Shatner Rules

great nation of America, I must prove that I can do a job that cannot be held by an American. I do the job of being William Shatner. No one else can do it. Kevin Pollak tries with that “impression” of his, and if he continues to do so, I’ll see . . . about . . . having . . . him . . . deported.
RULE: If You Are Only Five Foot Five, You Can’t Do a Good Impression of the Five Foot Ten William Shatner
    (NOTE: This rule only applies to Kevin Pollak.)
    You know who knows I’m Canadian? Other Canadians. I am a celebrated figure north of the border. In as much as Canadians ever “celebrate” things. And when Canada hosted the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, I was invited to participate in the closing ceremonies. How could I refuse? Canadians would have been furious. Although they wouldn’t have expressed their fury.
    Seriously, the only way to get a rise out of a Canadian? Place him on a hydraulic lift.
    Actually, Canadians and hydraulics don’t really mix, as evidenced by the Olympic ceremonies. They outfitted the BC Place Stadium with a false floor, about twelve feet above the normal floor, on which the action would take place. And during the opening ceremonies, four mighty steel pillars were to rise up from this floor. Four torchbearers were to simultaneously walk up to these pillars, touch their torches to the base of them, and then a river of fire would travel up the metal to light the cauldron that held the Olympic flame. A spectacular sight for a spectacular event! One that would be watched by billions!
    The four Maple Leaf Olympians selected for this task would be hockey hero Wayne Gretzky, speed skater Catriona Le May Doan, skier Nancy Greene, and basketball all star Steve Nash. What an honor, what a thrill!
    What a blunder.
    After many rehearsals and test runs, on opening night, the fourth pillar wouldn’t rise. Nothing. Each athlete stood there waiting, billions of people around the world watching them slowly getting coated in their own flop sweat. The event director shouted into their earpieces, “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it! It’s gonna come up. Wait! Wait! Wait!”
    Nothing doing. Eventually, three of the four walked up to their pillars to light the torch, while poor Catriona Le May Doan stood there awkwardly, wishing she could speed skate as far away as possible.
    That evening, Canada medaled in embarrassment. But at least I knew they would definitely iron out the kinks before the closing ceremonies. Right?
    Right?
    If anything, the closing ceremonies were to be bigger and more spectacular than the opening ceremonies. It would be a supreme celebration of all things Canadian! Taking the stage that evening would be me, Michael J. Fox, Catherine O’Hara, and a dizzying display of giant inflatable moose, dancing Mounties, lumberjacks in canoes, a small child dressed as a hockey puck, and inflatable beavers (normally only found in some of Vancouver’s seedier “marital aid” stores). The spectacular promised to be the least understated thing in Canadian history.
    There would also be a huge concert of Canada’s biggest rockers, like Alanis Morissette, Nickelback, Avril Lavigne, and many more I’ve never heard of.
    Canada also wanted to show the world that it had a sense of humor about the opening ceremony debacle. The closing ceremony started with a mime named Yves Dagenais, who rose up on a platform, plugged some extension cords together, and then mimed pulling up the faulty fourth pillar from the floor. It rose spectacularly, and Catriona Le May Doan emerged and finally got to light her torch.
    The crowd positively roared. In fact, it may have been the warmest reception a mime has ever gotten!
    The closing ceremonies went along without a hitch as I headed to the basement area, to my assigned hydraulic platform, which would carry me to the floor so I could deliver an inspiring and comedic monologue. We had done a few physical run-throughs, but we hadn’t run my lines.
    That’s not a problem for me; I tend to memorize things quickly, but thankfully my old friend the teleprompter would be at my feet. If I blanked momentarily, thanks to the teleprompter, the sixty thousand people in the stadium, and billions around the world, would not see me coated in my own flop sweat.
    So I’m in this basement, this subterranean cavern of hydraulic machinery, sound and light equipment, fiber-optic cables, and lots of people running around in headsets looking like they know what they’re doing. I can