Fealty towers

I had my Basil Fawlty moment this week when I went to Victoriaville. I was ready to do another barn-burning speech about Canada being back on the world stage because of its military victories in Afghanistan. But then the Vandoos were hit with a roadside bomb and the opposition smelled blood so Sandra said "don't mention the war." I replied, "Que?" but she she didn't get the joke.

Now Bloc Cheezehead and Liberal Quasimodo trying to tag team me in a desperate attempt to make the war relevant to the Quebec byelections. They clamoring for an "emergency" debate in Parliament about a decision that is more than a year off. These are two of the dimmest bulbs in parliament - don't ask me how they got to be "leaders."

Flanagan calls them the double dildo - they screw the country from both the federalist and separatist sides at once. I think Cheezehead - I mean tête-fromaj - takes the cake. Even his provincial party don't want him - he'd rather sit here in Ottawa carping and complaining, knowing he'll never have any real power but drawing a juicy salary and a fat pension from the country he loves to hate.

Their attempt to drag the dead soldiers into the byelections is pathetic grandstanding and soon the Mustache the Roared will be sticking his bald head into the breach as well. Even more pathetic is that their "Quebec lives are worth more" gambit will probably work.

The sad truth is that frogophones always stick together, especially when there's a chance of blackmailing the rest of the country. That's why I had to create the Reform Party for frigs sake.

Yes it's tragic that two Quebecois soldiers were killed but Albertans don't whine and turn tail when dozens of their province-mates gave the utlimate sacrifice - they just grit their teeth and put "Support Our Troops" ribbons on their SUVs.

After all, that's what soldiers are paid for - to die for the glory of their country, their emperor, or their commander-in-chief. To make their leader a player on the world stage. The opposition want the Quebec soldiers to get out of combat and start giving candy to kids and helping veiled old ladies cross the street. Where's the guts and the glory in that? Humanitarian mission = who cares. If you force our combat-hardened troops to become namby-pamby peacekeepers again they'll become demoralized, morale will plummet and the Canadian military will end up in the toilet.

Between a rock and a hard place

I've tried to avoid the subject of undercover police at Montebello. But after seeing the way they have been dragged through the mud by the pathological anti-prosperity protest-freaks and pistol-whipped by the media, I can't keep silent any longer.

These everyday heroes were just doing their dangerous and important job - infiltrating criminal and violent organizations to prevent serious malfeasance - such as willfully damaging property and assaulting police officers with rocks. The gangs and riff-raff that call themselves protesters should be glad these brave men were there to prevent violence and preserve the peace.

The undercover officers also increased the size of their pathetic protests. In addition to the Sûreté du Québec, the RCMP tactical squad was undercover as a training exercise, undercover Vancouver Police officers and Blackwater contractors were there to practice roles for 2010 security, the US Secret Service and Minneapolis police went undercover to dry run for the 2008 GOP convention, Mexico had their undercover Federales there for crowd control training, and Chinese national undercover officers were also at Montebello to explore tactics for dealing with foreign protesters at the 2008 Olympics. All the undercover training was coordinated by Shin Bet which is the world leader in violent crowd control.

The so-called "union leaders" were police assets as well - participating in an insitu roleplay of how to handle the exposure of undercover officers participating in a demonstration. In fact, if you subtract all the undercover security, there were probably only twelve actual demonstrators. I know because in addition to being the summit host I was overseeing all conference security from our new $100 million portable hot room. The assets from all the various agencies were identified on the big situation board along with protester movements.

The Summit was about international security partnerships so the anarcho-freaks had to expect that we would practice what we were preaching. As usual the lazy crypto-socialist media got it all wrong - berating the undercover police for being amateurish and incompetent when in fact everything went perfectly according to plan.

Follow the beans

The media are an ass - aka idiot - they give me hives. I try to quarantine them, I try to re-educate them, I try to limit their influence on my new government of Canada but they always sink to new depths.

For example, at the closing of the Montebello summit I was trying to talk about economic rationalism using an everyday example anyone could relate to: jellybeans. But the sniveling socialist news hacks ridiculed and debased my comment with snarky headlines and dumber-than-dumbing-down articles.

Their derisive treatment of my jellybean treatise obscured the important point I was trying to make. Economics teaches us that jellybeans, lumber, pharmaceuticals, oil, water, nuclear power, and health care services are all the same - products that are most efficiently provided by the private sector and should be freely traded between countries without artificial barriers to competition, such as government red tape and heavy-handed regulation.

