Welcome to Ruralopolis

Metro, yo

Joseph Choate once opposed an attorney from wealthy Westchester County.
The attorney, in an attempt to belittle Choate, warned the jury not to be taken in by his colleague’s “Chesterfieldian urbanity.”

Choate, in turn, urged the jury not to be taken in by his opponent’s “Westchesterfieldian suburbanity.”

Gentle readers:

Some of you may have heard vague rumours of the approach of the anniversary of our natal day. The very clear-minded among you will be further aware that the glorious day has already passed (we are, sober as we may be, unsure whether it’s officially 07/10 or 10/07; just as soon as I get one memorized the federal government changes its mind. It’s like living in a disputed border town between the Carolingian and Mayan empires. And last time I checked, they’d switched it to YEAR/MONTH/DAY anyway, just to see if people still pay attention to the government: yes, the way we pay attention to our crazy, rich, nasty uncle whose sole heir we are). The truly perspicacious will know, additionally, that we spent the day, yea, even unto the week, chez Metropolitan and Mistress Cowfish.

And their home, while lamentably gin-free, is nonetheless a charming and well-appointed abode, once you’ve lowered your expectation and decided to grade it on a bell curve restricted to those lamentably deprived zones in the category “Gin-Free,” primarily found in developing, and oppressively theological, countries.

It even has a tiki bar!

On the plus side: tiki bar, relentless dry heat and scorching sunshine, wild animalage including quail toddling about in the front yard, views of the Milky Way and the hilltop vinyard from the hot tub, a fully stocked kitchen innocent of the touch of raw veganistas, pliant staffers, a nice walk to downtown with its bookstores and the large EATSQUID.COM sign (that’s what we call a good sign) and a great deal of beer.

On the minus side: oh, goodness. How to put this…my gosh…um…well…uh, the town.

Let us just say that Metro and Mistress C are perhaps the only people in the region who are neither intimate blood relatives nor parole officers. I’m going to have to start calling him Ruralpolitan. A friend of mine has an historic photo of a group of local farmers who’d rounded up some cattle rustlers; they are keeping a bead on their captives with the use of their shiny and evidently well-used tommyguns.

It’s like that.

The big news in the local paper this week is about a police standoff; they were stood off, it seems, by a drunk with a slingshot. One wonders what grade he’s in.

The local fashion columnist wrote with wounded pride about her humbling trip to the big city (Kelowna? Tacoma? Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump?), during which she was mistaken for a Pussycat Doll.

Ladies and gentlemen: the Pussycat Dolls.

Pussycat Dolls

You’ll be getting a sense of the level of sophistication we’re dealing with here. This is a place where Cosmopolitan is nothing more than a fancy crantini or a magazine.

Speaking of which, and you will not believe it, Mr and Mrs Master Cowfish live life in the high desert summer entirely without benefit of ice cubes. This bizarre atavism (for we know they have ice cube trays: we used them last year to make Strawberry and Blueberry cubes for the sangria, as any right-thinking person would have!) is a bad sign. Hopefully by the time I return in a month or so in the period of the New Moon they will not have quite slipped into Shirley Jackson territory, but I’m coming armed, all the same.

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Support Al Kemal for Mayor of London: the People’s Choice!

Boris Johnson in fezLook, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, MP, (Eton, Oxon) Of That Ilk and Running As Such is just never going to win the hearts and minds, much less the votes, of the fish and chips crowd. You know it, I know it, he hasn’t a bloody clue, which is where competent staff comes in.

While it appears increasingly likely that BoJo is going to declare his candidacy for Mayor of London (perhaps entranced, as are we all, by visions of blond, fluffy clouds of fur floating over black velvet robes) realistically he will have to work his uppers to the crust if he wants to rule the rank and file. His opponent is Ken Livingstone, a charismatic and iron-willed lefty in the Trudeau Fuck You vein known as Red Ken.

In fairness, it must be said that about the only person in the UK who’s offended more people than Boris is Red Ken himself. So if nothing else, this campaign will be on 24-hour gaffe alert on both sides.

