What a moment.
I never thought that I – a regular, ordinary Canadian – would get the chance to have my photo taken with the Prime Minister of Canada.
But as luck and crass political calculation would have it, he’s eager to be seen with me! All I have to do is attire myself in such a manner as to flamboyantly display my heritage, thereby rendering me a subhuman prop that Stephen Harper can exploit to woo more of my kind.
Needless to say, I’m in.
As is true of much national folklore garb, it can take quite a while to get into my ethnic costume. Each item has been carefully selected to represent a historic and sacred element relating to my suitably exotic but non-threatening culture.
Join me, won’t you, as I get dressed.
Boxers. This simple undergarment serves as solemn commemoration of the triumphs of my ancestors, who bravely rebelled against the tyranny of the cramped ballsack in the Jockey wars of 1973.
Tube socks. A tribal adornment claimed by legend to have the mystical power to effectively ward off shin splints and, when worn with shorts, female attention.
Jeans. The very foundation of my ethnic costume. The people in my culture differentiate themselves by their selection of colour, with some choosing “blue” and others choosing “bluer.” My ancient male forebears once had to subject their jeans to months or even years of rugged use to forge the holes and other signs of wear that they imagined would make hot ladies find them desirable for mating. Now the Gap does that for us. Note the way the very top of the denim is slightly folded over in an outward-facing manner. This means I’m overweight, and therefore regarded as prosperous and virile among my kind so far as you know.
Sneakers. This footwear represents one of my culture’s proudest and most defining successes: the fact that our children don’t have to spend 14 hours a day making this footwear.
T-shirt. It’s white like me.
Hoodie. For ones of years, my people have sported this hallowed apparel as a way to signify to friends and rivals alike that our other clothes are in the wash. The mustard stain near the pouch is an undying symbol that asserts my individuality and honours my family’s historic napkinlessness.
Baseball cap. The crowning, iconic flourish atop my ethnic costume. The pattern of the sweat ring serves as compelling evidence of our culture’s ongoing and epic summertime struggle against the lawn.
Attired in my visually striking, voter-attracting costume, I am now ready with others of my tribe to be photographed with and simultaneously dehumanized by Stephen Harper. Please advise the Prime Minister not to be alarmed when we all extend our middle fingers. Tell him it’s my culture’s way of saying he’s No. 1.