Sally can’t dance no more
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