Dear readers:

As I write this, it is snowing here in — let me get this right — Kangiqsualujjuaq, Quebec. You can Google it.

I am in a cabin up here, typing with gloved fingers, so there may be a few typos.

As I continue, I will refer to the village, for obvious reasons, as Kangi.

My iPhone tells me that Kangi is located 1,688 km (1,049 miles) northeast of Montreal and is accessible only by plane. We’re not talking about one of those big jobs with attendants who give you those little bottles of scotch and a bag of peanuts. No, ma’am.

This airplane is one of those where it’s you and a bush pilot with thick glasses and garlic breath. I can tell you that is not a pleasant trip.

So here I am in Kangi. I’m told there is one other white fellow here, an anthropologist. He lives on the other side of town in a custom yurt with a hot plate.

Everyone here is an Inuit. They’re very nice people who look suspiciously on outsiders.

One of the village’s millennials asked me why I would want to come here. I told her I’m a political refugee.

“From Europe?”

“No, Waterville, Maine.”

“You have a dictatorship in Maine?”

“We’re waiting to see.”

That is what I’m doing in Kangi. When I left Waterville, the mid-term elections were about to start. I, like yourself, have been held hostage by the forces of evil who have been going about tinkering with voting rights; installing young, heavy drinkers on the Supreme Court; and talking about eliminating amendments from the Constitution.

Before I fled, I was assured by friends that the good guys were going to win the House and maybe the Senate, and put things back where they were. Of course, I don’t trust them. I’m a Democrat. I don’t trust anyone, especially Democrats.

So fearing that almost everything to do with this election could go wrong, and that we of the press would be interned in tent cities along with thousands of Hispanic children somewhere in a suburb of El Paso, Texas, I chose to move up here to Canada to hide until it was all over.

I know. It’s crazy, but I just couldn’t sit around down there waiting for the election results. I was having these dreams where I was locked in a room with Joe Scarborough, Mika Brzezinski, Chuck Todd and Rachel Maddow, and Tony Scaramucci was a waiter who kept bringing us pizza.

This was my plan. If the election goes well, and we of the Left gain the House, I will come home.

If we lose, and that means lose everything, Plan B goes into effect. First I will renounce my citizenship. I mean what good is it to be a citizen where the Constitution resembles a take-out menu from Taco Bell?

I would then apply for Canadian citizenship. And, as a backup, apply for Irish citizenship, which I’m eligible for as I am the grandchild of four dead Irish people.

So here I wait. By the time you read this, it will be all over. You may sit there celebrating and chuckling at how big a fool J.P. is. Or you may want to join me in a condo here in Kangi.

There is, as far as I know, no cable or internet service here, so I’m waiting for She, who is down there with you, to send me a message with the election results that says we won the House and hopefully the Senate, and I can come home. Or, she will be on the next cloud hopper with the bush pilot, and we will be looking for a two-bedroom yurt with a hot plate in Kangi.

It may be a long wait, because mail comes to another village 200 miles away and then to Kangi by dogsled. I’ve been sitting here for five days listening for barking dogs, and I can tell you that that’s a problem, because the locals have their own dogs, and they all sound alike.

Meanwhile, I’m chopping firewood and listening for the dogs.

I have a question. I know it’s silly, but how many calories are in a reindeer club sandwich?

J.P Devine is a Waterville writer.

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