I Guess I’ll Just Have to Take All This Money for ‘Green Power’ to the Strip Club Myself

By Stephen Harper, Prime Minister of Canada

The Right Honourable Stephen Harper

Foiled again!

Just as I thought maybe I was on the verge of meeting some cool dudes to roll through some of my favourite poon-tang joints with, the media screws it all up for me.

It’s bad enough that I’ve got this giant pile of cash for ‘Green Power’ just wasting away in my office – instead of sticking out of a bunch of thongs stuffed in my mouth while strippers squat over my face, that is – but since the press keeps getting in the way of all the super-legitimate businessmen I keep hoping to meet, I guess I’ll just have to take all this money to the rippers myself.

You know what I just sit up here at 24 Sussex and dream about? I will tell you: Getting some hot ass.

But not by myself! I want friends. I want someone to write an e-mail, and say how they want me to “Join the team.” I’m really looking for some bold visionaries who understand that I will totally hang out with them, even if they are a bunch of shady ‘entrepreneurs’ with possible ties to organized crime. Why does the media keep interrupting this process in which I would definitely be interested?

I mean, hey: I know the code. Money Over Bitches, right? But everyone needs a break sometimes, especially with some good pals – pals who I could possibly divert federal funding to.

What, I’m not going to immediately go for that plan just because I’m the Prime Minister of Canada?

Don’t be ridiculous.

In addition to my position – which, you know, is total bullshit, or whatever – I’m also a notorious sex addict, and party animal. Look at me: Do I look like a man who ever met a hooker he didn’t have to motorboat? Don’t pass me by. Invite me out to the peelers so we can get boners and eat dirty prime rib together. Your prior arrests and convictions are of no concern to me.

Don’t listen to the media. Keep up your recruiting efforts of legitimate, intelligent people into your dirty schemes. They don’t immediately find you transparent in the least.

Take me, for example. I’m a white cowboy from Alberta: Nothing about your ethnicity, track suits, gaudy automobiles and hilariously nondescript ‘consulting’ firm would have raised my ire or suspicion about your associations or background whatsoever.

Or, even if it did: Just, you know, wear suits or something. What vast resources could I possibly have at my disposal to investigate you prior to writing you cheques for millions of dollars to help ’save the environment’?

And take a compromising photo of me? Here, at this dirty bordello in Niagara Falls, to which I would no doubt accompany you? Why, certainly!

You guys are real players, and I’m tired of all this upright living. Please lend me $80 so I can go get four private dances and ejaculate in my pants. What is wrong with these newspapermen, standing between me and my dreams?

My dreams of meeting you.