Maxime Bernier was not the best Minister of Foreign Affairs Canada has produced. This, despite a relatively good education and resume. His endless series of blunders - whether in Afghanistan, Haiti, or Italy - served to remind non Quebec Canadians of his limited scope on world affairs, and how a good suit and pleasant manner is not a replacement for tact and diplomacy. Something had to be done. Firing him would of course, humiliate Quebec, and serve to remind non-Federalists that Francophones are not taken seriously as a contentious force on the Canadian political scence. This would further alientate them and give grist to the Sovereigntist mill, and worse, might cost Prime Minister Harper a chance at a majority government. Enter Julie Couillard:
A self made woman and former biker from the tough Ville Emard section of Montreal, Julie was the love of Mr. Bernier's life for a short while. She was no doubt drawn to his power and good looks, he seemed to be drawn to her low cut dresses and the fact she was the kind of woman his mother would have warned him about. When their relationship ended, it was revealed that he had left top secret documents in their apartment - likely under well-thumbed copies of Harley Davidson magazines and Ici - and he was forced to resign. A convenient escape and far more appealing to the local electorate. Certainly the thought of a Quebec man being undone by love was in keeping with our concept of "Joie de Vivre", and far less embarassing than the revelation that a Quebec education, no matter how good, cannot prepare someone for the post of Foreign Affairs when they have been brought up thinking Dollard Des Ormeaux was a more important historical figure than George Washington.
Now miss Couillard is launching a literary career with her first book, "My Story". Rushed to publication before the October 14th election, this junk is a thinly disguised ploy by the opposition parties to further undermine the chances of a Conservative majority. It won't serve to do much more than tittilate those who would otherwise spend their $29,99 on a bad romance movie and greasy popcorn. In the greater sense, it illustrates the notion that if literature is art, perhaps the Tory policy of keeping real artists starving will undermine them just a little bit more.