Phone call from United States President-elect Donald J. Trump to the Prime Minister of Canada, the Right Honourable Justin Trudeau

November 10, 2016

ring ring ... ring ring ...

Receptionist: Good morning, Office of the Prime Minister. Bonjour, Cabinet du Premier ministre.

Trump: Hi, get the Prime Minister on the line, will ya?

Reception: Excusez-moi?

Trump: Hey, look, I know you have call display. Just put the Prime Minister on the line ... Please.

Reception: ... Attendez, s'il vous plaît.

Hold music: Celine Dion's Dans un autre monde

Trump: (to Melania): Can you get me another Pepto-Bismol, sweetie?

Reception: Mr. Trump, Prime Minister Trudeau is now on the line.

Trump: Stephen. It's Donald. Can you congratulate me again? I wanna hear it one more time.

Trudeau: Mr. Trump, ah, a small reminder, my name is Justin Trudeau.

Trump: Right. Lay that polite canuckspeak on me again.

Trudeau: (reading from statement): On behalf of the Government of Canada, I would like to congratulate Donald J. Trump on his election as the next President of the United States.  Au nom du gouvernement du Canada, j’aimerais féliciter --

Trump:  -- yeah yeah, enough with that. Listen, Trudeau. We're going to be doing business together. You know me. I like to say it the way it is. So, I'm going to make you a beautiful offer, that I think, is fantastic for everyone involved. This is a limited time offer, so don't think too much about it. Listen -- I will buy your national and sub-national debt -- all of it. Because I'm a nice guy.

Trudeau: Quois?

Trump: In exchange -- in exchange for the branding rights to Canada.

Trudeau: Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites ...

Trump: (to Melania); Do you understand what he's saying? (to Trudeau)   

So I will wipe out your debt, all of it, 

make all your problems go away, in exchange for branding rights. 

So we'll do away with the word Canada 

and call the place Trumpland. It's easier for business, a catchier name, 

it's fabulous. We'll take care of everything on our end. 

You won't have to do a thing, except stay out of our way.

Trudeau: ... Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites ... Parlez-vous francais?

Trump: (to Melania). What the hell? (to Trudeau). Okay ... Moi, je suis, uh, 

payez lots of money, pour votre, uh, country. Canada, non, 

Trumpland, oui. D'accord?

Trudeau:  Attendez, s'il vous plaît. Allow me to consult with my advisors.

Trump: I'll give you two minutes.

Hold music: Roch Voisine's Un Simples Gars

Trump (to Melania): I don't know why he wants to speak French? I don't get it.

Trudeau (back on line): Mr. Trump. I would like to thank you for your generous 

offer to buy our national and subnational debt. Your thoughtfulness is 

appreciated. However, our government politely declines your offer. 

We thank you for your interest 

in our sovereignty, a wish you all the best as you prepare to become 

the next President of the United States.

Trump: Wait a minute -- are you sure? What are you holding onto up there? 

Give it up, it's been over for years. We already own you. 

Why not give up the charade and make it official?

Trudeau: Le Canada n’a pas d’ami, de partenaire ou d’allié plus 

proche que les États-Unis. Nous sommes impatients de travailler de très 

près avec --

Trump: -- yeah, yeah, we'll be in touch. The offer is only good for another day.

Trudeau: If you have any further inquiries, you can have them directed to our Minister of National Defence, the Honourable Harjit Singh Sajjan.

Trump: I don't know that guy. What's he look like?

Trudeau: He looks Canadian.

Trump: Beautiful. You people are so good looking. I like good looking.

Trudeau: I have to go, Hadrien just threw up.

Trump: Who? Doesn't matter. Think about my offer. We'll see you around.

Trudeau: See you on ice. Au revoir.

 

It's Not Over When It's Over

She used to call me babes.

Long straight blond hair, tanned complexion, a few freckles on her nose. Eyes that seemed to change colour in the light.

