Doug Ford

I have a perfectly good excuse +PLUS+ I SOOOOO Don’t Dig Dug-Up Ford

dugupI admit that “perfectly good excuse” thing sounds a little defensive, and it didn’t work with Miss Smedley, either, but it’s been AGES since I’ve posted something.

This blog, the tainted well from which I drew the idea and some of the content for my book — the set of cranky, anti-social triplets named Pee Dee Ef, Epub and Paperback currently clawing its way out of my man-womb — has been sorely neglected as I bear down, deep-breathe and scream for an epidural in the form of heaving great cartloads of e-money jabbed into my aching bank account. And I was rather looking forward to a little break just to have a good guy-cry and let the mental stretch marks heal…

Acolyte on duty — !  I require a full-body-to-body application of your finest replenishing cream with colloidal factors and vitamin e, and don’t forget the light touch and upward, circular motion this time!  {You know, and can I just say, seriously. Millennials! Pretty as sin, but self-absorbed — !}

Unluckily for both me and him, the nightmare Dug-Up Ford is he, who thicks man’s blood with cold — who you might mistake for the exhumed, reanimated corpse of a gratefully forgotten two-bit demagogue of a former “Mayor” of Toronto, but who is actually the Dug-Up Ford who’s now become the leader of the Conservative Party in Ontario — having pulled on for his full-body fat suit, in the manner of Hannibal Lecter, the suppurating flesh-envelope of that thankfully dead ex-Mayor brother of his, Rob — (should have whacked that bleached, beached whale a few more times with the edge of my shovel, make note for next time) — has replenished my tanks of gall and bile with premium fuel, and I will not spare you the full force of my smug, elitist, downtown Toronto gay sensibilities as I labor for Dug-Up to follow his sibling into the political grave he so richly deserves. Stay tuned for THAT one.

If all else fails, I’ll call up Maggie Atwood, who just barely escaped being fired as a cultural icon by Robbie Baby Bobby Booby, getting tattooed all up her arms and then forced to run the proposed Front Street Ferris Wheel in a pair of dungarees, and we’ll throw her collected works at him — in hardcover, mind you — until enough sharp corners have caught him in the temple that he keels over, or at least learns some respect.

In any case, I recommend Scarberia General Hospital reinforce the floor in the furthest corner of one of their public wards, prepare two of their largest beds, then push them side by side ready to receive der Führer des Ontariolumpenproletariats. The prognosis is poor.

There’s no need to find out what his “platform” will be. Cut the waste, stop the gravy (yeah, check out your belt notch, Dug-Up, and get back to us on THAT one), and did I mention cut the waste.

The complete, hard-core conservative playbook which is in fact the only two ideas they ever have:  Lower taxes, tough on crime.  It’s their little-black-dress-with-string-of-pearls of policy: Goes absolutely everywhere, darling, and they always feel pretty when they throw it on.

Good ol’ regular, middle-aged-to-elderly heterosexual white guys, str8-tards, in a word, from Don Trump to Dug-Up Lump, wherever they may lurk, in suits or sweatpants, bespoke Ferragamo or Payless trainers, all share the same reductionist philosophy and the same resentment of their betters.

Yeah, you heard me, betters, because five kajillion Dug-Up Fords do not supply genetic material of sufficient quality or quantity to replace one little fingernail of one Margaret Atwood.

Ms Atwood has a legacy, a body of work, an international reputation. They study her work in universities, for chrissake; write Ph.D. theses about her novels and poetry. Margaret Atwood, through a lifetime dedicated to literature, to a life of the mind, to wrestling with big ideas and creating big tales that enlighten and engage and entertain a receptive worldwide audience, did much of the heavy lifting over the course of five decades to put Canada on the cultural, indeed any, map.

But with one good, disingenuous awww, shucks Margaret Who, a Dug-Up Ford tells us that, sure, those effete Toronto elites get that high-falutin’ stuff, but not good, decent, down-to-the-salty-earth regular hockey-playin’ guys!

