A crowded patio at night.
The man has sturdy legs and broad shoulders. He’s handsome and looks comfortable in his own skin, like he’s very good at whatever it is he does for a living and is used to moving fluidly through the world. Behind him, holding his one hand with her two, is a blind woman. She is stunning in her beauty, radiant, even. Looking at her it feels possible that a mountain stream had assumed the form and flesh of a woman and appeared amidst us like a miracle. Those of us who are watching her have no conscious choice in the matter. There is something that pure and commanding about her beauty.
She’s blinking awkwardly into the lights above the bar as the man explains the topography of the patio she is trying to navigate through.
“There’s some uneven ground here, and then a slight step up. You okay?”
She nods wordlessly.
As they pass through the thicket of tables and chairs and people, every set of eyes are upon her. Conversations are falling silent, heads are turning and imaginations are sparking. Everybody is watching, trying to enter into the mystery of her life, trying to understand the uncanny sense of relief– of hope, even– we all felt in seeing a person so unable to apprehend her own powerful beauty, a person so unsullied. She moves through us like a saint through fire, and maybe she feels our eyes upon her, feels the hunger and predation that haunt a bar like this, but maybe, perfect in her own wilderness, she feels nothing. She moves closer to the man as the level of spatial complexity increases, dropping one hand from his and letting it idle in the back pocket of his jeans.
And just beyond them a red traffic light sways above the intersection while a bat swoops down through the night and across the clear, crisp moon. Each person there wanting to tell her about the moon, the beautiful moon, and how hopefully we’d throw ourselves into that unknowable night, just to touch it’s face.
As many of you know, I grew up in the same part of Ottawa as Canadian Prime Minister and Rolling Stone Cover Boy, Justin Trudeau.
Although I was a few years older, our paths still crossed many times, and even if we’re far from good friends, we have an amicable, nodding relationship that has well positioned me to assist him and the Liberal party in the creation of a series of Justin Trudeau romance novellas.
What follows are excerpts from some of the books:
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Book Title: Never The Same Way Twice
His fame and internationally renowned good-looks made it hard for Justin to live the simple life he so often craved. Sure, he got a lot of satisfaction from being the most influential man on the planet, photobombing wedding shots and ministering to refugees, but what he really missed was just rocking out at concerts like an average Canadian, an average Canadian who was lucky to live in the second best country in the world, according to U.S. News & World Report.
But tonight, tonight Justin was going to let the world save itself.
Disguised as a relatively plain Canadian– but for his fantastically lithe and toned body– Justin was going to let loose at the big Blue Rodeo concert.
It had been a long time since he’d rock n’ rolled.
It’s funny how two lives might entwine, and little did Blue Rodeo super fan Brenna Macdonald know, as she took the number 95 OC Transpo bus in from Orleans to catch the show, that her life was about to be forever altered.
Book Title: A Song Of Ice And Fire And Good Governance
Sansa’s heart was racing, galloping so hard that she was sure he must hear it. He took her chin in his hands, his hands made so strong by all the beautiful planks he regularly executed, and raised her lips toward his. At that moment he ceased to be Justin Trudeau, the widower Prime Minister of Canada, the lost Parliamentary Democracy of Westeros and only hope in the battle against the White Walkers, the White Walkers who had taken his bride, and he became something else. He became a vessel of passion.
“Je veux faire un amour doux mais ferme envers vous, ma reine,” he said to her in his mystical language, as he pulled her to him.
She could feel his manhood pressing against her, his lips now so passionately, so respectfully, on hers, and her release was so great that Sansa felt as if she was marble melting under the light.
Book Title: For Love Of Country
It was the best Pride parade that Toronto had ever seen, and the joy of Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau as he marched the streets– his white shirt soaking wet and clinging to his smooth body from all the water gun fights– was infectious. Sal, like everybody else, could not stop smiling as he watched from the crowded sidewalk. And then, as if a divine hand had ordained it, Justin’s eyes locked with his. The free-spirited and inclusive leader of a great nation beckoned for Sal to join him on the street, and immediately security parted the sea of people to make way for him. Sal, in a wheelchair and impotent since the mortar explosion in Kandahar, rolled out to him. The Prime Minister asked for permission, and then playfully sat on his lap and put his arm around him as they proceeded down Church Street and into a future neither one of them could have imagined.
Trump, even attired that way, commanded the subway like a stern and punctual marshall at a luxury golf course, and people knew not to mess with him.
