Everything depends on nothing | The Press

“Everything depends on nothing! was my father’s judgment of events, and of society in general, when they went off the rails.

This all-out sanction had the good fortune to throw me into a ball, me, the incorrigible optimist.

When people ask me if I am a believer, I answer that I have faith in human beings and in their ability to improve the lot of the world. Y’é well naive…

I’m a fan of Steven Pinker, who has empirically proven that the world is getting better and better. This may not be so true for democracy, however.

Maybe a bit candid, my mental posture, but I live with it just fine.

Without wanting to agree with Maurice Labeaume a posteriori, I must admit that for the past few months, on the other hand, several episodes have given me the blues and have somewhat shaken the foundations of my jovial credo.

The pandemic had proven to him that he was right, Mauritius. Especially since he died at the height of this crisis, after months of agony. And like for thousands of other families, with a short-circuited grieving process for the survivors.

One last look at the body before it leaves the chamber, if of course you are lucky enough to be there. You buy a ballot box, we will fill it for you, and management thanks you. It ends there.

“It’s dry,” Maurice would have said.

As my father was religious and practicing, my brothers and I, as we had promised him, organized a religious ceremony last June with relatives and friends. But the end of the shit, I caught the COVID-19 and could not attend!

Everything depends on nothing.

I don’t know about you, but personally the outbreak of this war in Ukraine struck a chord with me, deeply saddened. I believe that we felt as concerned as during the murderous encirclement of Sarajevo at the time. And when you think about it, Kyiv could have been a vacation destination in the coming months.

Someone remarked to me that they dressed like us Ukrainians to explain our closeness and dismay. It’s true.

But without wanting to create controversy, or minimize the human drama in Ukraine, I would submit that Rwandans do not dress like us, and that our reaction as Westerners to the genocide there was very different.

And I didn’t hear anything about the war in Yemen the last time I sipped coffee at Tim Hortons, in a bygone era when it wasn’t all drive-thru.

For months, I’ve dreamed of Putin tumbling down the highest staircase in the Kremlin, or that the number one in the FSB, the ex-KGB, having a serious one-on-one with the Tsar, taking his bear and comes out alone.

All very ugly, I know.

As long as you do in morbid pleasure, I have a dream !

That in the golf alleys of the total kitscherie of Mar-a-Lago, friend Trump gets shot in the back of the head! A golf ball… And suddenly the undertow makes him blow a 3 iron shot in the forehead, and he doesn’t wake up until after the next presidential election.

In any case, less ugly than what is mentioned in Mark Leibovich’s latest book, where an elected Republican explains, but anonymously the idiot, that his party’s plan concerning the Big Dingo is: “We’re just waiting for him to die”.

And add to all the planetary dangers, this Xi Jinping who rolls the mechanics in Hong Kong, and drools at the idea of ​​taking back Taiwan.

It smells bad, Maurice.

And the right to abortion slipping through the hands of American women…

The most detestable image that comes back to me on this subject is that of a governor, of I do not remember which state, who, smiling with enormous teeth, tie of a Princeton graduate, signed some kind of decree to abolish the abortion at home following the Supreme Court ruling.

Hey, big guy! What’s between your legs? What about the ovaries? Are they doing well, your ovaries? What are you getting into, big guy?

The rule should however be simple. No uterus? So, “Shut up, ciborium! » as Plume Latraverse sometimes intimated to us during his shows.

Everything has been said about the US Supreme Court. Serge Bouchard’s woolly mammoths, that must have been quite a lot.

I spare you the small rape of nothing at all, and so quickly done, committed by this brave engineer. Barely brushed against the lady, as Judge Péloquin thinks, and he was sleeping off, poor little Simon…

One last thought for this great poet from Sept-Îles, Michael Montigny, who has a hobby of crushing small deer with his pick-up. Rumor has it that he wants to acquire a brain. Even if you can find everything on Amazon, your suggestions would be welcome so that it can be solved as badly as possible… and above all, to protect the livestock.

Move backwards, as the bus driver yelled.

Everything depends on nothing.