Rick Mercer Quotes

Do the unexpected. Take 20 minutes out of your day, do what young people all over the world are dying to do: vote.

In the United States I have always believed that there was a big difference between Conservative and stupid. Boy is it getting harder to prove that one by the minute.

I didn’t get anything from holding onto those handles,” Rick said. “Mercer talked to me but it didn’t help. He doesn’t know any more than I do. He’s just an old man climbing a hill to his death.” “Isn’t that the revelation?” Rick said, “I have that revelation already.

Mercer,” Rick said. “I am your friend,” the old man said. “But you must go on as if I did not exist. Can you understand that?” He spread empty hands. “No,” Rick said. “I can’t understand that. I need help.” “How can I save you,” the old man said, “if I can’t save myself?” He smiled. “Don’t you see? There is no salvation.” “Then what’s this for?” Rick demanded. “What are you for?” “To show you,” Wilbur Mercer said, “that you aren’t alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go and do your task, even though you know it’s wrong.” “Why?” Rick said. “Why should I do it? I’ll quit my job and emigrate.” The old man said, “You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life. Everywhere in the universe.” “That’s all you can tell me?” Rick said.

Where are you going? Won’t you come downstairs and—be with me? There was the most shocking news on TV; Buster Friendly claims that Mercer is a fake. What do you think about that, Rick? Do you think it could be true?” “Everything is true,” he said. “Everything anybody has ever thought.

What a job to have to do , Rick thought. I'm a scourge, like famine or plague. Where I go the ancient curse follows. As Mercer said, I am required to do wrong. Everything I've done has been wrong from the start. Anyhow, now it's time to go home. Maybe after I've been there awhile with Iran, I'll forget.

Unfortunately, come opening night it was clear that the production had more kinks than a Tory caucus.

way to tell what for.” “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you—about it being electrical.” She put her hand out, touched his arm; she felt guilty, seeing the effect it had on him, the change. “No,” Rick said. “I’m glad to know. Or rather—” He became silent. “I’d prefer to know.” “Do you want to use the mood organ? To feel better? You always have gotten a lot out of it, more than I ever have.” “I’ll be okay.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, still bewildered. “The spider Mercer gave the chickenhead, Isidore; it probably was artificial, too. But it doesn’t matter. The electric things have their lives, too. Paltry as those lives are.

It’s strange,” Rick said. “I had the absolute, utter, completely real illusion that I had become Mercer and people were lobbing rocks at me. But not the way you experience it when you hold the handles of an empathy box. When you use an empathy box you feel you’re with Mercer. The difference is I wasn’t with anyone; I was alone.” “They’re saying now that Mercer is a fake.” “Mercer isn’t a fake,” he said. “Unless reality is a fake.” This hill, he thought. This dust and these many stones, each one different from all the others. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I can’t stop being Mercer. Once you start it’s too late to back off.” Will I have to climb the hill again? he wondered. Forever, as Mercer does…trapped by eternity. “Good-bye,” he said.

No,” Rick said. “I can’t understand that. I need help.” “How can I save you,” the old man said, “if I can’t save myself?” He smiled. “Don’t you see? There is no salvation.” “Then what’s this for?” Rick demanded. “What are you for?” “To show you,” Wilbur Mercer said, “that you aren’t alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go and do your task, even though you know it’s wrong.” “Why?” Rick said. “Why should I do it? I’ll quit my job and emigrate.

I need you,” he said. Otherwise I’m going to die, he said to himself. I know it; Mercer knew it; I think you know it, too. And I’m wasting my time appealing to you, he reflected. An android can’t be appealed to; there’s nothing in there to reach. Rachael said, “I’m sorry, Rick, but I can’t do it tonight. It’ll have to be tomorrow.” “Android vengeance,” Rick said. “What?” “Because I tripped you up on the Voigt-Kampff scale.” “Do you think that?” Wide-eyed, she said, “Really?” “Good-bye,” he said, and started to hang up. “Listen,” Rachael said rapidly. “You’re not using your head.” “It seems that way to you because you Nexus-6 types are cleverer than humans.” “No, I really don’t understand,” Rachael sighed. “I can tell that you don’t want to do this job tonight—maybe not at all. Are you sure you want me to make it possible for you to retire the three remaining androids? Or do you want me to persuade you not to try?

