In an effort to kick-start myself, I am going to write a monologue that I hope will stir up some juice—in myself mostly . . .
Beneath the American election with all its earth-moving rhetoric, we have the little quiver that is the Canadian Federal dust disturbance. Stevil has asked the Governor General to allow him to spend ten million dollars (and counting) to shuffle his cabinet and his courtiers because the old setup isn’t working by his rules. Why we pay any attention to the ravings of this squabble of cuckoos—the operative word is “pay”—has to be Swiftian reflex; nothing else makes sense. That our polity is governed by an elected fascist at the head of a screaming rabble is an interesting comment on our inertia.
You have us where you want us—
at arm’s length in a cage—
and now you’re going to milk us
like cows; it’s all the rage.
But watch out, Mr. Milker
for some of us are bulls
and milking bulls is not a stunt
a cocky milker pulls.