She drove a sports car. A cool chick, the kind I'd hang out with in high school. She'd pick me up at a subway station because I don't have a vehicle.

"Hey babes."

Upscale casual well-made clothes dressed her thin frame. I loved it when she'd toss her cast-offs my way. The red pants I'm crouching in when you see my Facebook picture, those were hers. She never did wear them.

She was the kind of woman (girl) I imagined the Beach Boys sang about I, I love the colorful clothes she wears/And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair. J. reminded me of Jennifer Aniston, of perpetual youth and an endearing lankiness.

She was tortured.

We sat in her car one night outside a meeting. I watched her smoke one cigarette after another. She told me she gave birth to three triplets who all died. She wiped away tears, tears that wouldn't stop.

I could not relate. But I could make her laugh. And eventually, she made me laugh.

My boyfriend and I went out with J. and her husband on a few occasions. Dinner. Sailing. Over to their place. J. came on her own to Hirut Hoot, the comedy show I co-produce. Hosting that night, I felt great to see her laughing with the regulars.

There was nothing I could do. I am ill-equipped myself.

She loved her teen-aged son and encouraged him to get serious about his acting career. Love though, can take on a life of its own. It becomes a shapeshifter.

One day, I had to be honest with her.

"I can't be your sponsor anymore. You're not listening to me."

She stopped coming to our home group. 

*

"Babes. I have to move out of my house. Can you come over?"

J. stood in a bedroom, piles and piles of clothes surrounding her, persona at her feet.

"Grab a bag."

I hesitated, but started foraging through her belongings. She held shirts and dresses up to my body and nodded 'yes' or shook her head 'no'. Afterward, we sat on the front steps of the empty house. We had coffee and talked about our lives, squinting in the late August sun.

*

Two years later, I am heading into my meeting when a member asks to speak to me.

"I think I saw J. at the ER. The police brought her in. She was in handcuffs."

He told me about her screams, her bony body flailing as the cops held her. The sputtering about absence. 

Grief caved in on me. 

*

Four months ago, I received an email from her ex-husband. I'm sorry to inform you that J. has passed away.

I was wearing one of her shirts when I read the email.

At J.'s funeral, shocked family and friends stood like bowling pins. A Catholic priest presided, and to my surprise, expressed mercy and kindness. I didn't know the Catholic rule book had updated its take on suicide. I kept staring at the urn, picturing her blond hair and freckles. She had freckles in her forties. Unusual.

Sometimes, I'll be walking and then stop, amazed by the sun, astonished how light produces colour -- soft greens, gentle blues, permutations of the visible spectrum. Then, above, I see a brilliant yellow bird with specks of black and white, perched on a wire. In my despair, this is what I remember. 

Captain America Enters U.S. Presidential Race

(exclusive to Bennettworld)

Captain America a.k.a. Steven Rogers has entered the race to be the next president of the United States.

The patriotic super soldier declared his bid for the White House in a press conference yesterday.

“I am dedicated to the preservation of the American people against the forces of evil,” Captain American said. “I will use my shield to decapitate any army of evildoers to defend our way of life.”

Captain America’s late entry as an independent candidate for the job as President has come as a surprise to politicians and pundits.

“I get that Captain America is an expert tactician and has an enormous capacity for work, I get that. I get that he loves his country. But he is a fictional character appearing in Marvel Comic books. An actor in costume played him at the press conference. For me, that raises some questions,” said conservative political consultant Karl Rove.

A Gallup poll conducted after the announcement of Captain American as a presidential candidate found that a slim majority of Americans would vote for him.

“What this would indicate is that the American people love their cartoon characters,” said Senior Research Director Tyson Caldwell. “Although Donald Trump has held ground for many months, it would appear there’s a new superhero in town.”

Those opposed to Captain America becoming the head of state and commander-in-chief of one of the most powerful nations on earth dismiss the poll as irrelevant.

