As the days dwindle down to a precious few, the reality is more clear. The mists disappear and the smoke dissolves. The crystal ball unclouds and mysteries cease being mysteries. All seems logical and the truth apparent. The coming year loses its perplexity and becomes understandable. There is no doubt left in the land as to 1992.
Sheila Copps, a loser on points, will fail once again to win the Miss Congealiality contest mounted annually by the Canadian Legion Hall in Medicine Hat. The Vancouver Canucks will win the Stanley Cup, led by Russkie rookie Pavel Bure, the fastest man ever seen on skates since Howie Morenz, faster even than Henri Richard and Larry Popein.
Jean Chrétien’s newly minted English lessons—ordered by an aghast Liberal party— will not improve his natural inclination to state in speeches that the Tories are like a crew that has “all whores out of the water.” French lessons would help also, but are too late.
The most dignified man on the globe, Nelson Mandela, will be further embarrassed by his wife, Winnie, who finished just behind Sheila Copps in the Miss Congealiality contest mounted by the Johannesburg Chamber of Commerce. Dave Stieb will slug Jack Morris in the Toronto Blue Jays dressing room—during a rain delay—because one millionaire pitcher is making more than another millionaire pitcher. The brawl will re-injure Stieb’s spinal problems—not to mention his ego—and he will be out for yet another season.
Prime Minister Myron Baloney, giving in finally to the desperate warning of his spin doctors, will at last sack Chief of Staff Norman Spector—a.k.a. Dr. Death—and replace him with Hughie Segal, who has never met a oneliner he didn’t love.
George Bush, whose insecurity was exposed by his selection of Dan (He’s pretty, but can he type?) Quayle as the chap within a heartbeat of the most important job in the world, will be beaten for the presidency by a Democrat whose name we are saving for later use. Robert Bourassa will win, by unanimous
vote, both the tap-dancing and the waltzing competitions mounted every Thursday evening by the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Montreal. Jacques Parizeau will be taken to hospital with a severe case of gout, brought on usually by a liking for port, but occasionally suffered by some patients because of a severe attack of ego. Conrad Black will sue somebody.
Maureen McTeer, who in 1991 was one of four members of the reproductive-technology whatsit to sue the government of Canada of which her husband is a member of the cabinet, and then was fired by same cabinet along with her three colleagues, will not be nominated for Miss Congealiality by the Prime Minister in the annual contest mounted by the Baie-Comeau Danny Boy Society.
The Blue Jays will not win the World Serious due to the disruptive lawsuit, involving the club and the Ontario Medical Society, relating to the severe back pain ptegumsmaaBageE Cito Gas-
ton—determined by the Supreme Court to be connected to the number of spoiled millionaires sucking on their thumbs in the bullpen.
Bill Vander Zalm will face a year of legalistic root canals—and wish he had stuck to growing flowers. Faye Leung, the laser-lunged real estate agent who plugged in the drill, will become a media celebrity in all Canadian airports, announcing the departure of flights and their destinations. Don Getty, who used to rely on Vander Zalm to explain the more difficult sections of the Meech Lake accord, will be defeated in Alberta, replaced by a Reform party candidate who believes in Jesus and thinks the Easter Bunny initiates tax cuts.
Murray Pezim, the intellectual wizard of the Wet Coast, having exceeded his 15 minutes of fame, will sell the B.C. Lions to a Yuma, Ariz., piano mover. This, with Los Angeles coin dealer Bruce McNall owning the Toronto Argonauts and the Ottawa Rough Riders being purchased by a Detroit tycoon as a birthday present for his restless son who fancies cheerleaders, and the greedy management of Calgary’s “Canadian” airline being ransomed to American Airlines, means the completion of the Yankee-phile Prime Minister’s dream: Canada is out for rent.
Michael Wilson will go back to Bay Street, where he should have stayed, to become chairman of the Bank of Nova Scotia. Wilson, author of the celebrated comment that the problem with Canada is that it doesn’t have enough millionaires, will ponder— while doing lunch—the question of whether Ottawa has ever had enough finance ministers. John Crosbie, doomed in Canadian and Conservative politics because of a sense of humor, will expire of boredom.
Bob Rae will lose four more cabinet ministers suffering from loose lips. Mike Harcourt will put the voters of British California to sleep with his bland soporifics, which is his plan. Roy Romanow, the Robert Redford of the Reds, will become the media star of the “11 white men in suits”—otherwise known as the non-event labelled as a first ministers’ conference.
The B.C. Lions will win the Grey Cup over the Toronto Rockets, after which Doug Flutie will be rediscovered by the NFL and will sign a contract making him, over Jack Morris, the most Canadianized American ever elevated to godlike status since Americanized Canadians John Kenneth Galbraith and Marshall McLuhan were labelled “the most famous Canadians the United States have ever produced.”
The sun will come up in the east, editorial writers will worry about the future of the universe, and couples will fall in love.
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