Two Smokes and a Debate Nobody Asked For
Dispatch #14: Carney Dodges, Singh Rages, Poilievre Smugs
“Cory, Trevor, smokes, let’s go.” That’s all I could think last night during the French debate.
Who’s Ricky here? Is it us—demanding politicians hand over tax cuts and subsidies like smokes?
Or was it the moderator—telling Jagmeet Singh to shut the fuck up and tossing him some hash coin for his trouble?
Or, more likely, I was wondering why I’m spending my one precious life sitting on a couch, listening to translators talk over a dead language kept alive by government grants and national guilt.
Why was I taking notes for a blog that makes me no money, is slowly burning me out, and has five subscribers and maybe—on a good day—300 views?
Why did Poilievre’s translator sound like a prepubescent boy on a helium bender, while Carney’s sounded like a sleep paralysis demon with a French MBA?
Why wasn’t Singh given as much speaking time as the other three?
Has anyone been punished for the Carney button scandal?
Why is Poilievre’s support for the “notwithstanding clause” suddenly controversial? Has nobody read Ajzenstat?
Why are conservative premiers torpedoing Poilievre’s campaign? Does Doug Ford really think he’s next in line?
Why are Quebecers still skeptical of Conservative leaders when Poilievre is the one most likely to let them run wild?
Why wasn’t the Green Party invited? And if the Commission’s logic holds, why the hell is the Bloc crashing the English debate?
But the real question: why wasn’t I watching Trailer Park Boys reruns?
That’s why “Cory, Trevor, smokes, let’s go” kept looping in my skull like a divine commandment.
This wasn’t some grand metaphor about Canadian democracy. This was my lizard brain begging me to do something—anything—more productive.
Like watching reruns instead of listening to deadpan translators argue over a dying system.
Fortunately, for you—my five subscribers and fifteen regular readers—I stuck it out. And I’ll do it again tonight, God help me.
Last night’s debate already feels like old news. So let’s dive in.
Carney Attacked, Singh Loses It, Poilievre Still Smug as Sin
The French-language debate might as well be called the Quebec Debate™. That’s what it is, and that’s who it’s for.
The leaders took the stage Wednesday night—minus the Greens—with Quebec polls showing a tight Bloc–Liberal race.
Obviously, the better the Bloc does, the better it is for Poilievre.
You could see the stars in Singh’s eyes—dreaming of another 2011 Orange Wave, back when Quebec voters blacked out and woke up next to 59 NDP MPs.
Of course, Singh is no Jack Layton. Not even close. Not even in the same sitcom.
Singh—as much as he dreams of being a grand old statesman, maybe even Prime Minister someday—is still the guy who gets his mic cut on live TV.
With the stage set, the evening’s sparkle became clear: everyone was there to beat the banker.
And it should’ve been easy. Carney’s French is subpar at best. Everyone was waiting for the gaffe—just a matter of time before he bungled a verb tense and called Quebec a province.
But the gaffe never came.
Instead, Carney did exactly what his handlers wanted: shut up and let the others slap each other silly.
And it worked. He mumbled about “capital” and “operating budgets,” stayed bureaucratic, and coasted on the privilege of low expectations.
The real knife fight was between Singh and Poilievre. The debate’s “free-for-all” format let Carney disappear whenever his French got shaky, leaving the other two to play Mortal Kombat over the mic.
Poilievre came off either statesman-like or smug as hell—depends who you ask and how much they pay in rent.
He accused Carney of wanting to build bureaucracy instead of homes and mocked his Bank of England past. But most of his energy went into bickering with Singh.
Singh went after Poilievre for wanting to “Americanize” healthcare, then pivoted to fighting the moderator. His mic had to be cut—never a great look in a leadership debate.
“It’s a question of identity in this country,” Singh said. “I’m passionate about healthcare, and every time I tried to speak, Mr. Roy stopped me. It’s unfair.”
