… is post something short, sweet, non-dyspeptic and by someone else.
But, goldarnnit, the someone else here is J Walter Thompson, the venerable ad agency, the original “Mad Men” blue-suited dinosaur that’s updated its DNA and partnered with Tourism Toronto to create a soul-stirring 60-second promotional video (actually, an entire campaign) about my hometown that brought tears to my old-man eyes and gratitude to my aching, feckless heart.
I’ll be updating with an authentic slowpainful post very shortly. In the meantime, enjoy:-
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 itall 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…
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).
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”.
Toronto, May 12th: Toronto’s prolonged suffering appeared to be at best temporarily at an end today, after an operation to remove a gigantic lump which it has been harboring for the past four years was pronounced guardedly successful.
In this grisly photo – which may cause distress to some – we see the huge, malignant Fordoma that was removed from Toronto being wheeled out of the operating theatre.
“It was touch and go for a bit in there,” said the chief surgeon, Dr Michael “Muddy” York, who appeared exhausted by the ordeal. “This was definitely one of those aggressive 905-type invasions. They’re tenacious, those buggers! And dumb…? Why, I’d rather drink a steeped tea from Timmies than try to discuss Margaret Atwood when one of these low-brow scum-suckers is around! Talk about embarrassing!” Dr. York, overcome with emotion, added: “Toronto’s safe for the moment – but not 100% out of the woods yet.”
Toronto is heavily sedated and resting quietly in the recovery ward. Please, no visitors.
FIRST PIC: College Park, our understated (and, this being Toronto, under-appreciated) Art Moderne gem, known to the geezer generation as “Eaton’s College Street”, looks like this in 2014. But inside, on the 7th floor, was the Eaton Auditorium, and the Round Room, designed by Jacques Carlu in 1930; designed down to the china pattern and waitresses’ uniforms. Two words: Lalique fountain. Just let that sink in for a moment.
The tenants who owned the neglected structure in 1977 wanted to demolish the 7th floor in its entirety and replace it with OFFICE SPACE. Luckily the Toronto Historical Board stepped in, and the 7th floor has been lovingly restored as “The Carlu”. Although it’s now a privately-owned event space, you can visit, you can hire it for events, and at least it was preserved.
As for the owners who actually considered demolishing a marble-inlaid architectural gem containing a Lalique fountain; an important piece of Toronto’s history that marked its coming of age; the masterpiece of a visionary Parisian designer and hundreds of dedicated artisans – not to mention the Eaton Auditorium, whose acoustics were so perfect that Glenn Gould made recordings there – and replacing it with orange-and-aqua industrial carpeting, soulless cubicles and fluorescent lighting: Gentlemen, may all your sleep, every moment of it, from now till the day of your collective passing, be fitful.
SECOND PIC: But College Park as we know it is actually unfinished. This is what it was INTENDED to look like, before the Crash of 1929 wiped out the funding: A rival to the Empire State Building (or a precursor of the Pałac Kultury, aka the former KGB headquarters, in Warsaw, depending on your taste). Personally, I say hooray for the Crash of 1929.
All together now, studio audience: “Didja know…?” “Well, I never…!”