Ida Indifferent

I watched, somewhat disheartened, as the wind whipped around and finally defeated my David McGuinty sign the other day.

There it sat, flat on the lawn, felled by a force that was beyond any defence its tiny little feet could muster.

The winds of change, I thought.

This happened the very day that I read this in the Ottawa Citizen:

“Tories poised to win HUGE majority.”

I nearly hurled my omelette, egg whites only, hold the yolks.

I found this funny.

No applause, please and hold the yolks.

Then I read something even stranger.

“Jack Layton”, the headline read. “Next opposition leader?”

Oh well. Time to turn the page. I hear there is another Scream movie out.

I’m not a very good Liberal. I lapsed in the 90s during the Chretien years.

God, I hated Chretien.

The Chretien Liberals ruined the Party, especially in Quebec. Paid off their friends handsomely though.

Paid the true believers in the Party back by making Liberals look like crooks.

Merde on the faces of Liberals everywhere — even swell guys like Ken Dryden and Marc Garneau.

Hard to get up after a hit like that.

Merci, Jean, merci beaucoup.

 Iggy’s still wearing it, smelling of the Chretien stench and he wasn’t even in the country.

As our Tory pals like to point out.

Word to Tory advertising creeps.

If you were a Liberal and you were out of the country in the 90s, that was a good thing.

It’s hard to believe that I actually once worked in the PMO when Pierre Trudeau was still mocking the country.

God, I loved Trudeau.

But then, I was 25 and I also loved drinking MPs twice my age under the table at the Press Club.

And eating bacon.

Loved all three: Pierre, beer and bacon, though none of them were good for me.


I had fun back when politics was sport. There was free booze, sex and advice available every Wonderful Wednesday.

Tylenol on Thursdays.

Pierre Deniger was alive. So was Doug Frith.

There was no such thing as the Bloc Quebecois. Jean LaPierre was the head of Liberal Caucus.

Then he turned coat and became a separatist. Then he became a  mouthpiece talking out of his ass.

Like Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.

There is one good thing about this election.

Jackie Boy.

I’m lovin’ Jackie Boy whipping Duceppe with his barbed cane, ripping the meat right off his delicately Luffah-ed backside.

It’s taken Quebecers, what? Twenty years to discover that with the Bloc they get nothing.

Not even eggrolls.

I can’t wait to see Pat Martin on the front bench hurling butts at Stephen Harper.

He reminds me of Sheila Copps without the granny pants. 

 I went out and resurrected my sign, polished it up and put it back.

I’m too old to change my ways.

I’m not afraid of a Stephen Harper majority. Things can’t get much worse.

I’ve been down so long that it looks like up to me.

Iggy’s family pack has nothing it in for a woman my age. My kids are out of university. I’ll be dead before my grandkids come of age.

Harper ruined it for everybody. He racked up such a big deficit  that nobody can do nuthin’

No Virginia, there will be no Santa Claus after this election, no white knight who’s going to swoop in and save us all.

Only a guy in a nice suit who can spin his head around twice while singing Beatles tunes, off-key, backwards.

In a blue sweater.

The cupboards are bare.

Thanks, thanks a lot.


I want to believe in Canada again.

But I don’t.

I believe it’s best just to try to survive and keep your head down.

Keep putting that sign up.

That’s me.

Ida Indifferent in the Laz e-boy watching the Trailer Park Boys.


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