Democracy is bullshit.

Now, you all know I call things like they are, especially when I write politically-rooted material like this ditty right here, and the plain, unvarnished truth is that democracy is a bullshit system: if you're an English teacher and don't like the word 'bullshit', you can substitute the phrase 'unworkable and impractical'.  The reason it's bullshit is that it operates on the otherwise-perfectly-reasonable assumption that the great majority of the voting public have a politically-oriented, intelligent, sound mind.  This assumption would have been right some years ago; now, however, correct is the last word I would use to describe this theory.

Several months ago, I had a conversation with a young lady, whom I shall call Adrienne (a pseudonym).  I wish she'd worn one of those name-tag stickers you wear at children's parties---the sort that comes in multiple colours, with 'Hello, I'm' pre-written at the top.  Adrienne could have written her first initial and a particular word, and the sticker would be entirely factual and reveal her true identity at first glance: her first initial is A., and the word is moron.  Hello, I'm A Moron.  Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

At a pub in Ontario, I had asked Adrienne which party she'd be voting for in the Ontario election.  Due to its unfortunate ability to provoke a riot where drink has been taken, the discussion of politics is often discouraged in pubs and clubs; personally, though, I find it one of my few reliable conversation starters.  Adrienne replied that she'd be voting for the Liberal party, thank you very much; at this point, I felt that she was merely misinformed.  I said I was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, and I asked her why exactly she was voting for a party that had broken promises time and again, instead of putting her voice behind a party such as the New Democrats, who would do the same for Canada as the Liberals would, and they'd do it fucking better, too.

I'm putting her reply in inverted commas even though what came out of her mouth may not be verbatim et literatim what's on this page, since I deal in accuracy, and not facts, which are for the historians to interpret.  You'll know a historian when you see one (although you may find it difficult to distinguish it—er, him—from a mathematician or physicist): he'll be the one to be wearing a bleach white shirt buttoned up all the way and tucked in to a pair of trousers hitched up to his chin; furthermore, he will probably have a pink plastic-and-wire thing called a retainer (I have been told that this is a status symbol among such people) in his mouth, as well as an ugly but effective accessory known as a pocket protector (in the obvious place—you don't think he'd be storing it where the sun don't shine, do you?).

So, here's her totally accurate quote.  If you said something similar to this in a country pub in Ontario to a fellow with day-old stubble, longish black hair, and a vaguely West End accent, feel free to correct me: 'Have you seen Dalton McGuinty?  He's so hot!  Hudak looks like a total squirrel next to him, and I wouldn't fuck that Horwath woman for the whole bottle of oxies I saw you shooting up in the bathroom.'*  Yeah, right, first of all, those weren't oxies, those were dillies, and second of all, I wasn't shooting up... heh heh.

* The preceding statement has been edited in accordance with my policy of keeping quotes factual and accurate.

Some days, I wish I had the freedom to ignore such pleasantries as tact and social graces, so as I could tell idiots like this what I really thought of them.  I asked her about the agenda (a.k.a. platform for you Americans) of the Ontario Liberals and was met with a frank 'I don't know or care.  I hope they legalise weed.  Fuck the government.'  At this point, I realised that any form of political discussion would be useless, so I quickly changed the subject to music.  I would have been open to a discussion on marijuana if she'd watched her fucking language and used the right word for the plant/drug taken from it.  I don't talk weed with stoners; I discuss the possibility of easement of restrictions on cannabis and its derivatives with interested parties.

If I was above such petty nonsense as courtesy and civility, I would have said this, and only this.  'I can not help but feel that you are confusing two similar, but different, concepts.  What you are going to vote in is a pro–vin–shul ee–leck–shun.  In a provincial election, you vote for a can–duh–dit representing a pah–tea with whose viewpoints you agree most.  What you were thinking of was a byoo–tee pad–junt.  In a beauty pageant, you vote for someone who looks hot.  Are we clear now?'

I wouldn't be concerned otherwise, but the recent past really has me worried.  Canada used to have some pretty damn good leaders; hell, a majority of Prime Ministers of Canada have been hypercompetent—not only cutting muster, but doing the job with excellence.  I mean, there were a couple of exceptions: the first name that sticks in my mind (this just goes to show that I most definitely don't think chronologically!) is that of the universally-maligned Conservative Bryan Mulroney, who was for Canada what George Bush, Jr was for the United States of America.  Another relatively early P.M. that conclusively proved his incompetence (this time in one fell swoop) was John 'The Chief' Diefenbaker—or was it just plain old inexperience in the area of military contracts, as he was an excellent P.M. otherwise?

Latterly, both Canada and Ontario have been having nothing but dipsticks for leaders.  It started with that redneck Quebecker (no offence against any Quebeckers reading this) John Cretin—pardonnez-moi, j'ai fait une erreur—Jean Chrétien.  Yes, that one.  The one that could speak neither of Canada's two official languages correctly.  The one who constantly spoke awkwardly, out of only one side of his mouth, as half his face was paralysed from a stroke.  When Cretin retired, he passed on the torch–be yours to hold it high!–to Paul Martin.  Martin strikes me as a fellow who could strike it big as a James Bond, but certainly not as a politician—boring name, boring face, boring agenda.  "Hello, I'm Paul Martin, M.P. and I'm the most boring man in Canada.  By the way, I am a current Member of Parliament; my party allegiance is to the Liberals and I represent LaSalle–Émard."  Then Stéphane Dion, who lost Canadians' confidence in the national wing of the Liberal Party without ever being Prime Minister, was the very picture of stupidity and probably one of the reasons we've had a sane leader like Harper for a good long while.

Ontario, on the other hand, has had Dalton McGuilty.  They've had Mike Harris too, who was an idiot, but Dalton McGuilty is either pure evil or pure stupidity.  The Tax Man, as I like to call him, seems to spend all his time either fucking his administrative assistants in half (he isn't hard to look at, I must admit—no homo!) or combing the books for some unprecedented opportunity for a new tax.  When he finds said opportunity, he has said secretaries (who may or may not suffer from social diseases!) look in the thesaurus and find a synonym for tax.

Fine, he's got some things to his credit.  He's lowered wait times at the doctor's, and maybe he's increased our budgetary surplus.  There are right ways and wrong ways to do shit like this though.  Anything, really.  And by right and wrong, I mean socially, morally, politically, and even fiscally.  The British NHS has it right.  They operate almost as a group health insurance company—NHS-approved doctors, medications, hospitals, whatever.  There is the NHS system, and the privately-insured system. I introduced my friend and doctor Elinor to her second career (she works at multiple medical practices, and yet her motto never changes from "I'm bored!") in what the Americans call concierge medicine—pay a modest fee per year (privately insured or out of pocket), and your services increase.  You jump the queue; appointments become housecalls; you get a direct line to the doctor; prescriptions go direct to the pharmacy.  (Unfortunately, I forgot to mention to Ellie that my referrals to her concierge pain practice would mostly be émigrés from Florida hungry for "just a little bit of OxyContin to hold me over"–Ellie, like most British pain control docs, is morbidly afraid of the non-toxic, but somewhat-addictive narcotic oxycodone, although she is perfectly all right with its metabolite, oxymorphone, or its close cousins, hydromorphone and morphine).

A similar system applies to accident and emergency: you pay a modest fee, you get to jump the queue as a Tier One patient.  It's a fair system.  I have no problem with handouts; please just let there be a second option!

But what the hell is up with these damn sneaky taxes?!  I swear there's going to be another one.  This is bullshit.  Seriously.