A little something to get off his chest?

(Yeah, yeah, I'm still not officially here. But I just had to pop into the office for this...)

Last night, prime minister-designate Stephen Ha.. Haarr -- you know who-- was treated at hospital for a chest inflammation, later diagnosed as an infection.

Thankfully, it's not serious, so I feel it not too insensitive of me to comment -- specifically, to speculate as to the origin of this wee infection.

I'm no doctor, but my guess is it's the bacterial strain: concealus socialus conservatis, which the literature suggests is usually linked to prolonged retention of a hidden political agenda.


UPDATE: I hope our PMD also got inoculated against two other grave afflictions apparently common in our northern climate -- hedonism and cultural Marxism. I wish him well on this front. Unlike most people of my generation, I never had my Marx removed when I was in 20's, so I'm obviously at risk. And a few months ago, I was in bed for a week with a bad case of hedonism.

*

The pause that refreshes

Y'all:

Please be advised that I'll not be tormenting you (yes, you -- both of you) with new posts for a few days, maybe ten. I'll be busy with a combination of working for the Man (while secretly plotting to stick it to him), recharging the old blog batteries, and trying to digest yesterday's election results.

(Okay, here goes: Prime Minister Haa... Prime Minister Haarr -- Yeah, I definitely need some time.)

In the meantime, study my previous posts thoroughly. There will be a test when I get back.

And, for the love of Elsie Wayne's lord and personal saviour, somebody throw me a freakin' comment once in a while! I know you are there. I can hear you breathing. But you just read and don't say anything. It's starting to creep me out.

Govern yourselves accordingly.

Jeers,
Hav.

Something of which I am rarely accused

A wise person once said, "All things should be enjoyed in moderation, except for moderation, which should be enjoyed to excess." (That wise person? Me, just now.)

Although probably not warranted given my depressing lack of readership, all the cool kids are doing it, so I've just turned on comment moderation. This way, nobody can get me in trouble with the Election Police by sneakily posting results from out thataway while us schmucks out thisaway are still voting. (Or trying to -- any idea how hard it is to mark a rain-soaked ballot?) Last thing I need is to end up as CalgaryGrit's bitch . Mind you, the hoodoos are pretty this time of year.

So, I'm about 3 hours away from voting. Still not pleased about my choices. But at least there's the complimentary latte to look forward to. (Or is that just a West Coast thing?)

See you on the flip side.

*

Whatever

Alternate title: Strategic "Boating" Would Be Easier. Like a Game of Battleship.

Alternate, alternate title: After This Election, I think You Should Stop Blogging for a While. Maybe See Somebody. You Know, Just to Talk.

Okay. This is most likely my last post before The Big Day. To sum up my what I've shared so far:

1. I'm not voting conservative.
2. I'd rather not vote Liberal.
   
3. I have some options.

But, in case it's not been abundantly clear, there's one overarching sentiment that I'm feeling with every fibre of my being...

Thought 4: I'm seriously considering gouging my eyes out with a grapefruit spoon.

Really. It's that bad. And nobody is making this any easier.

Take Jack Layton's oft-repeated warning in these final days of the campaign: "You can't trust the smoking hulk of a defeated Liberal Party to keep the Conservatives in check." Excuse me -- smoking hulk? What does that even mean? Do cigarettes and Marvel characters suddenly have something to do with this election? What's next -- Duceppe's a boozing Spiderman? Harper a gambling Captain America? (Oh, wait a minute... that last one sorta works.)

Then there's Paul Martin's call to all progressive voters to band together to defeat the Conservative agenda. All fine and strategic, except that his definition of "progressives" is a bit of a stretch in that it includes Liberals, NDPers, Greens -- and the undecided. Mind you, I guess we don't know the undecided aren't against Stephen Harper. (They might be. They just won't say.) Hey, why not throw in some other folks who have also been tight-lipped on their voting intentions in this election: babies, the unborn, citizens of Estonia? The deceased? Wow, if we unite this left, Pauly's gonna win a landslide!

And don't get me started on Buzz Hargrove. Let me see if I have this right: On account of the fact that the separatists would be buoyed by the decentralist tendencies of a Conservative government, Quebeckers should defeat the separatists... by voting for separatists. Way to show those secessionist bastards, eh? Every vote for them will be a nail in their own coffin.

