Gordon Campbell, it’s people like you that are the chief reason people like me live in isolation, unrecognized, childless, sad and solitary, one paycheque away from the street. Do not mock me fellow student.
Do not mock me fellow student. The Fascist Rulers are talking about reducing my Level Two Disability from $780 to $608. That will leave me seventy dollars on my monthly cheque.
Leave this on your on your monthly cheque, fellow Scot; I am not afraid to die for a noble cause if it means taking you with me.
If we were fighting over a piece of meat in Old Scotland could you stand up to me with a broadsword in your hand?
Or take me at Scrabble, Chess, Poker, One on One or Trivial Pursuit? How do I threaten to take away thy livelihood? I had such high hopes before spending a year of my precious life in your various mental institutions, a Prisoner of the State.
Is it at all possible that it was all political to begin with? Is your I. Q. in the Genius Range? How many lives have you actually saved?
Wee Gordie Campbell, on behalf of a free Scotland, this is war! It won’t be fought with rocket launchers, though frankly, Cockburn, if I had one, a certain politician would pay.
At the age of 17 with hair down to my shoulders, alias Geronimo, I lead a campus revolution that rid us of the head of the Theatre Department, the Dean of Fine Arts, and the University President, who, it turns out, had a mail order law degree.
Yes, wee Gordie Campbell, this is war. At age twenty five I played Julius Caesar professionally in one of Toronto’s top theatres and I know something about troop movements.
I’m not saying may the bird of Paradise fly up your nose, though something must have gone up your nose. I’m saying may you too collect bottles and cans, scrounge for butts, stand endlessly in line at soup-kitchens, be marginalized and denigrated beyond the grasp of human dignity, walk miles for want of a bus pass, work day after day at minimum wage, or rage, and finally choke one morning on your BLT and be without a single cronie to provide the Heinlich Manoeuvre.
May your children one day discover the rave scene and never be heard of hence.
But wait! It’s not technically uttering a threat. I’m going to kill you with kindness, while doing everything in my power to see that you spend your days opening breweries in Labrador and Newfoundland.
They say I’m mentally ill. I say the Mental Health Team should be at your door asking if you have any weapons or illegal substances or kiddieporn.
In 1936 Hitler took certain steps that were overlooked by world powers. Give him an inch and he’ll take a foot. Give him a foot and he’ll take a yard. Give him a yard and he’ll build a swimming pool in it.
Winston Churchill, also a manic depressive, had the right idea but lacked the backing and in their lives there’s something lacking; what they need’s a damn good whacking.
It’s now 2002 – let’s have that bustard out by 2004. Before we all end up in Transit Camps. My work is being an artist – I’m proud of a record of service and still sometimes I cry myself to sleep thinking about the way things are.
A B. C. flag hangs on the wall opposite my bed and I stare at it infinitely recalling an empire that was second to none. With all the minerals, fish and forests – the envy of the world. That was my B. C. – Before Christ these bananas are expensive!
I did everything in the name of personal liberty, carried placards, fought for marijuana legislation, called the police on heroin dealers, painted houses, took refugees in off the streets. So do not mock me, fellow student.
Gave evidence against people smuggling machine guns, and if it seems a bit demonstrative, kiss my —, Gordon Campbell. Or should I say the Dauphin across the water – to quote Henry Fifth – tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler.
[This piece of classic 'Juriana' was first published in 2002
in the Island Catholic News, edited by Patrick Jamieson]
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