Pouty-Pants Goes Home

Boo-hoo! Those mean boys made fun of Donald, and it’s not fairrrrrrrrrrrrr. Stupid NATO. Stupid foreign leaders, socialist pricks the lot of ’em – well, that’s it. Fat Donny doesn’t have to take this shit. No press conference for you, you sniggering spouters of fake-news! Sammy Snitworthy is getting on his big blue airplane, which is bigger and better than any other airplane any of those commie Europeans or two-faced Canadians gets to fly around in, and going back to Murrica where he still has loyal subjects.

Here in Canada, the leaders of the opposition parties carried on like it was some sort of unforgivable diplomatic faux-pas that Justin Trudeau was caught on camera being amused at the latest bout of poo-throwing from the world’s most powerful orangutan. Pundits wallowed in the usual pearl-clutching – oh no, what will this do to Canada – US relations? Oh dearie me.

Well, last time I looked, Canada-US relations were already in the inevitable crapper, what with Donny slapping tariffs on steel and aluminium when he gets in one of his moods, and demanding changes to NAFTA, and bitch-slapping us up and down the hall for not spending enough on defence (well, OK, he’s right on that score). Pragmatism and going along to get along are all well and good, and are, indeed, the Canadian way, but no amount of obsequious bowing and scraping is ever going to be enough to placate this maniac, and if anybody out there thinks we owe anybody an apology for Justin not paying due deference to His Trumpness during a private conversation he didn’t know was being recorded, here’s my message to them: very well, we’re truly sorry that the President of the United States is a craven arsehole. I say we’re sorry, and we are sorry. Mighty sorry. Powerful sorry. Listen – you probably have only a limited grasp on just how sorry we are.

You’re damned right Trudeau was laughing at Trump. So he should. I’d be ashamed of him if he wasn’t.

My fondest hope is that gales of derisive laughter are the last thing Donald hears when he finally succumbs to that stroke he’s been bucking for, the Big Mac-gobbling pile of Crisco.