That's kinda out there. Really, I might as well get voting advice from Buzz Lightyear. Or maybe Buzz Aldrin. You remember him: second man on the moon, has a haircut named after him. (Actually, turns out his advice might involve punching out anyone who disagrees with me. We can only hope this isn't a lesson he teaches in his new children's book.)

Mind you, it might feel good to punch somebody. I'm not making any threats here, but let's just say that Harper, Martin, Duceppe and Layton are all lucky that I've started taking yoga again. But don't get in my aura.

And on that not completely negative note, I should leave it. I think I have an idea of what I have to do.

And, no, it doesn't involve eating my ballot. Thought crossed my mind, but apparently "the law" says I can't do that. And, anyway, there's the carbs thing again. (I'm not obsessed or anything, but as it is, the Dream of 6-Pack Abs gets further away the more I sit at this computer. At present, I'm about a 2-pack, assuming that a roll of fat counts as a "pack").

Nor will there be any gouging of eyes with a spoon, grapefruit or otherwise. That, of course, was just an expression. I'd never actually do it. (And if I did, I'd use a melon baller. Er, not that I've really thought about it.)

No, I'll work it out and just...vote. And what will be will be. And the sun will come up the next day. Well, probably not here, but somewhere.

And I'll have some Honeycombs, and it will all be...okay. Okay?

*

Yes, yes, it's definitely still the Day Before...

Alternate title: For A Guy Who Is Supposed to Be Agonizing Over His Vote, You Sure Are Jokey, Dare I say - Prolific?

Picking up from where we left off last time (not to be confused with the time before that, which was also good, but in an earlier, deja vu kind of way)... I was all like: "I don't want to vote Liberal." And you were all like: "Is that a RonCo Food Dehydrator? Cool." Then we were both ate turkey jerky for, like, a really long time. And then...

Thought 3: Some options

So, not Conservative. And not Liberal if I can help it. Which leaves me with the NDP or the Green Party.

As for the NDP, I like many of their policies. The whole "Help for people" theme is appealing, since I happen to be people, and I could always use a little help. And Honeycombs. (I've moved on from the Cheerios. A guy has to grow up sometime.) Not that they have a specific "Honeycombs for People" policy, but they do go on about spending tax dollars on things that matter, and what matters more than a really good breakfast cereal -- particularly, one with a big big taste and a big big bite?

And, speaking as somebody who thinks that society is way too sexually repressed, I feel that voting for a party whose leader so unapologetically sports a porn mustache sends a sex-positive message. The other parties, not so much.

And the Greens? I'd like to vote for them. I really would. I know I haven't mentioned this before, but rest assured, I'm real big on windmills and clean water and cars powered by bio-fuel. (I'm a little unclear on how the chicken poo gets through the intake valve, but I'm sure Jim Harris is on top of it.) And I'm all about taxing the shit out of the big oil companies. (Well, so long as it doesn't affect the price of gas. Hey, I didn't say I would use bio-fuel. Have you ever smelled chicken poo? Exactly.)

Lofty ideas, to be sure. But they haven't got a chance of winning my riding, or anywhere else. And as my grandmother always said: you might have the best waltz of any man at the ball, but nobody will ever know this if you tragically lose both your legs in an industrial buffer accident on the way to dance floor. She didn't like dancing. Or janitors.

I'm going to need some help with this one.

*

STILL The Day Before the Day Before the Day After

Alternate title: It's Almost Like Today Doesn't Want it To Be Tomorrow, Either.

Picking up from where we left off, I was saying "Canada is my nation; it is not my navel," in response to which you were chuckling, nay guffawing, almost choking on your Ovaltine. Some even came out your nose, which was cute. And nutritious. Then there was a stark, humourless silence across cyberspace for what seemed like nanoseconds. Until, this...

Thought 2: I'd rather not vote Liberal

Okay. So as we learned last time, no Conservatives (on account of the Clark-Spohr factor and the abs). But, then, who?

As a young child, I was, like most young children, a New Democrat. I was an often very vocal proponent of the redistribution of wealth (Cheerios, candy, toys) from those who had it (my sister, that man at the corner store, that ungrateful Kirk kid from down the street) to those who didn't (invariably, me). I supported quality child care, especially when the caring involved the distribution of the aforementioned wealth to the child (again, me) . I supported environmental stewardship (bugs in jars) and funding for the arts (so long as the arts were cartoons).