And yet you Trumps and Lumps, despite your postures of  humility and down-home folksiness, have to angle your heads to get them through a doorway, so highly do you not-so-secretly esteem yourselves. And so you are impatient: with rules, with the rule of law in particular, and with restrictions and with consultations. It’s your show, isn’t it, baby?

Why do you guys even run for public office, when you so patently despise the word “public” in any form? The reason for the rule of law, the rule of anything, is that we’re all in this together. And it’s your job as a leader to have a vision for your country or province or city, to understand all our concerns and to realize that vision through decisions that are in the public interest, not in the interests of you or your bank account, or the interests of the person who paid for your election, or of the lobbyists who lobby you as mayor but also as owner of a business. That’s called conflict of interest.

That contempt for the public good is what your disgusting, disgraceful, pushin’-up-daisies crack-addled brother displayed when he elaborately and disdainfully took himself out of the city for Pride, thus making it OK to disrespect and marginalize the LGBT community.  It’s not all about you, your people, your company or your fucking ego.

You know what I hate most about Don, and Dug-Up and all their ilk?  People like them make it cool to be stupid.  And I hate that so many people in the Greater Toronto Area are suddenly going to be so fucking cool.

~

Otherwise, I have been laboring like a raft-full of Roethke’s on Ritalin prepping the e-book for EPUB format and whatever the Kindle version is called.  Oi ve voy! says I, which is Dutch for “more tedious than tulips!

The formatting task is exquisitely demanding, though e-books have no pages and, while I must deploy Word 2016 styles with the precision and consistency of a 21st-century Gutenberg or the conversion program will spit out my book like a two-year-old with a mouthful of puréed spinach, e-reader-readers can blithely toss out my painstaking layout and design for purple text on black, basically redesigning my book.

Then one cold white night I got cold feet about Amazon and Barnes & Noble and my one go at fame, so I took out all the “fucks” and replaced them with “frigs” and “fuddle-duddles” (expecting a call from Justin’s lawyer as I assume Pierre held the copyright in perpetuity on that one) and just made the ideas more dirty; plus I keep re-writing everything and making it “better”, which I will have to force myself to stop doing or I will be found six months from now at my computer mummified in a brittle exoskeleton of dust, Peak Freen biscuit crumbs and cheap native cigarette smoke.

As a by-product of creating the book I’ve also discovered my own distinctive style of creating digital imagery and illustration from boring old AP photos and selfies, which has produced some humdingers.  Please note that “humdinger” can fall on either side of the positive/negative divide. (Titanic survivor: “That was one humdinger of a trip, eh?”) Few of these images will be in the paperback version, and for sure not in color, so, hellooooo — collector’s item.

Buy the PDF version and you’ll get an automatic upgrade to the e-reader format of your choice as soon as it’s available — » check out the details here.

Fun fact of the day: 

On this day, in 1781, English astronomer William Herschel discovered Uranus.

And I say, join the crowd, Bill.  Join the crowd.

Yuk, yuk.

δ

Advertisements

Takin’ a spin on a Gigolo +PLUS+ Didja notice…?

There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay

men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store.  (“Shop till you pop?”)

Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.

Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.

This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”

F Machine Gigolo

Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?

Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?

Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.

We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.

Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :

Jim:   Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred:  Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert:  Sweet ride, man!

 

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—!  Whaddaya know! Eureka!

I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:

Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)

Take America.  Please.  Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down.  Prepare to die, America!  You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!

Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.

Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency.  The first being, you know.  His Presidency.

Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas?  Something along these lines?

Hey Mel. Mel?”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”

“Yeah, what?”  

“How much did I spend on that.”

“You like, baby?”

“They’re fucking awesome.” 

“This I am also thinking.”

Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water:  “This is big water!  The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mara-Lago!  This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”

Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.

As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.

trump-0cbb608c-6e23-4639-9e35-a301f82f6f65

Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?

