THE DEATH DREAMER DREAMS ABOUT THE 45th ... AGAIN
Justin and Me And Trump Make Three (or is it 11?) - THE REDUX By Stephen Weir The gentle tap tap quickly birthed a knock knock followed by a kick kick at the base of my front door. Someone wanted me wide awake, like yesterday. “Hey Dream Boy, rise and shine,” barked a loud voice from the other side of my solid oak front door. Was that a faint Quebecois accent lurking in that military staccato? “ Mange la merde”, I screamed back. I wasn’t going to give up on my disturbing dream without a fight. I know this voice; this man was going to make my morning its own waking nightmare. “ It is Justin, he knows.” My unrequested wake-up service shrieked right back at me. Yes, I was correct, this wasn’t going to end well. “What does His majesty know? And why does he suddenly want to speak to me after the last time?” I turned the volume down a notch, best to find out what the hell I had done before I ended up having to buy a new door. I am a Toronto based news hound who will do anything to get a F