Dear Canada: Infinite Waste. Love, Johnny

I, Pandora Pox , was living near Syracuse NY at the time Johnny Gentle, crooner and presidential candidate running on the new and very clean O.N.A.N. party ticket came into power. That his election was the biggest landslide in history was totally predictable given the jaded and former US of A's electorate being totally disenchanted, disillusioned  and thoroughly disenfranchised by the

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spendthrift debt-loving democrats and toolbox-deficient stultifying republicans of the pre-O.N.A.N. era.  Yes, we had once attracted the occasional rational, unpurchased by big business and non-traditional candidate here and there but they all of them got the shit kicked out of them at the ballot box before they could ever have sadly proved that even their high ideals and firm moral stance wouldn't make a fucking dent in the massive problems we as a nation faced due to our misuse of natural resources both financial and geologic. The earth stank as much as every major political party did and that is saying something, even to me, a mere nature-loving organic gardener trying to eke out some victuals from her earnestly composted backyard patch of dirt near Syracuse, NY.

Enter Johnny Gentle. I mean, look, the man promised to clean up the environment and he did it, faster than any other bureaucrat scumbag asshole (and I do say this with the utmost respect for our elected officials)  ever did anything - other than get themselves roundly castigated and sometimes indicted for exposing their units to doting female underling types and prostitutes via selfies,  thereby trashing their future political aspirations. Or perhaps humiliating themselves by saying the most inane, self-damning things live in front of journalists' microphones.  How stupid they were, in retrospect! No, our Gentle president surrounded himself with an awesome cabinet of advisors and legal eagles, and the best back-up singers money could buy, and then he did exactly what he promised to do. He cleaned us the fuck up.

On Inauguration Day, Year of the Whopper, President Gentle unfurled as part of the day's festivities a stunning flag commemorating the newly-forged and totally enforceable alliance (because their leaders signed on the dotted line without reading the fine print, where the fuck were their lawyers, one has to wonder?) between the stinky, fetid, rotting old US of A and its nearest, dearest neighbors Mexico and Canada. The reconfigured flag was a beauty. From teleputers all across the continent,  our collectively entertained eyes took in the profound symbolism of the distinguished and unvanquishable if nearly extinct bald eagle wearing a sombrero clutching a maple leaf in its manicured talons and flying high above all the newly united North American nations.  Taylor Swift sang the star-spangled banner while strumming her traditional beloved 3 guitar chords (by then she had finally learned them by heart), and okay, maybe she was lip-syncing. Nobody cared, she was so blonde and clean!  The president and his favorite sanitized and thoroughly inoculated concubines danced to the joyful tunes of the Grateful Dead later that evening at one of the many inaugural balls held in and around the new capitol which name was now truncated into a succinct WASH  DoC.

The first order of business for President Gentle was to construct the three foot thick lucite wall standing roughly 25 feet high (unfortunately the O.N.A.N. was slow to adopt  the metric system which its newly annexed nations preferred, but it was justifiable so as not to negatively encumber the various Asian nations involved in  the wall's fabrication). The wall was comparable in intent and appearance other than its transparent nature to the Great Wall of China and the formerly formidable Berlin wall which had kept Germany tranquil and pure for so many years.  (Quel dommage it had to go, thank you very much, Mssrs Reagan and Gorbachev.)  Lucite, as we all know, allows one to view but not smell what it holds. And what it held at bay was an immense, unfathomable concatenation of garbage and refuse that stretched from just feet north of my own plot of land along the  43rd parallel, south of Canada and due east  to just north of Boston, meaning, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont were all a part of the former USA that was now generously and lovingly bequeathed and annexed to our closest ally and least contentious neighboring nation, Canada, in return for their enforceable and unquestioned fealty.  At least the part of Canada that was still under British rule. You see, the French-Canadian nation we know as Quebec (it's just north of where I  reside; I have to say I am a bit distressed as to the prospects for selling off my little piece of heaven, it's always hella breezy here so near the fans, my hair is a godawful tangle all the time and the infernal racket.... well I'm making the best of it here until someday maybe I can get the hell away)...anyway, Quebec was a little upset about the whole gift thingy, but we, Darius and I, will likely have more to say about this in another blog post or 3. There is some truth in what Darius said about this being too big a story arc for just one go-round  and I truly do honor my partner's learned opinion, even if he is intent on moving to  Belize of all places. They are not even part of O.N.A.N., for godsake!

It didn't take long, once O.N.A.N. procured the outsourced parts, to construct the big wall and encapsulate the thing around what we now know as the Great Concavity. The next hurdle was to design and fabricate the gigantic fans that would ultimately be bolted onto the top of the wall at 25 foot intervals, with absolute disregard for metrics. Their purpose of course was to suck the polluted air from the lower (former US of A) O.N.A.N. states and blow it into the Great Concavity so that the lower O.N.A.N. (former US of A) residents could breathe fresh clean air all the while polluting it temporarily and safely at will.  For that President Gentle awarded the contract to a company called ACHTSME ( Darius says  I never get that acronym right,  but it's not like I'm a fucking rocket scientist ya know). 'Askme' if I care. You all know what I'm saying. It's fo-net-ick and I am hooked on fon-icks.

But back to the story.

What I, Pox,  can't understand is why the Quebecois have developed such a loud collective case of the howling fantods with respect to the Great Concavity.  By all accounts, once the onerous loads of waste were dumped into the area beyond the lucite walls and intermingled with the alleged 'toxic' fumes blowing from O.N.A.N.'s awesome fans into it (other than the 10 minute respite for cleaning and oiling the fans each evening between 2216 and 2226) a fucking miracle occurred! It resulted, as DFW noted, in 'a surrounding environment so fertilely lush it's practically unlivable"! (1) Well, I totally get why. Who wants to live in an Amazonian tropical rain forest rife with 'infants the size of prehistoric beasts roaming the overfertilized eastern concavity quadrants'?(2) Because from where I sit, very near the O.N.A.N. safe side of the wall, I am both protected from the raw toxic waste and very close to the transformed layers of fragrant, necrotized compost that I can use, liberally and for free, in my organic garden. I coax my adventurous, intrepid teenage neighbor into scaling the fence, armed  with a Hefty Steel-sack or two each spring which he fills with  wonderfully fertile GC material. You should see the size of my cucumbers.  My tomatoes are simply to die for.  My spinach grows as tall as the pole beans and the pole beans climb with long tendrils toward the fans atop the lucite wall. My canning shelves bulge with absolutely gloriously glowing jars of produce. Life is good, so good and plenty here at roughly  43N 75W. I feel awfully and hugely clean and green! My friends say I have a certain let's call it a  neon pink glow as if I'm in lust or something.

Election day is right around the corner and my vote, Darius, and loyal readers, will once again be for President Johnny Gentle,  who keeps me well fed and endlessly entertained, crooning. Sho bee do wap bah dah.
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(1) IJ page 573
(2) IJ page 562