“I have said it before, but it bears repeating – Captain America is a fictional character created by comic book artists and is the creative property of Marvel Comics,” said Allison O’Donnell, a Masters student in pharmacology at Georgetown University. “Besides, the Super-Serum and so-called “Vita-ray” treatment he has purportedly taken has not had FDA approved double-blind clinical studies.”

Patton Gettysburg, the campaign manager for Captain America is optimistic that his candidate will present a serious challenge for both Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton. As neither a Republican nor a democrat, America represents a massive constituency exasperated with the other presidential contenders.

“Parties are for poopers,” said Gettysburg. “The American people want a President that adheres to no political party and has no plan, someone who is agenda-less. The People want someone who can speak to their needs on a relativistic, atomic basis.”

When asked by New York Times journalist Jonathan Martin at the press conference what in specific he would do for the American People, Captain America said, “If someone needs their car washed, or they needed me to go pick up some milk for them at the store, I will be there to help. That’s a promise.”

“For all 321,442,019 persons and counting?”

“For all 321,442,019 persons and counting,” said Captain America.

The Gravitational Pull of Rob Ford

I am partial to the laws of physics. One law in particular has been on my mind of late -- gravitational pull:
The size of gravitational force depends on the mass of the object being pulled by the Earth. The size of this force is the weight of the object.
A massive object will have more gravitational pull that a lighter object. Case in point, Rob Ford, his own planet, has attracted more people with his magnetism than I have. Can the law of gravitational pull be applied to the phenomenon of Rob Ford?
Yes, is my conclusion. I have experienced it.

A few years ago, the Emanuel-Howard Park United  Church (now called Roncesvalles United Church) in Toronto called upon my comedic services to host a wine and cheese fundraiser. This church is about as left-leaning, LGBTQ-positive, social justice-activist as it gets. Its tagline is "A Radically Welcoming Christian Community". Like any good Catholic, I love the United Church of Canada (no kneeling, no mass). Many of my friends are members of this church, so when I was asked to host, I was happy to help. The gig gave me an excuse to wear a gown with my Doc Martens. Besides, being in alcohol recovery, I have grown fond of church basements.

Our MPP and MP for High Park-Parkdale were in attendance that night, eager to support this church and its charitable works. The organizer told me that she had invited Mayor Rob Ford as well, but did not expect him to show up. I took that as my cue to fire off some Rob and Doug jokes, the lingua franca of the comedy scene at the time. The material went over well with the audience. I then brought up a band that played a couple of songs while getting ready for the next part of the evening's business, the auction.

From my vantage point in the wings, I could see a little commotion in the audience, a parting of the crowd making way for someone or something. I thought more beer was being delivered. That's when the event organizer rushed up to me.
"He's here!"
"Who's here?"
"Rob Ford! You've got to introduce him now!"
After the band finished its song, she prodded me back on stage. Stunned, all I could manage to say was "Folks, please welcome to the stage, Mr. Rob Ford!"

I didn't call him "His Worship". I was too shocked. He crossed the stage with a plaque in his hand and proceeded to give brief remarks of congratulations to the church and its volunteers.
That's when I felt the gravitational pull of Rob Ford, the large man with the ruddy face and blond hair, impeccably dressed in a suit. I could feel his charisma like shock waves. He had a cherub's aura, a bizarre innocence. I marvelled at him as he presented the plaque to the event organizer, one of the main stalwarts of the church. The crowd applauded, and after a few pleasantries with some congregates, the mayor took his leave with his people. 

That gesture of venturing out into lefty territory and paying tribute to people who earlier laughed at jokes made at his expense converted me into a fan of Rob Ford. The fact that he had addiction problems made me sympathetic to him. Was he a good mayor? No, but he was a savvy politician. For better or for worse, he put the city of Toronto on the map and arguably did more for tourism that the billion dollar extravaganza of the Pan Am Games. For a year or so, we all were citizens of Crazy Town, and it was exhilarating -- just ask the media, the late night talk show hosts, the comedians. Mr. Ford didn't have a pretentious bone in his body and was incapable of artifice. He was a comedian's friend, someone not afraid to laugh at himself because if you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. 

