Dear Canada. Way to go, you hosers. Did yourself proud and put on one heck of an Olympics. Congratulations for providing an incredible 17 days of thrills and spills on the ice and snow and in the slush and fog. That was a winter games for the ages, except for that excruciatingly obvious lack of winter thing. As it turns out, Washington, D.C. might have been a better host city, but who knew? Although, a quick call to Al Gore might have been worth the international toll-call charges.
May I also offer up a big old heaping pile of thanks for keeping Celine Dion out of the Opening Ceremonies. I’m sure it was under the direction of Prime Minister Harper, counseled by a group of high-powered Ottawa lawyers to comply with certain articles of the Geneva Convention, but still, please accept the grateful indebtedness of an entire planet. Then again, no Neil Young? I think you missed a slam-dunk there, eh?
And good on you for winning the most golds. You may not have owned the whole podium but you certainly did hog that center platform, didn’t you? You really deserve to go out and celebrate. Use a pocket full of loonies and buy yourself some extra gravy to pour over your poutine.
You’ve seen “ER” and I’ve seen “ER” and I think we can both agree that if bipartisan health care reform were a patient, Doctor Obama would be dejectedly dropping the paddles, ripping off his mask and asking Nurse Pelosi to call it.
Oh, yeah. It’s finished. Done with. Kaput. Defunct. Deceased. Extinct. Artifacto. Fuggedaboutit. Game over, man. Part of the vast past tense. Washed up. Down the drain. Sleeping with the fishies. Sheer finito. Totally obliterated. See ya. Wouldn’t want to be ya. Pushing up daisies. Eaten by the undertoad. Down Goes Frazier! Rests in peace. Bereft of life. Shuffled off its mortal coil. Crossed the distant shore. Run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible. Stick a fork in it. It’s history. A memory. In the archives. Way gone. Say bye. Then again… you never know. Reconciliation. Such an innocent word.
With the deftness of Houdini, the president conjured up a seance where Democrats and Republicans sat down together and aired out differences like actual humans, and while the festivities conspicuously lacked any hand-holding choruses of “Kumbaya,” the two sides did refrain from physically throttling each other and nobody staggered out in full view of the cameras cradling a bloody stump. Which, for these guys, is a leap. They did, however, continue to lock out ordinary Americans by talking in a special Congressional code known as Politico-Speak. And I’m here to decipher.
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