As a teen, I was a Young Liberal. I have nothing witty to say about that, I just was. Then, circa 1990 (circa being Latin for, Christ I'm old), I became a YL for PM -- the PM, of course, standing for Paul Martin. (Or, in my case, possibly "Pimple Medication". Man, was I a greasy kid.) Sadly, my button-wearing, meeting-stacking, underage-drinking efforts notwithstanding, Pauly's first leadership campaign fell way short.

Dejected, I boxed up my PM t-shirt, PM bandana and PM sunglasses ...and PM shoelaces, shoe horn, watch, wallet, bottle opener, toilet brush and novelty condoms. (Somehow I missed out on the replica Liberian-flagged steamships.) I let my party membership lapse in '91, then finally succeeded in getting my name removed from their mailing list in -- well, I'll let you know after I check Monday's mail.

From there, my partisan affiliation slowly faded -- thankfully, as did my zittage. I'm a bit embarassed to say that, off the top of my head, I can't recall with certainty who I voted for in '93, '97 and '00. I happen to be much clearer on who I slept with over the same time span. Booty tends to be more memorable than ballots. Also, the list is shorter. I know I voted Liberal at least once. And NDP. And then there was this girl who liked to do it... Wait, I'm getting confused.

Anway, 2004 I do remember. Ballot: Liberal. Booty: my wife. Canadian Idol: Kalan Porter. (The lad reminds me of myself at his age. But with a better voice. Better hair, too. And fewer zits. Actually, why did I vote for that little bastard?)

Anyway, the Libs got my vote last time around for a number of reasons. First, there was my leftover nostalgic admiration for the Paul Martin of a decade and a half ago: forward-looking, articulate, less likely to consume large doses of Geritol. Second, there was a chance that the Conservatives and their decidedly non-Clarkspohresque leader Stephen Harper could actually win - a scenario that something a guy like me who leans left (and, not that it's relevant, dresses right) cannot tolerate.

Third, I was in Ujjal Dosanjh's riding. All else being equal, I'll usually vote for the brown guy. Call it my way of sticking it to Whitey. And "the Man". (True, I myself am a whitey, but only in the small-w sense. I'm also a man, but not the Man. And until I am him, "it" should be stuck to him at every opportunity, assuming "it" is not a delicious caramel apple, in which case, I am your Man.)

But that was then. This time is a problem.

I don't know if I can vote Liberal. It's not that I don't think they've done a good job. On the whole, they have. The economy is humming. Budgetary surpluses abound. George Bush has his chaps in a knot. All good in my books. And it's not that I think Martin or his candidates are corrupt. They may know some guys who know some guys who are corrupt, but there's a difference. Hey, I watch movies: The corrupt guys say "faggedabowdit" and then go medieval on your ass. Martin and his team says "Idunnoabowdit" and, at worst, would go circa 1964 on your ass.

But in this campaign, Pauly and the Libs (not to be confused with the folk group of the same name) have looked, well, pathetic. I can overlook the strategic gaffes like letting Harper dictate the flow of the campaign, or not putting tighter pants on Stephen Owen. But crap like the "guns in our cities" ad and playing cheap politics with the Charter, well, that's (a) sad and (b) an insult to my intellajins intelligence.

There's quite enough "sad" in this life as it is. Case in point: the heartbreaking lack of quality chocolate bars in this country in general and in my home in particular. And folks who want to insult my intelligence are a dime a dozen. I have the garage full of As Seen on TV products to prove it.

So there's all that. Wherever that leaves me. This will take some more thought. Maybe some chocolate.

*

The Day Before the Day Before the Day After

Alternate title: Not a Movie About Our Impending Vaporization in a Mushroom Cloud of Doom But it Feels Like it.

Alternate, alternate title: Yeah, About This Election Thing Tomorrow? I'm Feeling Kinda Pukey.

Early on this All Electors Eve morn, I'm doing a lot of thinking. Some of it is right-brain thinking (just now: "Is 'eve morn' an oxymoron?"). Some is left-brain thinking (just after just now: "Who is Eve, and why does she mourn?"). And some is no-brain thinking (enjoying a bowl of delicious and nutritious fruit salad: "Fruit is delicious and nutritious. What was that Feschuck guy going on about?")

