I’m madder than Boris Johnson being cut off at a COVID Cargo Container speakeasy over the way the Woke Army continues to wage war on innocent civilians.
After two years of lockdowns, social distancing, and mandates my wife Greta and I decided, like many Canadians, to take a nice long European holiday. Our kids: Dana, Juliette, Marisol, Anthony, Jason and other Dana, warned us about the “invasion” in Ukraine, but I told them it was all a load of MSM nonsense. I couldn’t wait to land in London to drain a pint of ale, take the train to Gay Paris for fresh croissants, drive a moped to Rome for some tomato spaghetti, and fully occupy Europe by making a sea assault on sausages and schnitzel in Munich.
Well let me tell you: It was bad enough getting past the iron curtain Dictator Trudeau had lowered around his fiefdom. From the time we tried to renew our passports (all day in line!) to waiting for hours in the absurd CON-VID airport security check, more delays, cancellations, and rerouting–it was a communist nightmare (or perhaps dream come true!). I was so relieved to finally get on our discount airline, I didn’t even care that they did a land acknowledgment after take off. Hello, we’re 30,000 feet in the air!!!
I suggested to Greta that we rejoin the mile high club, to which she laughed, popped a Xanax, and slept for nine hours. (Six kids, am I right, ladies?)
BANGERS AND MASH
When we landed in England, I was sure I was in a mature land of common sense where people thought with their brains and not their bleeding hearts. But there was nary a stiff upper lip to be seen in the herd of masked sheep around us as we deplaned. Well, maybe they were all just Liberal voting Canadian tourists. Anyhoo, the first thing I did was stroll into a bank to exchange some of my Justinflation Canadian currency for British Pounds, when I noticed the bank tellers had something weird on their name badges. Pronouns. I said: “What’s that all about?” The bank teller who went by the pronouns She/Her/Whatever said that they ‘support gender identity’ and that this new initiative was an inclusive measure by the bank manager to support that.”
I said: “Who’s the Boss around here?”
Scowling, she pointed me to a man, I assumed. He had dyed hair, a full beard and nose rings. Oh – and he was wearing a dress.
“A-o, O-a,” I mumbled, as I marched out, sans pounds.
I couldn’t believe it! The Woke army babies had sailed across the pond and were now destroying the Mother Continent! I explained what I’d seen to Greta, but she just brushed off my agitation as common jet lag or “COVID” brain fog.
MOSCOW MULE
After a quick tour of Piccadilly Circus, we threw on our Where Is Peng Shui? T-shirts and headed over to Wimbledon to see anti-vaxx hero Novak Djokovic play. But even the storied All England Lawn Tennis Club had gone Woke! Within minutes of taking our seats we were approached by security and ordered to either remove our T-shirts or leave. (Peng, for those who don’t know, is a Chinese tennis player who disappeared after speaking out against the corrupt Chinese government – ed)
Damn you, Chinese censors. (Sorry, not sorry Twitter police!!!)
From that point forward, it was one Woke casualty after the other: parks and squares with missing statues, art galleries with ‘offensive’ pieces of beautiful nude women removed, renamed streets and buildings, and even more name badges with pronouns. We even encountered a clearly disturbed blue haired young woman who wanted us to sign her petition about giving Big Ben a sex change! Talk about a Ding-Dong!
That night over a Zoom call with Dana, Juliette, Marisol, Anthony, Jason and other Dana, I said “There’s definitely a war in Europe, but it ain’t in Ukraine.” I mean, I couldn’t even order a Moscow Mule in the swinging city. Who’s the donkey now? To which my Woke spawn corrected me: “Dad, you can’t say things like that. It’s problematic. And the Chinese government IS listening in!”
SWEDISH MEATBALLS
I pretended the audio was out on the call and said quietly to my lovely wife: “This isn’t the Europe that I remember from my youth.” I regaled Greta with the tale of a strapping, single young Toby freely galavanting across the continent on $5 a day, guitar slung over his shoulder, a Eurail pass in his money belt, a signed copy of Rick Steves’ travel guide, and two blonde Swedish twins in tow.
Greta said: “The Swedish twins never happened.”
“Of course not, dear.” I smiled.
NATIONAL LAMPOON
Folks, the good old days are over and they’re not coming back unless we fight back. The woke army hasn’t only invaded London like the Romans conquering the British Isles back in the day, but they’re everywhere. I couldn’t even stomach what they may have done to the rest of the Continent. I marched back to the bank to exchange my money into Canadian, and told that bearded, dress wearing manager that I was leaving Europe and never returning.
“What’s the point?” I told Him/He/Whatever. “I can see the same Woke damage in my own city.”
Back in Canada and finally free of the madness of Europe I breathed a sigh of relief. “Finally, freedom,” I said to Greta as we settled down into our government mandated two week quarantine, despite only leaving the country for 36 hours. So, here I am a prisoner in my own house for the dog days of summer. I plan to leave one day and when I do I’ll be ready to fight with fellow Woke Up! readers for our rights. Whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills and we shall never surrender. We shall leave no statue not unturned, no street name renamed, and we shall uncover what those crooked Chinese did with that brave, brave tennis star hero.
Until then, that’s all the woke nonsense I can take a pig in a poke at this week.
