What democracy is, and isn’t, supposed to be about

Doug Ford, Ontario’s Premier of The People. (Photo credit: CHRIS YOUNG / THE CANADIAN PRESS, from September 13th edition of The Toronto Star.)

Mr Ari Goldkind, criminal defence lawyer, opining his ed in The Toronto Star, thinks

Ontario Premier Doug Ford’s plan to invoke the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedom’s Section 33, the “notwithstanding clause,” to push through his egregiously vindictive gerrymandering of Toronto’s electoral wards is “what democracy is supposed to be about.”

Mr Ford’s election by The People — and I guess that majority of people in Toronto who didn’t vote for Ford don’t count as The People; we’re just so much pâté on so many libtard-y crackers — trumps any old Superior Court ruling by some appointed judge. And if we don’t like it, we can just take our plush toys and pouty Toronto faces and sit in a corner for four years, until we, The People, and other-we, the pâté who are Not The People, can vote him out.

Hogwash, Mr Goldkind.

What democracy is all about in this country includes appointed judges —

— and incidentally, why is that descriptor “non-elected / appointed” such a sticking point for conservatives, as though elections always produce perfectly competent politicians who perfectly understand their place and their duties, and who perfectly fulfill the mandate from their perfectly informed constituents; whereas the appointed judiciary are self-serving, elite, out of touch fools and “activists”(read, “liberals”) who delight in running roughshod over elected leaders’ tidy, autocratic plans out of sheer malice?

Could it be that politicians don’t always have the public good in mind, but just get a bit tipsy with power and, not having the slightest understanding of procedure, or of anything, really, other than their big-as-their-belly egos, think that the rule of law is but a roadblock, an inconvenience that should be tossed aside, notwithstanding’d? And that we’ve put in place ways to deal with that and to preserve the true functioning of democracy?

No. Forget I ever said anything so cynical.

And your disingenuous argument that there’s plenty of time to rejig the municipal election, into preparations for which Mr Ford has thrown a hand grenade of chaos and spite; and plenty, you assure us, plenty of councilors once City Council is reduced to 25 instead of 47! I mean, who would want more representatives of the people in a democracy when you can have less, for heaven’s sake! — and that everyone in Canada’s largest city is just being snowflakey and whiny — your argument about plenty is so utterly beside the point, yet so revealing, I wonder how you’ve managed all these years, with that tedious legal system you have to work with, the one that doesn’t just let you go, “My client’s innocent! OK? Thanks, guys!”

It must be hell for you.

What, one might ask, is the purpose of an unelected judiciary? For that matter, an unelected Senate? Was this just an oversight, a flaw that no one caught?

I hate to seem like I’m carrying lumps of coals to Santa’s Hideaway, but I guess I, who have but scant expertise in any kind of law except Murphy’s, will now have to explain this to the criminal lawyer. Mister Temerity J. Intrepid, that’s me!

We have these unelected roles, Mr Goldkind, to protect us from the government, and they are able to do this because they are unelected. They can make unpopular but necessary decisions to protect us from governments that seek to curtail our rights. Like, for example, Doug Ford’s government.

(Canada’s appointed Senate, by the way, is termed the “House of Sober Second Thought.” Because sober second thought is deemed to be, you know.

A good thing.)

Premier Ford was duly elected, in — to use an adjective I may had heard once or twice before in the past few days — a “dysfunctional” electoral system that is so bag-of-rocks idiotic that a minority vote can win the prize, but that’s for another day — duly elected, but not by Torontonians, whose map turned orange-for-NDP with dismay, in every single ward except one, at the prospect of Mr Ford as Ontario’s Premier.

“Left-wing downtowners” as Mr Ford has it. More like left-wing down-, up-, mid- and every other direction you can name towners, for Torontonians knew that, in the war between the just-plain-folks ‘burbs and us, we are destined to be outnumbered and out-just-plain’d.

And Mr Ford is out for blood, to avenge his bro for the humiliation he suffered at the hands of Toronto City Council.

There is no question that Mr Ford’s attempted gerrymandering, which purports to fix a non-existent problem of a “dysfunctional” City Council, is conceived in pure, vengeful bad faith and in loathing of we Toronto “elites.”

