I robbed a bank yesterday. Waltzed in there, incognito, uttered a few threats, and made off with a cool 500K.
Why, you ask?
Well, life is tough. It’s not that my doctorly cash flow isn’t reasonable – it flows in the front door at a pretty good clip. The problem is the furious rate with which it exits the back door. It’s like navigating Class 5 rapids.
Money management wasn’t a key component of the curriculum in medical school; it wasn’t in the syllabus at all, come to think of it. Between funding the needs – and the much larger wants – of four children and keeping up with the Joneses (and the Smiths and the Millers and the Browns) I’m having trouble staying afloat.
Hence the heist.
It went well enough, but it seems I was captured on one of the bank’s bothersome security cameras. The images are grainy, and my face is cleverly obscured by a hoodie, so I haven’t been identified. Yet.
Trouble is, I pilfered that hoodie from one of my teenagers, and the name of her swim team is emblazoned across the back. I’m as good at subterfuge, it seems, as I am at managing my money.
The cops have been sniffing around. More than that, they’ve opened an “investigation”. I’m a person of interest, apparently. Which is somewhat refreshing, in a way: the last time I was a “person of interest” was around the time my wife agreed to marry me; the novelty wore off pretty quickly, I think.
I’m in a heap of trouble. Or so it would seem.
But this is Justin Trudeau’s Canada. As I explained to the burly, glowering officer on my doorstep this morning, I’m standing as a candidate in the upcoming federal election (representing the Communist Party of Canada – that slot was wide open, unsurprisingly, in my riding).
The constable, after a quick check with headquarters, promptly agreed to suspend the investigation until the election is over.
It’s a glorious time to be a citizen of this country.
I may have to pay the piper in 39 days once the election is in the books. But I’m not overly worried. There’s always an election afoot somewhere. The options are endless: I’m sure I’ll be able to catch on as a candidate in another jurisdiction. I’ve written this morning to Vladimir Putin, for instance, seeking clearance to run as an ex-pat in the upcoming slate of Russian “elections”.
“You’re not Russian”, I can hear some of you snorting. But, see, another awesome aspect to living in Canada, courtesy of Justin Trudeau’s endlessly innovative government, is that one can identify as whomever and whatever one pleases – and be immediately endowed with all relevant rights and privileges therewith.
The cops should be on board with that, I think. Russia isn’t Canada; but given the current drift of Canadian politics it’s six of one and half dozen of the other, pretty much. And with the police investigation languishing in permanent suspension I expect to remain as free as a (very rich) bird.
But even if it all goes sideways, I plan to have a grand old time in the next 39 days living large off my newfound stash of dough.
“Eat, drink, and be merry because tomorrow we vote,” is my new motto.
So come on over. Party at my place. Free pot and snacks.
We’ll get stoned and sing O Canada together – in honour of Justin.