Never Worn Boots
The Conservative Illusion in Three Words
There’s a strange clarity to satire when it lands too close to the truth.
This morning, I read Nora Loreto describing Pierre Poilievre—the leader of the Conservative Party of Canada—as a man who has “never worn boots.” It was said as an offhand jab. But what it revealed was far more corrosive: a truth most conservatives are too afraid to name.
Pierre Poilievre is not a conservative. He’s a costume.
I grew up where the roads turn to gravel, where your word still meant something, and where your boots didn’t just say who you were, they proved it.
You didn’t need a slogan.
You needed calluses.
You needed steel in your spine.
And you needed boots that could take a beating, because the ground didn’t care about your politics.
That’s what makes this moment so obscene.
A Cowboy Without Calluses
See, there’s a kind of man who only puts boots on for the photos.
He’ll roll up his sleeves. Talk about hard work.
He’ll stand in front of a tractor he’s never driven, on land he doesn’t own, beside a flag he’s never fought to protect.
And for five seconds, he’ll look the part.
But you can’t fake dust.
You can’t fake sweat that stains.
And when you’ve really worn boots, you can spot the lie a mile off.
Pierre Poilievre has never worn real boots.
Not because he can’t afford them.
Because he never needed them.
The party handed him the role. The machine handed him the lines.
And now he’s out there reciting freedom slogans to men who have bled for it, while he lovingly polishes his Marschstiefel backstage.
That’s not leadership.
That’s marketing.
What Conservatives Forgot
I remember fixing fence with my mom before the sun came up.
I remember the smell of diesel in the morning before coffee.
I remember standing over the last three shovels of mulch, from 7 yards dumped, that I moved by wheelbarrow uphill to the job site... that was a moment in my life... let me tell you... that's my "went to school uphill both ways in a blizzard" life story :)
I remember weaning calves, and raking hay, and rebuilding a neighbours burned down barn, and driving silage into the sunrise, and driving nails into boards that would be homes, and all the other things you have to do to build something. A home. A business. A community. A country... All the things you have to do, to be something, to be someone.
That is conservatism.
Not in theory. In truth.
There is value in conservatism.
It’s getting up before the frost breaks because the animals need feed.
It’s living below your means and giving your neighbour the shirt off your back.
It’s being conservative with your words, your debt, your promises... because every one of them costs something.
It’s not about nostalgia. It’s about weight.
And that weight — that burden of duty — is what this party no longer carries.
They talk family. Then cut support.
They talk jobs. Then ship them overseas.
They talk sovereignty. Then kneel to foreign capital.
And in every photo op, they try to dress like us.
But the land knows. The boots know.
And so do we.
The True Test
That’s the test now.
Not the polls. Not the policies.
Not the talking points rehearsed in focus groups.
The test is simple.
Show me your boots.
Where have they been?
What have they stepped in?
What weight have they carried?
Don’t tell me you care about farmers. Show me the cow shit in your treads.
Don’t tell me you fight for the worker. Show me the scars through the leather to the steel.
Don’t tell me you understand this country. Show me its dirt ingrained in the fibre of every thread of your being.
Because the Conservative Party of Canada is full of men who can’t pass that test.
Men who grew up on connections, studied politics, practised power in debate clubs, and now wrap themselves in flannel like it makes them credible.
But this country doesn’t need another actor.
It needs someone who knows the land. Who’s marked by it.
Not because she wants votes, but because it’s where she belongs.
What Comes Next
This election will be full of noise.
Everyone will claim they’re fighting for “real Canadians.”
Everyone will promise to “bring back pride.”
But if their boots are clean, their words are worthless.
So ask them. Every time. On every stage. At every door.
Don’t debate.
Just say it:
Show me your boots.
That’s the meme.
That’s the test.
That’s the movement.
Because this land doesn’t need another promise.
It needs someone who’s walked it.
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Thanks!
B
Pierre doesn't need your trust, just your attention. His politics are dirty. His boots are clean.
Stop asking what they stand for. Start asking what they’ve stood in.
Show me your boots.
PS -