It is not The People or even Not The People who need to be scolded by you about “democracy.” It is Mr Ford who should understand better what democracy is all about, that democracy is not just ballots cast and that’s the end of it. Democracy includes:

transparency and proper consultation with those affected by proposed legislation, and sufficient time for debating it and voting on it;

respecting the rule of law, by which a judge’s legitimate and informed expert decision about the bill — that it is unconstitutional, a decision echoed in the press by every constitutional scholar with a smartphone and a wireless connection — trumps Mr Ford’s wish to implement it;

not punishing Torontonians by redrawing wards to conveniently “disappear” pesky politicians who don’t back Ford’s agenda, via legislation which was not mentioned during his campaign;

not disrupting near-completed plans for the current municipal election, disruption that has caused the City Clerk to take the unprecedented step of hiring her own lawyer and to warn of an election whose integrity has been seriously compromised; and

which includes the letters, petitions and angry protests and demonstrations by Torontonians of every political affiliation that prompted the court challenge to Bill 5 to begin with.

That’s all democracy, Mr Criminal Defence Lawyer. All of the above, not just ballots in the ballot box, is what democracy is supposed to be about.

Just goes to show: You learn something new every day.




Workin’ on my BRAND


To be continued….

Keep your kids, like. Ignorcent?! (TM) with Dug-Up Ford and Susan Dreamy, D.D.

Hi, I’m like,


Susan Dreamy?  D.D?  That’s Doctress of Dreaminess, OK?  And I’m here today to help you live a dreamy,

Life?  Also to talk to you about the things that are really, really,

Like, important?  OK?  So let’s get, like, started?

So Dug-Up Ford and like, the Conservatives in Ontario, have, like. Your kids best interests.

At heart?

They know that being like, a Doctor or Doctress of Dreaminess takes hard, like.


And they want your kids to live a dreamy, you know, life?  Just like. You know.

I do?

They want to keep your kids, you know.  Ignorant and Innocent, OK?

That’s why they came up with this new, awesome, like.

Conservative Thing?

It’s called


And they tee-emmed it, which is so you know that it’s like.

Theirs?  OK?

Ignorcence™ is like, ignorance, but super dreamier cause you’re like. Innocent, too!?

Conservatives know that your kids are being distracted by like, shhhhhhhh!!!!! naughty things? 

Like wobblyboobies or crotchpackets and sticking goggodoodies up your, you know.


That’s wrong!  You don’t find out about, like naughty things like your poodangle or your whattamahoozie in school!  That’s like, dirty snowflake stuff!  Not dreamy, OK?

It’s better for your kidz to focus on arithmetic and, like.


So Mr. Dug-Up and the Conservatards are doing, the right, you know. Thing? And rolling back naughty! whisper! sex! ed!  So we can forget all the stuff that’s not dreamy!

And then your kids can learn about whipwangs and bleedywunckets, like, after school!   Your kids will be, like.


and so fucktarded dreamy about sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhh!!!! SEX!

It’ll take like, five of them? Working together just to figure out how to stuff Johnny’s peeperdoodle??!! into Jenny’s, like.


Like at recess?  You know? But they can always do that for, I guess, like.


That’s like your Ford vote working for Ignorcence™! Like, day and night! Let’s make Ontario Ignorcent™ again!   Thanks Mr Dug-Up!!  Thanks for your


Also, when your kids go on, like Facebook, there are sometimes, like, GUYS?  Who sound really really dreamy cool, but then they want to meet you after class is out, but it’s like OK?

Because your mom and dad sent them!  That’s like.

Super dreamy??!!!

Brandy met someone about a month ago, and we, like, just got the postcard from, like.


Brandy’s having an awesomely awesome dreamytime and meeting a lot of cute, like.


Brandy is super super IGNOCENT™!  Thanks Mr. Dug-Up, you’re like.

SUPER DREAMY!!!?!?!?!?!?!?!??

And so is being your new thing, like IGNOCENT!  Except that’s SUPER SUPER AWESOME, too!


Hey there!  Jennifer!  You look super super awesomely dreamy??!  How is your, like,


“It’s OK, I guess. Yeah. Feels good. I dunno. Protected. Whatever.”

That’s, like.  AWESOME, and, like. The twins?

“Well, you know, fucktard Fords. I drank some dishwashing soap and hot water and jumped up and down for three hours.  Finally that lady down the hall managed to scrape them out with a coat hanger.

“Johnnie and I named them Ford-Blobs one and two. Then we buried them in the back yard, but the cat dugged ’em up.  Gross.

