Believe The Socialist Moustache

Few people know this, but Jack Layton's moustache is fake.  It's made from Margaret Atwood's pubic hair.  Layton won it in a poker game against Margaret Atwood, Pierre Burton, and The Guess Who.  Of course they were all stoned at the time.  The game took place in the Lord Elgin, in the gay nightclub that used to be in the basement.

"Royal Flush, Maggie!" Layton yelled with triumph.  "Drop your drawers and make me a moustache!"

Atwood, half out of her mind on schnapps and the finest BC bud, cheerfully complied.  She climbed up on to the poker table and clipped her pubes with nail cutters.  When Layton gathered up the hairs and put them under his nose, the crowd roared its approval.

Nowadays, the mere mention of Jack Layton is enough to make the unflappable Margaret Atwood blush.  Oh, those misspent carefree days of youth, before one became a literary canon unto herself, Atwood thinks with a sigh.

At first, Layton wore the moustache in public as a joke.  He got attached to the look, the feel, the smell.  Then he began attributing mystical powers to the moustache.  It gave him eloquence.  He could astral project into the nightmares of Conservative politicians, taunting them with things like emotion and empathy.  And most importantly, when he kissed babies, they became thoughtful and silent.  And socialist.

No one is quite sure how, but Stephen Harper became aware of the moustache and its powers.  Maybe it was the time Layton forgot his moustache in the Parliament Hill cafeteria's bathroom.  A page tried on the moustache, and it almost killed him.  They carried the poor kid out on a stretcher, his eyes and ears bleeding.  Later, he slipped into a coma.  To this very day, you'll find him, half dead, in an obscure corner of the Royal Ottawa Hospital.  The NDP foots all the medical bills, sparing no expense.  In fact, there's an entire ward full of such moustache injuries.  That's why the NDP is so broke.

On stormy nights, Harper climbs to the very top of the Peace Tower, like Quasimodo in a sweater vest, and shakes his fist at the sky.

"As God is my witness," he screams into the night, "that moustache one day will be mine!  All mine!"

Rumours abound that Harper has threatened and begged Atwood for another fistful of fur.  Atwood refuses.  Little does Harper realize that due to a freak electrolysis accident, Atwood is as smooth and hairless as granite.

During one leader's debate, Harper had to be physically restrained from leaping his podium and attacking Layton outright.  Fortunately for Harper, the cameras weren't rolling.  Layton assumes the whole thing was about politics.  He's clueless to the seething jealousy that haunts Harper's every waking moment.

"Layton's moustache," Harper is constantly muttering to himself.  "Layton's moustache.  Layton's mother fucking moustache..."

As Parliament remains stuck in stalemate, the Liberals and the Conservatives neck and neck, politicians are becoming increasingly superstitious.  One MP believes she must never use the word "the" in a press conference.  Another MP has begun wearing his wife's underwear, instead of the underwear of his mistress.  Rabbit's feet, four leaf clovers, and other charms are traded and fought over.

But one magic charm outshines them all.  And like moths becoming aware of a candle, the members of Parliament are beginning to stir, turning towards the source of all power.  Ever so slowly it is beginning to dawn on everyone that everything -- absolutely everything -- hangs on the scruffy, perverted, literary hairs tucked neatly beneath the nose of Jack Layton.  The last of Margaret Atwood's pubes could save or destroy this country any moment.