Bill Casselman’s Attack
on Thomas Mulcair’s Attack
on Justin Trudeau
Of late, there has spewed forth a shitpotful of feculent baloney spoken against rich people, as usual from the shabby-shoed, partisan tar pit of the NDP, from the embittered lips of their hirsute-and-therefore-manly leader, certifiably-once-impoverished Thomas Mulcair. A wee glance at Mulcair’s latest infantile rant is, I deem, now apt.
Only poor people can know stuff about people and help other poor people; rich people are the devil’s spawn, born evil, so apparently thinks aggressive lawyer and NDP leader, Thomas “Big Gruffy” Mulcair. What desperation! Raggedy Tom Mulcair is not only a political rival of Trudeau, he is also bent double with personal jealousy, especially in the face of how easily Justin’s good nature and friendly intelligence appealed immediately to Canadians. What a contrast is Mulcair, a bristly, angry, socialist Rumpelstiltskin with all the charisma of a shucked mollusc. “Hey there, girlie, sure, I’ll spin that there poor straw into genuine gold. Just you wait.”
Mulcair has not the least apprehension of Trudeau’s plan for legislative decency conceived, cradled and made useful by a gentle humanness. Justin’s grace is as far as you can get from Mulcair’s customary mode, a crusty bully wagging his dick. Really, is Mulcair what Ottawa needs? Another nasty lawyer? We don’t have enough political shysters on Parliament Hill? At a time when Canadian people, young and old, have no work, at a time when manufacturers have fled Canada the way Dippers flee anything marked “non-partisan,” what we need is a political party that hates business? The NDP and their staff troglodyte Mulcair are so not here.
Some days, watching the news, one can scarcely hear the sulky Mulcair through all his seething hatred of pretty well everyone who is not Thomas Mulcair. He is a spite-spitting asp of toxic loathing. I ain’t never gonna forgive nobody ‘cause I was born po’. Mulcair is always in a dark corner of Parliament, like some sad, plaintive cow, alone and chewing the bitter cud of bile.
Just read the rabid hatred and heart-souring jealousy directed against Trudeau by Mulcair’s bumboys in the soon-to-disappear gutter press. Here’s a snippet of raw odium from The National Post describing Justin Trudeau “Born on Christmas Day to the Prime Minister and his young, beautiful, wildly popular wife; raised at the centre of political life in the nation’s capital; subject to media fascination from his first day; sent off to one of the country’s most prestigious schools; rocketed back to public attention at his father’s funeral; all but acclaimed leader on his first try…”
Could Satan himself boast a more lurid bio? What a bastard that Justin Trudeau is! Had the temerity, the thoughtless audacity, to have a beautiful mother. And that rich father, Pierre Trudeau, who inherited his father’s Quebec-gas-station fortune and then passed some of his ill-gotten swag on to his own sons. The very idea of helping one’s children! Obscene! Thinks the National Post writer, not fair when I have to push a broken old Honda Civic to work every gasoline-perfumed morning through those mean Toronto streets.
Withdrawing well away from Ottawa, let us ponder now the rags-to-bitches story of a token poor person. Let’s dub this choke-throat tale as the tristful histoire of Pa Bozo who had 12 kids.
How poor was the Bozo family? Why, they were so poor there were no decorations on their Christmas tree unless Grandpa sneezed. Them Bozos was poor as Job’s turkey: couldn’t raise more ‘n three feathers and had to lean against the barn to gobble. So flagrantly impecunious was the Bozo clan that, if the boys didn’t wake up in the morning with a hard-on, they had nothing to play with all day!
Is poverty funny? No. But sniveling about it through an entire lifetime is.
So we got Pa Bozo, a hapless loser with 12 kids he can hardly feed. Now it is safe to figure that this paternal bozo had probably been bozo-ing along for quite a number of years. Did it ever occur to Pa Bozo to maybe stop fucking for a moment or two after he had had, say, four children? Pa could hardly feed four because Pa was so poor. What to do? Pa knowed! Sure do, have six more kids and we’ll let welfare feed ‘em. Hell, boy, we’s kin have as many chillun as we want, and the “gubmint” gots to feed ‘em.
Now, because one’s Pa was a feckless fecundator does that, by sheer genetics, make his angrier male spawn an incisive analyst of Canada’s middle-class needs. Thomas Mulcair seems to think so, and, to me, that makes it quite clear that Thomas Mulcair is a partisan fantasist and a nincompoop. Is he then our preferred source of national Canadian wisdom? I think not.
Mulcair said in one speech that rich people could never know or help the endangered Canadian middle class. Why, rich people have NEVER helped anyone but themselves. I guess when Thomas Mulcair was snarling his way through law school, he never heard of the zillionaire Franklin Delano Roosevelt and how that rich American president helped an entire nation of poor people out of a Great Depression. Robert Fulford, one of The National Post’s very good writers, reminds readers of rich upper-class Otto von Bismarck, evil 19th-century German chancellor. Writes Fulford, “In the 1880s he introduced a health program, a workers’ compensation law and an old-age pension program . . .” History is littered with good guys who were rich and their poor coevals who never stopped whining even as they vacuumed up the free food and goods.
As for Thomas Mulcair’s boast that he took a paper route at age 10 to help his family, listen, O Bearded Sage, I had a paper route at age 8. We couldn’t afford a bike for me, so I delivered the papers from the back of a limping missionary who had been to Africa and lost a leg to leprosy. I tried to hug him but his ear fell off. I had to train local birds ─ discouraged, down-on-their-luck robins ─ to ring the doorbells. Disney tried to buy my trained robins. But I couldn’t sell the tiny birds. We had to roast and eat them each night for supper. Beat that, you whining preposterous old ninny, and go peddle your papers.
You ain’t gettin’ my vote.