When I heard he had cancer, my thought was that the media and those who hounded him would only be happy when he's dead. And now he's dead. I'm not happy. Toronto has just lost one of the most colourful characters this city has ever known. What it has gained though is its newest folk hero. Maybe that's what Mr. Ford was aiming for all along. 

Rob Ford was a force of nature. Denying his affect is like denying magnetism. He had pull.

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: PART II: JUSTIN

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

I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, from October 4, 2015, to October 4, 2015. Some call it a whirlwind, some call it fate, others call it the delusions of a lonely old woman. All I can say, without being too indiscreet, is that it was the best 24 seconds of my life.

Fourteen months sober, anxious and depressed, still detoxing from decades of drug, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, and gardening addiction, I found myself impecunious on the streets of Brampton, Ontario. My skin looked good though. At age 68 I could still pass for a pasty-faced and stooped Jennifer Aniston, or at least that's what one of the strangers tossing coins in my Tim Horton's cup told me as he stepped over my sleeping bag on the sidewalk.

A few loonies the better, I gathered my shopping bags and shuffled toward the Timmies down the street. The drop-in centre wasn't opened for my program yet, so I thought I'd treat myself to a coffee and watch some Timmies TV. I never tire of weather updates or celebrity news because they distract me from the pit of despair I feel in my gut, and  I get to check-in with the pressing concerns shared by my fellow citizens. Is Blake Shelton really dating Gwen Stenfani? If I knew who these people were maybe I'd care more about them, about myself, and about society at large.

As I neared Tim's, I noticed a big bus pull up into its parking lot.  Three men in suits disembarked, all talking on their phones. I thought this unusual. Nobody talks on their phones anymore. Two women then got off the bus, looked around the parking lot, and then started texting on the phones grasped in their hands. 'That's more like it,' I thought. It was then, when I was almost at the Tim's door, that I saw him get off the bus. Monsieur Justin Trudeau -- blue suited, donning a red tie, black hair shiny and full. My knees went weak and buckled. I stumbled into a garbage receptacle and steadied myself. How embarrassing!  One of his handlers spotted me, smiled and waved. He signalled to Mr. Trudeau and then indicated me.

"M'am, let me help you," the handler said as he held me upright. "Are you faint?"

"I'm all right. It's ... it's .."

"It's him, isn't it?  Would you like a picture with him?"

In my six decades plus of living on this planet, I have always felt invisible, unloved, shunted, defective. Fobbed off on foster parents, surviving through the shelter system, toiling as a line cook, slogging briefly as a senior financial analyst for Bear Stearns, I have known what it is to be reviled. To be graced with this kind offer brought tears to my newly sober eyes. I knew Trudeau junior's father; voted for him, adored him, carried his picture in my wallet to show to people. This is my Prime Minister. Now his son Justin sought the top political position in Canada.  After years of living under a dictatorship, the country now had a chance of returning to its natural order, a peaceable kingdom where the wolf dwells with the lamb.

As I stood astonished, Monsieur Trudeau turned to his handler and whispered something to the effect of "I don't want to use this woman as a photo op."  

He approached me, put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, the cosmos and all its stars in heaven in his gaze. That gaze penetrated my soul and electrified my body. It sent us tumbling into bed, grappling with each others clothes, mouths hungry for each other. His eyes assured me that I was loved.

Trembling, I uttered the word "Justin."  His handler asked me if I had a cell phone to take a selfie. I hung my head and muttered something about it being in the shop. Monsieur Trudeau produced a phone that glistened in the sunny October air and outstretched his arm. I clung to him, hugging his torso as he snapped a shot. I closed my eyes and let the moment lift me, weightless and pure, skyward.