But as the pained expression on my face suggests (apart from that I should eat less fruit), mostly I'm doing some gut thinking. Future of This Country thinking. Election thinking. So far, I have this...

Thought 1: I'm not voting Conservative

This will be no surprise to anyone who has had occasion to hear, read (or, in the case of those nosy bastards at CSIS, subpoena from my ISP) my relentless (and by some accounts, sorta kinda amusing) criticism of Stephen Harper's policies on key issues like same-sex marriage and crime. And turtlenecks.

And as my friends well know, I almost always position myself a little to the left of centre on matters of political importance. (Ironically, when it comes to one matter of personal importance, I happen to position myself to a little to the right of centre. But that's nobody's business but my wife's and my tailor's. Well, and now yours. Sorry about that.)

Notice I didn't italicize, underline or otherwise decorate the "not" in "I'm not voting Conservative". This is because, well, I could vote conservative (note the decoration just there). I really could, in the right circumstances.

Those circumstances? Well, the party would have to have as its leader the (as yet only hypothetical) amalgam of Joe Clark and my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Spohr. Clark for his red-Tory sensibilities and the effortless grace with which he carries a set of jowls. And Mr. Spohr because, man, was he cool. Granted, he had kind of a odd name, but dude drove an El Camino. An El Camino. Need I say more?

Oh, and beer. I'd need a lot of beer -- before, after and during the casting of my ballot. Before for the courage, after for the guilt, and during -- well, the during is just to mess with the old ladies running the polling station.

[And as for the "during" part, should you try it, a caution: exposing folks in the act of voting to the label on your can or bottle might be misconstrued as displaying campaign material at a polling place -- an Elections Act no-no. You'll want to avoid brands that can be seen as touting a party or candidate - such as Labatt's Blue™ (Conservative), Rickard's Red™ (Liberal) or Mongoose Malt (Layton).]

Anyway, it's not going to happen. Not this time. I knew Joe Clark-Spohr, and Stephen Harper is no Joe Clark-Spohr.

Also, there's the beer. I fear so many liquid carbs all in one day would force me to postpone, yet again, the launch of my long-promised third blog, justphotosofmyrockhardabs.blogspot.com. I love this country, but I'm not prepared to sacrifice my gut -- and your six-pack viewing jollies -- in the name of good government.

Canada is my nation; it is not my navel.

*

Do I hear fourteen cents? ...Anyone?

As reported here, the adult-only domain name sex.com has been sold for $US14 million.

Worth considerably less: sexwithmyronthompson.com.

*

More attacks planned, but truce offered

...Says Osama Bin Laden to America -- not Paul Martin to Stephen Harper as originally thought.

As a result of this correction, Hell has cancelled the public skate that had been scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

*

Moi, un bloquiste? Qui savait?

I wonder how much it costs to have a Duceppe lawn sign FedEx'd from Laurier-Sainte-Marie.

http://www.saplin.com/vote2006/

*

None too clever

More proof that, if you think you have a really good idea, chances are somebody else has probably already thought of it:

insert witty title here
(insert name here)
Clever Title Goes Here
[insert clever name]
(Insert Something Clever Here)

I don't like this. True, these folks may have had blogs before I did, but I've been using the stupid non-name name gimmick for years. Cases in point: 1983 -- my first book report ("I haven't read this yet"); 1991 -- my first university paper ("The Guy Who Wrote This For Me Wanted an Extra $20 for a Title"); 2004 -- my wedding vows ("...take you, State Bride's Name, to be my wife").

For a nanosecond, I contemplated challenging these pretenders to a thumb wrestling tournament where everybody but the winner has to change his or her blog's name. But with my luck, one or more of them would have a freakishly muscular thumb. ("Roger Ebert, Henry Winkler! No, I had no idea you guys blogged. And on Blackberrys? You don't say.")

Sigh. It's almost enough to make me give up on blogging altogether and devote all my time to this revolutionary invention I'm working on. It's like a DVD, but boxy and more scratch resistant. I call it... Betamax.

*

10 things the Liberals can still do to win this election

There's a lot of responsibility that goes with writing a blog as popular as mine. If recent traffic stats are correct, tens - if not dozens - of people are hanging on my every word. In such a position of power, it is incumbent on me to take pause now and then to consider what message I'm sending out to my public.