Still, Boris can’t afford to coast on looks, charm, and the implicit opportunity of below-stairs patronage appointments at the Spectator. Or the Times.

Boris needs to reach out to Londonistan. He has to become The Man of the People, even if he only encounters those people in the form of a studio audience. We here at the ol’ raincoaster blog have long studied the phenomenon that is Bojo, and we, being somewhat leftist ourself(s?), feel that we can come up with a statement providing a new direction, a new vision, even a new Boris Johnson.

Behold:

Al Kemal* is the People’s Choice for Mayor of London

Boris Johnson

From his humble beginnings as a Turko**-American*** immigrant from a broken home, Al’s life has been a series of struggles, a succession of successes. He is an inspiration to the entire Islamic community, and a leader for our globalized times.

Born in an American Stalinist medical facility**** to foreign parents, he spent his early years nomadically, drifting from country to country***** as his feckless father moved the family in search of lasting employment******. When Al eventually landed in the UK as a child of 11*******he had no more than the proverbial tenner in his pocket*******. An innovative and extraordinarily inclusive admissions program at one local school allowed young Al the kinds of educational advantages normally only enjoyed by native Britons of elevated standing, despite differences in background, ethnicity, and even religion.*********

Al made the most of those opportunities, eventually securing a place at Balliol, living out the dreams Thomas Hardy had written for him more than a hundred years before.********** While there, he became instrumental in the operation of the British-Arab University Association, and rose through sheer grim slogging to be the first Turko-American member of the Bullingdon Club. Additionally, he was the favoured candidate of the Social Democratic Party, clearly demonstrating his centrist, mainstream, populist leanings at an early age.***********

Al was active in social outreach programs, making friends among even the criminal classes.************

Although Al appeared to have overcome his past as the child of a broken home, the pattern reasserted itself. Married too young, Al put his first marriage behind him and eventually settled down with (and subsequently married) a nice Englishwoman from the showbusiness class, with whom he has had four children.*************

Al’s early forays into politics were humbling, to say the least.*************** Nonetheless, he came back to have a moderately successful career as a television presenter and in local politics, as well as gaining notoriety on the sports field*****************.

No stranger to disadvantage, exclusion and setbacks, Al Kemal is truly Everyman for the new London of the Twenty-First Century.

——————————————————————————————

*Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s original family name was Kemal. His family calls him Al.

** Kemal is Turkish…his great-grandfather was Ali Kemal, an ill-fated Turkish journalist who became a government official and came to a sticky end. Obviously learning from the past is not a family trait. Ali Kemal was not, it should be noted, Catholic. Yay, Islamic outreach!

*** Boris Al was born in Manhattan.

**** In some godforsaken Yankee hospital: they’re all bloody HMOs nowadays. Poor bugger’s lucky he’s still alive.

***** Seriously, are we sure they aren’t Rom? First the UK, then a move to the States, then Belgium (Belgium, for chrissakes…how bloody desperate do you have to be to look for work in Belgium?), then the UK again. Can’t these people settle down and commit to one country? Is that too much to ask? Bloody gypsies!

****** See above. Two footnotes looked more impressive, and nobody reads this shit anyway.

******* To attend Eton. Must have been an equal-opportunity initiative or some kind of ethnic scholarship. Good work, Al!

******** I am estimating this, based on the fact that most young Etonians don’t keep cash in their pockets. They keep it in their manservant’s pockets.

********* He’s Catholic. I know, doesn’t look it eh? So that’s the Catholic vote sewn up.

********** Thomas Hardy is so going to fucking kill me for this.

*********** No proof exists that he actually ran for the SDP, but on the other hand no proof exists that he didn’t, either.

************ Darius Guppy, who also attempted unsuccessfully to involve Al in criminal activities. That’s our Al, never afraid to do social outreach.

************* Marina Wheeler, a lawyer. Handy, when you’ve got Al’s friends.

*************** Wales so totally kicked his ass.

**************** YouTube

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so, like, this is a stickup, eh?

GangstersThis just may be the most perfectly Canadian bank robbery of all time. Basic facts stolen from the Peterborough police blotter, plus News of the Weird.

