Crime Minister Hairpiece looked like a lugubrious eel sitting in the front row of Paul Desmarais' shindig yesterday. It might have been a celebration of life for the great power baron, but it certainly looked like a funeral for Harper.
There he sat amongst the great and powerful looking more like a homeless person than the Prime Minister of the Day. His once almost handsome face has dropped like an ill timed soufflé and his eyes are baggy and drooping underneath his specs.
Dude is in serious need of some Botox.
I bet if you looked at his shoes, they'd be all scuffy from all the battering he's taking from the Inquisitor--in-Chief, Tom Mulcair, the beard who walks like a man.
Even his own MPs are weary of all the shit kicking they are taking whilst the Duffster recuperates from heart surgery in the Ottawa Hospital. (Here's to you, Duff, live long and prosper at the expense of the Hole in the Wall Gang.)
The latest knee slapper involves the Privy Council Office which said sorry to all Canadians for misplacing the musings of the PM's lawyer.
They're gone, no they back.
Ooopsy. Here they are, in the dead file Cabinet alongside the corpse of Preston Manning.
Who are they kidding? PCO never loses anything.
I once worked half way between the PMO and PCO in the lowly correspondence division where brains go to die. It was during the transition period between Pierre Trudeau's walk in the snow and John Turner's fall down the ramp.
PCO was a pain in the backside for all of us in the political wing. Its employees were a shadowy lot, living in the Chinese walls like grey ghosts, waiting to spring into action whenever somebody political made the slightest boo boo.
Appearances were deceiving.
Even if the paper shredders were whirling a mile a minute, there was always a copy of everything in a file somewhere. Everything was done in triplicate and important correspondence had little red tags on them. If a minion like myself accidentally left a red ticketed piece of paper on her desk, she was immediately dispatched to the Langevin security office for some knuckle rapping.
Okay, okay. That was 1984 and this is 2013. Paper correspondence has been replaced by furtive emails, but don't think for a moment that PCO hasn't got that system backed up in a room in the basement, along with their favorite pornos.
Every crumb has been preserved for posterity, or Access to Information.
Which makes the PMO's response to the whole Benny Perrin affair a puzzler. According to the press office, everybody's emails are deleted after they leave or are booted out.
What the what?
I think that is against the law, right there.
The real story is probably this. The whole Duffy thing blew apart and somebody said "Holy Shit! Press the delete button stat."
Ah, not so fast.
The PCO doesn't work that way.
Governments might be hatched, then dispatched in good order. But the PCO lives on forever.
In any case, this looks pretty, pretty, pretty bad for the rumpled guy in the front row at Desmarais' funeral.
Not only is he looking like a warmed over turd, but he's completely let his figure go.
I noticed the other day that he's put on a few pounds. He was entertaining the Jews with his rendition of Benny and the Jets in what should have been a cool black shirt, but his big pot was sticking out like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Word, Laureen! Get that boy some Spanx.
And Steve, you need singing lessons. As they say in show biz, don't quit your day job.
Oh wait...
There he sat amongst the great and powerful looking more like a homeless person than the Prime Minister of the Day. His once almost handsome face has dropped like an ill timed soufflé and his eyes are baggy and drooping underneath his specs.
Dude is in serious need of some Botox.
I bet if you looked at his shoes, they'd be all scuffy from all the battering he's taking from the Inquisitor--in-Chief, Tom Mulcair, the beard who walks like a man.
Even his own MPs are weary of all the shit kicking they are taking whilst the Duffster recuperates from heart surgery in the Ottawa Hospital. (Here's to you, Duff, live long and prosper at the expense of the Hole in the Wall Gang.)
The latest knee slapper involves the Privy Council Office which said sorry to all Canadians for misplacing the musings of the PM's lawyer.
They're gone, no they back.
Ooopsy. Here they are, in the dead file Cabinet alongside the corpse of Preston Manning.
Who are they kidding? PCO never loses anything.
I once worked half way between the PMO and PCO in the lowly correspondence division where brains go to die. It was during the transition period between Pierre Trudeau's walk in the snow and John Turner's fall down the ramp.
PCO was a pain in the backside for all of us in the political wing. Its employees were a shadowy lot, living in the Chinese walls like grey ghosts, waiting to spring into action whenever somebody political made the slightest boo boo.
Appearances were deceiving.
Even if the paper shredders were whirling a mile a minute, there was always a copy of everything in a file somewhere. Everything was done in triplicate and important correspondence had little red tags on them. If a minion like myself accidentally left a red ticketed piece of paper on her desk, she was immediately dispatched to the Langevin security office for some knuckle rapping.
Okay, okay. That was 1984 and this is 2013. Paper correspondence has been replaced by furtive emails, but don't think for a moment that PCO hasn't got that system backed up in a room in the basement, along with their favorite pornos.
Every crumb has been preserved for posterity, or Access to Information.
Which makes the PMO's response to the whole Benny Perrin affair a puzzler. According to the press office, everybody's emails are deleted after they leave or are booted out.
What the what?
I think that is against the law, right there.
The real story is probably this. The whole Duffy thing blew apart and somebody said "Holy Shit! Press the delete button stat."
Ah, not so fast.
The PCO doesn't work that way.
Governments might be hatched, then dispatched in good order. But the PCO lives on forever.
In any case, this looks pretty, pretty, pretty bad for the rumpled guy in the front row at Desmarais' funeral.
Not only is he looking like a warmed over turd, but he's completely let his figure go.
I noticed the other day that he's put on a few pounds. He was entertaining the Jews with his rendition of Benny and the Jets in what should have been a cool black shirt, but his big pot was sticking out like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Word, Laureen! Get that boy some Spanx.
And Steve, you need singing lessons. As they say in show biz, don't quit your day job.
Oh wait...
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