I've been secretly hoping the Liberal candidate comes to my door during this provincial election.
Truth be told, I've never had a Liberal darken my door here in the Liberal stronghold of Ottawa South.
Maybe they don't like dogs.
I think they simply don't like people.
Still, hope springs eternal.
This time, of course, it won't be Premier Dad coming by. It will be a handsome silver haired fellow named John Fraser (what, another one? Do they breed guys with this name just to go into politics?).
I want to lay eyes on Fraser, to ask him one simple question.
Remember David Peterson?
Years back, David Peterson was given the keys to the kingdom of grapes and auto plants. He had the vision of building a dynasty, handing his Crown down through generations of true believers.
In short, he saw himself as a modern day, Bay Street version of Pierre Trudeau.
Peterson was handsome, confident, and generous.
He travelled the world pinching the cute bums of interns and held glittering state dinners.
The Preme, as he was called, made a whole lot of fireflies rich in the process. Consultants of all political stripes built mansions with Ontario taxpayer dollars. Why not? There was more than enough money to go around.
But while Peterson was fiddling, the kingdom was crumbling. The snakes were taking over the planes on direct flights from Ottawa as they fled the kingdom of Tory.
There were lots of local snakes, too. One of them was named Starr, Patti for short.
Like a modern day Empress Serpent, Patti charmed the palace guard. She was rewarded with a lesser kingdom full of children's play structures and ampitheatres, a kingdom with no purpose save for the mooring of expensive yachts and spill over from the Canadian National Exhibition. Her kingdom was called Ontario Place and she won it in a sly game of poker, in exchange for a fridge that didn't even make ice.
Like most slithering slime of her ilk, Patti took care of business a little too well. She got too big for her britches.
The police were called in. Enquiring minds wanted to know how money was being squandered.
Suddenly, Ontario wasn't a place to live or a place to grow.
Serpents were uncovered at every juncture. .
For his part, King David was too busy fighting tire fires to realize the demons had taken over the palace.
He scoffed at the naysayers, proclaiming his need for an even bigger majority.
But it was not to be.
The masses wised up and in a stunning over-turn, the kingdom of David was seized by a horde of orange-shirted, shiny-eyed innocents, deficit-loving, tree huggers who didn't have a clue what to do.
The rest, my friends is Bob Rae.
I would tell this little fable to John Fraser because, like all fables, there is a lesson.
It's a lesson that has been told and retold throughout this land, in every province, at the highest level, regardless of the stripe.
Governments are like diabetic toes.
They might be pretty and painted red or blue or orange, but they have to be clipped and sanitized and checked for rot on a daily basis.
Without the right kind of management, the toe begins to have no feeling at all; it begins to fester and stink. Finally, it blackens and must be amputated.
That my friends is the legacy of David Peterson and most recently, Dalton McGuinty.
Rot. Stench. Filth.
Even the perkiest pension scheme can't save Kathleen Wynne now.
She has inherited a kingdom that is over-run by snakes.
The toe must be amputated before it takes the leg.