So Christopher Emmorey decides that life in Peterborough is just not exciting enough. I’ve been to Peterborough; I know where he’s coming from. I can sympathize. But unlike Christopher Emmorey, I wouldn’t decide that the remedy was to go knock over a bank.

And why would I not decide that? Well, for one thing there was that advice about bank robbery that the cop gave me; for another, I’m familiar with the way Canadian banks work.

They work like this:

So, he gets in the lineup (there is always a lineup) and he waits obediently and quietly for his turn, probably not so much as playing with the pens, probably not even wrapping those little beaded chains around their stems, because yeah, I’ve noticed I’m the only one that does that. And eventually the tellers work through the line of pensioners, housewives, business customers, and what-have-yous that crowd a bank during banking hours, and he gets up to the wicket, whereupon he makes his polite, yet weapons-referenced demand for some cash:

specifically, $2000.

Guess he didn’t want to be greedy.

The teller, eyelid-batting nowhere in evidence, calmly informed him that, as he was not a regular customer of the bank, he could only get $200, and further that he would have to pay a five dollar service charge. And he agreed.
I’m starting to love this teller. Aren’t you? Even though I know that bitch would ding me double on overdraft charges. I can sort of see a young Margaret Thatcher doing this, had her life taken a slightly different turn.

She gave him the $195, alerted the police who arrested him immediately, and no doubt hasn’t had to pay for her own drinks since.

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a salute to the troops

Canadian Troops

Instead of racking my brains to come up with a (likely inferior) way of expressing my gratitude to the troops overseas, I think I’ll just suggest you read this eloquent letter from Lorrie Goldstein in the Winnipeg Sun. While reading it, I was thinking of a girl I used to babysit, now a mother of three and on her third tour of duty in Afghanistan. And I was thinking of Trevor Greene, still in St Paul’s Hospital, still working on rebuilding his life after an ambush and an axe to the head.

While you are reading this letter, never for one moment forget that the decision to go overseas, to become involved in wars, peacekeeping actions, and all such deployments, is a decision that is made not by military personnel, but by politicians. Direct your own letters and thoughts accordingly.

Given the recent lacklustre support by Toronto City Council for the men and women now serving our nation in Afghanistan, we dedicate today’s editorial celebrating Canada’s 140th birthday to all members of our military.

Thank you for choosing to serve Canada, whether you were born here or came here from another country.

Thank you for deciding that Canada is worth defending, both at home and abroad.

Thank you for being ready to sacrifice everything, not just a safe, comfortable life here at home with your loved ones, but your very lives, if necessary, to protect us and those who are in need of our protection abroad.

To the families of all who serve in our military, thank you for sharing your precious sons, daughters, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandchildren, relatives and friends with us.

Like you, we pray they will complete their missions and return home safely to you as soon as possible. Like you, we pray for a just and lasting peace.

To those who face the unimaginable grief on this Canada Day, and every Canada Day to come, of missing the presence of a loved one because they died in the service of their country, know that we are thinking of you today.

That we grieve with you. That we pray for you. And that we will remember those you loved, and what they did for us and to help people they didn’t even know, forever.

To their parents, thank you for raising sons and daughters who willingly answered the call of their country.

We will always think of them as the fine young men and women of military bearing, frozen forever in the flower of youth, that we see in the pictures released upon their deaths.

But we know you remember them in a thousand different ways built up over a lifetime of memories — of lazy summer days, at family celebrations and of how they looked on their first day of school, or on the day they graduated.

To the wives, husbands and children of all those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their country, we cannot imagine the depth of your loss.

But we share your pride in who they were and like you, we celebrate what they did with their lives, because their lives mattered.

And so on this Canada Day, on our nation’s 140th birthday, we remember them, because they represent what Canada is all about at its very best.

Strong, free, honourable, compassionate — and dedicated to the service of others

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quiz: how Canadian are you?

Skookum!


How Canadian Are You?

 

YOU, my friend, are 100% Canadian!
You are what Canadians are all about! (and that’s about. not a boot.)
You, my friend, are AWESOME!
Take this quiz!

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Join

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