In other words, Justin Trudeau, aged 40, lives in the moral equivalent of his father’s basement.
He overcompensates by swearing in Parliament (just like dad!); declining to call Muslim honor killings “barbaric” (he prefers “absolutely unacceptable“); and musing approvingly about Quebec separatism before denying having done so (while talking about himself in the third person, then sweeping out of a scrum in a huff).
No wonder Justin Trudeau has been a figure of fun for the Canadian right. Ever the talented phrasemaker, Sun News broadcaster Ezra Levant dubbed Trudeau “Shiny Pony,” stroking a My Little Pony doll on his television show and professing a man-crush on the genetic lottery winner. My blogger-husband’s contribution to the wall-to-wall pre-fight hilarity was a spoof of Alex Colville’s iconic painting “Horse and Train,” but with “Rainbow Dash“ Photoshopped into the ominous scene. Hubby’s prediction—that “Shiny Pony” was destined for the glue factory—was widely shared. The bulkier, beefier Brazeau was the 3:1 favorite.
As the two boxers entered the ring, wags noted that unlike most fellows inked with tribal tattoos these days, Brazeau at least belongs to an actual tribe. Trudeau’s own aboriginal upper-arm adornment—a Haida mask—was apropos in its own comical way. Haida art is visually arresting, highly sought-after, and widely faked.
And then the snickering stopped.
Brazeau came out swinging. That turned out to be his biggest mistake. The second-degree black belt wore himself out in the first round. Trudeau’s patience, superior cardio, and longer reach paid off in round three. Brazeau’s nose was bloodied. He looked like he was about to faint. The ref raised Trudeau’s arm and declared him the winner. Worst of all: Trudeau was gracious in victory, while Brazeau was dazed and petulant.
I doubt I was the only Canadian right-winger whose short stroll from the TV to the bedroom around midnight felt like a walk of shame.
Predictably, the (non-Sun) media was ecstatic, painting the match as a watershed kind of Kennedy-Nixon debate, but with even more sweat.
“In the history of politics in Canada,” we were informed, “it was a [sic] epic moment.”
“It may come to be seen as Justin Trudeau’s defining career moment,” echoed veteran columnist Lawrence Martin in a piece entitled (I kid you not) “In the name of the father.”
Literally overnight, Justin Trudeau’s image was transformed from his (pretty, possibly insane) mother’s son to the spitting image of his steely, cunning papa. Who better to rebuild the shattered Liberal Party and wrest Canada from the hands of Stephen “Hitler” Harper?
But are Canadians stupid enough to elevate an unqualified man-child to the land’s highest office based on an upset in a glorified pie-eating contest?
Well, during last year’s federal election, voters took a likable if lightweight far-leftist who’d been found naked in a Chinatown massage parlor during a police raid and who was very obviously dying (of some still-secret type of cancer) and made him Leader of the Opposition.
In other words, I wouldn’t bet against it.
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