The moral is that we should all become rational economic actors who seek the lowest price that is always provided by free, unfettered markets.

Right now Canada is like an elitist Boutique with only a few trendy flavors of jellybeans. The snooty sales staff tell you what kinds of jellybeans are good for you and won't let you try any others. The jellybeans are horrendously overpriced because of the low turnover and the social program overhead of the fancy displays, fat-cat union salaries, subsidized artisan jellybean makers, and excessive bureaucracy.

But right across the street is the giant Bean-Mart which sells virtually indistinguishable jellybeans for a fraction of the cost. They have a huge selection of every imaginable color that you can freely choose from with friendly assistance. They keep their prices low with high volume sales, globalized manufacturing, efficient distribution and cheerful but not overpaid staff.

Where would you want to buy your jellybeans? Of course.

But the corrupt government cronies of Beantique have built an artificial barrier in the middle of the road and will only let you shop at Bean-Mart once a month after filling out a lot of forms. Even worse, their bureaucrats have created convoluted and absurd regulations about the required size, shape and sheen of legal jellybeans on their side of the road so Bean-Mart can't sell its perfectly good product there.

That's what the summit was about. But don't expect to read that in Canada's commie-freak-loving media.

After dinner entertainment at Montebello

Felipe, George and I finished off our "working dinner" with $250 cigars (Cuban of course, George never misses a chance to "legally" sample the good ones) and $500 glasses of congac that Nicolas kindly had sent over. But the night was young and we wanted a little fun after the wives left us to get down to business. Fortunately, the Secret Service and RCMP had set up video monitors in the hotel so we could watch the protests if we want.

We want. What could be better entertainment that watching heavily armed riot police beating-up, pepper-spraying and arresting pro-terrorist-freaks, eco-freaks and anti-prosperity-freaks who are behaving like congenital idiots. We laughed our asses off seeing them penned in like cattle while believing they were changing the world.

And there was the bonus feature of Protest Girls Gone Wild. George had a thing for the super-butch protest-chicks with lots of tattoos and black leather jackets. Maybe they remind him of his wild and crazy time in the Air Guard when tequila was the only higher power in his life and he spend most nights passed out in tough Mexican border towns.

After a few brandys, I was hot for the hippy-dippy types with tie-died outfits and no bras. They're like the girls who completely dissed me in high school because I was a straight-laced nerd who wouldn't smoke weed. Oh, how they'd come crawling now that I'm the most powerful man in the country standing next to the most powerful man in the world.

Felipe was totally ogling the female cops. I guess he doesn't know they are all card-carrying lesbians - or maybe that's the attraction.

But seriously, do these anarcho-freaks really think they are going to affect government policy by prancing around the streets in clown outfits and gas masks? There's no big conspiracy, it's easy to get the ear of my government or any other one - just hire a lobbyist. It's not rocket science and it's not just for big evil capitalists.

Abramoff, one of the most powerful lobbyists in Washington was working for Indian bands for cripes sake. If a bunch of backward savages on reservations can figure out they need a top lobbyist surely the peace-freaks and eco-freaks can get it together. On second thought, after seeing how sad their protests were, they probably can't.

So George called last week

He's all hot and bothered and blurts out - I'm not comin' to that dang PPS meet'n'greet, Steve.

I ask him why, and he says - I freak you not - that his brain's gone and he can't come without his brain.

There's kind of a stunned but respectful silence on my side.

Rovey, you know, my big brain, is leaving - don't you follow the news up there Steve?

Oh Karl Rove, I say, but he's not leaving until the end of the month so he can come with you to the meeting next week, Sir.

No, no, says George - Rovey has way too much work to do before he leaves - in the shredded wheat department. Anyway, I still can't believe he's going. I mean Rummy, Wolfie, Bolty, Scooty, Harriet, Cardi, Ari, Kenny - they all left me high and dry, and Gonzy's on the ropes. Who's left - just Condi and big Dick. I can't just do this job all by myself, you know Steve.

So I say but Mr President we really need you in Quebec next week. The Security and Prosperity Partnership is everything we've always worked for and because it's National Security we don't have to put it to a vote or even say what's in it. We can't do it without you, I lied, trying to cheer him up.

