Congratulatory phone call from Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada to President-elect Donald J. Trump : November 10, 2016

 

 

ring ring ... ring ring ...

Trump: What the hell? A 613 area code? Where are you calling from, Bolivia?!

Trudeau: Good evening Mr. President-elect. This is the Prime Minister of Canada calling. 

I would like to extend to you my best wishes on your election as President of the United States.

Trump: Stephen? I want 75 percent of Keystone! I am still not in love with Canadian oil, but I'll do you this favour if you do me a favour -- stop singing and playing piano! You stink, and you're not fooling anyone!

Trudeau: Mr. Trump, this is Justin Trudeau calling.

Trump: Trudeau? Oh ... can you get your daddy on the phone then?

Trudeau: My father has been dead for sixteen years.

Trump: Oh ... I am sorry to hear that. That is not so classy.

Trudeau: I am the Prime Minister of Canada.

Trump: You're FIRED!

Trudeau: Mr. Trump, ah, you, ah, can't do that. I am the leader of a sovereign nation.

Trump laughs

Trump: You are funny! Thanks for the laugh  ...

Trudeau: Wait! Don't hang up! I am calling to say I'm looking forward to strengthening the bonds between Canada and the United States.

Trump: ... who is this?

Trudeau: The Prime Minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau.

Trump: Listen Tru-doh. I'm getting to work on that great, great wall between us and Canada and you are paying for it!

Trudeau: Ah, I think you mean the wall, ah, between the US and, ah, Mexico.

Trump: Right! Mexico -- to keep out the drug dealers and rapists! I forgot, Canadians aren't rapists because it's too cold up there.

Trudeau (deep sigh): Anyway, I wish you, ah, and your family ... ... ... all the, ah, ... best .. and again, I look forward to Canada renewing our peaceful and mutually beneficial relationship with the United States.

Trump: Look Tru-doh, I'm a nice guy. I play nice when I don't. We want the same things -- billions of dollars for our families, weather that is pleasant and illegal immigrants and refugees to get the hell out of our countries. So yeah, we'll talk about closing our borders, bombing the f&*k out of ISIS- ISIL whatever, and to bring our jobs back from China so we can make America Great Again.

Trudeau: (pause) What's that, Sophie? ... I have to go Donald, Hadrien just threw up. Bon soir et ferme ta gueule!

CLICK! dial tone

I was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely intentional.

EXCLUSIVE TO 

CAROLYN BENNETT WRITER/COMIC BLOGSPOT.CA

I was Pierre Trudeau's  and Justin Trudeau’s girlfriend. Not at the same time. Wait, let me think. …. …. … … ……. ……. … .. no, not at the same time.

I met Pierre in 1996 at the corner of Sherbrooke Street and Rue Guy. I was about to get on the 165 Bus opting for the scenic route up The Boulevard to get to Côte-des-Neiges and eventually Van Horne to board the 161 to Côte-Saint-Luc, when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and into the arms of an older man wearing a cape. “Superman?” I exclaimed. “Non, mademoiselle, -- Pierre Elliot Trudeau.” He righted me against a wall and held me by the shoulders while I caught my breath, which took 15 minutes.  My knees kept buckling and he kept holding me up, until a passerby told us to “get a room”. We did.

The room was around the corner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, the "Grande Dame" of Sherbrooke Street. Ironic that I should be walking in with a former Prime Minister when in fact, I had been banned from the establishment since 1994 -- some trifle about dousing a balustrade with gasoline and lighting it on fire. Pierre lowered himself on the king bed, shrugged, and then loosened his pants. I could tell by his pinched expression and general ennui that making love to me would be just another public service for a man who had given so much to his country.  I grazed his flaked and bony fingers with mine and whispered “it’s okay. Let’s just drink instead.” He ordered several bottles of Dom Pérignon (which I adored when someone else was buying). I drained the bubbly while he stroked my dirty blond hair and watched La Petite Vie on Radio-Canada.  I must confess my memory fails me a bit after this. At some point in the evening I recall Justin Trudeau knocking on the door and imploring his father to leave. “Je t’aime papa”, he cried. Pierre did not leave me. Au contraire [from the French for “on the contrary”] dear reader, he listened as I recited poetry I had scrawled on hotel stationery, and caressed my back as I knelt before the toilet vomiting.  Afterwards, I have a vague impression of his thin lips on mine, blowing into my mouth while applying steady compression on my chest with the heels of his hands.  

The next morning I woke up on the floor, fully clothed, pallid and parched, with delirium tremens and a mark on my neck resembling a hickie. The DTs are gone, but the “hickie” remains, In fact, every year on the anniversary date of my rendezvous with Monsieur Trudeau, I allow the faithful to touch the stigmata, which is formed in the image of a middle finger. Suffice to say, I have not washed my neck in almost 20 years.

I will always t’aime Trudeau senior. But you won’t believe what happened almost 20 years later with me and his son Justin!

NEXT MONTH PART II: The Justin Year(s)day.