Normally he would never think to take the subway, as it is a filthy and vulgar mode of transportation, but today he wanted filthy and vulgar. His legs spread out expansively, taking up at least two seats, he looked down at his most recent text from Melania and smiled:
“I am to poo you,” it read.
Melania’s English wasn’t very good, but Donald knew exactly what she meant.
It was their beautiful night together.
Every year on the anniversary on their first sex, Donald bought a fast food restaurant in the New York area, fired everybody, and then made Melania work the counter. This year, it was a Dairy Queen, and Donald, disguised as the Burger King, was going to come in and order Melania off the menu and then make her his fast food sex slave for the night.
It was a great tradition, and they both loved it very much.
As Donald sat there on the subway thinking about whether he should purchase and then and torture some of the homeless and desperate as part of fast food sex slave night, a woman approached him.
“The Burger King?” she said.
“You look low rent,” the Burger Trump retorted, “and let me tell you,” he continued, “I would rather be a king than some low rent subway hen.”
The low rent woman had full lips.
“Subway hen?”
Donald ignored her, Tweeting a threat to France.
The low rent woman looked closely at his fingers, as if figuring something out.
Suddenly, the subway came to a screeching halt. Everything went dark and Donald fell to the floor, his Burger King head spilling off and his phone skittering out of his pocket! When he looked up, he and the subway hen, also on the floor, were facing one another, their lips just inches apart– something unspoken burning between them now.
“You’re Donald Trump,” she whispered, “I knew I recognized those tiny, orange fingers!”
The stranger’s breasts heaved upon the filthy, seductive floor of the subway. He stared at the woman and she stared back, their breath hot and real.
Trump inched toward her and she inched toward him.
At that moment Donald’s phone began to ring, picking up an audible message from Melania, “Donald, it is your Queen Dairy, I have customer, and child wants me to make curl with ice cream that I cannot make. Tell her we close? Give her money? I stand by you, my man, even if ice cream disgusting. I still poo you, my king.”
Donald swept the phone away with certainty, like a Commander-In-Chief. And then the lights came on and the subway started up again. The low rent woman got up and dusted herself off and walked away, shivering, “This is the weirdest, fucking grossest day of my life,” she muttered to herself.
“Rosebud, “Donald Trump mouthed, “Rosebud.”
This is a recent email that I sent to him:
Slobber!
How’s it hanging, Mister Touchdown?
Things are pretty great in our world, one reason being that Rachelle just introduced me to a new App on my iPhone called Draw Free. It’s way cool, like Pictionary for your phone. You play with a friend, and each one of you gets a word you have to draw out using your finger on the screen of your phone, and the other one has to guess what it is. Here’s my drawing of Bruce Lee, pretty awesome, eh?
We should play sometime. It would be an awesome drinking game and I’d fucking love to play a kind of adult version (NO HOMO) with you!
Anyway, the real reason I’m writing is that an acquaintance of mine was in a library the other day and he wrote this about the experience:
“Hoards of youth in the library today. Dozens & dozens. We’ve got to do something about young people in the library. Will lead to trouble.”
Just thought the Mayor should know.
Keep well, Slobber, keep well!
Michael Murray
Mur:
I am completely fucking in with the Draw Stuff game.
Art was one of my favourite classes back in school, and my teachers thought I had talent. I used to paint kick ass Star Wars scenes. I did one watercolour of Luke and Princess Leia that was so out of the box they made me see the school psychologist. Miss Hancock. Jesus, she was hot. Boner City, man, Boner City.
I’m glad you brought this library shit to my attention. The last thing we need are libraries jammed full of teens. That would be a shit show. I’m tough on crime, and I’m not going to help create an environment that would make things easier for crazy shooters. Libraries should only have a couple of nerds in them at a time, while the rest of our kids are at football practice, learning how to drive or at home on the Net. We need to shut down the library gravy train.
I’m going to launch a campaign called Library No More. It’s going to be fucking awesome. We’re going to have pro athletes on board and look into the idea of mobile libraries, kind of like the ice cream truck, only with books. We can shut down libraries all over the city, and then service those areas with the library truck once a week.
Dude, can you come down to City Hall so we can talk more about this? And let’s play that Draw thing! Why don’t they have that in bars, anyway, like Karaoke for drawers? Drawaoke, they could call it. Fuck, my brain is on fire with ideas! It’s a Rob Roll!! A Ford Fire!! Gotta cancel all my meetings and stoke the flames!!
Slobber
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