Maggie Maier: Lord Love a Truck!

What a delight to see my old compadre, Maggie Maier, volunteering her swivel-eyed perspective on the Freedom Convoy (“Three Weeks of Love, Unity and Rope”) at the Ottawa AG’s public consult this week.

Never mind all the blubbering from downtown women’s shelters, seniors and assorted lib-cucks, our Maggie had a grand time at Honking Man: “I met people of all ages, religions, ethnic backgrounds, from across Canada and even the United States and Japan. There was music and dancing and no one felt afraid.”

Doubtless, the cerebral PR flack-turned-“wellness” consultant found kindred spirit with the Konvoy’s diverse coalition of anti-vaxxers, QAnon fruitbats and Randy Hillier.

After all, Gates/Schwab conspiracy theories and dark mutterings of string-‘em-up Nuremburg trials, aren’t just for white nationalist neckbeards anymore. It sometimes seems every chiroquacker and woo-woo alternative health huckster worth their vaginal egg has joined the grift.

No one is suggesting, nor should they, that Maggs is one of those snakeoil-mongers. Canada’s Natural Healing and Detox Expert™ has miraculously cured herself of, inter alia, alcoholism, obsessive compulsive disorder, PTSD and cancer.

“I empower high achievers and entrepreneurs to heal from anxiety, depression and addictions—without the use of prescription medications,” her eponymous website informs. “I know what you are going through because I have been there myself, and I understand how the emotional roller coaster can wreak havoc on your health and life.”

She’s also the only known Convoy groupie with documented experience in regime change, having torpedoed Liberal defence minister/legover Art Eggleton in 2002.

Maggie’s troubled affair with Eggs stretched over many a Frank passim. Health problems from her severe environmental illnesses complicated their relationship, but the biggest irritant in her environment appeared to be Eggs’ extra-curricular schtupping.

Things started looking serious when Maggie actually took the wildly optimistic step of attending couples therapy with the veteran stickman.

Upon reading of yet another of Eggs’ horizontal adventures in Trash Magazine, however, Maggie suddenly had a therapeutic breakthough: the problem seemed to be that Art wanted to nail everything that wasn’t nailed down.

Bailing on their scheduled mid-winter vacation to Florida, Maggie dumped Eggs’ philanderin’ ass.

Alas, the fatal attraction persisted, and when Eggs slipped Maggie an untendered $36,500 contract for a 14-page report on PTSD (Wake Up Maggie, I Think I Got Something to Pay to You, Frank 267), it was only a matter of time before the gutter press caught on.

Four months later, the Ottawa Citizen followed up on my organ’s scoop. Reaction from the PMO was predictable: Eggleton for the high jump.


  1. She’s got all the qualifications required in the conservative world…white… blonde…

  2. This is a real person? At first glance I thought it was Cathy Jones doing one of her comic characters…after reading through I realized it might as well have been.

  3. Eggs really didn’t have any restraint, did he? Like absolutely none. What would it have taken to make him keep his belt buckled? Balloon animal on her head? Open sores?

    While we’re on it: Brown knew this woman well and still hired her despite her many previous balloon animals. Ratfuckery or not, he’s an idiot.

  4. I seem to remember a Vimy Ridge observance at the Fort York Armouries a couple of decades back in which the VIP of
    honour was none other than the comfortably and then some refreshed Mr. Eggleton, with a flashy blonde in tow. Could it have been she? I couldn’t get a clear view, being involved in the pipes and drums at the time.

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