I walk to my community mailbox, which I have loved since Justin said I could. My anticipation is building like pressure from a Mentos dropped into a (Liberal) red bottle of Coca Cola.
Peering inside, I see a single letter with a familiar red marking on the envelope. The Liberal Party of Canada has issued me a correspondence!
I can barely conceal my excitement as I walk home, my prize clutched between now clammy hands. A pedestrian impedes my pathway at one point. “The environment and the economy go hand in hand” I snarl, elbowing her aside with the same disdain I normally reserve for rural Canadians and firearms owners. It’s fine because I’m a feminist.
At home I sit beneath my three framed photos of Justin as I open my correspondence. “Dear Friend, the Liberal Party and I need your help.” A wave of taxpayer-funded jubilation washes over me – the Dear Leader has addressed me personally and requires my assistance! But why??
I continue reading. “We need to grow the economy from the heart out. Fidel Castro was a larger than life leader who served his people for almost half a century – the Liberal movement is built on meaningful conversations like this. You must send me $400 dollars because We have to stop Stephen Diefenbaker.”
Wiping the perspiration from my brow I aggressively whip out my wallet to see how big my bank statement is.
Knowing that the very fate of peoplekind depends on my ability to donate, I immediately dampen my internal desire to add to my collection of culturally-sensitive Indian attire. There are more important matters to devote my finances to at this moment – Justin needs me!
Faster than you can re-open the abortion debate, I dial Justin’s number as instructed. By this point I’m shaking and my heart rate has elevated to be in line with Liberal deficit figures. “Sunny ways my friend!” I cackle, ignoring the warnings issued by (pseudo-science) economists on rising interest rates about to impact my bottom line.
My composure now gone, I shriek into the phone, demanding that the Liberal Party debit my account in full, as if I were a middle-class taxpayer. “My household budget will balance itself” I screech, alarming the volunteer on Justin’s phone (Gerry?), though thankfully not to the point where he won’t take my money.
Finally my transaction is complete. The resulting adrenalin dump has left me in a vegetative state, sprawled on the floor where I will softly sob into my Liberal Party of Canada t-shirt for the next several hours.
Eventually I will recover. I have to – after all, the mail is scheduled to be delivered again tomorrow.