THIS JUST IN-
Stephen Harper, Canada's Prime Minister, is in town to address the provincial legislature on the occasion of the opening of the Olympics. All the local activist groups are almost wetting their drawers in eager anticipation. These are the people who are pretty much against anything. Like the Raging Grannies, a collection of daft looking females who like to dress up in daft looking outfits. For some reason they seem to think that looking like idiots is a way of gaining respect and credibility. This strategy, if you can call it that, confers the added advantage of not having to try to explain what they think, if they do think, which is doubtful. Then there is Vicky Husband, representing an organization calling itself The Jordan River Steering Committee. Is there anything they aren't against? I think I recall that she has been associated with the famous corporate shakedown operation known as Greenpeace. I'm not sure why anyone would want to steer the Jordan River. To where? Maybe it's something the girls do when they get together while stirring their lattes at the nearest fair trade java joint. Not to be outdone, Lisa Shaver, chieftess of the Penelakut First Nation, who probably has even less Indian in her than I do, (my great great great grandmother was Cherokee) wants the PM to undertake an investigation into the disappearance and murder of women in Canada. Strange how she seems to think just like in the Westerns. Great White Chief make the grass green and the sun to shine, so certainly if a psychopathic pig farmer in Port Coquitlam lures 'sex trade workers' to their death with offers of free drugs and lotsa partying and then kills them and feeds them to the pigs, then it's because the Great White Chief from Ottawa has failed to speak to his Manitou. Or something.
Personally, I think pretty highly of Mr. Harper, especially in comparison to the little crook from Shawinigan who previously occupied the post, but it has never occurred to me that he was endowed with magical powers.
You know, if I was a woman I would be very embarrassed by all these shenanigans. They make me think of a certain poem by ee cummings about little Effie whose brains were made of gingerbread. That's not to say they aren't accompanied by a lot of little Ralphie's whose brains are made of melba toast.