At least Michael Ignatieff moved back here.
You know what I mean, Mr. Disembark Tank. You're Just Leaving. As expected. As planned.
As such, I was going to wish you the best in packing for the return to Boston -- but we both you know you never really unpacked, did you? Ignatieff may have been "just visiting" -- but you, Kev, were "just not here." Like, ever.
During your (really) short jog through the colonies, you proved one thing, however. You showed us that running a leadership campaign out of a mansion in Boston is indeed possible -- in the Conservative Party of Canada. Not sure we Liberals or the New Democrats would ever go for it, however. Pretty sure we wouldn't.
And that, as you eyeball gate 11 -- that being the gate at Ottawa International Airport for most flights to Boston, your true home, God Bless America, etc. -- is the problem, isn't it? The problem wasn't you, per se. The problem is once-great Conservative Party of Canada.
The notion that any serious political party would ever seriously consider you as a leader -- well, it says it all, doesn't it? The fact that the Conservative party would ever rally behind a vulgarian and a creep -- one who grabs women, mocks women, dismisses women -- well, it's kind of crazy, Kev.
One who is -- as the National Post's Andrew Coyne called you -- "a clown," a cartoon who had never held political office, and who didn't have a single coherent policy. One who didn't speak a word of French. One who called some black women "colorful cockroaches." One who called an opponent "an Indian giver with a forked tongue." One who said "it's fantastic" that half the world's population lives in poverty. One who said that unions "should be destroyed with evil," whatever that means. One who said that anyone in a union should "be thrown in jail." And on and on.
You get the picture, Kev. The only priorities you ever had were the ones you saw in your bathroom mirror down in Boston every morning. You, like Donald Trump, like to say whatever mean, rotten, cruel thing that pops into your powdered head. And you equate headlines with support. But notoriety, Shark-boy, isn't the same thing as popularity.
That said, the Conservative party fell for it, didn't they? Hook, line and blinkered. So desperate are they to recapture relevance -- so completely out-of-touch and out-of-ideas are they -- that they enveloped you in their warm, corporate embrace. They all stood there in their fifteen-piece pinstriped suits, and welcomed you into the cloistered confines of the Albany Club. It was like Stephen Harper had never even happened. Trump Lite!
In no time at all, they propelled you to the front of the leadership line. Most of the leadership aspirants were the Dwarves -- Creepy, Crawly, Needy, Beastly, Kooky, Crazy and (really) Dopey -- but you were their Snow White. Every Tory wanted to be rescued by you.
But we'll give you this much, Kev. You were uncharacteristically candid when you withdrew from the race at one of those clichéd hastily-called press conferences. You were honest. You had reflected, you said, and you and your advisors had concluded you just couldn't beat Justin Trudeau. (Parenthetically, you should have reflected on the fact, too, that your top advisor was at a soulless, Satanic "consulting firm" that, inter alia, cooked up the fake incubator babies story to justify the Persian Gulf War. But we digress.)
And it was true: you weren't going to ever, ever beat Justin Trudeau. He was going to put you -- a bloviating blowhard, a misanthropic misogynist, a down-market Donald -- through the political Cuisinart. He was going to shred you to pieces, and make soup out of you, Sharky.
So you packed up your toothbrush, waved over your shoulder in the direction of Mad Max, and started jogging back to Gate 11.
You always planned to. You won't be missed.
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