Take my recent Open Letter to Paul Martin post. In retrospect, I fear that certain comments (like, say, "you were in the race" or "something to think about during Harper's swearing-in ceremony") may have left the impression that I feel that this election campaign is a done deal, that there's nothing the Liberals can do to turn this thing around.

I can only assume these comments were behind the obvious decline in Liberal morale in recent days. Once funnier than a singing mechanical moosehead, Liberal blogboy Scott Feschuck has taken to posting about fruit. Belinda Stronach, I'm told, wore the same powder blue power suit twice last week. Even the Prime Minister's trademark verbal preamble "let me be clear" has been downgraded to "let me be... employed."

To the cogs in la machine rouge, and to Canadians everywhere who are dismayed at the prospect of being governed by people with worse haircuts than themselves, I say this: Not all hope is lost. Granted, most hope is lost, but not quite all hope - maybe if you look in the pocket of a jacket you haven't worn for a while, or dig behind the cushions on your couch, there might be some hope there. Try that shoebox on the top shelf of your closet (no, not that one -- this is one of the very few situations in life where porn will not make things better).

Okay, you are taking too long. (You did go in that other box, didn't you?) Well, let me help you out. With the hope, I mean.

TEN THINGS THE LIBERALS CAN STILL DO TO WIN THIS ELECTION

10. Sex it up a bit: shorter skirts on Anne McLellan, tighter pants for Stephen Owen.

9. Forget handguns -- reach out to the underestimated anti Casey and Finnegan lobby by banning hand puppets.

8. Promise Canadians universal publicly-funded access to Pierre Pettigrew's hairstylist.

7. Cut the GST to negative 7 percent. Campaign slogan: "Buy shit, get cash from the feds!"

6. Sex it up even more: have PM attend a Make Poverty History event, stage an open-mouth kiss with Bono.

5. Offer to provide Canadians with quality, low cost child care -- at 24 Sussex. (No sweat: Chef Drache could whip up some kick-ass mac and cheese, Sheila could pop in a Madagascar DVD. Storytime with Uncle Ujjal...)

4. Change party name to i-Liberal.

3. Well, let's just say... if a number of prominent Tories were to, you know, "take an unexpected vacation" until after the election.... I'm not advocating anything, but I know a guy who knows a guy...

2. "And starting in goal for the Vancouver Canucks, number 29, Ken Dryden!"

And the number one thing the Liberals can still do to win this election....

1. Release the Harper-Coulter Motel 6 photos.

*

New Liberal attack ad?

Poker, Aniston, Porn, Viagra, Vegas

Are, in all probability, really good keywords to direct readers to your blog.

Not as good: Tiddliwinks, Goldberg, Scrapbooking, Saltpeter, Regina.

Lost in translation, part deux: less Scarlet Johanson, more Jack Layton

According to an e-mail from "T", a gal who is obviously as sensitive as she is gifted in her ability to appreciate way wicked humour, she actually "cried a bit" reading my first Lost in Translation post. Le shucks.

Alors, with the second installment of the federal leaders en français now a wrap, let's roll out some more mis-translations and see if we can't make T, how you say... pee a bit?

* * *

Civilized - In an attempt to present his party as more moderate than the Harper Conservatives, Paul Martin setting clear limits on how far he'd go in punishing criminals:

«Le Parlement ne devrait pas avoir le droit d'enlever des droits individuels aux Canadiens.»
"Parliament should not have the right to remove the fingers of individual Canadians."

Voluptuous - Conservative leader Stephen Harper admitting that, as PM, he'd surround himself with buxom French-Canadian women:

«J'ai besoin de vrais Québécois au sein d'une table de cabinet»
"I need some real Québécois breast at the cabinet table."

Resourceful - Jack Layton, linking the environmental issue of waterfowl overpopulation in urban centres with the plight of low income seniors, calling on the government to:

«... fournir les soins aux personnes âgées»
"...cook swans for the elderly"

At last - Paul Martin admitting for the first time that his office was directly involved in directing dirty sponsorship money into Liberal coffers:

« Nous avons placé le pays avant le parti »
"We placed the payments in front of the party"

Cocky - Layton, questioning the political courage of Quebec's provincial politicians and promising that the NDP will promote national unity by pressuring:

«... l’Assemblée nationale puisse, en fait, ratifier la Constitution. »
"...the National Assembly pussies, in fact, to ratify the Constitution."

