I’m Like A Political Bisexual- It’s Not About The Party, It’s About The Person. Does That Make Me Bipartisan?

In Canada, we have attack ads. Essentially one party goes on television and is all “Did you hear about So And So in the other party? They eat puppies, barbeque kittens and are probably paying a pimply teenager to fricasee your hamster for dinner as you watch this. How do you feel about your tax dollars being spent that way?”

The other day I went to my mailbox expecting a package, but found an attack ad pamphlet from a Mr. Randy Hoback. Seeing as this is a wildly inappropriate way to both communicate with people and to talk about your opponents, I decided to reply back to the politician in kind.

Dear Mr. Hoback,

I decided to overcome the voter apathy of my generation to write and inform you that I received your pamphlet. Tragically I did not read it. There were a number of reasons. Firstly, the only correspondence I keep from politicians are those from men who I deem to be “bang-a-langin hotties”; you sir with your closed mouth smiles,

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I swear it’s like the photographers consistently forget to remind this man to “say cheese”. (Photo Credit saskatoon.ctvnews.ca)

unfortunately are not my type. By contrast, I still have the delightful Christmas card that our toothy, grinning Prime Minister sent to my grandparents almost a decade ago. I could lap that man up like ice cream.

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I keep this card next to my collection of pin ups of Jonathon Taylor Thomas.(Photo Credit: ctvnews.ca)

Secondly, I vote and back politicians based on the tightness of their six packs. Mr. Hoback, if you are truly interested in my support, my mailbox is always open to your shirtless, pinup style photograph application. Conversely, you could take to appearing topless on Facebook and in the news à la Justin Trudeau style. That too would capture my attention and potentially my support.

Sincerely yours,

A registered and frequent voter

(Now isn’t that something to cry over)

For the record, sometimes I write things to tick people off. It’s one of the joys of being a writer, it balances out the tragically underpaid aspect of our lives. The “lap that man up like ice cream” was one of those lines. I pictured Randy getting all blustery about receiving a letter like that. I felt it was his comeuppance for filling our neighbourhood’s mailboxes with a giant newsletter which conveyed absolutely no information but did manage to trash the other political parties.

Not that anyone is interested and even I don’t care, but I’m not a Liberal, I do however think Trudeau is exceptionally good looking and everyone needs a reason to be excited to open the paper in the morning. Also, Tex said the above letter was too mean to send, so I tried writing another one.

To the unfortunate and underpaid lackey of Mr. Hoback reading this message on his behalf,

Firstly, my apologies that Baskin Robbins wasn’t hiring. Secondly, please tell your boss that I take umbrage both with his spamming of mailboxes with useless information and his flagrant abuse of our resources. That paper could have been better used printing ice cream menus.

P.S. Thanks for saving me the postage on this letter.

I was all set to tuck this piece of prose into the pre stamped slip Mr. Hoback had sent when my husband asked what I was doing. Then Tex made an even more disgusted face at this next draft because now I was insulting the poor underpaid youth in Mr. Hoback’s employ, along with the tree felling, mailbox abusing politician. So I wrote another one which was serious and therefore didn’t warrant being put up here. But it was basically the written equivalent of “get off my lawn” and sent it instead. It grinds my gears when I open my mailbox to correspondence which are not cards telling me how wonderful I am.

Illicit Sugar and Job Confusion

Once upon a time, when I thought glitter glue was a necessary addition to all objects, my father worked for a company that made chocolate bars. Technically he was a marketing manager, but at seven years of age his job title was irrelevant.

Black Chocolate in Japan

The cupboard contents of my childhood home. (Photo credit: gullevek)

The more important part to my young mind and mouth was that this job resulted in every cupboard in our house being stocked with some type of delicious treat. Everyday my father was sent home with an edible good to sample and create a detailed description about. A man can only consume so much sugar before he begins to stash it with the coffee mugs, next to canned corn and behind the stand up mixer. As far as I was concerned this was the next best thing to being fathered by Santa Claus himself.

Life was not all rainbows and unicorns in my childhood home. Although we were surrounded by chocolate, my sister and I could not technically eat all of the chocolate. We had to ask permission. Nearly always the answer was “No”. However we discovered a loophole in the parental framework; what my parents did not know about, we could secretly consume.

