Dr. Tundra Casts His Ballot

It had been quite a ride. Eight weeks of peyote. A binge that would have put Carlos Castenda to shame, but it had been worth it.

He’d taken the psychedelic road trip while following the election campaign — it had seemed like the only way to make an sense of it, really. But now, it was time to actually decide which of the parties was going to get his vote this time around.

He certainly couldn’t vote for the Liberals again. He was a peyote-addicted, unlicensed physician with somewhat suspect personal hygiene and a penchant for fried bologna. He wasn’t deranged. Nor an amnesiac.

If he gave the Liberals another shot at it, they would continue to take him for granted. In fact, Dr. Tundra suspected that Canada would never have an honest government again.

Not that he gave them serious consideration, but the surge in the polls made him at least take a look at the Conservatives. (He’d done this between bouts of vomiting, after a particularly toxic batch of peyote-laced oatmeal.) While they seemed less extreme than before, Dr. Tundra suspected a hidden agenda. And that Harper. Well, just one look in those cold dead eyes was enough to cause hims such anxiety and revulsion that he hid under his bed for two days.

Jack Layton and the NDP, on the other hand, repulsed him for different reasons. “Give us your vote. Help us be a strong opposition.” Tundra wanted to vote for a winner.

The only other viable option was the Green Party, which was still seen as a fringe group — they definitely couldn’t win, but perhaps if they got a couple of seats, their voice might infuse some new ideas in the House.

Of course, that was probably the papaya mescaline milkshakes talking.

Dr. Tundra wisely didn’t say anything back to them. He knew better than to talk politics with dairy products.

Photo by roboppy.