* * *

And if that didn't quite make you rire à pisser, T, what can I say? Try another bottle of Trois Pistoles.

An open letter to Paul Martin

Dear Prime Minister Martin (while I can still call you that):

Re: last night's debate

This will be short. It's hard to type when you're banging your head against the wall.

What in the name of all things good and holy (and a few that aren't) were you thinking? A constitutional amendment to delete the notwithstanding clause? When exactly did you come up with this little brainwave - on the campaign bus on the way to the studio? During make-up?

Or maybe while you were 'draining the little liberal' one last time before going on air? Granted, some truly inspired ideas were conceived while standing at the pisser. (Tile-grout grafitti gems like "So this is where the all the dicks hang out" and "Why are you looking here when the joke is in your hand?" come to mind, as does the late Ronald Regan's theory of "trickle down economics". Damned ornery prostate.) I mean, there's thinking on your feet, and then there's thinking on your feet.

But perhaps some matters like, oh, I don't know - changing the fundamental law of the land - warrant some more thorough reflection, away from the distracting scent of a deodorant cake.

And speaking of smells, seeking election is a lot like playing the single's dating scene, a well-known principal of which is as follows: you won't score with anyone if you reek of desperation. Which your campaign now does.

Too bad, too, since you were still in the race. You had game. The 'older man' thing - very distinguished. And a fat wallet and a yacht never hurts. Canadians were flirting with bad boy Stephen Harper, but they would have overlooked that Gomery-sized zit on your nose, swallowed their pride, and come home with you at the end of the night. You were no prize, but you'd have been the best thing around at last call (much less annoying than the little used car salesman with the white mustache).

But when Steve started picking up a few more numbers than you, you panicked and blurted out something foolish. The "C" word, no less. Not sexy.

Something to think about during Harper's swearing-in ceremony. After you've taken a leak.

Sincerely,
Havril

*

As if watching the debate isn't punishment enough

The second round of leaders' debates starts tonight. Given the flurry of 'Tough on Crime' policy announcements in recent days (more accurately, 'Tougher Than Them on Crime', policy announcements, giving rise to 'They are Complete Pussies on Crime But We Favour Beating Criminals With Sock-Wrapped Cue Balls' policy announcements), one topic sure to be on the agenda is crime and punishment. Heavy emphasis on the punishment.

One theme that keeps coming up is automatic minimum sentences for crimes committed with guns. Now, I'm against crime in general (the hilarious, slapstick Home Alone variety excepted). And I'm all about banning guns and everything associated with them - bullets, those little paper bad guy targets, small penises. But I don't quite get the minimum sentence thing. I mean, why for guns but not for other weapons?

Okay, I do grasp that guns are an inherently greater risk to the public at large. Rarely does an innocent bystander get cut in a botched drive-by knife throwing - and when it does happen, the perp is usually easily tracked to a nearby circus where he goes by the name of the Amazing Stabini ("Let the blindfolded lady go and step away from the Wheel of Death!"). Rarer still are incidents where somebody gets choked by some stray piano wire during a drive-by strangling. And when this happens, the assailant is invariably dealt with (that is, politely reprimanded then sent to 'sleep with the fishes') by embarrassed fellow mobsters.

But when you are the intended victim, a gun is not necessarily less dangerous or less terrifying than any other weapon of choice. Just ask anyone who's been on the business end of a shoulder-carried anti-tank missile launcher, or mugged at chainsaw-point.

My problem with mandatory minimum sentences is that their inflexibility inevitably gives rise to injustice in certain cases. For example, is it fair to give a kid 10 years for shoplifting when he happened to have a handgun in his waistband? He might have forgotten it was there. A Guardian 32 ACP Double-action Semiauto measures a teeny 4.4 inches in length, and kids' pants these days are notoriously baggy. Aight, Holmes?

And longer jail terms are not a deterrent, since most would-be criminals don't weigh in advance the consequences of what they are about to do. (As an aside, this is also a common, but in my view misguided, argument against capital punishment. Capital punishment is a huge deterrent. Unfortunately, it deters people, some of them innocent, from living. But that's an issue I'd rather not get into until a future Prime Minister Harper says we have to.)

It's also argued that, at least for the length of his jail term, an offender is off the street and not committing more crime. Obviously true, but that's a slope more slippery than dew on snot. By that logic, why not give all criminals life sentences right off the bat. Or, better yet, incarcerate folks before they offend - Minority Report style. As a rule of thumb, public policy should never resemble anything connected to Tom Cruise.