What does it mean to be a Canadian? Not only is it a wildly pretentious way to start a book, it is also a question that has beguiled us since day one. Canada has been called a lot of things. We have been called one of the world's greatest democracies. We have been called a shining beacon of hope for those fleeing tyranny. Readers of the Toronto Star will know us as an evil construct built on the shame that is colonialism. And, of course, we have been called stunningly beautiful and a terrible place to winter. We are nothing if not self-deprecating. We pride ourselves on not taking ourselves too seriously.

The Hill has always been one of my all-time favourite places. Not because of the people who sit in Parliament. Those I can take or leave. My affinity for the place is all about the bricks and the mortar - not the pricks and the mortals.

It takes hard work and mad skills - the exception being Justin Trudeau, who only had to remain upright. His becoming prime minister was predetermined the moment he was born on Christmas Day 1971. In many ways Trudeau is like the Harry Potter of Canada's natural governing party. Powerful forces inside the Liberal Laurentian elite, forces we muggles could never understand, used magic and Quebec to give him the keys to the prime minister's office. No amount of blackface or condensation could stop that from happening.

There is an expression in Ottawa that every member of Parliament believes they should be in cabinet and every member of cabinet thinks they should be prime minister. The exception is any member of Parliament from Newfoundland. They go to bed at night thinking they should be ambassador to Ireland. What a job it would be, lying around the fancy house in Dublin, representing the not very pressing interests of Canada in the land of your forefathers. The spare bedroom in the house would be filled with a steady stream of relatives and old high school buddies hell-bent on having a party and finding out where their great-grandparents are buried. The best Newfoundland musicians would be at the embassy, hobnobbing with their fiddle-playing Irish counterparts. The kitchen parties would be epic. Mother Ireland. The Emerald Isle. The Land of Saints and Scholars. She's easy on the eyes and hard on the liver.

Prime minister of Canada. Can you imagine a better job?

But it was a great day for Stephen Harper the man. Because on that day he made the difficult and personal decision to come out and reveal his true self. And by doing so, he learned that the people who were the most important to him, those who loved him, his base, would accept him for who he was. A piano-playing elitist. Disturbing? Yes. A dealbreaker? No. They decided to hate the sin, not the sinner. He survived the duet. And in certain circles, it was never mentioned again.

And the truth is, like all Canadians, I was deeply concerned about the plight of the planet. Also, like most Canadians, I rarely did anything about it. I did turn off the light over the porch every Earth Day, and I proudly tweeted about it, but it was time to up my game.

I once said to her on the phone, "Jann, this group of kids in Newfoundland have won a spot at a rock camp showcase in Madrid. They are fundraising. They need to raise ten thousand more dollars if they are going to make the trip." Before I could finish talking, she said, "Okay, I'll give them five grand, you do the same, and it's done, easy." I answered, "I was going to suggest we sign a picture for them for their auction." Thanks to Jann, they made the trip. She changed the lives of a group of teenage rock and rollers that she didn't know.

But I will say this: one of the drawbacks to life in Toronto is that it is very hard to escape. It's possible. But for the most part, if you want to get out, it means taking your life in your hands and travelling on Highway 400. Ontario is Canada's largest and most populated province, Toronto the country's largest city, so it is only fitting that Toronto has a modern highway that functions as a racetrack filled with millions of cars that act as if they're fleeing for their lives. Before you hop on the 400 and go for a spin, it's a good idea to get your affairs in order.