I opened my eyes and looked around. Justin and his team disappeared. Whether they ever got their coffees, I do not know. Sitting in the Tim's after the encounter, coffee and donut laid out like a feast before me, I vibrated with renewed hope and tantric energy. My friends at the drop-in centre still don't believe me when I tell them I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, but I know better. Somewhere now, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, le dauphin de Canada  is attending to the business of ruling our land, and on his phone is a picture of himself and me, a stark reminder of his goodness.

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.

Recovery and the Pain Conundrum

Pain and Addiction, Pain and Addiction

They go together like dread and affliction

Bet your bottom twoonie

You can't stop both and not go loonie

Have you had the pleasure of visiting a walk-in medical clinic in a major Canadian city lately? I say pleasure, but what I really mean is desperation. No one other than hypochondriacs, citizens seeking non-emergency but somewhat urgent medical attention, or drug addicts go to walk-in clinics. I am in the "all three" category, however I have been clean and sober for a few 24 hours. To say they are depressing is making a mockery of hopelessness. Walk-in clinics are up there with government offices and collision centres, in my books.  My books have pages by the way. Actual physical pages.

A week ago my back collapsed. That's the good news. The bad news is that it has been doing a reverse four and a half somersault pike ever since. All this from falling on my ass while on a standup paddleboard. A standup paddleboard, the things that look so relaxing when gorgeous people drift peacefully on them. They are lethal weapons when boarded by an oaf in ankle deep water. Oh well. At least some kids saw me land hard on my butt and then pointed and laughed.

At the urging of loved ones and others unfortunate enough to be in my vicinity for any length of time, I inched my way over to a walk-in clinic after four days of teeth-grinding pain. I was whisked in rather quickly (an omen?) and left in an examination room, but not before I noticed the sign at reception: THIS CLINIC DOES NOT PRESCRIBE NARCOTICS. A middle aged man came in, a doctor I am happy to report, and we chitchatted for a minute until he said, "What seems to be the problem?"

Since time began, pain has been a part of life. And since time began, those suffering seek to eliminate their pain. Some do it through spiritual enlightenment. Others do it through various medical remedies. Still others do it through acquiring thousands of pairs of shoes. I have approximately eight pairs of shoes, and I say approximately because I only wear three pair. Being in recovery, I am to aim for the highest spiritual plane of being possible because I am supposed to be "awakened". I fall short. On my ass. I pick myself up, and try, and keep trying, but some days the world wins. Medical remedies have served me well when I use them as directed and for the length of time prescribed. I am okay with that. Recovery purists may argue otherwise, but there are certain medications I need.

The not-so-good doctor proceeded to grill me with questions about my history with back pain. I was not prepared for the Spanish Inquisition, although being prodded with soft pillows would have been nice. “What do you do to to deal with your back pain?” he asked, over and over again. Over and over again I explained, “I wait, take a few painkillers, and walk it off.”  

“But what do you DO?”

“I walk it off!”

“What do you mean, ‘walk it off’?”

“I WALK IT OFF. I grin and bear it until the pain subsides.”

“Why are you not ‘walking it off’ now?”

“Because this is no garden variety agony. This is different. Hey – my coworkers told me to come here – it was not my idea.”

“What do you DO?”

“When?”

“What do you DO with pain?”

“Can you just examine my back please?”

“You DO what?”

“I am not going to ask you for narcotics, don’t worry.”

“DO you know what you DO?”

“I take a prescribed anti-inflammatory, but they aren’t cutting it… I’ll just leave now.”

“What do you DO when in pain.”

And that’s when I broke down in tears. I was looking for some sort of relief, assurance, anything to ease the pain. Compassion would have been nice. I do not cry often due to emotional constipation, so for me to sob was highly unusual. Maybe it had something to do with the excruciating PAIN.

And then he relented. He wrote a note for my employer. And two scripts.

Physiotherapy.

Percocet.  

And he got the hell out of the room.

I was not expecting a narcotic painkiller, but I have filled the prescription and use as directed and when essential. Is this relapse? No, this is self-care.

I really like my physio guy. 

Think I’ll just stick to standup, and leave the paddleboarding for now.