And anyway, assuming that 'precog' technology is a few years off (and judging from the quality of debate in this election campaign, Canada is a tad short on visionaries of any sort) , how would you predict who is a future pistol packin' ganstah? The Charter would likely prevent us, and rightly so, from using race and socioeconomic status as indicators. But it would not preclude preventive intevention based on appearance - i.e. the arrest and permananet incarceration of anyone who looks 'sorta shifty'.

If that's the standard, some of us should start packing around a toothbrush, just in case.

*

Are we there yet? The electorate has to go pee, and Layton is poking me

It's true, despite my uncharacteristic silence on the topic for the past few weeks, there is still a federal election campaign going on (and on, and on). Frankly, it's the recent upturn in Conservative poll numbers that has shut me up. Try as I might, I can't think of anything funny about the prospect of Stephen Harper's Conservatives forming government. Gun violence, religion, physical disabilities - all hilarious in the right context. But Stephen Harper as PM? No laughing matter.

But wait a minute. Oh, yeah - the haircut. Now that is funny. (Cheap and unsophisticated yes, but so were a couple of my ex-girlfriends, and they were fun for a while.)

Try this: do a Google image search for "Stephen Harper", then one for "Howdy Doody". 'Nuff said.

*

And save the orange jumpsuit for Conrad Black

Last week a 55 year old Nova Scotia man was charged with attempted murder for allegedly trying to hit a man with his car on New Year's Eve. Now, for anyone from small town Canada, this is hardly news. In my home town, unofficial First Night festivities seemed somehow incomplete until Buddy tried to run Buddy Other down with his ride (inexplicably, almost always a 1974 Buick Riviera).

But what makes this one interesting and quite possibly ironic (at least in the Alanis Morisette 'Isn't it Ironic?' sense) is the fact that the alleged driver is none other than Donald Marshall, the Mi'kmaq man who spent 12 years in prison after being wrongfully convicted of murder in 1971.

Which leads to an provocative and quite possibly never-before-asked (at least in the any-two-women "Havril, will you have a threesome with us?" sense) question: shouldn't Donnie get a freebie on this one?

As in, get-out-of-jail-free. As in, time already served. As in, been there (prison), done that (hard time for something I didn't do). Let's say that trying to give somebody a hood ornament tattoo would normally get you, oh, I don't know, 11 years in the clink. Well, perfect. Don's done 12, so let him grab an old-fashioned glazed from the chief constable's desk on his way out, and we'll call it even. It's only fair.

Or is it? If the present charges are only worth, say, 10 years, then not only should this poor bugger walk - but he's still owed another two years. By rights, he should be entitled to such additional consequence-free crime as necessary to use up the credit. Not unlike how accidentally overpaying on your credit card entitles you to the guilt-free purchase of a garden gnome. The bonus offence is his choice of course, but to me both Public Nudity and Theft of Cattle sound fun (and in the latter case, tasty).

It may not make up for spending the entire disco era behind bars but damn if it isn't a good start.

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8 reasons, as in more than seven reasons but not quite nine... the french would say 'huit raisons'...

I just re-read my last post. Well, re-skimmed. Wow, I do go on, don't I? Ironic that I write so much, considering that when it comes to reading anything longer than the Canadian Tire flyer, I tend to bog down like a undercharged Philishave in pubic hair (er, I guess) .

If I tried - if I really, really tried - I wonder if I could succinctly state...

EIGHT REASONS WHY MY POSTS AREN'T SHORTER

8. Four months ago I got an anonymous note that said "type or die," and it's got me really freaked out.

7. I didn't blog enough as a toddler.

6. They are short. You need to ease up on the weed.

5. Still trying to get my army of blogging monkeys to switch to decaf.

4. Special secret item (highlight with cursor to read): To me, words equal love.

3. "Brevity" isn't in my dictionary. Oh, is that how you spell it? Shit. There it is. Nevermind.

2. In a sinister plot to undermine the productivity of North American workers, the Chinese Government pays me, by the word, to waste your time. Also, in a sinister plot to undermine the productivity of North American workers, the Chinese Government pays me, by the word, to waste your time.

And the number one reason my posts aren't shorter...

1. You know what they say about guys with long posts.

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This holiday needs a rodent!

