Somehow,
I feel sorry for the Americans
by
Robert LaFrance
I often sneer at the Americans for
their bizarre actions, but these days I feel sorry for them.
Just as the citizens of Britain are
now wondering if they did the right thing in voting to leave the European
Union, many Americans are taking a second look at their collective decision in
November to elect a president who probably would have a hard job being elected
dogcatcher-in-chief of Minto, NB.
Once in a while the U.S. gets down a
quart or two of redneck jelly and that has to be topped up. Unfortunately that
happened in November and right at that time a lot of people decided they
weren’t going to vote at all, the FBI director announced that Hillary Clinton
was once again being investigated, the Russians stepped in to hack the
Democrats and what Americans see is what they get.
While I’m sure that Donald Trump is
a Dog-fearing person and wouldn’t knowingly do anything wrong, his biggest problem
is the characteristic he emphasized during the election campaign – he’s not a
politician. Like Joe Clark in 1980, he forgot to count the votes he could rely
on.
As one who spent his early teenage
summers visiting my aunt and uncle on a farm near New Sweden, Maine, I know
that the folks who live over there are decent and law abiding, but there’s
something in the general American psyche that is susceptible to persuasion from
the higher-ups. When George W. Bush wanted to go to war against Iraq, only about
a third of the people agreed. Then he and his team of warmongers brought out
the redneck jelly. Presto! A few months later polls showed over half the
Americans said “go for it George, and find some Weapons of Mass Destruction
whether or not they exist”. They didn’t of course.
A few years ago, an American movie
called ‘Argo’ dealt with the rescue of American hostages from their embassy in
Iran. This was nearly all done by Canadian embassy people, but in the movie
they might as well have been on the moon. The CIA, whose real role was minimal,
were the heroes.
Ever see the movie ‘The Great
Escape’ about 73 Allied prisoners of war tunnelling out of Stalag Luft III in
Poland? The hero was, of course, an American (played by Steve McQueen), but in
reality NOT ONE of the 73 was an American.
Remember the Newsweek photo of the
American space equipment that included what we call the Canadarm? The magazine
airbrushed out the word ‘Canada’. Can’t have that. After all, that might cause
heart palpitations in Peoria, Illinois.
***********************
Changing the subject from my Rick
Mercer type rant, I continue to be amazed at how the English language changes
over the years. When I lived in Vancouver in the early 1970s, and if a woman of
my acquaintance asked me to tweet her, that would be an entirely different
message than the same words today. Or maybe not.
We all keep hearing about too few
nursing home beds, too many schools for the number of students and that sort of
thing. I am wondering if the problem might not be too many government planners
who don’t know what they’re doing. Not a clue. A week or two ago I read in my
daily paper about a new school in Miramichi, one that will open this coming
fall. In the same news story was the fact that this school is already
overcrowded even before it opens. Imagine that. A new school opens with mobile
classrooms already in place. You don’t suppose that ‘administration’ is taking
up a third of the building do you?
As to nursing home bed shortages,
surely a little better planning ten years ago could have dealt with this in
advance and left more hospital beds for people who are not just there because
there are no nursing home beds.
I think the reason for all this is
that governments rely on Toronto and Boston consultants so much that their own
employees don’t get a chance to know the problems in their own departments. As
my late Grampy would have said: “Maybe they don’t know their (bums) from a hole
in the ground!” He liked to rant too.
Just to end these lucid words with a
more cheerful note, I noticed this morning that my friend Flug had a visitor
whose car in Flug’s yard had Manitoba plates. Naturally I had to stroll over
that way to say hello. The visitor was an old friend of Flug, and introduced
himself as Eugene. He couldn’t stay long, and after he had driven away, I asked
Flug what his name was. “Eugene,” he said. “He told you that.” No, I persisted,
I mean his surname.
“He’s not a Sir, yet, but his last
name is Therrapee,” said Flug. It wasn’t until I had gotten back home that I
realized somebody was pulling somebody’s leg. Gene Therapy?
-end-
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