By Craig Funston
[This is an open letter to Maurice, my second cousin twice removed (but not removed far enough—a line I’ve used before). He lives in Cornville, Iowa, and I need to bring him up to speed on some of the Canadians that are making waves south of the 49th these days. You’re welcome to read along.]
Maurice, buddy of all buddies, how are things in Cornville?
My friend, I want to ask a big favour of you, maybe two or three. You see, there are some characters up here in Canada that have strong American exposure, and well, they’re making us look bad. Just wondering if you could spread the word around at, say, your next Water-Dripping Lookee Disco Dance. You need to let people know down your way that these clowns do not represent rational thinking and normal behaving Canadians. And I’m sure they don’t represent most of your people.
One is a civic politician, and the other two are singers—so that would make all three of them grandstanding entertainers, with absolutely no accountability for their actions, attitudes, or addictions.
The first bozo is someone called Ford. You have Henry Ford, the car guy; we just have Rob Ford, who’s the size of a car. He’s the duly-elected mayor of Canada’s largest city, Toronto, and has been in the news for months for all the wrong reasons. He is a pompous twit, a national embarrassment.
Remember the War of 1812, when you guys took the city of York, then we (British) took it back? Well, why don’t you take it back again, along with its mayor. You see, York morphed into modern-day Toronto, more or less. If we hadn’t been so victorious, Ford (the Focus-sized one) would have been your problem. I know you have had your challenges with other rogue mayors (hello Newark, New Orleans, and Detroit), so what’s one more?
In some corners, he is a populist leader; others say we need to tolerate him. Well, tolerance is another name for cowardice, and no one seems to know what to do with him. I suggest we put him in a box and mail him as a gift to you. We can send it by water—over the Niagara Falls, if you want.
The next goofball also has roots in Ontario. He’s a lot skinnier, younger, and richer than Ford. He goes by the name of Justin Beiber. Maybe you’ve heard him, or least heard of him. His neighbours in Beverly Hills have, and they can’t stand him, especially the one who recently had his house egged by Justin and his groupies. Then there was the matter of the recent street racing in Florida. We could list the rest of his misdemeanours, but his rap sheet is too long for this column.
He should be home with his mommy: After all, nineteen is a very young age to be out on his own. He has rocketed to fame, and all the nonsense that goes with it, far too quickly and early in life. His fan base and the media have all contributed to his idiocy, but at the end of the day, he alone is to blame.
For that matter, I don’t even think that he’s a good singer. When I think of great singers, I think of those whose names rhyme with Williams, Como, Souther, and Orbison.
The other thing that really gets me is that he professes to be a Christian. I wish he’s shut up about his faith. I like those true Christians who live their life by the Book, where their walk matches their talk. Beiber is anything but, and is an embarrassment to those of faith. So we don’t want him here, either.
The last guy is one that you may not have heard of much. He would be the “Young” in Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young—Neil Young, by name. Like Beiber, he lives in California—a 1,500-acre spread, if you will. Mr. Young has associations in his “neighbourhood” with deep pockets, along with a virulent pro-environment agenda. They are reputedly the ones who underwrote his recent singing tour, the one where he denounced the Alberta oil sands.
Where he crossed the line, in my opinion, was when he compared the environmental toll on the oil sands to that of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Not clear how he could have made that comparison; he obviously hasn’t seen the oil sands up close and personal. However, I am clear that he is spreading misinformation (back when I was a kid that was called lying), both in geography and history.
His timing couldn’t be worse: Your dictator, er, president is about to pronounce his blessing (or otherwise) on the Keystone Pipeline—a conduit of oil right here from Alberta that will benefit the economies for both countries. Or maybe the timing was planned by his socialist comrades. Please take him and tell him to stay put on his ranch, where he can ride his toys all day—likely filled with gas that was made from the oil pulled out of the ground from you-know-where.
It is always a struggle for me to put up with common people, like you and me, who, when lifted up into a position of power and prestige, shoot their mouths off—whether they know what they’re talking about about or not. And then their fans, who think only with their ears, side with them every time.
So if you could take them off our hands, we’d appreciate it. If you want to trade, we’ll take a couple of your NHL hockey teams—for example, the Florida Panthers and the Phoenix Coyotes—straight across.
That would be an even trade: losers for losers.