The curly-haired dictator strides into the living room at 24 Sussex Drive, drops himself into a couch and tosses his muddied army boots up on the coffee table.
“Laureen!” he shouts. “Champagne! I must celebrate my new home!”
Mrs. Harper squeezes the Prime Minister’s hand nervously. “Yes, Mr. Gaddafi,” she says, then leaves the room.
Picking his nose, the deposed Libyan despot watches her go. “And wear those CFM boots from the royal wedding at dinner tonight. I very much like them.”
“Now wait a minute Muammar,” the Prime Minister interjects. “You can’t talk to my wife that way.”
Muammar Gaddafi gets up off the couch, flicks a booger on the floor, and approaches Stephen Harper.
“Stevey, Stevey. Thank-you for letting me in your country.”
Gaddafi gently grasps the Prime Minister’s tie and straightens it as he talks.
“Now that NDP prick is gone, you can do what you want. So here I am!”
He rests his hands on Harper’s shoulders.
“And I am here to work. You must pass your internet spy law so that I can give you what you need. I know more about spying on citizens on the internet than anyone else.”
Harper brushes away the former dictator’s dirty, calloused hands.
“Muammar, you don’t get it. I can’t just ram that legislation through right after Jack’s funeral. It’ll seem insensitive. I need more time.”
Gaddafi lifts a crystal decanter and pours generous doses of scotch into two glasses.
“Oh, I have time, Stevey. Plenty of time. I’m on your payroll now. But if you want to know what your citizens are doing on the internet, we have to get moving.”
He hands the Prime Minister a glass.
“So until I can work, I wait. Now send in your pretty daughter. I want to discuss something with her.” Continue reading