“We’ll just fuckin’, I dunno. Wait for the full moon. Worst case scenario, like, pray harder and bury ’em deeper next time?  

“So, like, sorry but I gotta finish my relief map for geography class. Nice talkin’ to ya.

“Oh yeah, if ya see Johnnie, tell him to come home and hurry up cause I’m still fuckin’ bleeding.”

That’s SUPER SUPER DREAMY JENNIFERRRRR !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Have a DREAMY LIFE, GUYS!  IGNORCENT™!!!????!?  OK?????!!!!!???!?!?

Twitter and the Diplomacy of the Man-Bump

If there’s one thing a Prince of Saudi and a Canadian Prime Minister can teach us,

it’s that all men worldwide have but one thing on their mind, every waking moment and most of the unwaking ones, and one thing only:


Is my penis bigger than your penis?

Donald wonders. Some days he’s pretty sure he needs a wheelbarrow just to get it up the steps of the Capitol, or at least a couple of interns to carry it reverently before him, like a reverse version of Diana’s wedding dress train, but without the scattering of orange blossoms.

Those are the days when he wakes up in a panic in case he’s tossed and turned, unwittingly wrapped his penis around Melania’s neck and strangled her in her sleep, but before he’s had a chance to call Ivanka to ask how he should feel about this, he remembers the FLOTUS is at least two wings away in her pink bedroom and with the door padlocked, from the inside.

It’s just one disappointment after another when you’re Apprentice Prez!

Other days he’s a bundle of male sexual anxiety, and honestly, can you blame him? QAnon rattles him with their insistence that Melania’s a pre-op male-to-female transexual, and even Candy Boxxx, his porn-star girlfriend, insinuates that the First Lady’s constant migraines and penchant for doggy-style might just be a coincidence, or, on the other hand, might just not be.

He spends countless hours trying to come up with a logical explanation, but, as usual—nothing.

So off he goes for some ego-stroking time with the boys! He kits up, commando, in jogging pants and hoodie and orders his driver to pull up outside local school playgrounds while he sits in the back with a bag of licorice whips and a couple of Secret Service guys, just in case.

Once he’s lured the youngsters over to the open window and pulled his jogging pants down, he screams, “Check out that babymaker, guys, and do you know who I am? I’m Donald Trump and I’m YUGE!!!!”

Then he speeds away, leaving the traumatized tots crying but definitely impressed with the Republican agenda, and with a lifelong determination to find people even smaller and more helpless than themselves so they can be Yuge Republicans, too.

James Comey wonders, in a smirky, superior, smarty-pants, stick-out-your-tongue girly kind of way that tells us that, size be damned, his penis will always be cleaner and tidier and somehow smelling of roses, so there, nyaaaaah.

James Comey, and it must be said, is a faggot, in that sense described by comedian Louis CK as having nothing to do with being gay, but everything to do with, well, being a faggot.

(I’m gay, by the way. I once lived with a faggot, a little black faggot, if you must know, and believe me, there’s nothing I wanted to do more than smack his little black faggot face repeatedly with my fake Louis Vuitton make-up bag; smack it long and smack it hard until he learned to cry like a real, honest-to-god grown-up black gay man.)

Does Rudolph Giuliani wonder? Does the Pope wear off-the-rack? Please!

Rudi’s Italian-American, bada-boom, bada-bing! He reeks of garlicky swagger, of his confidence, instilled by generations of adoring black-clad widows, that a spicy, pungent Italian salami, swathed in yards of saggy grandad foreskin, will always bring tears to the eyes of mangiacakes — those pussies who actually pretend they’re telling the truth instead of just blustering through with blatant lies like we did in the old country.

You call yourselves lawyers? Malocchio! Malocchio! Nonna will take care of you, amici miei!

In our smaller, less impressive, diffident way, Canadian men, as always, follow but do not lead.

Andrew Scheer, fiery angel of the Conservative Party’s second coming, beads with nervous sweat as he wields his throbbing light-sabre of the Lord and, lo! there’s nary a frail, backsliding daughter of Eve in full-length calico dress and bonnet, sewn at home on the vintage Singer, who doesn’t kneel down in repentance and offer up her ovaries on the collection plate once she has seen him trample the grapes of wrath.

Which, to be honest, are just the same old tired, withered raisins in that same old tired, dry-as-dust Oppression Cake, the corrective treat for uppity whores of Babylon who dare to talk in church.

