Rip Van Canada slept for 150 years… and awoke to find Confederation gone!  In its place:  Communism

2017

Rip Van Canada slept for 150 years ... and awoke to find Confederation gone!

Rip Van Canada slept for 150 years … and awoke to find Confederation gone!

Rip awakens in 2017, his clothing in tatters, his Confederation beard to his knees. When his head clears, he stands up and totters in the direction of the Parliament buildings on the bank of the River flowing through Ottawa where he had fallen asleep under a tree ….

Wondering what time it is, Rip looks up. To his horror, a Soviet minaret tops the Peace Tower …

Ding, ding, ding, booms the chime, tolling 3:00 P.M., end of shift in the self-managed worker factories … Over every loading dock, a plaque with the face of Marshall Tito dedicates the factory to “popular democracy”.

Mounting skyward on the parliament lawn, a monolithic striding bronze figure towers over the democratic workers toiling at their weed clippers.  At the base of the bronze, the following dedication bears witness to Jean-François Lisée:

“Strategist of the final Referendum which delivered Canada to Communism”.

Not far off is another bronze to Quebec city lawyer Guy Bertrand, his nose tilted to the sky.  At its base the legend is carved:

“He toiled so long and in secrecy.  All glory to the sleeper!”.

On the steps of parliament, angry Somalis are threatening blood in the streets if the Planners don’t give them better jobs.  Stupefied, Rip stumbles into the Center Block, where a Muslim gunman is prowling the corridors.  “But where is the RCMP?” wonders Rip.

As he thinks it, a troop of Sikh-turbaned, red-coated officers storms in, their stun-guns raised.  The Muslim gunman detours sharp-left and the turbans vanish in hot pursuit of him.

Rip wanders lost and awe-struck down the vast arch-canopied corridors … until he stumbles into the House of Commons.  Or so he thinks.  For, a plaque over the door now reads:

“Supreme Office of the Western Hemispheric Soviet”.

“But where is Parliament!” cries Rip, now visibly shaken at the sight of the great disappearance.  Rip’s cry summons one of the Silkh-turbaned guards to the scene to investigate the disturbance.

Stun-gun raised, the descendant of Bangladeshis apprehends Rip Van Can­a­da sternly by the left upper arm, as another turbaned guard sternly grabs his right.  Reinforcements arrive to escort Rip to the guard post for ques­tion­ing.

“Who are you!?” demand the guards.

“What do you mean, who am I?” shoots back Rip in surprise.  “I’m Canada, Rip Van Canada.  Who else would I be!”

The guards exchange knowing glances.

Too proud to bawl openly, one tear leaks from each of Rip Van Canada’s eyes.  For, no one knows him, any more.  He is lost for sure.

“Raise your arms,” orders a turban.  And one Bangladeshi guard and one Chinese guard wearing a pigtail search Rip’s old tatters for concealed weapons.

The guards find nothing but a well thumbed copy of the Debates of 1865, in which one quote is circled:

“If we desired to have a Constitution which would afford good hope of permanency, it must be planted deep in the affections of the people – (hear, hear) – for until their intellects were convinced of its excellence, they would not be prepared to uphold it and resist innovations.  But they must feel and comprehend the obligation.  (Hear.)  To render it secure, it must be in the hearts of the people …

— Hon. John Sewell Sanborn, Legislative Council, Thursday, February 9, 1865, Page 124, Parliamentary Debates on the Subject of the Confederation of the British North American Provinces, 3rd Session, 8th Provincial Parliament of Canada. Quebec: Hunter, Rose & Co., Parliamentary Printers. 1,050 pages.

After grunting over its pages, which mean nothing to them, the guards cast the volume to the ground in disgust.

The turban and the pigtail then call 911 to order an Ambulance.

Rip is going to the mental ward for a psychiatric checkup.  The guards pre­sume that Rip has bumbled his way to the Supreme Western Hemispheric Soviet (SWHS) because he has lost his memory.

When the Ambulance arrives, paramedics grab Rip and wrap him in an old Hudson’s Bay blanket.  They force him onto a gurney and strap him down.

Rip cries and struggles, “Stop!  Don’t you know who I am!?  I’m Canada, Rip Van Canada!  Let me up!”

The paramedics ignore him and shove Rip’s gurney into the back of the Am­bu­lance.  Off goes Rip to the mental ward for assessment.  Paramedics join Rip in the back to prevent him escaping, while the driver grins up front and steps on the gas.