What Not To Do When In Recovery

As someone who is in long-term recovery from drugs and alcohol substance abuse, I am sometimes asked "what do you do for fun?" Many people cannot conceive of a life in which one abstains from intoxicating substances (including me on occasion). For me, the trade-off is worth it, as I do not vomit blood or wish I was dead quite as often. Still, many people in society view teetotalers and abstainers as sanctimonious bores, or worse, members of the Conservative party of Canada. I try my best to thwart stereotypes by maintaining the same dishevelled appearance and hopeless attitude from my using days. I do admit though to being guilty of bursting with gratitude while radiating health and contentment every now and then.

As a service to those living in sobriety, and to those who love them (or tolerate them) here are a few handy tips on what not to do when you are in recovery.

1)  Volunteer to be a designated driver for a frat house

2)  Wrestle the drink out of the hand of anyone over 90

3) Say to friends who invite you to their place for a meal of Coq Au Vin, "GET BEHIND ME SATAN!"

3) Lecture teens on the evils of what you used to take enormous pleasure in

5) Refuse to eat blue cheese offered to you at a reception because the last time you did you were "tripping for hours"

6) Boycott your local diner because it serves eggs with hash

7) While a priest drinks consecrated wine during communion yell out, "easy there fella!"

8) Say to the Pope  as he sips champagne at a state dinner, "I used to revere you."

9) Get kicked out of a state dinner

10) Offer to give anyone a piece of your mind. You need those precious few fragments for yourself.

May 2-4 weekend, comin' up in Canada. See you on the hiking trails!

An Apology From Bennettworld

 

To: Readership

From: President & CEO,Bennettworld

Dear Stakeholders:

It has come to our attention that many of you were disappointed with the quality of the January blog entitled Pestilence.

Please accept our sincere apology for any inconvenience this may have caused you. At Bennettworld, quality writing is our top priority. No, wait -- it's safety. Safety is our top priority. No ... wait ... it's quality writing. Quality writing is our top priority, with safety being a close second.

We understand that the author of this blog, Ms. Carolyn Bennett (not the MP), suffered from severe bronchitis for several weeks during the winter. This may explain the absence of a blog entry for February (DISCLAIMER - does not, nor does not suggest, absence of blog entry was due to illness). We apologize unreservedly for the shoddy, if not hallucinatory, tone of the piece.

In the interest of transparency, we include with this correspondence a selection of letters and emails we received concerning the blog Pestilence. It is our hope that you continue to read this blog for the mild chuckles and obscure musings it provides.

Sincerely,

President & CEO

Bennettworld

"My wife and I were dismayed by the astounding lack of substance in the January blog. One only has to read the blog of a pre-teen to find more trenchant social commentary. We are NOT amused!"

- Mr. & Mrs. R. V. Crowley

Eau Claire, Wisconisin

"My bridge club usually enjoys sharing the latest bon mots from Ms. Bennett's blog. The piece entitled Pestilence, however, we found self-indulgent. Thankfully, the piece was brief."

- Miss Wilma L. Chalif

Tusla, Oklahoma

"Why would Ms. Bennett think anyone, besides me, would be interested in the inflamed mucous membranes of her respiratory tract?

- Ms. Pauline D. Steinmetz

Novak, South Dakota

"Phil Kessel is more of a man than you'll ever be, Bennett!"

- Dion Phaneuf

Pestilence

I am writing this blog on Friday January 30, 2015. Christmas Day 2014 (December 25, for anyone unfamiliar with Christmas) I contracted a viral infection. I believe I caught the bug on a plane en route to Saskatoon. I could be wrong. I could have caught it from a telephone, or a human being, or a turnstile. All I know is that for just over five weeks (has it only been five weeks?) I have had a cough that rattles everything in my vicinity.

