Well, ya never know what’s goin’ to set me off next, ‘specially when it comes to politics. There’s always somethin’ brewin’ in the pot. It’s hard to leave it alone. Well, last weekend the Ontario liberals chose a new leader and premier. All well and good as far as it goes, but what does our prestigious press jump on? She’s the first openly gay premier, like that’s a big deal. Is that all they can talk about for heaven’s sake?
I said to the wife; “She’s a politician for God’s sake. The people are goin’ to get screwed one way or another anyway.”
Well – you should’a heard the wife; “You can’t say that!” she literally yelled at me. “You can’t write things like that! It’s demeaning. Besides, you’re a better writer than that!”
“Well okay,” I agreed reluctantly. “I won’t then.” So I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong. I’da stood my ground, just on principal, except I discovered a more insidious move afoot here. So I didn’t write it.
There was a more ominous cloud approaching our political process. We are quickly being covered by the “Mother” syndrome. A few years back there was none of them – and now there’s six. Holy jumpin’ Jehosephat! We’re turning into a matriarchal society. And don’t kid yourself; you don’t want to stick your nose in these women’s business. Just look at the action goin’ on between B.C. and Alberta – ha, ha – no thanks!
Can you imagine what goes through the minds of all these estrogen overloaded, power-hungry, old boys-club parliamentarians when they have to listen to their mothers? They would probably all rebel except (like me) they could hear the echo of; ‘wait ‘til your father gets home’ – enough to strike fear into any red-blooded Canadian coward. I don’t know who father would be in this case, but I can imagine a sizeable belt buckle, a thunderous voice, and lightning flashing from his eyes. I can’t think of anything to make Mr. Harper run harder and faster and more scared than a few more female premiers. He’d be proroguing parliament on a daily basis.
I remember the late John L. Lewis back in the forties who led his coal-mining members on a long and protracted strike in the U.S. It was long and it was ugly, and neither side would budge. One day the wives of the strikers decided to visit the picket lines. They and their children were getting real hungry and this could not go on. Armed with brooms, shovels and pick-axes, they ended the strike forth-with and post haste. Even the powerful union boss had to run for cover.
There’s no question we’re headed for a matriarchal society, and maybe it’s about time too. The old boys club sure isn’t working. Me, I’m all for it. If my wife says don’t write something, I won’t write it. I know who cooks my dinner and I ain’t gonna ruffle any feathers. And if these mother figures manage to corner the prime minister and his buddies, they’d better all soon tow the line or it’ll be; “Wait ‘til your father gets home!” At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.