Arf

This whole dog and Petey show is childish and silly, hardly the type of thing I would normally discuss on this blog. My readers come here for reasoned discourse on the great issues of the day -- nuclear proliferation, AIDS research. Er... brussel sprout farts?

Right. So, this "dog" thing. In case you missed it -- say, because you were at work or having really loud sex during Thursday's question period (or, in my case, both) -- the barely audible details are like, here, somewhere.

In the wake of the incident, observers have opined on what it says about Peter MacKay's attitude towards women, and, more generally, what it says about the barriers faced by women in Canadian politics and our society at large.

I, for one, have nothing to say about any of that -- mainly because such talk invariably leads to somebody mentioning the term "glass ceiling", to which I can never help but smart-assedly respond, "Um, I think the word is skylight," which on more than one occasion has put me on the business end of a size 8 ladies' shoe (oddly, never with a high-heel). Also, somebody usually mentions the dehumanizing effect of porn, and my 'Yes, I am part of the problem' t-shirt isn't in from the printers.

But I do have a thing or two to say about how 'wagger-gate' reflects on Peter MacKay's credibility. Quite simply, it reminds us that he has none.

Now, I don't fault Minister P-Mac for denying he made the remark. Sure, compared with Trudeau's famously coy "fuddle duddle" explanation or Bill Clinton's "depends what your definition of 'is' is" semantic gymnastics, MacKay's reliance on the technicality that his impugned words didn't make it onto Hansard lacked a certain creative flair.

But it's not an entirely reprehensible position to take. The procedural fiction that if it isn't on the official record it didn't happen is a longstanding tradition central to the proper functioning of Parliament. And it goes further than you might think. You can actually murder somebody on the floor of the Commons, and if they don't refer to it in Hansard, you walk. Well, you have to take care of some witnesses -- that sign interpreter bitch up in the corner of the screen sees everything.

The tradition is akin to other universally accepted "deemed truths" that maintain social order in our everyday lives -- such as the legal presumption of innocence, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" or "the one who smelled it dealt it". Some others, I have learned, like "cybersex isn't really cheating", have yet to gain such status. (And, Honey, if you are reading, I totally thought nubian_queen1983 was you.)

But, parliamentary fiction notwithstanding, let's pretend the words were uttered. And while we're pretending, maybe you could aim your webcam just a little lower...

Er, where was I? Right. The comment. Credibility, lack of. To imply that Belinda Stronach is a dog is way beyond incorrect. It is completely and utterly (dare I say doggone?) unsupportable. Ms. Stronach is certainly no dog. A fox, perhaps, but no dog.

(And I know I shouldn't even go there, not having my t-shirt and all. But I don't think it's necessarily inappropriate to comment on the physical appearance of politicians, male or female. Why, Paul Martin himself used to muse publicly that his male pattern baldness gave him the look of a Benedictine monk. And didn't we all have fun taking a poke at Steve Harper's paunch last summer? But, of course, such superficial commentary should never overshadow a politician's stand on the issues. How a politician looks is a legitimate topic only as a passing matter of human interest. It should not be dwelled upon.)

(...Okay, not to dwell on it, but I've never thought that Belinda was really all that, despite media gushing/throbbing to the contrary. She's alright -- no Anna Bergkvist, member of the Swedish Riksdag, but alright. And in the interest of balance, I should say that Peter MacKay's physical attractiveness has also been a tad overblown by an Ottawa press corps who, after decades of Joe jowls and McCallum muss, are a little too hungry for hunkiness on the Hill. In my astute but non-gay assessment, Petey fixes up nice enough, but he's no Jan-Henrik Fredriksen of the Norwegian Storting.)

Yeah, so, anyway, Peter's comment was patently unreasonable. What's more, it's a complete flip-flop from his previous position on the issue. Recall that when a freshly-dumped Peter was off to mope for the cameras in a potato patch back home, he told reporters he was looking forward to spending time with his dog because "dogs are loyal". The obvious implication: Belinda is not loyal. The logical extension (which Peter ought to know, since, as a lawyer, he must have passed the LSAT): Belinda is not a dog. But having taken the LSAT, Peter must also know that if Belinda is wearing glasses, and the girl sitting behind her, who is not Sally, has pigtails, then Peter is wearing a green t-shirt. Which may not be relevant here.

My point is, you can't have it both ways, Peter. Well, sometimes you can. But not this time.

So, Honourable Minister, I call on you to apologize -- not just for insulting Belinda and demeaning women in general, which would be a start, but more importantly for being, well... a bit of a weasel.

Or don't. Either way, Tie Domi is still going to kick your ass.

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Boom goes the dynamite

I refer, of course, to North Korea's recent explosive admission into Club Nuke, and not -- as my wife, our neighbours, or our local haz-mat squad might have guessed -- to the equally explosive effect brussel sprouts have on my colon. Though, if you asked any of them, the latter is probably the more pressing threat to global security. And I tend to agree.

Saturday's detonation doesn't mean North Korea has the bomb. It only means North Korea had the bomb.

These babies are notoriously expensive to construct. A tonne of enriched uranium on the black market will put a guy back more than the equivalent of a month's rent in Fort McMurray. Okay, maybe not that much, but a lot. And all those little yellow radioactive triangle stickers you are supposed to put on a nuclear bomb aren't cheap, either. Mind you, in a pinch, you could get by with some pink triangle stickers, with the added advantage that you could recoup costs by renting the weapon out for use as a Pride Day float. But Jong-Il probably didn't think of that. Evil genius, my ass.

So here's what I'm thinking: Kooky Kimmy, crazy mofo that he is, blew the People's Democratic wad on just the one functioning melt-o-matic. That one is gone, and he can't afford to build another one any time soon. I mean, shit, think of the balance on his RadioShack credit card alone. So any other nukes he might parade out for the cameras in the months to come are just duds. Old movie props from Armageddon. Surplus sex toys.

Now, do I want to go all Dirty Harry on this guy and call his bluff? You know, send in the troops and see how many caps he has left in the chamber? Well do I... punk?

Er, no. And don't call me punk.

It's too risky. I mean, I could be wrong on the lone nuke theory. It's bound to happen one of these times. And if I am, and if these nutters have two or ten of them, the consequences would be catastrophic. Sure, a couple of years of nuclear winter would put a dent in global warming and create new market for that warehouse of three-armed factory reject parkas I bought on eBay. But if North Korea nukes South Korea, then the US nukes North Korea, millions of innocent people will die (or, if I recall correctly from the made-for-TV movie The Day After, sparkle momentarily and disappear.)

Which, either way, is bound to fuck with the global supply of kimchi pancakes. Now, I'm not equating the two in terms of tragedy -- I'm just making the point that there is a ripple effect to these things that nobody ever talks about. And that kimchi pancakes are very tasty.

So, no, I don't want to see the Americans or anybody else to go in there guns a-blazing. (Anyway, as this top secret intelligence video demonstrates, guns-a-blazing is no match for fists a-taekwondoing.)

No, I'm just saying that Kim Jong-Il's little firecracker display doesn't necessarily mean that the world is any closer to nuclear annihilation. So we should all chill a bit and not do anything rash -- like build a fallout shelter, find religion, or pick Eric Lindros in a hockey pool.

Yeah, so I guess I'm just I'm saying we shouldn't all crap our collective pants over this nukes in North Korea thing. Brussel sprouts, however, are another matter.

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