Jason Kenney: Maybe a brain transplant would help...?

"O, Harper Can-a-Duh,

VainGloreee-us and Free-eeee *

Our Bombs are Smart,

Much Smarter than Me-eeee..."

* Actual freedom may vary, depending on definition and pending legislation.

Seen slinking out of town last night

Mere days or so tardy of American Thanksgiving, all sortsa news types last night began averring that this country's F35 Lightning Joint Strike Fighter procurement process was done like dinner. The carved remains were already being forked over unto destruction or home made turkey soup, whichever comes first.

The Harpoon Government's (©®, and especially ™. . .) designated spokesthingy denied it. Well, he would, wouldn't he? But since this government has repeatedly been revealed as rather more than, ummm, strenuously economical with the truth on this line item and sundry others, some long-time parliamentary reporters hooted (Tweeted, actually. I digress.) at him with something bordering on open derision, ummm, all due respect. . .

Let the spin begin. I'm anticipatin' that it'll be fittingly supersonic.

Meanwhile, last night, as dusk descended, a large, droopy-feathered shadow could be heard either gobbling or wailing something very much like, "But I don't understand! I'm Fifth Generation!" as it slunk (stealthily...) down the road out of town.

And somewhere in the deeper shadows off to the side of the turkey track, another large droopy feathered shadow - this one with an aqualine nose - could be heard quietly sniffling something very much like, "My heart's a little banged up too. But don't worry, li'l fella! I'm as loyal to you as to my neighbour's dog. . ."

No science, no evidence, no truth, no democracy...

You might think that semimythical coyotes, living as we do in this weird little undocumented fold of the time/cyberspace continuum, would be death on science and empirical evidence. I mean to say, if you want to get all facty 'n literal 'n stuff, our very existence might be open to debate. It might.

And if it were, we might be forced to cease pawing these tiresome screeds into this bloggy space. We might.

Fortunately for you, cowpoke, we're actually capable of reconciling our semimythical cosmology with facts. Which seems to place us a doglegged step or two ahead of the heavy thinkers in the nation's current government.

Most governments, one would think, are big enough and broadly-based enough to have:

• enough confidence in their basic tenets;
• enough actual, ummm, intelligence;
• and failing either of those, certainly enough spin machinery;

that they would find torquing any, ummm, inconvenient actual facts to fit lame-o doctrine, after they hit the public arena, to be adequately efficient.

The current one, though, shows an unhealthy will to strangle any science project raising legitimate questions as to the basis of its cherished (if half-assed) party orthodoxies, right off at the roots. They prefer to spike them suckers with serious weedkiller before they see daylight. So much so, that 12-year-olds who enter science fairs may soon wish to check over their shoulders before they pick a topic. I digress.

I'm pretty sure that this is not a good thing for democratic discourse. We coyotes have always considered that the marketplace of ideas should be open to all comers. Only after they go on display there do we gnaw over the unworthy ones with our trademark snarky-puppy wit. I digress. Very probably not for the first time...

Apparently we coyotes are not the only ones disturbed by this. Today at lunch, a genetics conference became a springboard for a rather large march and demonstration by lab-coated geeks science types, featuring a butterfly-net-waving marshal, scythe-packing grim reaper, muted New Orleans snaxophone, and a black coffin symbolizing the death of public science. You know, the stuff that helps an informed citizenry make up its collective mind of the important issues facing the nation.

I applaud the effort, and the strong visuals, but I'm not sure they're enough. By now, the Stephen Harper Information Torquing machine has insulated its creators with such a thick-walled bubble that they figure the empirical reality where the rest of us live is strictly for suckers. They stand ready to ladle out plenty more delicious Kool-Aid to suck on... and we need public science to tell us when the stuff is laced.

O'Brien's brain

Anybody heard much from Mayor Larry lately? I mean, aside from innocuous grip and grin snaps in throwaway tabloids, and the usual public pabulum? No? Thought not. Us coyotes, neither.

We may have to thank the mayor's latest handlers for this. It's the kinda brain trust that epitomizes a simple rule: if ya don't have a brain yourself, buy one. Although I note that in this case there's a whole team of, ummm, expert henchthingies to stitch up the ol' intellectual fabric. Possibly from the whole cloth.

While we can imagine it, coyotes are not party to the (no doubt) Hunter-Thompson-esque blend of medieval restraint devices, modern psycho-pharmacology and space age adhesives that it might take to keep some kinda lid on hizzoner's natural, ummm, exuberance. Whatever it is, it works like a damn. The result has been (mostly) blessed quiet for the citizenry. We needed it after all that came before.

Enquiring coyotes everywhere suppose that the reason His Nibs is actually paying heed to his high-powered advisors for a change is because he might still be eyeing that second term in the big chair, and hoping a short stint of relative decorum will do the trick.

Fortunately for those of us who are sensitive, the new strategy so far has merely reinforced the esteem with which we hold our beloved mayor. One hopes the electorate's famously lousy long term memory holds on just a teensy bit longer, so we can all support him right out of office in fall elections. In the style which he deserves.

ESI - Smarter Than Fifth Graders

Aggie's Pirate Chest Nestled Next to Her Favourite Port

Aggie, Fourth Dwarf, and I met at Pandora's house in the sky to play LOOT - The Plundering Pirate Card Game, and drink some of Aggie's economical winter drink.

"The game is for ages ten and up," I comment innocently.

"Oh, that means it's going to be hard," worries Aggie sweetly.

"A ten year old is a fifth grader," adds Fourth Dwarf.

"That's when kids are at their smartest," Pandora elaborates.

"That right, Pandora," concludes Fourth Dwarf, "and that's why so many people aren't smarter then a fifth grader."