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I would have liked to update the ol’ portrait archive with a fresh Kenney as the fourth wave rips along golden rows of grain like a strong wind, but unfortunately he’s nowhere to be seen. Instead I present to you a chorus of ghosts singing international jazz legend Mart Kenney’s chart smashing ultrahit When I get Back to Calgary.


Kenney’s been on vacay as hospitalizations and deaths curve ever upwards, upwards, upwards until we eventually fold back in around ourselves into endless auto-fellatial regression. This is thanks to our small batch artisanal pandemic response that, taking notes from iconic, groundbreaking heavyweight Mart Kenney himself, moves to the rhythm of jazz. You have to listen to the measures we *aren’t* taking, ya know?


The 5D chess move of unplementing public health unitiatives that will kill the base it is specifically catering to (or at least leave them too wheezy to make it to the ballot box) is the kind of thing that makes you want to lay in the middle of your kitchen floor face down on the linoleum and weep. Oh, also kids. Kids will get sick. Fuckin’ anti vaxxer children, learn to wipe your ass and get with the program Junior, we’ve got coal mines to build and service.


So what can we expect from Jason when he returns, auto-fellated and energized, from two blissful weeks in the Mom’s Basement themed suite at WEM’s Fantasyland Hotel and Get(s) Back to Calgary, as Mart “makes Duke Ellington look like a pile of dog shit” Kenney did back in like… the 1940s? (The internet couldn’t tell me when it was recorded, if only our public education system could address this goatse sized blind spot.)


I imagine he’ll come out swinging. All of his directionless rage, impotence, hypocrisy, and malice have been given fourteen days to ferment like a fine pruno and we, the helpless public will have no option but to chug, chug, chug.


Maybe his absence is a gift. Maybe we’ll look back on these days of being premierless have-nots in the midst of the worst public health emergency in a century as the golden days. Y’know? It’s like when you were eleven years old sick with pneumonia but your parents left you alone to go to  Moosejaw, the Vegas of the prairies. But it ended up being pretty good because they were in the process of selling your room to an Australian mining conglomerate and were deducting medicine and tissues from your already paltry allowance. Oh, also, they named you Truck. What the hell?


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