I dream of stripping for Vera Wabegijig
Vera and I are in Ottawa, walking arm in arm towards the Parliament buildings under a blood red sky. We're wearing formal evening attire, Vera in a stunning turquoise ball gown, me in a simple yet elegant tuxedo. We look great. As we ascend the steps of Parliament a midget Brian Mulroney appears, dressed in the livery of a parliamentary page. True to form the little bastard is pissed to the gills, swilling from a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. Mini-Mulroney bows wobbily, opens the doors and escorts us down a hidden stairway to a secret chamber in the basement. Our coats are taken by Stockwell Day, who is wearing nothing but chaps, a butt plug and ball gag. It suits him, but he should wear a codpiece: Stockboy is hung like a hamster. Vera is obliged to surrender her video camera, which she does with reluctance.
Our drunken Mulroney opens the chamber doors to a reveal a bacchanal of astonishing debauchery: hundreds of people in outrageous costumes or varying degrees of nakedness, drinking, dancing, eating and fucking, some all at the same time. In each alcove of the room a different scene is being played out, S&M, watersports, group sex... I spot Pauline Johnson in Dominatrix gear reciting her poetry while flagellating Mackenzie King, who is licking her thigh-high boots with a look of rapture on his face. Anna Mae Aquash has Preston Manning literally over a barrel, reaming his ass with the biggest strap on dildo I have ever seen. Pony boys and Pony girls circulate with food, drink and dope. And I thought Ottawa was a boring town! What a party!
Buck-naked in the orchestra pit The Fathers of Confederation are playing cabaret tunes from 1930's Berlin. Onstage in full drag are Louis Riel and Sir John A. MacDonald, doing a saucy little number called "Confederate This!" Catholic boy that she is, Louis is ripping up the stage, channeling Buffy St. Marie and Tina Turner in a fetching little low-cut, slit leg deerskin number. I must have this dress. Louis is just nailing the tune, belting it out in a beautiful, ringing tenor. Sadly, a rasping baritone and too much whiskey are sabotaging Sir John A's attempts at harmony and choreography. The frumpy Nellie McClung look he's gone for isn't helping any: Johnny keeps tripping over the hem of his severe black frock. Gabriel Dumont looks on from stage left, his expression a queasy froth of admiration and disgust. I can't help but notice that our pageboy Mulroney is kneeling in front of him, fellating Gabriel with the enthusiasm he once had for Free Trade. Experienced as Brian looks he is still having trouble with his gag reflex: Gabriel is hung like a buffalo.
Vera is barking into her cell phone, trying to hammer out a deal with APTN to air her forthcoming documentary on parliamentary naughtiness. Apparently they're worried about their funding. "I've got the CBC on the other line, use it or lose it!" Vera covers the mouthpiece with her hand and hisses, "Archer, get my camera!" Directors. I nod and run off, but I have other plans...
Louis and Sir John are leaving the stage, Louis bowing graciously to thunderous applause. On the other hand Johnny, still hamstrung by his dress, is having difficulty dodging the toy trains catcalling people are lobbing his way. He hikes up his frock and makes a break for the bar. Louis spies Mulroney doing Gabriel, and with a vicious backhand bitchslaps Mulroney into the orchestra pit, screeching, "Lips off Mary, il est mon Generale!" Gabriel puts his arm around Louis and they stride off backstage.
John Kim Bell comes on in a dirty tutu and announces the next act: Jean Chretien doing Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty". I shudder and run backstage after Louis and Gabriel, who have Pierre Elliot Trudeau hung upside down from the rafters. Trudeau is clad in a what must have been a smart black tux, but now hangs in tatters as Louis flogs him with a cat o' nine tails to cries of "White Paper this, maudit cul!" I hate to interrupt this tender scene but I am on a mission, and beg Louis to lend me his fabulous dress. I promise to return it unstained, although it is a promise I am not sure I can keep. Louis agrees, and naked and flushed turns back to his ministrations. For his part Pierre seems to be enjoying himself immensely, screaming, "Non, Je ne regret rien!" Well he may be having fun now, but wait 'til Gabriel starts wailing on his ass. Much as I would love to stay and watch the proceedings I leave Pierre to his well-deserved fate. The dress is a perfect fit! I run off to find Vera.
Back onstage Jean is shaking it, his wattle and saggy arse just a flappin'. In fear for my mortal soul I avert my eyes, but I can't block out his singing:
Gonna get rowdy Gonna get a little unruly Get it fired up in a hurry Wanna get dirrty
I see Mulroney groggily climbing back up out of the orchestra pit, so I bitch slap him back in, yelling, "That's for Oka, you little prick!" I find Vera screaming over the phone at some TeleFilm flunky, "Fund this project or die, motherfucker!" I grab her arm. "Vera! I've got the camera!" I lie, and drag her into a dark corner of the party. "Okay, where is it?" she asks, her eyes ablaze. "If I can get this on tape its goodbye IMAG Festival and hello Sundance! Hey, why are you wearing that dress?"
It's now or never.
"Vera, there is something I have always wanted to do for you". Right on cue the house band slides into a funk version of Jimi Hendrix' "Voodoo Chile". I begin to gyrate my hips, looking right into Vera's very surprised eyes. She begins to protest, but I silence her with a vampy "Ssssh" and slowly begin teasing the straps off, groovin' with it, one, got my freak on, two, oooh, and I begin to slide the dress down, down, rolling with it. I can hear the blockhead from TeleFilm blathering about commercial viability, but Vera is too shocked to say or do anything, and seems to have temporarily forgotten her documentary. Stripping for her is making me hornier than hell, and I'm afraid if I get too aroused I won't be able to get my dress off, at least in an artistically satisfying sort of way. But no fear, the band is just getting to "I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time, I'll give it back to you one of these days" and the dress is coming down, down, when braaaaap! Some drunk is puking right beside us. Talk about strippus interruptus!
There, in a heap on floor, is Phil Fontaine, drunk off his ass, wearing a nun's habit with the skirt hiked up to his waist, a feather duster jammed up his ass. On the part of the shaft still visible it reads "Funded by the Liberal Party". Vera shakes me, screaming, "For the love of Christ Archer, put your dress back on and get me my camera!"
Then I wake up, alone, clutching a small piece of deerskin.