posted by coyote
|We can confirm that Mayor Jim Watson did indeed show up to cut the ribbon. As if you had to ask.|
We can confirm, as eyewitnesses, that Mayor Jim Watson indeed showed up to cut the ribbon, ahead of a lineup that ran out to Metcalfe Street - and beyond. And that our much-maligned tail got stomped again, in the frenzied crowd of shoppers stocking up on re-opening specials.
We can also confirm that they still sell the really very good President's Choice tomatillo salsa verde, unreasonably beloved of coyotes everywhere, for a regular price of $2.99 for a 430 mL jar.
This is greatly welcome, since the nearest alternate purveyor of said comestible, Hartman's YIG, jacked the stuff up to a
We wish Hartman's luck with that. Us coyotes will happily revert to shopping elsewhere, further south and slightly east.
posted by coyote
Because I just can't stop shooping Rob Ford wannabe-memes... I think it's the grisly fascination... the feeling that, but for the grace of Dog, I too could be a drunken, cracked-out, skagged-out, gravy-suckin' mayor. Maybe of Tweed or Sharbot Lake, given my relative snack bracket. But it's not an addiction, okay? It's just that I'm only
human. Errr, canine. . .
posted by 4th Dwarf
posted by coyote
Anyway, Uncle Donny used to obsess about climbing those skeletal old paddle blade windmills you once saw on most prairie farms. The kind that pumped water into cattle watering tanks and such, on any number of home quarters. He figured if he could get up high enough, being able to see further than anything else would be an advantage.
Dogs ain't really climbers. With supercanine effort, he could scrabble about a third of the way up the tower. Then his fear of heights would kick in, his brain would go "tilt", he'd have a vertigo attack and fall off. Usually on his head.
"There goes Don Coyote, tilting off windmills again," the prairie chickens would say.
Here (finally, you might say...) is the point: sometimes, despite Uncle Donny's kinda-concussed example, I too feel the urge to tilt off windmills. It's a coyote thing. And careful readers of this space know I've tilted at The Right Honorable Prime Minister Stephen Joseph Harper since his first minority government.
We'd like to welcome a recent crapload of national pundits and columnists to this soiree. Because, hey, better late than never. Us semimythical coyotes have been well-placed to see plenty of cases of prairie populism. We expect to see more. They're all characterized by true believers, chugging deep from a heady brew of opportunism, mendacity and batshit-crazy. And us coyotes are of the considered opinion that of the lowdown, lyin' rattlesnakes that have led these movements, the PM is right, ummm, down there.
Now he, and this week's human furniture up at the PMO, wish us to think that a highly controlling PM was about the only person in the PMO who was not party to the strangely large and desperate scheme to pay off Senator-in-Disgrace Mike Duffy to, maybe, shut up and put up.
Since Duffy loudly and serially did not, everything about the PM's story has, ummm, evolved. Except for that one item about him having nothing to do with it. Kinda odd, for a guy obsessed with talking point discipline. And an unholy titanic sales job is going into making us buy this talking point above all others. I expect the calculation is, that the waxed, buffed, yet still-strangely-unattractive face of the Harper Government must cling to plausible deniability, no matter how implausible, for the party to survive.
For a man with Mr. Harper's record of high moral rectitude and avowed strong views on openness, transparency, accountability and responsibility in government, I'm sure such disappointing evidence of all this unethical lying and chicanery among his hand-picked political and administrative types would be so unbearable that he would quit politics in disgust. Except, ummm, oh, wait...!
At some point, I wonder if any of the cast (surely of thousands by now...) that have been forcibly frog-marched off the Plank, or the large stock of pliant, fresh noobs lining up for their turn, might begin to think that the party would actually fare better without the guy who's doing the shoving.
Yeah, he brought 'em to the promised land. But they're now well past that particular hallelujah. Are they not at least beginning to wonder if anybody will be left to be the party except him? I mean, after he knifes 'em all in the back to save his face, his implausible deniability, and remaining shreds of his reputation?
From where I sit, about a third of the way up this old windmill, the guy looks willing to kill the party he leads, to keep keep his illusions of self-respect. Kinda like another lyin' rattlesnake oil purveyor who, a couple of decades back, totally trashed an earlier mark of Tories. Whom Mr. Harper, if memory serves, froze out when he started to smell like tainted goods. Yet again.
Against type, them true believers might want to take notes and learn. In case.
posted by coyote
Mr. Speaker: This is kind of sad, actually. Sometime in the distant past, before Pamela Wallen chose to parlay down a (good, ackshully) journalism gig into that of a public entertainer (Who Wants to be a Millionaire, c'mon down...!) and thence to a public shill and hat-passer for the current
Capo, ummm, prime minister, she was one of the more trusted figures in the country.
By now, although us coyotes who sit independently haven't been tracking the polls, we imagine that her public credibility is, technically, pretty much shot. So much that we with a taste for the, ummm, visual arts, have finally ourselves descended into the photomanipulative mud pit with Wadena's former fave daughter.
But, Mr. Speaker, I want to be crystal clear on one point. The record will show that I have been absolutelyveryperfectly clear all along: it is only a set of unfortunate anatomical coincidences -- and that famous hair -- that led us to the mashup you see beside you in this post. We tried all weekend -- dog knows we tried -- to make Stephen J. Harper look more Nixonian. Problem was, after hours of twitchy, obsessive and mean-spirited micromanaging on the old computing device, he still only looked like a generic crook. So, really, no net gain.
It may have had something to do with the copious butter left on our paws from all the popcorn we scarfed during last week's guffaw-inducing nightly newscasts. Us coyotes are technoklutzes to start with. Slippery paws and dreadful popcorn hangovers do not improve this lamentable failing. But I think the PM's visual is more a case of, "if you've seen one moral grey-to-black area, you've seen 'em all."
So while the unfortunate Ms. Wallen will likely hang tough in the senate this week, that august, ummm, independent body will likely hoof her, on the strong urging of the main perp.
Because some anonymous kingpin -- let's call this mysterious miscreant, for the sake of convenience and pejorative labelling, "Skeevy Steevy" -- is the one who appointed the Three Senateers in the first place. By all means, give his discarded proxies the attention, and if warranted, the heat they may deserve. Something less like a lynch mob of pitchfork and torch waving PMO sock puppets, and more like due process would be appropriate.
But,Mr. Speaker, the body politic must keep the ol' probative blowtorch squarely upon the ass of that guy trying his best to keep lurking in his own moral shadows -- the calculatedly bland Skeevy Steevy.
Us coyotes think that no matter how many senators, chiefs of staff and and parliamentary secretaries get creamed by the bus, the source of the rot is the guy who appointed them. The guy whose uber-partisan approach led to a whole whack of nudges and winks around public expense account billings in aid of collecting change for his political machine. The guy whose former parliamentary secretary stands accused of trying to buy an election. The guy whose party was found guilty of robocalls and declared it a great victory. The obsessive micromanager who would have us believe that he has completely firewalled himself from a scheme to buy off a senator's silence in the name of "plausible deniability".
Mr. Speaker, here's the skinny on Skeevy Steevy: if you create the culture; if you hire all of the perps you now slag, if you needed to create mechanisms for plausible deniability so that you can tell Parliament and the country's citizens with a nearly straight face that you were in the dark about something that has your greasy proxy pawprints all over it, if you try to blow it all off at a party convention with smirking bluster, you're culpable.
You're Nixon, laffin' boy.