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UNBEARABLE OBSTRUCTIONIST SEEKS LUNATIC RUNNING MATE FROM COMPLIMENTARY DEMOGRAPHIC FOR HAIL MARY ATTEMPT AT REPUBLICAN NOMINATION
I'm a lonely Senator from Texas seeking the Presidency of the United States, and I hope you're the lucky man or woman to help me down the righteous path to victory. I may only be on my first term but my reputation for being a massive prick is among the best in DC and I think I have a lot to offer.

Are you an outsider from the Republican Establishment with the kind of history of ruining big companies that can compete with Donald Trump, which would give me faux credibility in the business world?

Have you repeated blatant falsehoods ad nauseum about decadent Godless liberal institutions like Planned Parenthood, and supported my attempts to shutdown the Federal Government of the United States in order to strip that satanic organization of its funding?

Are you willing to kidnap children or delegates in order to secure a win from a contested convention, now that it's mathematically impossible for me to win on the first ballot?

Are you a creepily offputting person who reminds people of an unpleasant animal like a praying mantis, or perhaps a serial killer?

If you answered yes to these questions, and come from a background that could be passed off as electorally competitive against Hilary Clinton to idiots who won't be paying attention, then we should talk.

But not for long and not very often, because I'd hate for my personality to get in the way of our arrangement.

Winter's End

Christ what a rotten year. It's only four months old and I fucking hate it.

So far 2016 has taken away David Bowie, Prince, my ability to form trusting human relationships, Glenn Frey, Serverus Snape, my grandmother, Mauril Belanger's voice, Belgium as a tourist destination, and all but the last four or five hacks running for President. Even as I write this I'm learning of the death of blues legend Lonnie Mack - they're literally falling around us - and we remain gripped by the threat of complete obliteration by either nuclear war or religious zealots or getting laid in Brazil.

Goddamn, when will it end? Soon there will be no options left but an irresponsible dose of laudanum and 8 months of bedrest to reset and try again next year.

Despite the year's best attempts to convince me to rip off different parts of my body and smoke them in frustration, I do think it's important to believe that things tend to get better in the long run. Fly the flag of optimism as long as you can. Life changes and the lucky among us change with it. Whether you're dealing with illness or loss, a lousy job or no job at all, a hectic life with no moment's peace or the boring tedium of running out the clock in a quiet and empty room, the universe will still unfold as it should and that is worth taking heart in.

It doesn't matter if you're addicted to the news or your voice is hoarse from screaming obscenities at Wolf Blitzer, stuck in a cycle of compulsive masturbation or waiting for your court date, frazzled by wedding planning or lawyering up for divorce. Things tend to get better in the long run.

I know this to be true because it's almost summer again. The temperature is rising, the days are getting longer and brighter, and the first piece of my new arsenal has finally arrived so no matter who you think you are and what you've done, I'm going to fucking get you. Oh yes, indeed.

Running Goose

I know it's going to be a good day when before noon I can run 8km, take a trip to the grocery store, and hit a car door with a closed fist while screaming to the driver that he's a selfish sack of shit for not looking while toddlers are crossing the street. It's been productive, and it's hard not to be a tad of an optimist after a morning like this.

Geese are fuckers, though. My run is reminding me of that and there's no other description that does justice to the pissy little beasts. They waddle around with no idea of where they are or where they're going, squawking and spitting and generally carrying on at anything nearby with no regard for their own safety. In some ways it's almost admirable: a goose would absolutely stand in front of an advancing column of Chinese tanks, bobbing his empty head up and down and hissing, thinking it can chase off an armored corps while a confused PLA corporal watches. More likely though, it'd just go under the treads full of the anger and self righteousness after refusing the indignity of being shooed out of the way. This is probably how we started eating them at Christmas, they practically roast themselves.

It's all still quite new and novel to me. In Peterborough, where I'm originally from, the closest comparison we have is Dean Del Mastro.

Del Mastro's problem is that he is clearly guilty and just can't admit it. The law says there is a limit on election expenses and he blatantly spent more than it. This surprised me at first. Surely the numerous statistics classes he claimed made him an expert on the long-form census would have prepared him to compare two numbers and recognize which was the larger one, no? Have our schools failed that badly?

It turns out he's not that stupid, he's just an odious charlatan. After deliberately breaking campaign spending laws he tried to cover it up and now, some thirty failed appeals later he's still spitting and hissing, trying everything to weasel out of jail time. I can't totally blame him for that: Jail isn't fun. It isn't supposed to be fun, and his fellow right wing blowhards have spent many years trying to emphasize that.

"It's so awful in there! The cot wasn't very comfortable and the table was made of steel, and I had to stay in there, like, all the time!" Del Mastro squealed after his first night in the pokey, describing the exact conditions one ought to expect after breaking the law. "When I said tough on crime, I certainly didn't mean me!"

My heart just bleeds. I have to tell you, Dean, life is definitely much nicer out here, especially now that I can sit out on my balcony and smoke a cigar and catch some sun. You've only been sentenced to a month, a fraction of what your ilk usually call for. If you keep up this constant repeating struggle of going to jail for a day, filing an appeal and getting out, losing the appeal and going back in, you're still going to do the time in the end but it's just going to be a lot messier along the way and you'll have assholes like me laughing the whole time.

Give up, admit you lied to the people and admit you're an electoral fraudster. Stop struggling and just roast already.

Do Not Resuscitate

I write to you from what must be an apocalyptic future: There's nearly a foot of freshly fallen snow on the ground now, in April, and it's frozen solid. Ottawa is used to the desperate dying throes of winter but this is something new altogether. It almost has an ominous feel to it, like there's something strange or horrible going on and nature is chaotically out of alignment.

