PAUL:	We’ve had our lost weekend, 
        amid the euphoric and heady 
        carnivalisms of the many 
        willing Confederate 
        celebrants.  So now, bathed in 
        the plainness of the afterglow 
        and the certain knowledge that 
        while Newfoundland is 
        celebrating its first 50, I 
        was celebrating my last 50, I 
        am compelled to cautionary and 
        sober reflections, as if you 
        haven’t heard enough already.

        50 years, eh ?  50 years of 
        cohabitation.  You and us.  
        The same bathroom, beard hairs 
        and nose clippings mingling in 
        the washbasin, leaving the 
        seat down and the soap ring in 
        the tub, the dirty dishes in 
        the kitchen sink, the furballs 
        in the stairwell.

        Do you in fact love us, 
        really, as equal partners?
    
        Everywhere I go in Canada, 
        when people hear I’m from 
        Newfoundland, I get the same 
        insults.  It’s “sing us a 
        song” or “tell us a story” or 
        “dance us a jig” or “from 
        Newfoundland, hey, I met a gal 
        from Newfoundland once, you 
        don’t know such and such, do 
        you ?”  And you always do.

        I’d hoped we’d gotten over the 
        hump.  Nfld’s been shacked up 
        with Canada for so long that 
        we were expecting a 
        commitment.  But no, it seems 
        Canadians have only been in 
        this for the sex. 

        So you mock us.  The French, 
        or women, or animal rights 
        activists, are no longer fair 
        game, but Newfoundlanders, now 
        that our looks are gone, 
        remain a popular target.

        It falls to us again to bear 
        the brunt of opprobrium; to be 
        Canada’s hicks, geeks and 
        feebs; to wear the bell, the 
        goat’s horns, the collar.  We 
        are forever the chumps, the 
        dolts, the blondes, the 
        bumpkins.  Scurrying about 
        witlessly, we are the 
        appropriate ones to send on a 
        fool’s mission; that’s us 
        walking into telephone poles 
        and fire hydrants, holding 
        bloody noses with one hand, 
        wrestling our pants up from 
        around our ankles with the 
        other; we are ever the butt of 
        the cruellest hoaxes, jokes 
        and jibes.
 
        In peace, there’s nothing so 
        becomes a man as modest 
        stillness and humility: but 
        when the blast of war blows in 
        our ears, then we imitate the 
        action of the tiger.

        Yes, we are a gentle people, 
        given over to much-heralded 
        revelry, poetic tendencies, 
        and artful dodging.  But you 
        don’t wake up a sleeping bear, 
        or poke a wasp’s nest, or rile 
        a standoffish cat.

        We are capable of fighting 
        fire with fire.  We know your 
        weak spots.  We are 
        insuperable and unrelenting.  
        We will have our revenge.

        Once more, into the breach, 
        dear friends, once more;
        Or close the wall up with our 
        dead !

        We will take no prisoners.

        The party is over.  The sun is 
        up.  It’s a new day.
    
    Page 4 of 4	PAULITORIAL - SHOW #28