A Royal dilemma for the Harpers
Laureen, unlock the door.
But it’s not fair; you promised.
I know, I know, bug. It’s a hard pill to swallow but you know it’s not my fault.
It’s never your fault.
Please, you have to listen. It’s that Jack Layton and his pinko team. They promised they’d support the budget. We threw them a few bones, like we said we would. That Retrofit program, more money for low rent seniors, bribes for doctors to live in the boonies. And that bastard reneged.
I don’t care. A promise is a promise. I’ve already made a gift out of our leftover decorations from the Arts Centre ball. I spent, like twelve hours holding a glue gun and my pinkie is sore. What am I gonna tell the parents at Rockcliffe Park? We’re the only people, like in the country, who snagged an invite — well except Dave Furnish, maybe Bryan Adams, definitely Justin Bieber.
Look sweet ‘ems, they’re coming to Canada on the First. We’ll take them out some place nice. You can tool around with Kate on the back of your bike for a while. How ’bout that?
Can’t I just take, John?
No sweetie, not this time. John will be busy slaying dragons. I mean we have a lot of problems this time. Scandals. I knew there was something about that Bruce Carson. That girl did look young enough to be his granddaughter. I should have asked the RCMP to do a background check, I guess. My bad.
Maybe I can ask that nice Mountie to come with me.
Sorry, sweetie. The plus one is pretty specific.
Darn. I hate politics. I’m going to Michael’s to get some more sparkles for that tiara I’m making.
Okay, bed bug. Keep the receipt. I’m hoping to get a tax credit for art supplies on next year’s income tax.