Which isn’t an argument—it’s a Yelp review. This is why people treat the NDP like it’s student council. Life’s unfair, Jagmeet. Especially politics. Next question.
Last night’s results? A boyhood spat between the NDP and Conservatives, while Carney sat far stage-left like a divorced dad who knows better than to get involved.
Between the slap-fest and the Liberal chill-out zone stood Bloc leader Yves-François Blanchet, who came off as rude, cocky, and condescending. Then again, that’s how all Bloc leaders seem to an English Canadian like me.
Either separate or shut the fuck up.
You’re not revolutionaries—you’re just addicted to equalization money and drama. This isn’t a sovereignty movement. It’s a political game of chicken with no brakes.
Shit or get off the pot.
After the Smokes Cleared
Funnily enough, Donald Trump barely came up.
Instead, the moderator stuck to actual issues: housing, cost of living, immigration, energy, debt. You know, boring things—like whether you’ll still have a roof next month.
Afterwards, journalists got to ask questions. And for once, Mark Carney had to respond to outlets he usually ignores: Rebel News, Juno News, True North.
Now, these may or may not be far-right rage-funnels that monetize moral panic. But credit where it’s due—they asked the questions CBC, CTV, and even the National Post wouldn’t touch with a hazmat suit.
Of course, we still got the dumb culture war bait. Carney was asked how many genders there are. Because that’s what keeps Canadians up at night. He answered, “two sexes.” Which isn’t the question, but sure.
Poilievre was asked if he’d deport people. He said yes—foreign nationals who break the law. A sane position in an insane world, but close enough to Trump’s playbook to keep half the country clutching pearls.
And Singh? He was asked why he never condemned the burning of 200 Christian churches across Canada.
He refused to answer. Called Rebel “disinformation merchants,” then peaced out like a Twitch streamer logging off mid-drama.
But the real headline?
The Montreal Canadiens beat the Carolina Hurricanes 4–2.
Now that’s something to believe in.
In Other News: Doug Ford, Shut the Fuck Up
Can Doug Ford please shut the fuck up?
What is it with this election and Conservative Premiers speaking out of turn? At least with Alberta, the grift makes sense—Rig Pig Teresa wants a Liberal boogeyman in Ottawa. It helps her look like a hero back home.
I don’t like it, but I respect the hustle.
But Ford?
Does this stupid bag-of-milk college drop-out, who governs like a confused mall cop, actually think he’s going to swoop in, replace Poilievre, and lead the Conservatives to a majority?
He criticized Poilievre’s campaign this week, claiming that if Pierre had used Ford’s campaign manager, “he wouldn’t be in the position he’s in right now.”
Jesus. Doug Ford makes Erin O’Toole look like Thomas Jefferson.
This is the biggest gift Maxipad Freedom and his Purple Brand of Ethnic Hygiene Products could ever hope for: a Ford-led Conservative party.
And even if Poilievre crashes and burns and gets ousted a week after Election Day… then what?
Ford’s been handed three majority governments in Ontario and still can’t find the receipt for his ideology.
He promised to balance the budget and cut income taxes. Instead, he increased spending and ran up the debt.
He governs like a guy who thinks fiscal conservatism means ordering a second Big Mac “for later.”
Doug Ford is a conservative the same way margarine is butter: cheaper, paler, and liable to melt under pressure. Basically a Liberal—but without the environmental protections.
Shut the fuck up, Ford.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’d rather look at Trudeau for four more years. At least he moisturizes.
Doug Ford criticizing a campaign is like a raccoon critiquing fine dining. It’s like Corey and Trevor telling Ricky to go buy his own smokes.
We get it, Doug. You’re big. But your ego’s the real drain on public health. Stupid fat fuck…
Anyway, the circus rolls on tonight with the English debate. I’ll be tuned in—wired on stale coffee, cheap wine, and regional despair.
If the French debate was a shrug in translation, the English one will be a scream smothered in passive-aggressive politeness.