Missives from my Christmas hole
December 23, 2008
There is a bus strike in Ottawa. Three weeks and no end in site; snow and rage and Christmas choler have settled heavy on my back. I am not a union man to begin with, so strikes that actually hamper my life fill me with rage so keen you could split the Holy Ghost in twain. My daily slush trudge leaches away my good will block by block; by the last few streets I’m kicking tethered dogs and spitting into passing baby carriages.
The cost in time is precipitous: an hours walk each way, plus another half hour spent crapping in envelops and mailing them to OC Transpo staff. The postage alone has me on the brink of financial ruin. This is the wrong time of year to test my good humour.
I find my self measuring out lengths of electrical cord and plotting public Mall Santa lashings of the bus driver’s children; picturing how my false beard would sway as I howl old strike breaker anthems in time with my down stroke. There would be no labour stoppage in this endeavour, no shortage of industry: I would whip and bray until one of my traitorous elves put two in the back of my head, ending the misery of all involved.
Is that what you want OC Transpo…some midget to doubletap a message of union solidarity through the back of my skull? Will it take the death of a not totally un-good man to drive you back to the bargaining table? Because downwards this road leads; consider accordingly.