A Frozen Excuse
I missed putting up a review for three straight weeks. You, the loyal reader, deserve a better excuse than “my personal life was crazy” or “I was crushed by the amount of work I had to do this week.” Frankly, you can get those kind of excuses anywhere, and we all know they’re lies, just excuses for being too lazy to put in the kind of quality work an unpaid “labor of love” deserves. So you get a better excuse. Like this one:
There is a stereotype that Canadians are kind, polite people. That’s true, by and large. There’s also a stereotype that there is a sinister core to Canada, something hostile to America and freedom. And there’s some truth to that.
Not that it’s their fault; they’ve been pushed into it, by a sinister splinter of the Parti Québécois that plots not only the downfall of their neighbors and of Americans but of mankind entire. They have been subverted — some say corrupted, literally reshaped in body and soul — by eldritch ice magics. This magic comes from the most dangerous force on the continent: Santa and his elves.
Santa, whose dangerous omnipotence and time-manipulating capabilities should chill you to his core. His elves, who can make anything — including hideous manikins, mockeries of men who mock our forms by wearing haberdashery — using only snow and spells.
But they can’t stop the North Pole from melting. No, we’ve got them there, taking their frosty lairs from underneath them. But scientists — those stupid, blabbermouth scientists — have alerted them to the danger. And they’re planning to spread south.
Whether those poor Péquistes are their mindless puppets or their motivated underlings, hoping to take their place by Santa’s throne when the conquest is complete, no one knows. All we know is that they must be fought. And who is fighting them on the tundra? While America and other NATO nations are distracted by wars on terror, it falls to the First Nations people to stand between us and subjugation by someone even fatter than Americans.
They don’t do it because they like us. Frankly, they don’t — well, they don’t like you. (They think you smell funny and have a weird accent. Sorry.) But they know someone has to make the sacrifice, and they are the ones it has fallen to. So I’ve been spending this month aiding these brave, brave people who get offended if you ask about their summer igloos. Every November, they make a push to shove back Santa and his minions before they gain their greatest strength, when Santa receives his month — or more — of worship. That is when I make my trek north, to aid their fight. But every year, the advance stalls earlier; every year, Santa’s minions gain more ground. Santa is winning; the only question is whether he will break out of containment before the ice cap melts or whether his frozen kingdom will first slip into the Arctic Sea one tepid summer. It’s a close race.
I work mainly in logistics and supply. I cannot hope to match these people’s skill and bravery. My work is just a drop in an ocean. You probably do more to aid us every day when you let your car idle while waiting for your kid to get out of school. Keep up the good work!
They don’t ask for your tribute. They don’t even ask for your thanks. But when you look to the cold December sky and don’t see a venison propelled missile of death inbound, they ask to be remembered.
And I think that’s the least we can do.