What you are reading now is an edited version of my orginal post under this title. Now, editing the crap out of posts after you publish them is probably frowned upon in blogging circles. But as I've said before, I also pee sitting down, so your rules mean nothing to me. Most of the original post survives, but I've deleted a confusing (and in retrospect apparently delusional) discussion about what I claimed was an early-1900's New Year's Eve tradition in northern Ontario that involved catching river otters in festive sacks and then releasing them into a champagne-filled bathtub at the stroke of midnight. If you caught that original post, I'm sorry. Your grandpa from Timmins is telling you the truth. And I'm sorry for calling him a senile old otter-dumper. Anyway, we'll pick it up from there...

I've never been big on New Year's Eve. Good excuse to get wasted, yes, but we have plenty of those (stags, baby showers, Grandma's 92nd birthday) . And beyond the booze, New Year's Eve doesn't have much else to offer.

Take this nonsense of counting down to midnight. In the absence of a well-timed asteroid strike, it's bound to be anti-climactic. (Me most years: "Three... Two... One... Happy New Year! ...Um, so you wanna go write some cheques?") Really, the only possible value in the counting out those last 10 seconds backwards is as practice for the roadside sobriety test that is likely to follow a few hours later. Ditto those little party favour noisemakers and their uncanny resemblance to a handheld breathalyzer.

Then there's the New Year's kiss. Nice enough, but if it's in public, it almost never involves tongue.

And and don't even get me started on that often mumbled but rarely understood ditty: "Auld Lang Syne". Should old aquaintence be forgot? If they sing that stupid song, yes they should!

And the whole concept of the "New Year" is arbitrary and meaningless anyway. In and of itself, January 1 is sweet frick all, astronomically speaking. It doesn't mark the longest day. Or the shortest day. In Canada, it may be the day of the year that you will get the longest stares if you wear shorts, but that is a socio-meterological coincidence. All that happens on January 1 is that the Earth completes its first full revolution around the Sun since, well, last January 1. Long ago, January 1 was chosen as the Date to Measure These Things By due to a series of complicated political and religious factors. And something to do with the timing of Julius Ceasar's bowel movements.

Groundhog Day, on the other hand, I can get behind. It means something: February 2 is the mid-point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. In pagan religious traditions, this is a "cross-quarter" day of heightened connectedness to the spiritual world.

That, and there is a rodent involved. If you think about it, pretty much any occasion is more fun when a rodent shows up (stags, baby showers, Grandma's 92nd birthday). The entire Disney empire is premised on this assumption, so it must be true.

And that's why next month I'll be having a Groundhog Day's Eve party. There will there be drinking. Bevy of choice: rootbeer and Southern Comfort. And a drinking game played while watching (what else?) Groundhog Day - one shot for each time Bill Murray's character dies, two for each time they play "I Got You Babe" and three for each scene in which Andy McDowell isn't adorable. (Okay, I threw that in there just for fun. She's never not adorable in this movie.)

At midnight there is no countdown. Instead, somebody says "hey, it's midnight". At this point, in lieu of a public peck, the host turns the lights out for 1 minute (representing the darkness of a groundhog's den), during which time partygoers are encouraged to grope their dates heartily.

Lights back on, the festivities conclude with the making of "shadow/no shadow" wagers and the exchange of stuffed groundhogs. (In recognition of Canada's multicultural makeup, celebrants born in non-groundhog countries may bring any non-rat rodent native to their homeland.)

Oh, and no Ryan Seacrest. Invitations to follow.

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Not that he or anyone else reads this but...

Okay. I'll make this quick. Saw part of Dick Clark's New Year's from Times Square show on TV last night. Very moving to see to see him struggle through the show so courageously as he did.

And (picture the Grinch, mid heart-expansion) I felt a little bad about making a crack about him in my 12 Things post. I've joked about Dick Clark's age (and apparent lack of aging) for years but it was in especially poor taste to do it post-stroke.

So, a New Year's resolution: No more Dick Clark jokes. At least until he's fully recovered. (I will however, continue to poke similar good-natured fun at the not-so-age-defying Lloyd Robertson and Craig Oliver at CTV News, their continued good health allowing.)

And, one more non-Dick Clark alternative #7 to my 12 Things post:

7B. Do a double take. (Possible motivation: Mariah Carey's cleavage deserves no less.)

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