The Dance of Political Puppets: A Tale of Housing and Hollow Men

In the vast wasteland of Canadian politics, where mediocrity reigns supreme and the shepherds lead their docile flocks, a peculiar drama unfolds that reveals the profound spiritual poverty of our age. Pierre Poilievre, that would-be master of the Conservative flock, has commanded his subordinates to turn away from the bounty of a $4-billion Housing Accelerator Fund, demonstrating the petty theatre that passes for leadership in these diminished times.

Behold how they dance, these political marionettes! They who would build homes for the masses while destroying the very foundations of courage and self-reliance. What matter these petty squabbles over gold when the spirit lies dormant?

The tale grows more absurd as we witness seventeen Conservative MPs, now bound by their master's chains, who once sought these funds for their constituencies. Their names were proclaimed without their consent, a public flogging meant to maintain order in the ranks. These representatives, once bold enough to seek sustenance for their communities, now cower in silence, afraid to speak against their shepherd.

See how they shrink from their own shadows! These elected officials, who ought to stand as pillars of strength, instead bow their heads like cattle before the storm. Where is the warrior-spirit that would defy such tyranny?

In the slumbering towns and cities across this vast land, mayors raise their voices in protest, yet their cries echo in chambers of indifference. Merlin Blackwell of Clearwater, a name that rings with ancient power, speaks of infrastructure and necessity, while his people dream their small dreams of comfortable homes.

Alan Brown of Butternut Valley, another voice crying out in the wilderness, speaks of responsibility and ethical duty. Yet what are ethics to those who would sacrifice greatness upon the altar of political expedience?

These mayors, these small-town prophets, speak of sewers and water lines while their people sleep! They build comfortable cages for the masses, never questioning whether comfort itself might be the greatest prison of all.

The Housing Accelerator Fund, this grand mechanism of state beneficence, promises to build dwellings for the masses. Yet what dwellings do we build in our souls? The people cry out for homes while their spirits lie homeless in the wasteland of modern convenience.

In Clearwater, they speak of housing 450 workers for a copper mine, of building a sanctuary for their elderly. Noble aims, perhaps, but where is the vision that would build not just homes, but temples to human greatness? Instead, they squabble over government funds like children fighting over crumbs.

O you builders of comfortable prisons! You who would house the body while leaving the spirit to wander in darkness! What mountains will your children climb when you have made the world so flat and easy?

The Conservative leader's office, that den of political calculation, refuses to comment on this affair. Their silence speaks volumes about the poverty of leadership in these twilight times. They who would lead instead follow the polls, measuring their words against the wind of public opinion.

And so the dance continues, with MPs hiding in shadows, mayors pleading for their share of the federal bounty, and the people sleeping soundly in their comfortable ignorance. The great game of politics plays out while the real work of spiritual transformation lies neglected.

Let them build their houses of wood and stone! The true dwelling place of humanity is in the heights of possibility, in the peaks of courage and self-overcoming. What use are comfortable homes to those who have forgotten how to dream dangerously?

In the end, this tale of housing funds and political maneuvering reveals a deeper truth about our age: we have become a people who would rather be comfortable than great, who would rather sleep than soar. The real tragedy is not in the denial of funds or the silencing of MPs, but in the small dreams that we dare to dream.

Verily, the time approaches when man will no longer give birth to any star. The time of the most contemptible man is coming, he who can no longer despise himself. Behold! I show you the LAST Political Man.