We await their arrival
Toronto Sun | Gary Dunford
BUSH DODGERS: "Let us in!" beg two guys at the Canadian border in a rusty Civic. "If Bush wins tonight, all is lost! Give us political asylum! New hope, a new life! Canadian dudeship!"
"Have you eaten your passports?" asks an amused immigration officer. "For better service, choke down everything in your wallets. But aren't you early? Polls are open. The count hasn't started yet."
"Save me, man," pleads the taller guy in his 30s. "We gotta get out now! If Bush wins tonight, ANYTHING could happen! Will he seal the border? Invade Iran? Ban maple syrup? Sell PBS? Lock Dan Rather and Bruce Springsteen forever in Dick Cheney's secret bunker?"
The immigration dude eyeballs a noisy interview two booths down. Is that Alec Baldwin? Naw. Couldn't be.
"We're your new wave of political refugees," says the short guy. "Came early to beat the rush. I'm sick of colour alerts and corporate kleptocracy. We're on the run from Crazy Town. Come outside, I'll show you our U-Haul. Settlers' effects. We brought our own Cheet-os and bottled water."
"Seems a little premature," scowls the agent, pulling out two forms. "Are you truly fearful? Is this a serious political refugee application?"
"Don't you get it?" Tall Guy cries. "This ain't just another election! A Bush re-elect will make my brain explode. Pink drool will ooze out my ears. George back for four more? We can't take it! Dubya's not cute-crazy like Mel Lastman. He's whoop-dee-doo, battery-operated, killed-me-an-armadillo Texas crazy!"
"You know Mel Lastman?" asks the officer.
"We were up for a convention back when you had moose statues standin' around Toronto," says the short refugee. "A few of us got invited in for a goofy moose photo-op in Mel's office. We told him: 'Dammit, Mel. Forget the moose. Decorate the homeless.'"
"Need a reference?" nods Tall Guy. "Mel's our man."
"Mel ain't mayor no more," sez immigration's gatekeeper. "Toronto got a new guy. Taller. Better haircut."
"See?" hisses the short one. "Mel flipped out that day. You could tell by his eyes. Whacko. So what happens now, sir? Where do we convert our money? Get that maple leaf flag for our backpacks? Does every refugee get a free parka?"
"Ya can't walk into Canada and just set up a pad," says immigration guy. "You Bush-dodgers may have to stay in a hotel a few months while we review your refugee claims. Want anything from room service?"
"Damn," says Tall Guy. "Canada is so kewl."
"If your refugee claim is approved, you could become landed immigrants, the first step towards citizenship. There'll be more forms. A lot of questions. There's a point system. You're young, you get points. You got a skill Canada needs, you get points. Plumbers yeah, farmers not so much. Speak English or French, 10 points."
"Bonjour," sez Tall Guy. "I swear we're not just comin' for the cheap prescription drugs."
"Look over there," his pal sez, nodding down a long line of Welcome to Canada interview drive-thrus.
"Could we hurry this up?" begs his short bud. "I don't want to be anywhere near a TV set when Wolf Blitzer goes ballistic at 10 p.m. The red states, the blue states, angry voters who never got counted, ones who got counted twice. CNN and the nets will be in full fugue state. Hysteria."
"Exit polls!" whimpers Tall Guy. "Elected or leadings! Projections! Trouble at the polls! Oh my god, poor Ketchup Boy gets whumped."
"Then come the lawyers," his pal agrees. "That Bush TV ad with wolves runnin' outta the forest? They ain't terrorists. They're lawyers."
"And a new videotape from Osama on tomorrow's Good Morning America," nods Tall Guy. "I swear I hear from bin Laden more than my mother. Look! There's Michael Moore!"
Stamp, stamp. Two clicks of CLEARED and the Civic dudes are get seats on immigration's Intake Express.
"HEY!" yells immigration guy, spotting a blonde in a BMW. "Morgan Fairchild! Booth 24! Over here!"