Jerome the Giraffe saw the writing on the wall
As usual, Nalcor didn’t understand what the press was saying. On the Internet, in the newspapers, on television and radio, the sudden resignation of Jerome the Giraffe as Minister of Virtually Everything had been treated as just another turn in the normal cycle of politicians coming and going.
Appearing at the podium alongside the Giraffe, Mizkat claimed she had known for ever so long it was The Giraffe’s plan to leave the government and return to a job in the private sector. As if it was perfectly normal for a prominent cabinet minister to quit halfway between elections with only minutes of public notice, skedaddling from both cabinet and the House of Assembly, effective immediately. Just too bad for the people who voted for him, never imagining that his yearning for the practice of law would trump his obligation to them.
One TV personality allowed as how his leave-taking was perfectly normal, the Giraffe had never liked the political side of politics. TV Man suggested that The Giraffe sorely missed the ability to abuse people in court and for some time had felt constrained by the need for decorum in the House of Assembly.
Really? thought Nalcor, The Giraffe must have been sleeping during the regime of the Angry Man Who Talks Too Fast. He never modified his courtroom technique once he entered politics. Quite the opposite. Once in politics The Angry Man’s behaviour became still more aggressive than it had been in court, which is saying something.
Whatever the media might say, it seemed to Nalcor that the Giraffe could read the writing on the wall and, like the Angry Man before him, bailed with zero notice, leaving Mizkat hold-
Although it was cheap and made a convenient filling for a sandwich, somehow the word boloney came to mean more than mystery
meat. It came to mean “nonsense” or according to some “bilgewater, bosh, bunk humbug, tommyrot,
twaddle or rubbish.”
ing the bag.
It’s her own fault, thought Nalcor, she shows utter contempt for the public. She makes decisions without consultation, and reacts with anger when mere citizens dare to ask questions. It’s as if she feels they have no right to know how she is managing their affairs. Now the polls are showing that her popularity is into an uncontrollable downward spiral. The people are finally reacting.
It’s what the muskrats would have done long ago. And according to the Internet are already showing signs of doing in the provinces along the Anglo Saxon route and The Province Where They Speak a Different Language that Mizkat, The Angry Man and The Giraffe do not understand.
The time has come, thought Nalcor. Time for the muskrats of the Rich and Poor province to join forces with their neighbours. The governments in the Celtic Province, The Bilingual Province and the Province Where They Speak a Different Language seem unable to communicate with the Rich and Poor Province.
If muskrats in those places join forces, since they all speak muskrat, and are common sense critters with their noses close to the ground, they should be able to work together, unlike the long-necked minister the most recent to leave Mizkat’s sinking ship.
It’s time to launch a multi-province muskrat movement. We will have to have a catchy name to attract the attention of the media and the public. How about this?
Once upon a time humans who don’t care much about what they eat, invented a food that was said to be made out of some kinds of meat and other difficult to define ingredients. They called it Bologna, but everyone pronounced it Boloney. Although it was cheap and made a convenient filling for a sandwich, somehow the word boloney came to mean more than mystery meat. It came to mean “nonsense” or according to some “bilgewater, bosh, bunk humbug, tommyrot, twaddle or rubbish.”
It is puzzling how humans, so proud to fancy themselves the most intelligent of creatures, would name a luncheon meat they dreamed up, manufactured and actually swallowed, “boloney”, and then use that same word to to insult things they found meaningless.
They are indeed curious creatures, these humans, thought Nalcor. We muskrats love our food, we enjoy its taste and the nutrients it contains to sustain us in good health.
Rather than insult it we would be more inclined to praise our food in order to encourage it to grow and flourish, sustaining our little muskrat bodies and spirits. But we are muskrats and the people are people and it is our mission to bring the truth to them before it is too late to change their minds. We must convince them to stop the “Boloney” they are undertaking at Muskrat Falls. We will call our movement “Muskrats Oppose Boloney,” or MOB.
I’m going to get on the computer tonight and email the muskrats in the other provinces. Soon we will truly be a MOB. It has a certain ring don’t you think?
To be continued …
Peter Pickersgill is an artist and writer in Salvage, Bonavista Bay. He can be reached
by email at firstname.lastname@example.org