But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions.  How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!

I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.

“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up.  I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.

The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.

There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own.  Score: Dave, 1.

Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!

Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!

Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.

Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.

Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom).  I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.

I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.

Things just might be looking up.

~

Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?

Even better:  My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com.  That’s right.  I configured a sub-domain.  The tits are off the bull!

Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page.  Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise.  Kind of thing?

And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1.  Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3.  Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse.   I could really use the support right now.

And a Gigolo.

DR

 

The NightMayor before Christmas: Zombie-Rob Ford returns from the dead to tell his bro’: “This time I want REVENGE!!!!”+PLUS+ Random Reco’s

zombie3b

We didn’t use enough garlic. Or stakes.  Or garlic steaks.  Or something important.  Obviously! Because now – there’s TWO OMFG, EIGHT of them!

Aw Jeez, Louise, not another one!

Sometimes… trying to choose my words, here … sometimes…

… how to put thissometimes 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


Random Reco’s

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”.

How-To Geek
(opens in a new window)

Voting shame and sibling loathing

I just found out that my sister voted for ROB FORD.

<flossing brain>

A slight pause as I explain Rob Ford to my American friends.  Let’s see.  Imagine that Sarah Palin overdosed on, what? moose meat, and somehow got genetically shmooshed up with Divine.

Don’t ask me how. Christ!  Maybe she fell into the transgromulator, OK? That thing in “The Fly” that jumbles up your molecules.  Stop interrupting.

Then imagine that Ryan Paul married the transmogrified Sarah-Divine, smoked crack on the wedding night, forgot to wear a rubber, and sired a Kennedy-like stable of obese, red-faced, transmogrified crack babies, all members of the Tea Party.  Is this making any sense? Good.

Sarah Palin, shmooshed with Divine, bears an uncanny resemblance to Doug Ford.

Sarah Palin, shmooshed with Divine after falling into the transgromulator, bears an uncanny resemblance to Rob  Ford.

Then, imagine that this clan, which is only Kennedy-like in numbers, not class, proceeded to amalgamate Alabama, Georgia, Kansas and Florida with New York City, thereby assuring that New Yorkers would alway be outvoted on stuff like opera and ethnic restaurants,and equal marriage and fashion week, while being forced to spend millions of dollars on tanning salons and Arby’s and all new science textbooks explaining how the universe was created by Jesus one rainy Saturday in 1253, this crack-baby clan all the while collecting graft from the developers who proceed to raze Tribeca to create a combination parking-lot, casino and megachurch.

Oh why do I bother.

Does anyone know if there’s a legal way to excommunicate a family member? If I were Jewish I could sit shiva and pretend they were dead – Jews are much more organized about these things – and I do have a low stool and I don’t mind not bathing for a week and I’m never that big on frivolity generally. So I guess it’s an option.

But – HOW? HOW, G-d? When a family member with a gay brother actually CHOOSES out of all the dozens of candidates a “just-plain-folks” demagogue with no integrity, let alone vision for a better Toronto – a homophobe and a racist and a woman-hater – what do I say, do, how do I move forward? How do I greet them the next time I see them? Do they think it doesn’t matter? Do they just vote for someone cause they LIKE them? Do they even understand the issues, let alone the spin?

I PROPOSE: All citizens must pass an exam before voting, showing that they have sufficient intelligence, knowledge of the political system, and in-depth understanding of the candidates’ views.

I will administer the test.

I will also examine their knowledge of opera, make them recite their favorite passage from “Love in a Cold Climate”, then have them explain the theory of evolution via natural selection.  Once through these hoops, I’ll issue them a one-time licence.  It’s going to be a tight timeline.  But really, people.  Voting was intended for the EDUCATED!  Get with it, shmooshed-up Divine-Sarahs!

So, that’s my proposal. Your visit has been a great comfort. Now excuse me. I have to talk to G-d.

“yitgadal t’yitkadash…”