I'm not saying Stephen Harper's been the cause of my ending up down here on the banks of Pomona Creek, choked 'round ragweed, broke, dispirited, marriage over, missing my kids and otherwise happy as a lonesome fish. But, it's true that soon as Harper moved into office my groin started itching. I got fat as soaked mushroom. And the little amusements didn't seem to amuse as much, anymore.
Truth is, of course, I know Harper doesn't even know who I am. Nor does he harbour any more disdain for me than for any other Canadian grateful enough to love this country and what's it's accomplished or unlucky enough to be lacking in those most prized and admired attributes among conservatives: inheritance, bad hair, good health, and a deep-seated though never discussed desire to play with members of the opposite sex only!
Harper. I'm going to prove that you're a weasel, and so am I. This is our story.