Doug Ford, Ontario’s Premier Penis, the Regular-Guy-People’s-Penis, is just a wobbling, blustering, fake-smiling butterball turkey of penis-wondering. He doesn’t yet understand that once you’re pushing three hundred pounds you might as well just give up the battle and buy yourself a deluxe pair of padded tweezers with a rear-view mirror to check if it’s still there, assuming you can remember where to rummage around under the flap.

His biggest fear? Your wage may be minimum, but is it minimum enough? No wonder he turns beet-red!

Now, should you land that prized position at the urinal next to the Penis-Called-Trudeau — and surely there is a line-up of penis-wondering wannabes outside the washroom closest to his Parliament Hill feminist-man-cave (a room with the dimensions of a railway car and specially lined with red velvet) — Justin will once again confound your expectations.

He will point Pierre at the porcelain and describe his retaliatory trade tariffs, or recall his days in the classroom, or give you the old nod and wink regarding that great piece of reporter tail he might or might not have touched, maybe accidentally or maybe not, and anyway, hellooooo, TRUDEAU, OK? — but he’ll never, not even once, sneak a peek at yours.

Justin may be the one man for whom size doesn’t matter, because, whatever the actual dimensions, he knows you’ll always want him to be a whole lot bigger than he is.

Men know, deep, deep in their scrotums, that penis-wondering is the prime activity of all men worldwide, which makes it even more curious that our Canadian Feds should have offended the Prince of Saudi by forgetting the most important rule in diplomacy:

When humiliating a male, when calling into question the human rights record of a “kingdom” run by a young, inexperienced, touchy, egotistical, misogynist despot who’s imprisoned a woman who had the temerity to demand rights for women — forgetting, little goose that she is, that it’s men who call the shots on whether women get rights or not — don’t do it in public, on Twitter, in front of three hundred trillion people, and don’t have a woman do it.

Unless Chrystia Freeland also wonders. So many women who achieve power against all the odds toss overboard like so much unwelcome ballast the very qualities we hoped for: Compassion, consensus-building, connection, common sense — or was it just Margaret Thatcher who turned into that über-monster, a being with the unchecked emotional intensity of the female psyche, turbocharged with the balls-deep lust for power that is the eternal undoing of men?

Maggie died before I could send her the bill for the antidepressants and psychedelics I was forced to ingest by the handful whenever I heard her plummy, sing-song nanny-voice tell me how much better off I was lying in a ditch and sucking on an empty Ribena bottle, because now I was free.

But, contumacious old codger that I am, exercising my freedom to choose the only choice available has always left me struggling to convey my gratitude.

I once had a boss, a very fucked-up, incompetent boss who still proved my theory that you always learn at least one thing from everyone you encounter, no matter that they be old wads of used Kleenex otherwise, and from this fucked up boss I learned the following concept:

If your boss tells you to do something really, really stupid — or by extension, before you act on a really, really stupid impulse, such as being a female and humiliating a male in front of thirty trillion people — just reply, or tell yourself, “no.”

Chrystia, what were you thinking? I love you to bits, honestly, best thing since sliced conservative on toast — but you can’t grow a penis, honey, it’s just the bad luck of the draw, and seriously, why would you want to?


This just proves how very, very old I am getting, because, little kiddies — and please, do grab your ‘Smores and drag your Hudson’s Bay blankets over to the campfire so you can toast your marshmallows as I reminisce — I remember a time when diplomacy had something to do with actually being diplomatic.

A time when diplomacy, pretentious and elite as it might now seem, was not about YOU and how noble you were, but about cutting through red tape on behalf of someone whose situation was so dire, only you, the Canadian Ambassador, on whose desk sat the special phone, only you who had the privilege of whispering in the ear of the despot-prince, had the slightest chance of saving someone’s wretched skin.

When diplomacy actually had to do with applying a little skilled diplomatic pressure, in private, behind the scenes, person-to-person, on the nut-sac of a Saudi despot in a way that said,

“I’ll never, ever tell anyone how small yours is, if you’ll do the right thing, little prince, and release that wrongfully imprisoned woman, that woman who’s not waiting for your magnanimous gesture but is, like all of those shrieking vaginas on roller-skates, demanding the rights that are actually hers and that you have denied her. OK, chum? And  fuck me sideways with a crowbar, dude, but is that thing small or what?!”