Over the last thirty years, I don't think I have ever visited Ottawa and not taken a stroll around the buildings for a gawk. If you find yourself in the nation's capital on a fine, brisk day, I recommend you walk across the Alexandria Bridge over the Ottawa River to Quebec. From there, you will get the greatest view: the back of the buildings, even more magnificent than the front, and they jut out dramatically over the river's escarpment. Also, from this angle you see the beauty that is the Parliamentary Library. I feel about these buildings the way some people feel about sunsets. The way Justin Trudeau feels about mirrors. I can gaze at them all day.

if only she hadn’t agreed to wear the pink pajamas there in the Mercer Hotel. Because once I saw her in them, I loved her in the same way I love my sister, which is an impasse of the truly impassable sort. ★★★★

A few years back I wrote a memoir. It was a hell of a story - a gripping tale of how a young man overcame a privileged middle-class upbringing, only to become a national treasure by telling Americans that Canada was going to legalize insulin.

In my early comedy days, I made loads of fun of this guy. "The Spicer Commission spent millions of dollars," I declared, "they produced five phone books' worth of paper - and they still didn't answer the question." I added: "Our founding fathers would have been appalled." This was back in the day when you could use the term "founding fathers" and not get hissed at.

For those of you with a passing memory of grade-school history, our so-called founding fathers signed Canada into existence in 1867. The location was Prince Edward Island. A bloat of prosperous men from all over British North America came together and, fortified with a ridiculous amount of liquor, they argued and drank until a country was born. It was not an immaculate conception; it was a messy one. Modern-day Canada prides itself on being a diverse nation, and the Fathers of Confederation were no slouches in that department. There were many shades of white and a variety of English accents. Diversity was encouraged as long as everyone was Protestant. Rumours persist that there were a few Irish Catholics in the mix. If true, they kept their lifestyle on the downlow. The man at the centre of the founding bender was Sir John A. Macdonald. He would go on to become Canada's first and drunkest prime minister. After we was sworn in for the first time, he was asked what is the most he ever spent on a bottle of whiskey. His answer? Forty-five minutes.

But legend has it that when Sir John, or JohnJohn as he was known to friends, signed the country into existence, he eloquently defined what it meant to be a Canadian. Unfortunately, the next day, crippled from the sauce, nobody could remember what it was he said. "I remember it was jolly good," said Sir Edward Barron Chandler. "Mais oui," said Sir Jean-Charles Chapais. "Magnifique!" They then had a round of straighteners and started all over again. The answer to what it means to be Canadian was lost to the ages. For his part Macdonald had no recollection of signing anything important, let alone saying anything profound. In fact, he only learned he'd helped form a country when he read about it in a day-old newspaper on the train home. That's a hell of a thing to find out you've done while you're nursing a hangover. Also, he was missing a shoe. Personally, I blame this prime ministerial blackout for the fact that, 150 years later in 2004, nobody had answered the question yet.

Eight years ago, on November 4, I was lucky enough to find myself in New York City. It was the night that Barack Obama was first elected president of the United States of America. History in the making. The feeling of optimism and "yes we can" was on bust. And I remember thinking, "In my entire life, I will never again witnis an election as transformative as this one." And I also remember thinking, "Tonight, America deserves the title "greatest nation on Earth." Eight years later, it turns out I was wrong on both fronts. Who would have guessed that after electing a black president twice, they would follow up with an orange one? It turns out it's true that in America, anyone can grow up to be president. Narcissist? Tax dodger? Do your hobbies include sitting around on a giant gold throne? Yes? By all means, please advance to the front of the line. Our neighbours to the south have made a choice. Some suggest this choice was made out of anger. To the angry American voter, I say, "Next time, why not punch a wall or go for a walk around the block?" Because this is a very dangerous experiment you have embarked on. Obviously we honour your choice. And as Canadians, your greatest friends and admirers, we will welcome Chachi as the new US ambassador. And as far as the new president goes, let's hope that moving forward the magnitude and dignity of the office wins the day.