"I need some of that Bog Rosemary you mix with your Raspberry Screech," said spouse. "Go up to Mount Scio tomorrow and see if you can round some up."
She has been toiling relentlessly in the kitchen recently, experimenting with the free samples of weed handed out at her training session a while back, to see if she can come up with a drinkable version of Mary Jane that compares with the power of my usual midnight libation, Raspberry Screech with a splash of Bog Rosemary tea.
The results so far are promising except that whole stretches of my short-term memory have been erased. Just yesterday, she mentioned Eddie Joyce in a casual comment--for the life of me, I could not remember who she was talking about. But I experienced a tremendous sense of tranquility coupled with my vacant mind.
"We are making progress," she said.
There may be other reasons for my relaxed state of mind.
Now that Ball's lackeys have departed Confederation Building to spread glad tidings of great joy across our pine-clad hills, a serene atmosphere of peace and solitude has settled over our shining city. The whole Liberal herd has traipsed off to congregate in Gander and graze on canapes of farmed salmon, caviar, filet of Kobe beef, and cod au gratin. They have gathered to shout hosannas for Dear Leader Duh-wite.
Even George Murphy was filled with the spirit and welcomed back to the Liberal pasture by Dear Leader. Yes, THE George 'Oil Can' Murphy is now a voting member of the Liberal herd; he, who betrayed the NDP savior, Lorraine Michael, and denied knowing her three times before the rooster crowed atop Confederation Building; he, who wept bitterly on TV for his dastardly denial. George has a new messiah.
Those who demonstrated critical thinking at the gathering were declared to be apostates, enemies of the herd, and denied voting privileges.
Dear Leader's toadies have even circulated a story at the Gander gathering that he was born at the very top of Gros Morne, his birth being foretold by a bull-bird and heralded by sun-hounds. In another version of Duh-wite's origins, he was raised by a kindly farmer and his wife in Deer Lake who found him floating down the Humber River on a mat of swamp grass.
Later, at the age of four, Dear Leader hiked the Gaff Topsails all by himself. In grade six, he designed an engineering marvel, a tunnel under the Straits of Belle Isle. By age ten, he had invented 2000 life-saving drugs and then announced his intention to open a pharmacy.
Dear Leader promised the flock in Gander that he would be their eternal premier. Basking in the glow of adulation, he even issued a challenge to Donald Trump to meet him in New York although we are not sure why.
We heard not a peep about Dr. Dale, former minister of illiteracy, nor of Bullying Big Eddie, former minister of outports, since Dear Leader ordered that both be stuck in a corner of the House of Assembly like misbehaving school children.
Spouse is of the opinion that Dr. Dale and Big Eddie will be welcomed back into the fold after a suitable period of penance during which they will wear robes of sackcloth and ashes. In the meantime, I point out, they are both on leave with pay, pulling down $150,000 a year.
An eerie calm has settled over our household as well as households across the whole province leaving us wondering where it is all headed.
To complement the sound of silence, summer has delayed its appearance, preferring instead to linger in the badlands of Quebec and Ontario. Dandelions brave enough to raise their heads during the day are quickly decapitated by killing frosts at night.
"I suspect Dear Leader Duh-wite has the power to manipulate the weather," I said. "It's a plot to force everyone to leave so they'll have the place all to themselves."
"You are becoming more paranoid by the minute," said spouse.
"Well, just look at what's happening," I said. "Since Duh-wite came along we have lost nearly 20,000 people who have departed to escape destitution, unemployment is creeping up to twenty percent, and Muskrat Falls is just around the corner.
Whatever the reason for the tranquility, the constabulary has not knocked on our door lately except for that incident last week when they came to inform me that a neighbor had complained he had seen me coming up the street dressed as Davy Crockett with a brace of ducks over my shoulder. I suspect it was the same neighbor who also reported a strong smell of marijuana coming from our deck.
Speaking of weed, the owner of the convenience store where spouse worked part-time as potential manager of marijuana sales has been disappointed in his quest for a vendor's license. Only friends of the party can push weed on the street.
Spouse is now without a job and our source of supplementary income has evaporated, forcing us to visit the food bank down on Military road.
Just last week, I staked out a position outside Raymond's on Water Street, dancing jigs in my tight spandex swimwear and begging for loonies from the clientele--mostly politicians--who seem to be the only ones with money these days. But that venture was short-lived when people started complaining to city council.
But all is not lost. Spouse and I are hoping to patent Rose Mary-Jane Elixir by October 17. It deadens the mind so we can follow the herd.