At week three I broke down and went to my doctor. She asked if I wanted antibiotics, just to shut me up. I relented and said yes, even though I knew they wouldn't do anything. They did do something though. They made my face swell up. I looked like Phil Kessel should, every night he is on the ice trying to pretend he's a team player. I dislike Phil Kessel. In fact, I dislike the Toronto Maple Leafs. No -- I find the storied franchise and its fans preposterous. But that is another blog...

Excuse me, I just dredged up some mucus, in the shape of Phil Kessel.

My cough erupts from a gooey subterranean nether region, somewhere between Michigan and Hades. If Boris Karloff had a baby, it would look like the chunks I hork. I sound like a gunner who smoked three packs a day on the Eastern Front.

Has it only been five weeks?

I don't know why I am so sick. The human body is a marvellous thing, when it is not gross. This is not a bacterial infection, and I don't have pneumonia or whooping cough. It is simply a persistent invader. Kinda like Phil Kessel should be, in the offensive zone.

I will shake this off soon. Either that, or I will be pulling along an oxygen tank on the subway. One good thing -- people move away from me on the TTC. It's great, but a little sad.

So, don't cry for me Argentina. Cry for Leaf Fans. I will be okay.

When is Dyson going to invent a vacuum for post-nasal drip?

Stay warm.

It Is A Wonderful LIfe

     I gauge my emotional health on how I react to It's A Wonderful Life. Most years I smile at the familiar sentimentality. On a couple of occasions I've fallen asleep before the climax (that's what she said - BOOM!) This year, I felt George Bailey's desperation. I let out a maudlin sob at the end. The fact that the film  ran on CTV last night, December 6, may say something about our nation's morale. This is the earliest I remember the movie being broadcast.

      Is it just me, or is the news really bad these days? Is anybody else troubled by what's going on in the world? Before you say "'twas ever thus", hear me out.

      The other night I was staring glassy-eyed at the telly, while Dan tapped on his phone. Peter Mansbridge, growing balder by the minute, read this off the teleprompter, in reference to UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon's call for action on climate change:

            "Ban Ki-moon made it clear -- he has no time for climate change deniers, and no time for any country that doesn't put the survival of the global population before its own domestic wants and needs."

     "Hey, Dan?"

     Tap, tap tappity tap. "Yeah?"

     "Did you just hear what I heard?"

     Tappity tap. "What?"

     "That the survival of the global population depends on countries taking action on climate change."

     "...yeah?"

     "Ban Ki-moon has no time for Canada."

     Tappity tap tap tap.

     "Dan?"

     "Nothing we can do about it from the couch right now."

     "But. But. never mind  ... good night."

It's stuff like this that made me drink vodka from a jar on the subway. Now I shoot back the strongest chamomile tea I can brew.

     Survival of the global population, huh? I wonder what Ban Ki-moon is trying to say.

     I remember my dad being gripped by the oil crisis in the 1970s. Aged ten and wanting to appear precocious, I followed the news and attempted to express my outrage at rising oil prices. "Dad, this is a damned situation," I remember saying, it being the first time I used a curse word at home. My father responded to my trenchant commentary by grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and shoving a bar of soap in my mouth. I think I offered my opinion a year or two later about Watergate, something I had no understanding of either.

     What is a person to do about the survival of the global population, at 10:15 p.m. on a Thursday?

     Not much. 

     But as George Bailey and It's A Wonderful Life demonstrates, it can go one of two ways:

     1) Jump off a bridge.

    OR

     2) Make a difference in the lives of others through acts of courage, generosity and kindness.

     I'll take door number two, Monty.

     And I'll watch reruns of Seinfeld before bed.

Twas The Night Before Vote Time

Twas the night before vote time, and all through the ward

Not a drug dealer was stirring, not even a Ford.

The putdowns and smearing were strung out with care

In hopes the electorate soon would be there.

The children were tossing all angst in their beds

while visions of Daddy loomed in their heads

And mamma in her muumuu and Rob in Leafs cap

Had scrawled the last promise in a long list of pap

When out from the basement there arose a great clatter

Rob hoisted from his chair to see what was the matter

He shuffled to doorstep and then he did shout

"Hey Doug, vote's tomorrow -- get the fuck out!"

