Prime Minister Dithers, pink and proud as punch, slithers his way back to the office, election writ in hand. Lackies cower in fear, muttering "rhubarb, rhubarb."
"Get out there and work our special interest groups," he commands.
"Beat them hard. Warn what will happen if they choose The Great Satan. The sky will fall. Fear and loathing. Plagues, audits, deportations, tax jiggery-pokery and acne."
In another wing of Canada's Kremlin, The Great Satan considers his own image in a mirror. How best to kickstart approval ratings out of negative digits? He whispers a Daily Affirmation.
"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And by golly, I'm really going to try to make people like me." He jumps into a gay pothole and breaks a leg.
Jack Be Nimble--the third little pig--primps at his desk.
When Olivia joins me, he muses, we will be Ottawa's true power couple. Who will care which heiress dates Peter MacKay then? Note to self: buy matching parkas.
In the Great White Darkness, 30 million sheep stir uneasily in their sleep. They poke their dear little tails higher into the chilly night air, as is their habit.
"Ride us," they beg. "Ride us hard."