Or it may just be that lately I've been dwelling in the inevitable malaise brought on by presidential politics. Being uninspired is par for the course in this field, but it's hard not to look at the candidates today and wonder if an election is really all that necessary. Perhaps we really should just give violent anarchy a try for a change, and maybe thin out their ranks a little.

Bernie Sanders has completed the transformation to become a caricature of one of his own Bernie Bros, Hillary Clinton is Claire Underwood with a higher body count, Ted Cruz is the High Sparrow of a particularly nasty corps of the faith-militant, and Donald Trump is a classic blackshirt fascist with a buffoonish flair that would make Mussolini proud.

One of these people will be President of the United States next year, God help us all.

When I get wrapped up in an existential funk like this I risk jabbering on incessantly until either a suicide attempt or a heart attack and there are only a few ways to genuinely shake it off - or at least keep the angst at bay until the weather is warm enough to overdose in the forest. My usual dose of reckless amounts of high octane alcohol and physically demanding pornography followed by a celebratory cigar is an insufficient distraction, and can't compare to the deep spiritual contentment that comes from watching someone I don't much care for get the shit kicked out of them on live television. Obviously then, it's fortuitous that the NDP leadership review will be on this weekend.

Tom Mulcair is an angry man who led a party of earnest and noble intentions to electoral irrelevance with an uninspiring platform and pissy chip on his shoulder. For three years we watched him throw a testy fit with the media, shout at Parliament Hill security, refuse to acknowledge his opponents by name until they earned it like a man, remain woefully inert when his MPs complained of sexual harassment, and rail against the Iron Clad rule of the Stephen Harper while shedding caucus members over his own controlling attitude. For a brief period it looked like his razor sharp mind and aggressive ruthlessness would gain traction. Maybe he'd finally succeed in really taking the fight to the Conservatives for the first time in years, but it was always tempered by his habit of coming out looking like a vindictive prick instead, and it was a bad contrast with the Sunny Ways of the Liberals or the NDP's own Layton Legacy.

And in the end there was nothing to show for it: After a lousy campaign where his snide hubris trapped him closer to Stephen Harper than Justin Trudeau he lost 51 seats, and the NDP went from government-in-waiting to roundly fucked. He couldn't muster the grace or self awareness to take some responsibility for it and resign at the time, and instead trumpeted the election as the NDP's second-best ever result while insisting he was staying to fight on another day. Very well, I say, that's just going to make this all the more humiliating.

For all his bluster demanding Trudeau provide his number for a Quebec referendum, Mulcair's continued to duck any question of what he would consider acceptable for his own survival this weekend. Take heart, though, because I'll spare you a cavalcade of jokes about how 50%+1 (a catastrophic level of support in a leadership vote) ought to be enough to satisfy him and the party of the Sherbrooke declaration.

In his defence, it is going to be hard to tell how well he'll do in the Review: Unlike the initial leadership election in 2012 only delegates physically present at the convention will be voting this time, so the decision is limited to NDP members who were elected to a delegate spot able (and willing) to make the trip to Edmonton. Polls of the public or of party members won't be terribly useful at predicting this from a distance.

If he can muster 70% or better - the generally accepted bare minimum necessary in these reviews - he'd be safe for now, and that threshold isn't totally impossible (though perhaps in the same way that a Bernie Sanders' candidacy isn't totally impossible, either). New Democrats weren't just wiped out in raw numbers, they were also pretty cleanly decapitated: Peggy Nash, Megan Leslie, Jack Harris, Craig Scott, Olivia Chow, and Paul Dewar were all thoroughly thumped at the polls. Libby Davies has retired, and there don't seem to be any significant names on the Provincial level who would be willing to take the pay cut to come lead the ragged survivors for three and a half years. Nathan Cullen or Alexandre Boulerice or Niki Ashton could consider running, but if they end up wanting to sit it out it's entirely possible that the party delegates may see no serious credible figure willing to step up and may simply choose to keep Tom for the time being, either dumping him at the 2018 convention or keeping him for another election.

But if I'm honest I just don't think that's what we're going to see in Edmonton. Widespread sentiment seems to agree that it is past time for him to fall on his sword, which means someone is going to have to trip him onto it and then push it in a few times to really make it stick.

Peggy Nash is calling for more inspiring leadership. The NDP's youth wing is calling for Mulcair to be turfed. Forum's preferred Prime Minister question has Mulcair trailing "Unsure" and a third of self-identified NDP partisans said they'd vote Liberal. Forum is hardly a reliable source on the subject but the headlines simply can't be helpful to his cause, and the smart money is on all of this coming crashing down this weekend.

Which is a genuine shame. He missed the window for an honorable and dignified resignation. A heartfelt mea culpa where he could slide smoothly out of the election night party and into retirement would have helped to set the NDP up for a process of renewal, without wasting everyone's time. Now, months later and with the party even lower in the polls than they were in October, he's probably going to get some incredibly awkward result like 65% approval - too low for any sane person to stick around but high enough that he can't be kicked out automatically - and he'll have to squirm under the spotlight with his creepy smile and gritted teeth, giving a statement that's half victory and half concession, thanking his supporters while plotting a messy revenge against the rest, and all while dodging the vaudeville hook as it tries to swipe him off from the podium.

Then he'll either step down and the NDP can finally get honestly asking itself some existential questions, or he'll stick around and lose in 2019. Either way, I suppose it's goodbye.