And he's like, Quebec - that's where Ahmed Rassambo came from. You still got a passel of terrorists coming out of the woodwork up there don't you - like that Kotter kid in Gitmo. What if some sleeper cell gets me Steve - you'd feel bad then, huh?

I'm try to calm him down because he's getting a bit hysterical. No worries, Mr. President you'll be surrounded by hundreds of Seals and Green Berets who are up here on exchange programs or train and advise missions so they can wear Canadian Forces uniforms. And the protest-freaks will be miles away - you'll never even see them. Just ask the Vice President, we've been through all this.

He sighs. Well I guess I have to come Steve. But I was hoping to clear some really tough brush in Crawford next week. The ranch is going to h-e-double-hockey-sticks because I only can only get max two months holiday there a year since 9-11.

The real reason Gordo had to go

The media called for Gord O'Connor's head on a spike because he gave a few fuzzy answers about Afghan prisoners who were over-enthusiastically interrogated after they left Canadian custody.

Huh? That's what outsourcing is all about. Do they want us to have to torture these ticking bombs ourselves or just let them go off and kill more Canadian kids in another convoy.

Anyway, when Gordo did finally get the one fingered salute from me, the media hacks were spraining their arms from patting themselves on the back so hard because their crack investigative reporting had gotten him fired.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I thought Gordo was doing such a great job on the Afghan file that I was willing to let him share in the glory of the Canadian Arctic militarization bonanza.

Then came the stab in the back - I saw that photo of him in desert camo, standing in front of a military plane no less. We had an agreement that I am the only one allowed to wear fatigues, flak jackets and especially camouflage outfits for photo ops. He may be an ex-general but that's my shtick and I just couldn't let a betrayal like that go unchallenged.

Fortunately, Peter Pan was so keen to prove he could do the tough job on Afghanistan that he signed off on the no camouflage policy without blinking. And Gordo gets the golden parachute into Revenue where he can do all the photo ops he wants with piles of $100 bills.

PMSteve Unplugs

I am not Prime Minister Stephen Harper. He is a persona, an artifice created by party handlers, marketing wonks and image consultants. I am tired of kissing babies, flipping pancakes, posing as a celebrity hockey dad, smalltalking barbeques, mouthing warm and fuzzy holiday greetings, pretending to support Medicare (which makes me gag), and going through the motions of caring about people stupid enough to vote for other parties.

I miss the glory days of the Reform Party and the NCC - I could say what I believed, and walk all over the idiot reporters who didn't have a clue about economics (which is all of them by the way). I was able to inform Canadians they were content to be a second-rate socialist country and tell Conservative US Republicans they were a beacon of light to inspire me and the rest of the world. I could call for scrapping the Canada Health Act and fight for US-style private healthcare in Canada.

I am proud to have been Chief Policy Officer of Reform before I was 30 and the most effective president the NCC ever had. We pushed the Cretinites kicking and screaming into deficit reduction and tax breaks and today even the satanic NDP toe the tax-cut line. But now I'm not even allowed to mention Reform or NCC in my bio because it might scare off some crazy socialists.

Now my every word, facial expression, gesture, bodily elimination, is focus-grouped, image-massaged and push-polled by consultants, media gurus and spin doctors. My every public appearance and utterance is dissected, probed, analyzed and pronounced upon by the same drooling media hacks that I used to belittle with one brain cell.

I feel like Sir Humphrey Appleby in the Madness of King George - all the functionaries have an inane theory about my stools but miss the blue stream of obviousness. In the end I have to figure out how to seem to be Prime Minister anyway.

Not that it's all bad being PM - I get to hang with the real world leaders like George and Bill Gates while blowing-off sanctimonious celebrity do-gooders like Bono. I get to wear cool military flak jackets to review the troops - eat your heart out Conrad - and I get to torment the eco-freaks and communist academics who irrationally hate the oil industry and the military.

But I am tired of having to contort and squeeze myself into every message box, sound bite and news hole. Hence PM Steve Unplugged: just me - raw and unexpurgated.

No doubt some cynics will say it's just another sleazy Bulworth-esque marketing ploy to seem edgy and reach the cynical youth demographic using serious attitude and a hip-hopish handle. Meanwhile the marketing-nannies will say I'm committing political suicide by exposing myself unvarnished and uncut. Whatever.

Prime Minister Stephen Harper is history. Long live Headbanger PMSteve. Unplugged.