As a semimythical coyote, I recognise that mythical cosmogonies, including mine, may be
internally consistent, yet correspond only roughly with what most people think of as reality. One side of the (mythical) line, I'm a totemic critter of some religious import. The other, I'm just a mouthy talking doggie with a sideline in eating your cat. Having had about 6,000 years' practice at being semimythical, I've learned to deal.
So it's with a practiced and critical eye that I watch the government attempt to build its own mythical cosmogony.
You know, the one where empirical science never happened, and all must defer to the Prime Minister's gut. The one that spills out over the dinner-plate belt buckle he wears once a year at the Calgary Stampede, and tells him that basing decisions on actual facts is less desirable than just making crap up and calling it the truth.
Having had his mythical dogma (
heh...) called out so often by the empirical facts on stuff like safe injections sites, mandatory sentencing, rising crime rates and blahblahblah
ad nauseam, he's apparently started screwing over the people who
collect these facts, such as Statistics Canada. Because nothing is more inconvenient than having your irrefutable gut feelings and cherished truthinesses shot to hell by your own government agency.
Give the guy credit. He and his base are doing their best to willfully ignore the entire Renaissance.
You know, that insignificant 400-odd years when empirical science,
ummm, evolved. Would they prefer the ignorance and superstition that came before? For an entire modern nation? How's
that for going mediaeval on our asses?
As an over-opinionated quadruped with long experience in issues that rise when one's core beliefs reject the,
you know, actual world in which you must exist, I gotta say: no matter how stubbornly you cherish that mythiness, sooner or later reality whacks ya upside the head. How's
that for cognitive dissonance? And how ya gonna deal with it?
...even if they are impeccably turned out in natty, freshly-pressed office clothes, and even if they are riding one of those tall English limousine numbers, should probably consider not talking on their cell phones whilst they're riding up Elgin Street. During rush hour. With no hands. Through a red light. 
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