I’m done. Officially. No more voting for me.
No longer can I drag my withered carcass to the polling booth to cast a vote.
It’s the smell, you see.
The stench coming off the realms of power these days would make the supervisors on the “organic waste” side of Robin Hood Bay retch and waffle up their breakfasts. It is THAT rancid.
A robotic prime minister who has the same affinity for us as most humans do for a colonoscopy. A gang of federal opposition representatives who carry as much sway as a nipper at a windshield convention (not that being on the government side changes that, please see “Penashue, Peter” for exhibit A of that fact) … oh yeah, and Gerry Byrne.
A premier who would drop-kick her clergy to get a dam on a Labrador river, and who is entirely cool with people manipulating voters and the public using social media and regular media against them like a Machiavellian weapon of mass common sense destruction. And a group of MHAs most of us can’t name or remember, alongside a few we just wish we could forget. Oh yeah, and Tom Osborne.
And then the senate — oh Lord Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the senate! Not elected, sure, but part of the current system of a down and a bunch of sad sack lads and lassies appointed by those we chose at the ballot box.
It seems redundant to call Mike Duffy a Fat Cat but by gum he’s a clever kitty when it comes to slippery politics, a trick I’m sure he learned in his days a “journalist” scrutinizing the deeds of the political elite up close. And Pamela Wallin, oh Pam, my first news crush (oh wait, no, that was and still is Debbie Cooper. Keep it classy Debbie!) — please Pam, say it ain’t so?
Patrick Brazeau got his block knocked off by Justin Trudeau in a boxing match, but lo’, it was us who were getting KO’ed behind the scenes as Brazen Brazeau was relieving us of our tax dollars with his fancy footwork and slick jab.
So there it is, no more traipsing off to the polls for me. The end! El finito! Das Ende!
And please, let me very quickly stick a sock in the gob of those of you are currently wagging your index digit in my direction while suggesting that not casting a vote means I can’t complain. To hell’s flames with that!
I’ll complain until I am hoarse and breathless in a crumpled heap on the floor if I choose to do so. I’m a taxpayer. I PAY for the right to complain. And I pay most handsomely.
Now, if all three greedy levels of government stop regularly backing their armoured trucks up to my living quarters to extract their King’s ransom in taxes, it is then — and ONLY then — that I shall consider myself filed into the “silent and uncomplaining” column in the taxpayer personality type ledger.
I pay through my hind end to the municipal government for disgusting amounts of taxes perpetrated on the back of grossly trumped up property values forced upon us by a false prophet oil industry boom and greedy banks looking to extract more from the toy-buying idiots who keep borrowing against their mortgages.
I pay through my other ends to federal and provincial governments so I can have mediocre health care, crappy roads, out of date search and rescue equipment, and something ridiculous and childish to watch on television (I’m looking at you House of Commons and House of Assembly… shaking my head).
It doesn’t matter who sits in the chair and wields the gavel at any level, because the system remains the same.
So ask me why I’ll not be at the polls in the near future and the answer is simple.
I could say I’m staying away in protest.
But the truth of the matter is that it just isn’t worth the trip and I don’t want my nasal passages violated.
Good night. And god bless.
Jamie Baker is the managing editor for The Navigator magazine, www.thenavigatormagazine.com
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