Dear Steve

Look, I hate to be the one to kick a man while he's down, but there's a rumour you're going to be unemployed soon, and I want my money. It's not personal, but I really can't afford to be giving money away to indigent Conservative party leaders. I'm sure that you'll agree. It's just not fiscally responsible.

So anyways, tough luck on the vote but we all saw that one coming. Things are going to get ugly for you, now, I think. I can hear the rats moving in the walls.

I warned you, but you didn't listen. You just can't go charging around like that, taking a hefty lead in the polls and turning it into a dead heat. Your buddies expect you to win. That means that your polling numbers have to go up.

And I don't think your friends are going to be too pleased with the optics of driving out a moderate member just before the big vote. Oh, sure, she may have been equally unwilling to accommodate your point of view, but you know, you're the one with the image problem. They can't vote her out. And I hear Peter is kind of pissed off at you about, you know, yelling at his girlfriend until she decided to make him look a fool on national television.

I don't think your cronies will depose you in the near future, because after all there's that promised election for next year, and if Paulie goes back on that promise, well, he's still got a weak minority, right? And who wants to thrash their way through a nasty leadership race just before an election, and then roll into the thing with a stale platform that belongs to the dope they just tossed out? That would be dumb. But then again, they've done dumb things before, too.

Whoops. Scratch that "dope" bit. Substitute "nice feller."

Anyways, keep your back covered, and pls send that cash right away. Two Jetsgo dollars, remember?

And always remember, it could be worse. You could be Peter MacKay. And hey, if things start to get you down, just remember that there's always a place for you at the Fraser Home for Former Conservative Leaders, where you can sit down with Mike and Preston and burble out renditions of "My Way" until the nurse comes to put you to bed.

Yrs,

Skippy.