The stairs creaked and buckled as the big man came up

From smoking from bong and drinking from cup

He rubbed his wide face and with eyes all a glisten

He vowed he would fight, to the people he'd listen

Rob outstretched his hand to his very big brother

Then gave him a hug, and one for his mother

More sluggish than buzzards, Rob's posse they came

up from the basement; Doug called them by name:

Now Lisi! Now Loser!

Now Dixon! Now Bloods!

On, MamMo! On, Liti!

Before the street floods!

To the front of the driveway

To the wheel of car

Now dash away, dash away

Dash away all!

Doug was all dressed in sweats, from his top to his feet

His clothes were all wrinkled and stained from canned meat.

A bundle of signs he had flung on his back

and he took a big hammer from out of his pack

His eyes how they drooped, his dimples how creepy!

His cheeks were all bloated, his scars were all weepy!

His voluminous mouth flapped with a huge breeze

and sweat poured from brow, and onto his knees

His sibling young Rob planted hand on Doug's shoulder

Asked, "Make me deputy mayor, if I get older?"

Moved with compassion, and a trifle disgust,

"Rob, badass motherfucker, it's done!" Dougie did cuss.

Then no words were spoken as both got to work

They joined their ill posse, and assorted ill jerks

They planted Ford signs on lawns tidy and neat

Any person protesting is one that got beat.

Once finished they sprang and to team they did yell

And away they all flew like bats out of hell

But I heard them exclaim. 'ere they drove out of sight,

Happy Mayoral Election to all, and to all a  good night!

 
 
 

Rejected Business Ideas

Ministry of Government and

Consumer Services

ServiceOntario

Companies and Personal Property

Security Branch

393 University Avenue, Suite 200

Toronto Ontario

M5G 2M2

19 August 2014

RE: Business Registration

Dear Ms. Bennett:

Thank you for contacting the Ministry of Government and Consumer Services, and for submitting your business ideas for registration.

After careful consideration, we have made the decision to rejected your application. You may wish to review your business plans, marketing strategies, financing, and overall concepts for your proposed enterprises. To recap, they are:

1) Bad Ass Baby Tattoo Company: Tattoos for the infants of ink aficionados.

2) Drive Thru Urinals: A complement to fast food drive thru windows. Allows the driver and passenger to relieve themselves via urinal or catheter, to save time. (You may wish to approach the Canadian Intellectual Property Office with this, as it is more of a patent)

3) Racoon A-Way: Do-It-Yourself animal removal kit. (Shovel, ax, large garbage bags)

4) Rent-A-Crank: Service provider. Acting as proxies for parents, elderly people nag and cajole successful younger adults, to keep them honest.

5) Gee-Had Me: Lighthearted greeting cards and novelties for Islamic extremists.

6) Old Tyme Movers: Environmentally friendly eco-movers, using horse drawn covered wagons. Fee charged by the hour.

7) Look Up: A computer app for mobile phones. Alerts busy texters when to raise their heads and focus on: crossing busy intersections, paying for food, buying groceries, boarding public transit, driving vehicles, engaging in conversation with a human being physically with them, swimming, bicycling, hiking etc, etc.

8)  Public Pylon: 24/7 on-call service that places traffic pylons around your vehicle, to reduce the risk of parking tickets.

9) Bad Ass Tattoo Removal Company: Hard-edged tattoo removal for the whole family. Sterilized needles optional.

10) Be Me, Be Free: Cloning service. Send replicas of yourself to events and occasions you rather not attend: e.g. board meetings, parent-teacher interviews, one man/one woman shows, family reunions, church, children's dance recitals etc..

We suggest you further investigate and develop your proposed business ideas. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we think you should abandon them all together.

Thank you for submitting your business ideas. The fee for each concept will still be applied

Sincerely,

Faceless bureaucrat