Hey Look! My Turd's Back!

The nice thing about not knowing what you're doing is that when it happens again, you might not realize it. On the downside of that equation is that, when the crap doesn't flush the first time, it looks just the same when you see it again. And Mr. Hencke is baaaack!

That Atomic generator 'fracas' we had last January has resurfaced. This time the old tub sprung a leak and pumped some irradiated water into the Ottawa River which flows right past the throne of the greatest leader of all time, little Stevie Harper. So once again the old 'burner' has been shut down - jeopardizing Canada's supply of medical isotopes.

You may recall that the last time isotopes were jeopardized, the minister of tasseled loafers canned the chief of Canada's atomic oversight commission and replaced her with a 'yes' person, while ordering a party hack appointed to run the generation arm to fire up the burners again.

Repairs were probably never made and this year the same old system contaminates a water shed. But because there are those 'new' men at the helm, this time there is NO crisis. Those isotopes, this time, "are available elsewhere" or "probably aren't needed at all". This time it's a pure Conservative cock-up, so everything's OK.

Not only are new men running the reactor, the Minister of tasseled loafers has been moved into a less challenging portfolio (transport?) and he's been replaced with with a highly incompetent ball-breaker Ms. Makeover - Lisa Raitt. Not to be outdone in the iffy category, MS Raitt got the ball rolling by leaving all her notes (top secret of course) on a lectern at a press scrum. Her aide took the bullet for that.



A couple of days later her email gets aired about how she as going to handle the 'sexy' issue that landed on her desk. Like some Catch 22 'golden opportunity to get ahead' she soon found herself up to her hooters in publicity flak, about calling somebodies' tumor diagnosis 'sexy'. It took the full ministrations of Guy Giorno and the fey blades of the PMO to get her sobbing in front of the hacks as she described dead relatives in an attempt to 'de-sexify' herself. The PMO's posse think they 'got it', but there is no solution to the isotope production problem that should have been on somebody's radar, at least since last years' accident'. Tasseled loafers probably thought she could 'get this' herself. She was too busy 'getting' the other cabinet 'femmes'.

We got the govermint, and no isotopes, we deserve.

"Cry Me a River"

'Lyin' Brian' is on stage, again, defending his 'honour' from the swine with whom he once laid down. The 'guy from Baie Comeau', although he might have had some deep concerns about the financial equity of his family as he stepped from the political stage into a sinecure that would have delighted most other guys from Baie Comeau, is trying to explain the 'honest' reasoning that led him to accept packets of cash from a German arms pedlar. It must have been the thought of baby Alexander, a mere decade along his path and facing the possible prospect of never owning his own new Porsche, that made 'Daddums' suck on a molar and take that filthy lucre.

Not only was that distasteful, but the solon of our time had the perspecacity to sock it away in a safety deposit box lest he have to consider it as 'income',and report it for tax purposes. It's never income until you're going to spend it (r-i-i-ight) and RevCan allows a window while some favored folk can make up their mind. He tells us he eventually did come clean, when the first attempted besmirching wised him to a possible comeuppance. Of course, being as since nobody asked him about packets of money, he never thought to mention them, even though he went right out afterward and turned them into taxable income.

For somebody as wise as them lawyer guys, Mulroney speaketh the shits. And not particularly well.

But failing the bullshit there are always Irish tears. Not any sincere kind, the ones that generally appear at the bottom of a grog bottle, or when the heartstrings are plucked by maudlin sentimentality, or when you're caught with a naughty bit in the babysitter. And so the thought of overfed newsies sniggering while the 'Leader' spoke of the devastation faced by little Alexander having his Daddy called a crook, moved the great one to shed a tear - a sniffle, a stifled sob, a subdued 'merci' before he had to bawl out loud. As Pat Corrigan's cartoon in the Star, below, depicts.



This particular scene of the comedy may once again play out in the favour of Mr.Mulroney, but taken as a whole this particular farce is actually a tragedy. Not for Mulroney, according to himself - for once again he sees 'vindication' in a failure to convict. In that heart of hearts, however, the one he might once have had of a confessional Saturday and the one he's going to need again in the none too distant future, he knows human law to be the ass it was once described to be. There is another - and there may be tears then, too, only too late.