At the lunatic asylum, the doctor, while taking Rip’s racing pulse and testing Rip’s vision, questions him (in a thick Hispanic accent):

“What year is it?” then waits with pencil raised to scribble the answer on a clip chart.

“What do you mean, what year is it?” challenges Rip.  It’s 1867!  Con­fed­er­a­tion!

“Delusional,” concludes the Hispanic doctor, and scribbles the diagnosis with additional details.

He then confers with his colleagues, a dozen of whom, of all nationalities, have gathered around, for word has spread through the Hospital that a “special case” has arrived.

The doctors decide that Rip is harmless but lost.  Someone may be looking for him.  They summon a pair of African male nurses who escort Rip to a private room, where the door is locked and barred with an awful clack.  Alone now, Rip weeps openly.  Surely, he has not lost his mind.  Surely, he knows who he is!  The doctors are wrong, the guards were mistaken.

Some time later, the lock clacks again, and the door tilts open as a ward assistant enters.  He is happy to announce that Rip’s name is on a list of long-lost relatives, the missing people’s list at the Canadian KGB.  Someone is coming to pick Rip up.

Rip is confounded.  Who could it be?

At last, the long-lost relative arrives.

“Hey, Gramps, where have you been!” cries Bilbo.  “We searched ev­ery­where for you, we had given up hope.”

“I didn’t know I was gone,” counters Rip, indignantly.  “Moreover, who are you?” he demands, not recognizing the rather effeminate man, who pa­tient­ly replies:

“I’m your great grandson.  I’m Bilbo, don’t you remember me?  I’m a dancer at the local “Just Society” gay bar.  I work the pole.”

“And, great news, Grampa, you’re going to be a great-great-great grampa soon.  Dickie and I are expecting.”

“Expecting!”  What do you mean “expecting”? hollers Rip, so that a nurse in a black face-veil, and carrying a tray steps forward, hefting a hypo.  Bilbo signals her away.

“Don’t you know?” exclaims Bilbo, whose husband Dickie now joins them. Dickie arrives late having stopped to grab a clean change of clothes for Grampa, who is now wearing a hospital Johnny shirt, his shredded clothing packaged in a bag.

Bilbo and Dickie are expecting their first surrogate child, an expensive venture given the rarity of breeding females in 2017 and the difficulty of getting State permits to reproduce biologically.

(Three local citizens must die — naturally, of course — before the Planners will issue a permit for a new one, usually a male.  They call it “progressive” obso­les­cence:  eliminating people from the Earth to save the cows.  Since Com­mu­nist Hindus now run much of Eastern Canada for Moscow, MacDonald’s has long ago been made illegal.  In fact, the occasional sacred cow can be found wandering the downtown streets of the former Ottawa, which is now called Trudeaugrad.)

Dickie is an “Equality Street Worker” for the Anti-national Rights Tribunal, always on the lookout for “fascism” and nationalist “reactionism”.  Like most of the vast Trotskyite population of the former Ottawa, Dickie is on the gov­ern­ment’s payroll.  But Dickie’s main responsibility is to scour the alleyways for underprivileged homosexuals, lost lesbians and puzzled transgenders.

Needless to say, icons of Tito and Trotsky are everywhere in downtown Tru­deau­grad; for these are now the real “Canadian idols”.

“I don’t know you!” cries Rip, seeing Red.

“Don’t worry,” soothes Dickie, the government social worker.  “In time, it’ll all come back to you.”

As paramedics help Bilbo and Dickie drag Grampa off the Hospital grounds, Rip spies what seems to be an old familiar face peering from the asylum shrubbery.  Wracking his brain, Rip thinks, “Who is it, who is it, I know this man.”  The revolutionary beard, the nose, the woolly hair … “Of course,” Rip sighs, it’s that botheration, Marx.”

– THE END –

 

EPILOGUE

Wanna have fun?  Write your own version of Rip Van Canada waking up in 2017.  Submit it to ModernFathers1867.  We’ll publish a selection!  And re­mem­ber, it is very important to not be politically correct.  Unless you’re fooling.  Submit your stories to ModernFathers1867[[@]]protonmail.com.

THE RULES:

Each story must begin the same way, but after that, you can make it up as you please.  Start with this:

Rip awakens in 2017, his clothing in tatters, his Confederation beard to his knees.  When his head clears, he stands up and totters in the direction of the Parliament buildings on the bank of the River flowing through Ottawa where he had fallen asleep under a tree ….

No age limit.

Stories in French are most welcome.
Les histoires en français sont les plus bienvenues.

Have fun, everybody!

Let’s make the big one count, and take back Canada!

 

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