By some miracle techno glitch, all of Stephen Harper’s outgoing e-mail has been forwarded to my Gmail account. The following is a completely unedited glimpse into the Prime Minister’s unofficial communications.
TO: Thomas Mulcair
Dear Mr. Mulcair,
Congratulations on your victory. I look forward to working with you in your new role as Leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition.
You thought this was going to be collegial, didn’t you? Typical pinko. Welcome to the Thunderdome baby! Gloves are coming off. You thought you could take on Stephen “Knuckles” Harper in the ring? Be careful what you wish for, beardo!
What was it you said at your caucus meeting? “Mr. Harper, you will have a fight on your hands.” Oooh look at me, I’m shaking in my boots. NOT! Get real pal. I’m a prizefighter. I’m Mike Tyson. You think a little trash talk is going to rattle me? No chance. I can’t even hear you over all these JOBS I’m creating. Think you can put job loses on me? Too late: your “divisive personality would put Canadian families and their jobs at risk.”
See what I did there? Just wait until the budget, it’s already all your fault. You don’t know what’s coming.
I’m betting you’ll try and pin the DDoS attack at the NDP convention on me. As if I care! Now, I’m not saying I did it, but if you think I would hesitate for one second to use malicious computer magic to jam up your system and ruin your little get together then you’ve brought a knife to a gunfight pal and I’m packing serious heat. Just chalk it up to my “ruthless ambition.” Ha! Double standard, shmouble shmandard. Try walking around with that around your neck for a while, see where it gets you.
Look me in the eye: These baby blues are ice cold steel. They will cut you in HALF!
Your pals at Elections Canada are saying they’ve got ‘Pierre Poutine’ in their sights. Think you’re going to trace robo-calls back to my office? Don’t hold your breath. That’s all I’ll say.
I WILL EAT YOUR CHILDREN!
Sorry. That crossed a line. Sometimes I struggle to maintain a basic standard of decorum. We deserve at least that. After all, we’re men, not savages.
See you in the ring!
Your Worst Nightmare
PS. Let’s just promise to keep the wives out of it. Laureen doesn’t like to hear about my work and frankly I don’t like talking to her about it. Let’s just call that off limits.