigolo

Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?

Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?

Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.

We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.

Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :

Jim:   Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred:  Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert:  Sweet ride, man!

 

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—!  Whaddaya know! Eureka!

I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:

Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)

Take America.  Please.  Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down.  Prepare to die, America!  You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!

Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.

Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency.  The first being, you know.  His Presidency.

Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas?  Something along these lines?

Hey Mel. Mel?”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”

“Yeah, what?”  

“How much did I spend on that.”

“You like, baby?”

“They’re fucking awesome.” 

“This I am also thinking.”

Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water:  “This is big water!  The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mara-Lago!  This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”

Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.

As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.

trump-0cbb608c-6e23-4639-9e35-a301f82f6f65

Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?

But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions.  How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!

I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.

“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up.  I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.

The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.

There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own.  Score: Dave, 1.

Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!

Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!

Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.

Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.

Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom).  I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.

I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.

Things just might be looking up.

~

Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?

Even better:  My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com.  That’s right.  I configured a sub-domain.  The tits are off the bull!

Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page.  Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise.  Kind of thing?

And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1.  Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3.  Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse.   I could really use the support right now.

And a Gigolo.

DR

 

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 !!!!]