Twitter diplomacy is just stuffing a banana down your pants. As long as the back row can see how impressive you are, how quotable and feminist and full of human rights, you needn’t give a toss that your man-bump has assumed centre stage.

The tragedy is that, in your penile solipsism, you’ve proved nothing but your own ineptitude, forgotten the victim, and left Samar Badawi, a wrongfully imprisoned woman, right where she was.

And, let us be honest, where all women are, and always have been:

In prisons made by men, but with infinite patience, and infinite sorrow, saving the world.

The images:  Two of the illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley (b. 1872 – d. 1898)  for “Lysistrata”. Top:  “The Examination of the Herald”; just above: “The Lacedaemonian Ambassadors”


Nano-drops for brains

I tend to avoid writing about things that don’t concern, indeed entirely focus on, me, mainly because I have a short attention span, and I’m, you know.


Also I’m a lazy narcissist. This is becoming worse with age, probably due to the around-the-clock ministrations of a veritable army of narcissism acolytes — uniform: flip-flops, black net tank top, Muir cap and a jockstrap worn backwards — whom I’ve employed with the directive to shield me from any evidence that anything outside of me exists.

You’ll notice the spanner in the ointment here:  Because, if nothing exists outside of me, how did that peanut butter and jelly sandwich, “Dare” Maple Creme cookie and Shirley Temple cocktail with parasol and maraschino cherry end up on my TV-table?

It all feels like just too much damn mental work on a Monday in July, with the glorious sun beckoning and my rent money squandered on food, indigenous cigarettes and triple-thick Depends (the ones with the velcro so you can stick them onto the gusset of your dad pants, $88 on special at GAP, before hiking the waistband up under your armpits and tucking in your egg-yolk-stained cardigan).

But once in a while I accidentally fire up Netscape Navigator by narcoleptically crashing forward onto the giant “World Wide Web!” button of my vintage Amstrad, and then I’m forced to concede that everyone seems damn taken up with the fake news and the miniature actors, small enough to fit inside the CRT monitor, that are not me.

Paris Hilton is so small she could acqua-vac your nasal passages, scrape the saturated fat out of your ventricles, then drop out of your urethra without even removing her pumps.  I know what I’m revealing here has apparently been common knowledge since March 2017, but time slows to a halt under my chunk of meteorite and heaping scorn on a product this cretinous is always relevant.

“Nano-Drops: Because once you’ve entered the Paris Hilton, you can never come out™”.

For Paris Hilton — without sending me a fax to get my imprimatur, thus putting her on my Personal Shit List — has invented a product which solves your problem of being rich and bored by enabling you to miniaturize your stupidity and feed it to frogs.

Bonus: When Armageddon comes because all fresh water is owned by corporations, instead of being wiped out by a smart bomb from Nestlé, you can simply choose to bitch-slap your way through an army of torpedo-breasted, pink-clad Paris-bots guarding the three inches of water left in Lake Superior while clutching your 5mL refillable plastic nano-bottles. Because if experience is anything to go by, you’re all quite capable of buying 5,000 bottles of water a day instead of one, so not one thing will have changed.

But how about turning on the friggin’ TAP, NOW, before it’s too late?

How about admitting you’ve been had by the marketing that convinces you that bottled water is better and safer than the water which runs out of your tap, when it is THE VERY SAME WATER, stolen by corporations with NO INTEREST in your well-being and EVERY interest in maximizing their profits, stolen and rebranded as a lifestyle accessory that you have to BUY?

Water belongs to the human race, not to the nameless, faceless psychopaths in blue suits called corporations. Water is our birthright and it is a question of LIFE OR DEATH, because we can’t survive more than five days without it.

Let me say that again: Without water you have FIVE DAYS TO LIVE. And our water is being bought up by corporations who know that water scarcity is going to be a big money-maker. They have absolutely no right to do this — all they have is the rapacious appetite to sell, sell, sell, and a window of opportunity, like the one you give the guy who takes the wallet you left on a park bench. Corporations are counting on our laziness, ignorance, sense of helplessness and distraction.

Here’s a halo action for you that involves no work, no thought, saves you money and uses the plumbing you already have.

Stop buying bottled water. 

By not buying bottled water, you’re also affirming your belief in our common ownership of this planet and its resources, and sticking it to the companies like Nestlé, the bullies who are actually planning to profit from a scarcity of our most precious common resource.