Note: This is a response to the editorial written by Barry Cooper. You can find the article in question here.
Barry F. Cooper stood in front of the service desk, grinding his teeth. He could barely control his rage at what he was hearing.
“What do you mean, there isn’t a mechanic in on Sundays? It’s a day, isn’t it?”
The BC service person nervous glanced left to right, sweat now appearing on his brow. It was obvious this little miscreant was high. The precipitation on his forehead, the shifty eyes. Barry shook his head. Typical lazy BC people. Barry couldn’t fathom someone taking a day off unless, of course, it was mandated by the ridiculous liberal government at the helm of the nation.
“I’m terribly sorry sir, but we don’t have a mechanic here at the tire shop on Sundays. The soonest we can have someone look at your vehicle is tomorrow morning, but I can assure you it will…” Barry waved his hand to silence the stoned moron.
“You will have it in the shop first thing in the morning, correct?”
Even though he was obviously blitzed out of his mind, the young BC man nodded in agreement. Barry could only hope that he had understood his very specific instructions. Walking to the door, the tropical BC mugginess caught him off guard. He chuckled to himself. How on Earth could anyone believe in global climate change when it was so warm in BC all the time? He was glad he was a member and contributor of ‘Friends of Science’.
He spent time here, as a child, but BC had become a foreign nation in the recent decades. BC was once beautiful, but years of Liberal and NDP government leadership has left the province in tatters. There’s only two things propping up the province; The hard and well-earned dollars of his fellow Albertans visiting the province, and the illicit drug trade of marijuana.
Why would anyone want to pollute their minds and bodies with that filthy weed was beyond Barry, who pulled out a flask of whiskey to steady his nerves. He still couldn’t take the taste of the overcooked BC steak he had last night out of his mouth. His daughter had invited him out for dinner a famous BC steak house known as IHOP, and was disappointed his meat was overdone when he clearly asked for rare. Everyone in this province seemed to be high.
At first, Barry felt pity for BC. Even though British Columbia was basically a nation-state unto itself, these people were still his country men. Pity swiftly turned to anger. The communist traitors of the Liberal party were hell bent on legalizing the devil’s lettuce. Should this foul plant be let loose on the rest of the nation, Barry may not have any country men left. What would the Liberal government legalize next? Heroin? Paint fumes? Bestiality?
It was madness to sit idly by and watch the nation self-destruct. There was only so much he, Barry F. Cooper, could do as a political science genius professor from the esteemed University of Calgary. No, this would take drastic action.
Barry rushed back into the garage where his car was being held captive. He strode up to the service desk. “I demand that you release my vehicle back into my possession, young man. I have to return back to my home province of Alberta post haste!” The BC service man, still gazooed on opiates or uppers or whatever, seemed to sober up immediately once he heard Barry’s authoritative Albertan voice. He handed back the keys to Barry. “Even though the light in the glove box is not functioning, I have to return home. Don’t worry, young man, I will find a way to break the chains of your addiction!”
With those words uttered, Barry whisked himself back to Calgary from Vancouver at record speed, making sure to never slow the vehicle down below at least 120 km/hr. Back at home, he went straight to his workshop to begin preparations on his revolutionary idea that could bring back a province from the depths of hell, and steer the nation away from Satan’s salad.
He needs a set of armor. Steel toed boots, some welders gloves, and a hard hat should do the trick. He needs a weapon. His weapon needed to represent the highest order of capitalism, so he fills a sock full of quarters. Now all he needed was a name…
Looking in the mirror, he saw a working class hero, someone willing to step up to the plate for the little guys in oil and gas, the underdogs at the police force, and the silent middle-aged white men who’ve lost their voice in the culture wars against social justice warriors. He didn’t need to choose a name, the name chose him.
Barry F. Cooper was ‘Berta Man.
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. Seriously, Barry, you took a pretty sharp turn there going from marijuana to fentanyl. I suggest you lay off the sauce.