At 3:30 in the morning, the cell phone under my pillow vibrated impatiently like a trapped bumblebee. I place it there strategically to alert the constabulary in case Big Eddie, Minister of Outports and Environmental Destruction, decides to send his goons to our humble abode in the dead of night.
"It's RS from MP," hissed a whispering voice. "Where have you been the last few days?"
"I've been out to Quidi Vidi Lake harvesting a few of those fat spring ducks for the dinner table," I said.
"Well, all hell is about to spring loose up here on the hill," he said. "Dear Leader, Duh-wite, passed out free samples of weed to his Liberal yes-persons. They're hitting it pretty hard. I got a free sample from Dr. Dale. It gave me hallucinations. You should try some."
"Get to the point," I said. "I have to get up early in the morning and scrounge for some food in Sobeys garbage bins."
"OK, here's the scoop," said RS from MP, "Big Eddie's gone paranoid--he thinks everybody's out to get him and he's challenging all comers to a fist-fight out on the parkway. Dr. Dale is even worse--he thinks he sits on the right hand of Dear Leader and he's preaching to everybody. "Greater love hath no man than I have for community libraries," he said yesterday.
"Oh shit, here comes Big Eddie bouncing off the walls--one last thing, Dear Leader, Duh-wite, is pissed and he's going to fire the whole lot and set up a benevolent dictatorship so he can give himself unlimited forgivable loans and build more apartments for poor people. Gotta go, I'll send you some of this weed.
Fortunately, I didn't wake spouse. She doesn't like interrupted dreams when she is in the process of recharging her batteries for the next day's labours at the convenience store down the street where she has been elevated to a position as manager of marijuana sales--a lateral promotion at minimum wage. The job is only half time, so she sleeps in until 11:30 and expects a bowl of maple nut oatmeal in bed right away--she said it makes her feel rich and pampered.
'Rich' of course is her way of saying we perch precariously on borderline poverty, a condition visited on us by the taxes and fees unleashed by the Ball-faced Liberals in 2016.
The extra $223 every two weeks won't even pay the Muskrat Falls bill a year down the road unless we can finagle our way into one of Dear Leader's low-income housing units in Deer Lake.
To prepare for her enhanced responsibility, spouse attended several unpaid day-long training seminars at the Liquor Corporation headquarters over on Kenmount. Solemn Tom, Minister of Taxes, came by to give a pep talk but he made everybody depressed when he started talking about bankruptcy. "You are the front line for making us feel better in the future," he said by way of inspiring the group.
During the seminar, spouse became somewhat of an expert on weed. She tells me there are as many varietals of fine marijuana as there are fine wines. She goes on and on about bouquet and flowery notes and even cooking with weed.
"There'll be no more Fifty Shades of Bay for me," she said.
The thought occurs to me that she has been handed some free samples.
"I always thought weed was weed," I said."It always smelled like some dead animal."
"You have no idea," she said.
As I try to follow the news on the people's channel, spouse goes on and on about the different varietals.
"Take Mango OG, for example," she said, "rich mango notes with a hint of lemon, for toking when the House of Assembly is in session, provides a happy, relaxed feeling, and makes one feel detached from reality."
"Yes, we'll have to get some of that," I say absent-mindedly as I try to focus on the breaking news about the chaos around Dear Leader.
"I have to go outside and whistle to the Northern lights," said spouse.
On the news, there is a story about Dr. Dale, Minister of Illiteracy, who now thinks he's the Apostle Peter. He has accused his colleagues of planting a sloppy Judas kiss smack on the mouth of Dear Leader, Duh-wite. "There is no greater violation of trust, I am saddened and disillusioned," he warns the other disciples.
Then Dear leader makes a statement telling Dr. Dale to return his sword to its place.
"For all those who take up the sword, will perish by the sword," spaketh Dear Leader. Then he announces that Dr, Dale is no longer one of the eleven disciples (twelve, if you count the new lieutenant-governor).
"There's blood on the cabinet room floor," I shout as I dance around the living room in celebration. I reach for my bottle of Raspberry Screech.
"I have to go out on the deck and admire the May Day moon," said spouse.
"Triple Diesel," says spouse, five minutes later when she returns, "now, that's one you shouldn't toke--it has the aroma of a tunnel-boring machine cutting through bedrock under the Straits of Belle Isle. If you have real responsibilities, don't toke it during the day.
Is this what Codfish Crocker, Minister of Ferries, was smoking when he was on TV the other day talking about a train tunnel to Labrador, I wonder.
"And then there's Trainwreck," says spouse, "with a bouquet like Sunday's boiled cabbage. Too much on a daily basis can lead to chaos, random thinking, and short-term memory problems."
"So, that's what's causing all the brain farts coming from our politicians, lately," I said. "What we need is something that will make us forget our trials, tribulations, taxes, and the stench of Muskrat Falls--something that will make us roll around on the carpet and admire the ceiling."
"I have just the thing," said spouse as if she were reading from a script. "Jack Flash is spicy, yet fruity. Cures anxiety and is good for flushing the mind. With this stash, we'll never have another worry."
Spouse tells me she has to go outside to admire the stars.
"But, there's a blizzard on," I said.
I suspect she's been having a secret rendezvous with Jack Flash.