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| CANADA'S SOURCE FOR HUMOUR, PARODY, AND SATIRE
The draughts that
are coming in through the cracks in these walls are getting worse I can
no longer feel my knees and my hands are ice-cold, feel them, here, you
see, I'm not lying, this poor fire in my grate is not enough, it's too
weak to warm a housefly, and God knows there are several in here, probably
all on the floor now, numbed by the cold winter wind, it's almost as though
there was a window open, I think it's closed though, I don't think I'd
have left it open, even though my beloved Rideau canal must be near frozen
by now, near time for the boys and young men to take their sticks and
frozen tennis balls or potatos and have friendly games of hockey, fierce
games under the shadow of the parliament buildings--I can see them across
the canal from my garret--shadows that are looming over my canal, over
my city of Ottawa (that's the capital of this fair land, for those not
in the know), and over the whole of this great Dominion of Canada, even
over the Westernmost territories and provinces, including Athabasca and
Columbia, strange to think that these buildings, stones pulled out of
the nearby hills, control the lives of peasants, hewers of wood, drawers
of water, trappers and the many aboriginal peoples of the far-off hinterlands,
strange that here, within my view I can see the sparks and plays as the
new season opens, go Senators: this year you'll make it, and my cold hands
on the pulse of the Members of Parliaments as they debate rancourously
about the impending race over who will lead the governing party, and try
to remember who is leading Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, I think his
name is Harvey or Thorvald, he was traded from the Calgary Flames I believe
and not bad as a rookie, but this is the big league, the pressure is on,
what do I have to do to get warm around here, it's insufferable it really
is, what will happen to the other parties, the once great Progressive
Conservatives, and the perpetual weakened conscience of the Canadian Left,
the other party, this is the year they will have to make it, or fade away,
sublimate like my breath from the ice that forms as soon as I expel a
breath into the cold clear air that is winter the beginning
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by
Fubrics Short
