The Lasso of Truth: Election Day Blogburst

In the flurry of crappy election ads, partisan rhetoric and media mudslinging, we lose sight of the true importance of our franchise...

"I am a Canadian,
a free Canadian,
free to speak without fear,
free to worship God in my own way,
free to stand for what I think right,
free to oppose what I believe wrong,
free to choose those who shall govern my country.
This heritage of freedom I pledge to uphold
for myself and for all mankind."

And all that it took to get it. And more join the fray...Darcy, Brian, crazybengal, Binks, Sleepy Old Bear, Damian, Suzanne, Linda, Richard, cousinarlo, she, Steve, Greg, JR, The Daily Bayonet, Dr. Roy (I'll update as more pile on)

A hunt and peck through the persistent memory of these interwebs, brought me back to a long time favorite, from an old infatuation who is still so dearly missed. The inimitable Trodwell still rings true today, more so than ever before...

My name is Joe. Okay, it’s not, really, but for the sake of this screed, let’s all pretend that it’s Joe. And I am a Canadian.

More specifically, I am a Central Canadian. From Ontario. Eastern Ontario, so of course I probably speak French, I probably drive an SUV, and I probably work for the government. Beyond that, pollsters really don’t know all that much about me – except for the fact that I am terrified of voting.

That’s right, friends and neighbours – my name is Joe, and I am a Canadian Demophobic.

The very thought of voting terrifies me. My fears are broad, malignant and overwhelming, and while you may think them baseless, think again. I fear the thunderous reverberation of the writ being dropped in the House. I fear the impact of the subsequent political disruption on my carefully-balanced stock portfolio. I fear the damage to the Order of Business in the House of Commons, particularly the possibility that carefully-crafted and vitally important legislation (such as the long-anticipated and crucial “Act to change the name of the electoral district of Lévis—Bellechasse”) may disappear into the stygian depths of post-governmental anarchy.

I fear the inevitable electoral campaign, particularly the Lovecraftian chaos and despair that will inevitably ensue when Paul Martin uncrates the ghoulish rictus his handlers keep trying to sell as a “friendly grin.” I fear the horrible loss of life and the damage to Canada’s reputation as a haven for winter sports fans when some imprudent fart-catcher talks Stephen Harper into a pickup game of lacrosse in the Commons parking lot. I fear being struck by charred bone fragments and reeking gobbets of flesh when Jack Layton finally explodes after another season of attempting to reconcile promises of social justice and universal prosperity with a program crafted by the mouldering hand of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. And I fear being forced into jamming a melon-baller into my eye socket by the shame of realizing that Gilles Duceppe may be the most statesmanlike leader among the whole sorry lot.

Most of all, however, I fear voting. Not the act itself, which after all requires less than 10% of the pencil strokes necessary to complete a Lotto 6/49 ticket form. And not so much being registered to vote, which after all I can do on the phone, online or when the Elections Canada drones appear at my door. No, I fear the mental effort it takes to actually decide between three, four or perhaps as many as eight candidates. Why, that’s almost as many people as I have fingers! How am I supposed to pick? I suppose that I could make some pretense of educating myself on the issues, but now that hockey’s back on, who has the time? Well, I could catch the CBC News between periods, I suppose; Peter Mansbridge will tell me what to do. I imagine Don Cherry could as well, but with an election in the offing, CBC censors will no doubt jam a Percocet drip into his aorta and duct-tape him into Hannibal Lecter’s anti-cannibalism muzzle for the duration.

Or I could toss a coin.

Or I could admit what I’ve known all along – that Paul Martin must be given another chance. After all, everybody’s corrupt; what’s important is that only the Liberals can save us from Quebecers wanting to separate because the Liberals tried to bribe them with their own….okay, well, only Paul Martin can restore the state of Canada-America relations damaged by continual outbursts by Liberal flacks and parliamentarians….right, maybe not. But only the Liberals can restore Washington’s faith in Canada as a reliable ally, which was damaged by the Liberals’ refusal to cooperate on missile defence and Iraq….yeah, okay, but only the Liberals can repair our depleted and demoralized armed forces, which have been starved and mistreated by successive Liberal budg….

Oh my. I’m sensing a trend here. Have I mentioned that I fear trends?

And finally, I especially fear being forced to cast my vote at Christmas! Indeed, I remember being told by CBC (or was it by Paul Martin? Is there a difference?) that the worst time for an election is the winter. No, wait, that was the summer, when everybody was going to be away on vacation, so there wouldn’t be enough people around and willing to vote. In the winter, of course, an election is even worse, because everybody is home on vacation and unwilling to vote. Probably because it’s so hard. After all, sometimes you have to drive one or even two kilometers on plowed, salted roads towards ubiquitous and clearly-marked polling stations, and then stand in a line up to tens of people long, waiting minutes and minutes to fill out your ballot, under the constant danger of possibly being informed by a soft-spoken radio announcer that an Islamic suicide bomber self-detonated at a polling station eight thousand miles away. Oh, the horror, to hear of such a thing while waiting to vote! In Canada!

And what if it snowed on election day? The horror! To have to go out in the snow! No Canadian should be forced to endure such trauma. Unless we could make it worth their while. Like by putting the polling stations in Tim Horton's outlets (ought to work; there are more Timmy's in Canada then there are schools and churches combined).

And besides, voting would take valuable time out of my Christmas vacation. Time that would be better spent driving to fill up my car with my massive gas tax rebate on the way to spending part of my massive personal income tax rebate on Christmas presents from which the GST has been magically removed before going home to enjoy a dinner of freely-traded Alberta beef before a nice softwood lumber fire over a glass of wine upon which the Government no longer levies an 80% sin tax.

I fear being forced to part from this life of ease merely to throw on my coat for half an hour in order to take a hand in deciding where this country will go. I object to being asked whether I approve of my nation being run by thieves, scoundrels, gangsters and liars. I get annoyed when some meddling bureaucrat intrudes upon my precious leisure time to seek my input for five minutes on who will make decisions on my behalf for the next five years. I get positively peeved when I am imposed upon to exercise the franchise that was bought for me by my antecedents, and paid for with the lives of generations of soldiers. I am terrified at the prospect of being extracted, however temporarily, from the all-pervasive, swaddling embrace of the nanny state and – for one brief, shining moment every half-decade – being forced to act like a free man and wield the sovereign franchise of the demos.

I am Joe…I am Canadian…and I don’t want an election. Just keep me warm, change my diaper when I smell, give me something shiny to play with when I’m edgy, and be ready with the teat when I get hungry.

But whatever you do, please…please…don’t make me vote.