Got to watch a little FOX News today. I hate those bastards. I was trying to be fair, but they simply don't stick to the facts the way CNN does. I got a little too upset, so I popped a few extra Xanax I had hidden in the bookcase and switched the channel to watch Carrot Head's meeting with Justin Trudeau. Oh my goodness, I can't believe what a handsome young man that Canadian prime minister has grown up to be! What a floppy head of hair! And he can speak two languages -- who knew?
Justin looked like such a sweet young man as he spoke French to the media. He sends all the girls swooning with those sparkling blue eyes. Everyone says he's as dumb as a post, but he's photogenic and I hear that's all that really matters to Canadians. Just look at Alan Thicke. He had good hair, as well. People would just turn the sound off when he was on TV.
I feel a lot of kinship with Canadians. I always felt I had a lot in common with Justin's mother, Margaret Trudeau, too: We were both high-profile women. Both married to a head of state. And neither of us could be sure of who fathered our children. Rumors used to plague that poor woman back in the seventies because truth be told, she really was a Grade A whore. I mean, that woman would sleep with any man, any time. Some people suspect she slept with Fidel Castro (when he was alive) and that's where Justin gets his chin. I couldn't have slept with Castro because of that whole embargo thing, but I really never found him terribly attractive. I'm more the Daisy Fuentes type.
Bill used to joke that Maggie named the kid Justin because you never knew who was "just in" Maggie. He can be so crass. Funny, but crass. Usually after a case of beer. Whatever.
I'm sure that none of the kids today even know who the Trudeaus were, but back in the seventies, they were quite the power couple. Before he created "Doonesbury," Pierre Trudeau was the prime minister of Canada. He and Margaret were a real power couple, except that the whole First Lady thing went to her head and next thing you know, she'd be out dancing and doing cocaine with the rest of the sluts at Studio 54. She never wore a bra, either, so she'd be all out the flapping around to the Village People, making sure of a "wardrobe malfunction," if you get my meaning. Every single night. You could set your watch by it. People would point and say, "Hey, it's 1:14, time for lefty to fall out of Maggie's blouse!" I found it all very cheap.
I know a lady doesn't talk like this diary, but that woman would fuck a snake if you held its head. Seriously. As long as it was famous and had a you-know-what, she'd hop right on and ride it like a bull-riding cowboy at the rodeo. Word was that she nearly wore out her lady parts on at least two of the Rolling Stones, which is as gross as you can get because even back then, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were already starting to look like old catcher's mitts. Yuck.
I'm pretty sure Pierre eventually dumped Maggie and both of them are dead now. I hope that Justin leaves a better legacy than his parents did. I'll bet he can bake a mean sheet of cookies, too.