Aw Jeez, Louise, not another one!
Sometimes… trying to choose my words, here … sometimes…
… how to put this – sometimes it’s like, you’ve just this minute finished whacking your living-dead disgrace of an ex-mayor in the noggin with a coal scuttle, chopping off his flabby, pustule-sprouting, gangrenous limbs and throwing the whole squalid, stinking mess of decaying arms, legs, torso and head into an anonymous pit filled with quicklime, where, upon impact, said body parts explode like overripe melons – and then, goldarnit, what happens but you have to, like, turn right around and do it all over again. What the fuck??!!
You ever get that? Yes, no?
That’s how I felt yesterday, when I learned that living-dead Zombie-Rob’s brother, Doug Ford, was busier than a pedophile hockey coach on Junior League Recruitment Day rousing the Ford Nation rabble in a last-ditch attempt to finish the job his brother started, namely:-
The zombie-engineered total evisceration, deracination, exfoliation and extirpation of the city of Toronto.
(“Evisceration??” says Zombie-Rob, salivating: “Sounds like luuuuunch!”)
But this isn’t just picking up where Zombie-Robbie Baby, the Un-Doug, left off. Oh no, my terrorized little Virginias, this is exponentially more. This time—inspired by his ghoulish bro’s beyond-the-grave lust for revenge (and that unexpected zombie-Rob-hankerin’ in the afterlife for his favorite tea-time snack, a bucket of KFC, hold the salad, dude)—this time—
Doug’s MAD. REAL mad, the way only a 905-er can git. He’s mad down to his white wall mag tires, Stanfield boxers, wife-beater and Molson Canadian; he’s mad at those elites, mad at the big words; mad mad mad about bein’ oppressed by a bunch of Politically Correct Women’s Libbers, Yo!
He’s fuckin’ MAD at Margaret Atwood! “Whoever THAT is!”
He’s mad at all those opera-goin’, book-readin’, bureaucracy-lovin’, cocksuckin’, femi-Nazi spendthrifts and non-existent gravy-drinkers at City Hall; and for good measure he’s mad at the teachers and the cyclists and the homos, and why?
Because that’s what white, male, middle-aged heterosexual losers – a.k.a. str8-tards – do.
By now, dear reader, you will gather that there is but a single emotional tone here, and the tone is MAD (yes, as in “…as hell and I’m not gonna take it any more!”). There ain’t enough Fentanyl in the entire soon-to-be-privatized healthcare system to take the edge off this months-long barroom brawl-to-the-bottom.
You may also have discovered, in the course of your spirit-dampening sploosh through the brackish standing water of the innernet, the following truths:
When liberals get mad at something, nine times out of ten it’s because some minority – like say, LGBTQ2, or women, or the homeless, or people of color, or Gaia – is once again being offered that endlessly-extolled all-you-can-eat buffet of fresh, steaming-hot shit sandwiches.
And hold the phone, did I say “minority”? ‘Cause when you add up all those “minorities” you’ll find you end up with just about every single non-str8-tard person on the planet.
But when Conserva-tards, or TeaParty-tards, or any rightwing-tard at all gets mad, it’s not righteous anger on someone else’s behalf. Righteous anger on someone else’s behalf is – are you sitting down? – socialist ! No, when they’re mad, it’s because no one is paying enough fucking attention to THEM.
So this time, Doug—with Zombie-Rob breathing that scorched, fetid just-plain-folks zombie-breath into his ear—this time bro’ means business.
This time Doug’s gonna make damn sure it happens…
[To be, unfortunately, continued…]
… Poor old fat dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He never realized we just needed a good laugh for a few months
While he ran Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of hard,
And a not very interesting hobby…
from my Canada Day Ode
A Beaver in Polite Company
In which I shamelessly pad my blog – gawd, that sounds rude – with, like, Totally??!! Random??!! recommendations of sites I’ve stumbled across while trying desperately to avoid doing anything remotely resembling “work” (I gagged a bit when I typed that).
Dear Luddite friends,
Now that you’ve learned not to refer to your monitor as “the TV-looking thingy that shows all the pictures” and to not answer, “Where did you find this story about Hillary Clinton creating a secret army of terrorist femiNazis bent on firebombing the Capitol?” with “On the computer”, it is time to yank those potty-training pants right up under your armpits and march bravely into the cyber sphere alone.
How-to Geek will help anyone who doesn’t look at a packet of
Quaker Instant Oatmeal and think, “Too complicated”.
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