Sally can’t dance no more

The Compass - - EDITORIAL - Harold Wal­ters Harold Wal­ters lives Hap­pily Ever Af­ter in Dunville, in the only Cana­dian prov­ince with its own time zone. How cool is that? Reach him at gh­wal­

If my knees were hinged dif­fer­ently I’d boot my­self in the arse. I truly would. Why? Be­cause, in the fall of 2015, I did some­thing ir­re­versibly stupid that has caused me re­lent­less self-loathing. What did I do? Silly me, be­liev­ing that in my own small way I was help­ing to open a well-lighted Ball­room that would al­low New­found­lan­ders to fancy dance or cut a rug to their hearts’ de­light, I voted Lib­eral in the pro­vin­cial elec­tion.

Silly me, stund as a stump, I fell for the old­est con on this or any other planet — elec­tion prom­ises.

“Harry, my down-hearted honey,” says Dearest Duck, lodg­ing a com­fort­ing palm on my shoul­der. “Don’t cas­ti­gate your­self. You weren’t the only one flim-flammed.”

“True, my Duck,” say I, “but I’m mor­ti­fied that in the heat of elec­tion hoopla my bet­ter judg­ment de­serted me and al­lowed me to be­have like a numb­skull.”

“Poor Harry,” says Dearest Duck, prob’ly not a hun­dred per cent heart­felt. “I still feel be­trayed,” say I. “Don’t sook,” says Dearest Duck. “Don’t be melo­dra­matic.” “But, my Duck…” B’ys, re­mem­ber how im­me­di­ately af­ter last fall’s elec­tion Pre­mier Dwight hove open the Ball­room’s dou­ble doors and said, “Come on in! There’s a brand new dance floor and no added charge of ad­mis­sion!”?

We en­tered in droves, tap­danc­ing and jit­ter- jig­ging straight to the mid­dle of the Ball­room floor. Blinded — I s’pose — by the ce­les­tial wattage of the Ball­room’s lights, we failed to rec­og­nized it was a wolf rigged up like a nanny-baa, or p’raps a Ju­das goat, who bade us wel­come.

Nigh on to a month has passed since April 14th’s un­con­scionable bud­get low­ered the boom on all New­found­lan­ders.

That’s a lie. Not all New­found­lan­ders. Mostly those who can least af­ford added taxes, in­creases and cuts, newly in­vented bits and bobs. It is ever so, eh b’ys?

I’m no pun­dit. For frig sake, I’m not an ex­pert at much of any­thing un­less con­sum­ing Ten­sion Tamer Tea counts. Nev­er­the­less, I don’t need to be a sci­en­tist who fiddles with rocket ships to know that a 2 per cent in­crease here, a 16 cents ad­di­tion there, a cut-back here, a brand new in­hu­mane Levy there, is ap­pallingly in­iq­ui­tous.

I could jib­ber-jab­ber end­lessly re­gard­ing the two-faced about-face as­so­ci­ated with the sales tax. I could nat­ter un­til my jaws break re­gard­ing in­creased tax on gaso­line. I could prat­tle about the Levy un­til a former Pre­mier’s cows come home.

But I won’t. It wouldn’t prove a whole lot and, be­sides, you know as much as I, or more, about such in­famies. I’m My Im­per­fect Slant

“That’s not a lie,” says Dearest Duck, still at my side. Truly. In­stead, I’ll speak of swords. In par­tic­u­lar, sa­mu­rai swords.

You know, like the one Mi­chonne wields to be­head zom­bies in The Walk­ing Dead.

There’s a shorter ver­sion of the sa­mu­rai sword than Mi­chonne’s bloody big long one. The short one is called a tant, which means … well, short sword.

Ob­vi­ously the tant doesn’t have the reach of the longer sword — tachi or katana by the way — so it is less likely to be em­ployed for zom­bie de­cap­i­ta­tion.

It does, how­ever, have cer­tain er­gonomic ben­e­fits should one wish to com­mit hari-kari, aka sep­puku, a tra­di­tional form of rit­ual sui­cide once com­mon among sa­mu­rai war­riors.

The sa­mu­rai were renowned as hon­ourable war­riors. At the first shame­ful smidgen of dis­hon­our or dis­grace, a sa­mu­rai was likely to grab his er­gonom­i­cally cor­rect tant, hie-dee-hoe off to some sep­puku shrine — or what­ever — and reeve it though his belly-but­ton,

If a band of sa­mu­rai war­riors ever be­haved as shame­fully as New­found­land’s Lib­eral gov­ern­ment did on April 14th, blood­soaked short swords would be as thick as roof­ing nail in a gal­va­nized bucket.

I’m not say­ing that Lib­er­als should be so rid­dled with shame­faced guilt that — en masse — they dis­em­bowel them­selves and fer­til­ize the grass on Con­fed­er­a­tion Hill. Off course, I’m not, eh b’ys? They could, how­ever, bare their chests apolo­get­i­cally be­fore the peo­ple of this prov­ince, hum­ble them­selves and right hor­ren­dous wrongs. “Harry…” “My Duck, breath.” “Silly man.” In clos­ing… Once upon a time Sally loved a Satur­day night scuff. Now she can’t af­ford the ad­mis­sion price. Cer­tainly not at the Ball­room. And an­other thing… If I’m ever a can­di­date for knee re­place­ment, and as­sum­ing Gov­ern­ment in its eter­nally blighted wis­dom has not ban­ished such pro­ce­dures from the Health Sciences Com­plex, I will beg the sur­geons to — please, please, please — re­verse the hinge so I can kick my­self in the arse.

Thank you for read­ing. hold­ing my

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