It took a spurt of totalitarianism, ejaculated north of the border, to confirm what many of us already knew: Justin Trudeau is truly his father’s son.
This humble reporter is far from alone in observing that Trudeau is really Fidel Castro’s long, lost lovechild. It didn’t take two hours of guzzling Labatt beer with a bunch of fat Canadians with hats with earflaps and earmuffs watching hockey to figure that out.
Besides, I hate hockey. What the hell is hockey, anyway? Hockey has some rule called “icing,” which makes no sense whatsoever.
Hockey isn’t a sport, that’s for damned sure. Baseball is a real sport, as I wrote about here last summer when I urged a boycott of Major League Baseball because of that political-hack scoundrel of a commissioner, Rob Manfred — made famous first to readers here as Rob “Man-fraud.” Hah, everyone now calls him that.
Manfred is a fraud, I tell you! A fraud of a man. Recall that he was christened the commissioner of “No balls, all strikes” because of his cowardly capitulation to left-wing bullies and sorry sacks likes the mentally incompetent Stacey Abrams and Joe Biden.
But I digress. I was talking about hockey, or actually, about Canadian men and the situation across the border of my current environs in the state of New York, about a six-hour drive from McSorley’s Ale House here in Manhattan, and double that after a half-dozen martinis.
Canadian men are a curious sort. The do admirably manly things like shooting moose, ice fishing, shoveling snow, digging igloos, and belching booze, but they sit back while their screwball, brain-dead feminist wives vote for screwball, brain-dead members of Parliament and panty-waists like Justin Trudeau.
Yes, Justin Trudeau. His father was a silly socialist, which made Pierre a half-man — or at least effeminate. Justin is a boy more comfortable hoisting a rainbow flag than a deer rifle. His father was no better.
Richard Nixon, who did manly things like hunt down communists, work for Eisenhower, and call Helen Gahagan Douglas the “pink lady,” and who displayed an outstanding command of the English language, immemorably referred to Justin’s father, Pierre, as an a**hole. Note my tactful abbreviation. This respectable publication, founded by myself and Truman Newberry here at McSorley’s in 1924, does not allow me to print the exact verbiage that our illustrious 37th president from Yorba Linda, California (4,551 kilometers, thank God, from Montreal) used to describe Mr. Pierre Trudeau. Nixon was a man of obvious good taste and impeccable judgment.
Mercifully, the editorial standards and style guide of this venerable publication also do not allow me to use the exact verbiage to describe what Pierre’s wife, Margaret, her husband’s junior by 30 years, did to the dictator of Cuba, one Fidel Castro, one sultry Caribbean evening in April 1971. No doubt there was little else to do, given that all the electricity in Havana had failed.
But if you’re looking for an exact description of what Margaret did to Fidel, you need only consider what Castro did to the people of Cuba.
In the case of the Cuban landscape, that produced nothing but infertility. In the case of the particularly fertile Fidel and Pierre’s wife, however, it produced nothing but Justin.
And so, beer-guzzling Canadian men this winter slouch in front of their TV sets watching the Winnipeg Jets and wondering whether their next Molson Golden will arrive, thanks to the only good thing that has happened in Canada since Wayne Gretzky escaped for a really good-looking woman in LA, which surely made liberal Canadian broads rage with usual envy.
You know what that good thing is. Yes, the Canadian truckers’ convoy.
Now those are real men. I hoist my tall glass of Scotch to those Canadian men.
What is the limp-wristed response of Justin Trudeau? The convoy infuriates Fidel’s son, who is known here in America as Prime Minister Blackface. Justin responded to the glorious convoy as any true liberal would, by denouncing the truckers who braved the harsh roads and worst of COVID to bring privations to locked-down Canadians as “racists.”
That is pathetic. But what is most pathetic is this belching piece of Canadian pathetic-ness: Real Canadian men seem unable to stop their liberal wives who talk funny from reelecting Justin Trudeau as dictator for life.
What a gig that must be. Justin’s father would be proud.
George Jean Nathan is a longtime contributor to The American Spectator. His favorite haunt is McSorley’s Old Ale House in New York City’s East Village.