A Political Trick-or-Treat

Halloween arrives a few weeks early this year. The trick-or-treaters are already here. The Blood-Red Liberal, The Green Goblin, Mr. Pumpkin and Deep-Blue will all come knocking on your door for your vote. The conversation at my front door has always followed the same basic script.

Hi. Hello. Nice weather, eh.
I am Blah and I am the candidate for Blah for this riding. I have two children and a dog.
Do you have any questions?
Umm. No. Not Really.
I hope I can count on your vote.
Umm. Yes.

Sure there are subtle variations. The Conservative is usually a man with a no-nonsense, no humour approach. As he grills and interrogates me on my voting history, I have this terrible feeling that the corporate world with all its alpha-maleness has invaded even the privacy of my house. When he shoots "Do you have any questions?", I meekly say "No" and I assure the Terminator of my vote just to see his back. As soon as he leaves, I have to come in to the house and hug something to feel normal. A child. A blanket. A teddy-bear. Anything.

The Liberals send in Ms. Smalltalk. She could just burst from all the goodness and happiness she has packed in her. In two minutes flat, she covers healthcare, kids, weather, jobs, economy, Afghanistan, environment and taxes; carefully treading to not take a position on any issue that cannot be harmlessly retracted.

High-Tech Boom, High-tech Bust,
High-Tech Maybe, High-Tech Must.

She flits from topic to topic looking carefully for any sign of my weakness where she can perch a little longer. And then, with that hallmark Liberal insincerity, she takes a whiff and asks "What is cooking in your kitchen? The aroma is wonderful."

That is no aroma. That is the stink of Saag, my dear lady friend! Spinach, Broccoli, Rapini, Cabbage, Brussels sprouts, Bok Choy, Kale. If it is leafy and green – we show no mercy and chop it up and put in the pot with the spices. It is one big Green Party orgy going on in there. Sure, it tastes awesome and does wonders for the system as it goes barreling down the bowels, but it does test the limits of good-neighbourliness when we chose to cook it on a nice day with the windows all open.

"Oh, that? Just a vegetable stew. Bit of a strong smell, I am sorry." I reply.
"You wouldn't mind if we put a sign on your lawn, then?"
(What with you being an immigrant and all, surely you cannot vote for anyone but Trudeau's Liberals)

"Umm". I hesitate. Well, that is not a blunt No as far as they can see. The two twenty-something eager Hoovers accompanying her start hammering the sign in my lawn. I have to wait for them to be done my street before I pull the sign out and put it in my garage. It will make a very good Halloween prop. It is already a gory red; all I have to do is to cover the writing up with a picture of a decapitated head and I am all set. Liberals funding the Liberal Arts. There.

Then there was that NDP fellow who had dropped by while I was out perched on a ladder cleaning the eaves trough a few years ago. Pulling out the muck; I had been projecting that nice, hard-working, getting my hands dirty sort of family-man-demographic that all parties crave for. I had stopped dead in my tracks, as I am likely to do with the very first excuse that gets me out of housework. We had started talking and the closet-Marxist in me had come out. Before long, we were having lengthy discussions on trade unions, corporate greed, organic tomatoes and squeegee kids; sometimes all in the same narrative. I had felt a sudden urge to scratch my beard till I had realized that I no longer had that. I had given that up for the clean-cut image required to plunge into the corporate world and swim with the sharks. We had bonded and bitterly complained about how the world just does not take the leftists seriously; how the world always conspired for the doers and go-getters and against the serious thinkers and men of inaction like us. I had given him the assurance of my vote and lugged the ladder inside calling it a day; had poured myself a glass of wine and put on some classical music to reflect on the meaninglessness of it all. The eaves trough job, as my wife reminds me every chance she gets, remains half done to this day. And that, my friends, is the day we had become a politically split family. My wife has never voted NDP since that incident but I still do it on compassionate grounds.

This time I am ready for change. I only have their sympathetic ear just prior to the election and I fully intend to use it this time. This time I will have questions for them. Even better, I will have a questionnaire that I will hand to them and trade with their brochure. "This will only take a few minutes", I will assure them. "Please answer these multiple-choice questions. Your answers will help me decide who I vote for. You can leave it in the mailbox when done." And then I will step back into the house and try to hold my laughter.

Which is the lesser of the three evils?
Baby Seals.
Baby Taliban.
Baby Bloc Quebecois.

Why should I vote for your leader?
He has a manly moustache.
She does not have a manly moustache.
He is not overly manly.

Prime Minister Harper can play the piano, or so his party would have me believe. What musical instrument can your leader play?
Air Guitar, because politics is all about simulating action.
Violin. But he is a beginner. Ouch.
Hot-Air Flute.

(Although, the PR agency should really have had Harper play the harp for the benefit of us word-play and tongue-twister aficionados. Down by the harbour, Harper plays the harp at the harpooning of the harp seals. I can visualize a rather lovely cartoon)

If the Americans started to jump off a cliff, would you?
Celebrate.
Jump off a cliff as well (as any good, incapable of independent thought, neighbour would do).
Plead with them to not do it (as in the magical tale about the lowly beaver and the raging elephant)

What do you think of Prince Edward Island?
Cute and picturesque
Largely irrelevant
These questions make no sense at all. What a jerk !

Thank you for your patience and understanding. You can count on our support. See you again in five years. Maybe three. Maybe next year.