A courier arrived at my door
and handed me an envelope embossed with the Canadian coat of Arms. You know,
the one with the scowling lion and a silly unicorn, each holding a flag.
I tore it open and found an
elaborate card, embossed with gold JPJT lettering, inviting Mr. Po Ling to a
Cash-for-Access party.
I had no idea who JPJT was,
and there seemed to be some confusion about my name. But a party is a party so
I rummaged the basement for my tweed suit, knitted tie and the pork pie hat I
wore when I was a young reporter.
I arrived at the party site, a
castle-like mansion in a leafy Toronto neighbourhood. The place looked like it
cost $20 million so I assumed it was owned by an offshore drug lord, or a
baseball player.
Inside, I presented the
invitation and entered a huge reception room tightly packed with knots of
chatting people. A cloud of sweet smelling smoke hung over the room and I saw a
guy circulating with a silver tray stacked with what appeared to be hand-rolled
cigarettes.
“That’s Billy Blair, the
former Toronto police chief,” I muttered to myself. Billy now is the prime
minister’s dope czar. He looked a bit foggy, but then he looked that way even when
he was chief.
He approached me with an
offering but I declined and walked to the bar, trying to decide whether to
order a Perrier and water, or a beer.
“I’ll have a Molson Canadian,”
I told the bartender.
The bartender scanned my
tweeds and pork pie hat with a good deal of disdain, then sniffed:
“The prime minister has asked
that tonight’s guests be offered Chantereines Blanc de
Blancs Grand Cru.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I can knock back
those craft brews just as quickly as a Molson.”
I wandered about sipping my
Grand Cru and watching the people. I heard some giggling from a knot of folks
gathered in a corner.
I sauntered over and saw Jane Philpott,
the federal health minister, talking animatedly, her head wreathed in smoke.
“The opioid overdose epidemic
will disappear as soon as we get the weed legalization bill through Parliament,”
she giggled, taking a pull from her rollie.
“Yes,” one listener nodded
enthusiastically. “And, you will be getting taxes from all that dope, which
will mean you won’t have to raise our taxes as the prime minister has
suggested.”
I spotted the prime minister
in a group gathered in another corner. He was wearing one of those satin
smoking jackets guys wear in Turner Classic Movies re-runs. The front of the
jacket was embroidered with the large letters JPJT, which I now realized stood
for Justin Pierre James Trudeau.
“We need to increase your
taxes just a tad,” JPJT was telling the group, “to help the middle class pay
their electricity bills. When they are back on their feet, we increase their
taxes again, allowing us to reduce yours. It’s a fantastic plan. We’re gonna
make Canada rich again.”
“Fantastic!” said one of the
billionaires in the group as he raised his glass of Grand Cru. “Here’s to sunny
ways and tax-free days!”
“Oh I almost forgot,” said another,
pulling out a cheque book. “I have that $50,000 donation to help build the
statue of your dear old dad.”
“And here’s my 200 grand for
the Trudeau Foundation,” said another.
Suddenly I found myself dragged
toward the front door by two large goons wearing Mountie hats. The front doors
of the mansion flew open and I was propelled down the stairs, arms and legs
flailing in every direction.
“Jim. Jim,” I heard a distance
voice calling. “Jim, you are having a nightmare.”
I opened my eyes to see my wife
shaking me by the shoulders.
I realized I had fallen asleep
reading. I took the book from my lap and opened it at where I left off.
The book was Orwell’s Animal Farm and I was at the scene where
Benjamin the donkey is observing the changes to the new society’s commandments
painted on the barn wall. Only one commandment remained and it had been edited
to read:
ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL
BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS
BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS
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