Diana and I later parlayed this rule into the consumption of my parent’s old alcohol. As a teenager my sister spent an inordinate amount of time searching for dusty bottles of booze in our basement to decant into inconspicuous containers. Our crime was discovered eight years later when the house was being renovated and my mother was puzzled by a box of twenty cobweb covered bottles of hootch, each with only a couple of milliliters left. God bless my near teetotaling parents’ drinking habits.

I digress. In Canada the legal age that one may stay at home alone is ten. This was an excellent year for me as I discovered a fifteen pound box of abandoned chocolate chips next to a stack of two year old flyers advertising a new candy bar. I ate nearly a third of my bootleg bounty before sharing the news with my sister.

When I was twelve, my father changed jobs and began working for a tea company. Supposedly it was a better position but from my preadolescent point of view it was a step down. In my mind our family was probably one job change away from the poor house.

In high school, my father changed careers again, no longer was he concerned with the colour of tea or chocolate packaging however I never quite figured out what he did. To this day if asked I will answer “Um…..? He’s a banker? He works for a bank? He talks to a lot of people. Stocks?”

My dad has repeatedly attempted to explain his role but he always includes unnecessary technical details which confuse the issue. Once, Phillip my sister’s giant boy friend explained what he did, and everything made sense. Unfortunately then my father tried to elaborate on the topic and my understanding was lost.

Here’s what I know

  1. My father goes to work everyday
  2. He wears a suit
  3. He talks to a lot of people.

Based on this I like to assume that what he does is very important but it’s entirely possible that he could be a well dressed ice cream man.

My father's office. (Photo Credit: www.dreammakericecreamcarts.com)

My father’s office. (Photo Credit: http://www.dreammakericecreamcarts.com)

Merry New Car,You Slept With a Celebrity and Then Got a Frozen Treat Day

I would make terrible greeting cards. First off they’d be way too specific. I mean just look at that title. How many times a year do you have a friend buy a vehicle and then knock boots with stardom? Two, three times max. And often one only phones on such occasions.

Secondly I have very bizarre taste and not a lot of tact. The “Grieving and Other Life Events That Are Not Fun” section in my greeting card store would really struggle because I’d put a giant ostrich on the front of the card with a speech bubble saying “Wanna come live with me?”

The Ostrich Struthio camelus is now farmed, pr...

This ostrich looks friendly and like it enjoys giving piggy back rides. Oh wait that’s how we lost your Great Aunt Sue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then the inside would read “Grandma took up the ostrich’s offer. She’s gone to a big emu farm in the sky. Sorry.”

Even though I buy my Christmas cards somehow they never end up being the standard holiday greetings most people send out. Here is a message I sent to a dear friend of mine who duels with poltergeists in his spare time.

Dear Gordy*,

Merry Christmas. I discovered a stack of Christmas cards that I either failed to write or failed to send.

I am a very responsible adult. I should probably be made president. I thought the front of this card said “nice” as in the Fonz style “nice”. But then I saw a stack of cards next to it that said “naughty” in bold letters and I was bummed.

So we’ll pretend you got a new car and I’m congratulating you- nice.

Congrats on hitting that?

Congrats on hitting that? (Photo credit : billboard.com)

Or slept with Miley Cyrus- nice. Wait. I don’t know about that one.

Come to think of it getting a new car is kind of expensive. Let’s go with something simpler. We’re going to make believe you got a cookies and cream ice cream cone and I’m writing a card rather than texting or saying “Good call. Cookies and cream, always a winner.” like a normal person.

Nice.

So back to the initial purpose of the card. Merry Christmas. Or Happy Belated Arbor Day. Either way enjoy the pretend ice cream.

The Great Unwashed

Having finished all of the half written cards I’m now terrified to open up the prewritten, sealed and addressed envelopes. The majority of the time upon rereading words that I’ve penned to loved ones and friends I question who the weird person was who wrote said piece of mail. Tragically it’s always me. We’ll see if I get up the courage to open the envelopes in which cases they’ll appear next week for a Travesty Tuesday post or whether I’ll just send them out and figure out whether the contents were wildly inappropriate based on whether or not the recipients speak to me again.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of friends who receive nine months late Christmas cards from me that aren’t really Christmas cards.