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.
He has a few words, but they’re still unreliable and slippery. His verbalizing remains musical, each vocalization a note to a song that lives only in him. And so we were startled when he began to utter words, words we had never heard him say before, with absolute clarity.
The first time, while upsetting his food, he suddenly stopped and clearly said, “Osprey.” He then receded back into his activities, but within five minutes our friend Ottilie showed up at the door. ( She was having a panic attack because she’d lost a contact lens.) It was a bit of a freak-out, that.
Did Jones have ESP?
Later, while he was throwing building blocks at our chandelier, he stopped and said, “Pree-Pree.” Two minutes later, the delivery of my cheeseburger from Burger’s Priest arrived.
It was at this point that I realized our boy had a gift.
And as I am a Tiger Mother Dad, I decided to immediately implement an ESP training plan:
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Ouija Board Exercise
My son and I seek to contact a spirit.
1. Jones flips ouija board over.
- Jones flips ouija board over.
- Jones flips ouija board over.
Pokemon Go Exercise
Pokemon Go uses the GPS in your phone to help you locate the “spirits” you must capture in order to win the game. After showing Jones a character from the game, I take him out into the city to see if he can lead me to the Pokemon in question without my help.
- Wigglytuff
Jones obsessed with stairs at front of apartment. Must climb up and down. Like baby robot obeying dark master. Feel like he’s been doing this for hours. Possessed? J certainly has his mother’s endurance, that’s for sure! Forgot to get her special grapes at the store! Fuck!!
2. Dewgong
Again Jones was dazzled by front stairs. Tried to lead him away but very, very stubborn!! Just dug in and yelled until I quit. Could a passage to a spirit realm exist there? Might have to start digging.
3. Ponyta
Jones drawn (summoned?) to empty bottle on street. Bangs it against twig as if conjuring super cute fire pony Ponyta. No Ponyta, though a Charmander was near. (N.B: Old Asian women dominant in bottle reclamation! WHY???)
Card Test
I select a playing card at random from a deck and attempt to telepathically transmit it to Jones.
- J sticks something dangerous and sharp from ouija board in his mouth. Next several minutes spent trying to take thing out of his mouth. Forgot card I was sending him.
- Jones finds raspberry bowl. Dumps on floor. Stamps. Purple red splatter everywhere.
Like Pulp Fiction in here. Actually traumatic. J then throws dust pan into my face knocking off glasses. Funniest thing he’s ever seen. Unresponsive to psychic message of 3 of Clubs.
- Concentrating on sending card while Jones screams. Shouting very piercing, very upsetting. Bad for health. Such a fucking headache. Sometimes just want to give up, turn into water. Take emergency pot brownie I keep wrapped in Kleenex in my pocket. Conclude experiment.
Dear Bitter Writer:
What are writers really like?
Ansell Pitt
Dear Mister Pitt:
Writers are the worst.
I’d be hard pressed to think of any single grouping of people, be they bound by profession, religion, ethnicity, sexual fetish or disease, that are worse than writers.
Writers are grubby, small, aspirational and hateful people.
The only thing that they loathe more than themselves are other writers. The success of other human beings, even in some cases animals, is toxic to the writer. If you happen to fall into conversation with one about something that is “good,” or something that you “like,” the writer will quickly, as if in a panic, change the topic to something that is “not good,” or something that they “don’t like.” They will do this in the way that a squirrel might scurry off up a tree when it gets startled. Writers feel diminished by light and joy, and will seek to suck as much of it as possible out of any given day. Never, ever ask a writer to make a speech at a wedding.
Think of this way:
If all the writers on the planet were jammed into one insufferable country, it would be torn apart by civil war and terrorism.
And then likely bombed by every other county in the world, too.
It would just be that bad a place.
Dear Bitter Writer:
Hello, love the very helpful blog! My question is book cover designs. What would go on it? Should the character be on the cover or should the cover relate to the content in the story? Thank you.
Samantha Bell
Dear Ms. Bell:
Are you some kind of a moron?
Look, if some other moron is willing to publish your stupid book, you should let them put whatever the fuck they want on the cover!! As a writer it is essential that you learn to be a sycophant. You must shamelessly align yourself with whatever the prevailing tribe is, and ceaselessly, but with as much elegance and perception as you can muster, lather all editors and associated “literati” (gag!) with compliments. Tell them how much you love the little, European scarves they’re always wearing and how cool their frames and tattoos are, and for God’s sake, if they want you nude and fully penetrated on the cover, you let them know how much you love their “edgy vision” and ask how many orifices they want penetrated, damn it!
