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)

The End of My Long Hiatus +PLUS+ Str8-tards should just STFU!

text-manipulateDid you miss me?

?????

Come on, dudes.  I’m just looking for a standard portion of totally unwarranted validation here, so I can feed the ravening beast of self-esteem.  You know?  So stop making such a bernie-sanders out of everything.

Well, then. Poor Bereft You, aching with the manque de moi, staring at those used syringes and pre-mixed speed balls, praying for an overdose and that final passage on the Good Ship Lollipop – I do feel your pain.

(PRO TIP:  Be sure to have some old-style double-sided razor blades and a bottle of Percs handy, in the case the speed ball turns out to be just as much crazy-ass fun as the last one, thereby feeding your delusion that your life is not a fucked-to-Kingdom-come bomb-site, but a perpetually self-renewing gay-day pass to Canada’s Wonderland that you share with Athena, your personal purple Unicorn.  

Oh, yeah, don’t forget to run a warm bath.  You’re welcome!)

Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me.  For it’s been weeks since I posted here, after a veritable golden shower of inspired scribbling that will serve perfectly as the main corpus of my roman à clef-style autobiography and magnum opus, Runs Like A Girl.

Oh, boy oh boy oh boy!  They’re gonna eat it up in Des Moines!  All of it!  Eat it up like friggin’ corn dogs and red-eye gravy!   And I wanna tell ya, it’s a very, very happy camper called Dave who’s whackin’ off while fantasizing about his own personal five minutes of man-meat-drenched fame.

With the title of my life-story mind-mapped in its entirety, in part thanks to a couple of handy apps I downloaded from Google Play —“Trudly”, which takes your family tree and reworks it so you can plausibly pass yourself off as the 1972 love-child of Margaret Sinclair and some coked-up stud from Studio 54; and “Obaminator”, which pushes random insulting versions of “Obama” to your cell phone so you can intimidate those libtards on Buzzfeed—only the tedious transcription plus the creation of the actual text remains to be outsourced to an underfed, resentful Third World laborer.

That is, assuming there’s a feisty young Ahmed or Haizan with a typing hand and a few fingers remaining in any of the –istans who isn’t double-booked modeling for GAP or too busy figuring out how to wire his suicide bomb to his iPhone 5.

I tell ya, the global search for available slaves is getting so competitive, it’s hard to resist venting my annoyance with a nice, hard boot in the face to the Islamo-terrorist who polishes my shoes at Union Station.  So I don’t resist!

I mean, it almost takes the fun out of flying to Mumbai, rounding up a busload of civilians for “call-centre work”, shoving them into a concrete bunker containing a pile of un-sewn blue jeans, pointing a machine gun at them, then locking them up overnight with a couple of Happy Meals and setting fire to the place.

What burns me is I only included the Happy Meals ’cause it was women and kids. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s wasting perfectly good food.

Anyhoo, now that I’m no longer lightly beaded with sweat from laboring over my title, I am well disposed to begin Venn-diagramming my latest, in fact, my only, contribution to the literary schwa that is self-help literature, provisionally called:

“I’m OK, You’re a Retard:  Why White Str8 Males
Have WAAAAAY Too Much Self-Esteem and
Why I’m the Gay to Deal With It, Bro!
Yo!”  

Oh, stop.

Oh, it is not.

Really?  You think so?

Well, believe me sincere when I say that the fun never pales when it comes to watching you squirm with discomfort as I fish for a compliment.  But Dude – you just have to remember:

Never, I mean jamais, I mean Nuh-nuh-NEVER forget how good I am to you.  Ja, OK? Bitte sehr please??

Which segues like the grinding of unlubricated gears to the REAL topic of today’s post, namely:

duct-tape
Fig. 1:  Shutting the fuck up:  Correct placement of Duct Tape

SHUT THE FUCK UP, WHITE STR8 DUDES
(a.k.a. Str8-tards)!  (Fig. 1)

Yeah,  you heard me.  SHUT THE FUCK UP,  ’cause no matter where I roam online in my hunger to hear the IQ-destroying, toxic talk radio that is the “Innernet”, white straight guys are the static.

HSSSS! CRCKLLLLE! BZZZZZ!

Static!  Sound and fury, and oh boy, the fury – signifying nada.  Niente.  Gar nix.  They out-pontificate Pope Francis – shout-out to Francine, BFF!  Love ya, girl! – and they out-entitle – hmm…

I’m stumped, cause there ain’t no one more fucking entitled than a white straight male.  To wit:

We have Gay Pride?  They’re all worked up.  They gotta have Straight Pride!  Down with the oppression of the one human class who’s never actually suffered any, and down down down with one nano-second of paying attention to anyone but these spoiled-rotten rejects from privatized childcare.

I want to marry my partner?  Nuh-nuh-NO!  That’s not traditional!

I’m gonna take this real slowly for you:  Equal marriage is just as traditional as traditional marriage. It’s the same institution of marriage, get it?

See what I mean?  Dumber than cum!

As for your comment that equal marriage means we’ll all be hooking up with our pet hamsters in mass ceremonies and fucking dogs in the town square, I have only one question:  Have you taken a good look at your wife lately?

Str8-tards, there’s more women available for you because of gay men!

But instead of thanking us, you sit there in your soiled bathrobes, mouths glowing orange in the dark from powdered cheese and masturbating compulsively as you post misspelled comments online about fags and socialism.

DUDES! Get out and objectify some piece of tail!  Now!

Surely it’s no secret that the online static is all about male bonding; the actual content is just a good old stinky red herring. (Notice how they always go off-topic? Exactly.)

Str8-tards care about only one thing:   that other str8-tards see how MANLY they are <scratches balls, farts>.

It’s the VR edition of hangin’ out with their bro’s at Fred’s Garage and Live Bait, where they can snicker at the Sports Illustrated calendar and tinker with their camshafts.

But I bet you a triple-triple at Timmies that all you’d have to do with some of these hammer hawks is bring ’em  home, sling ’em a couple of beers, and they’d be down on all fours sucking dick faster than you could say “pedophile hockey coach”.

I’ve written about these Geezer Libertarians before.  But now I’ve reached the tipping point.  I tell ya, I’ve had it had it had it up to the very tops of my Louboutin pumps – the ones with the plexiglass soles and nine-inch heels that I wore to Pride with my chain-mail jockstrap, and you gotta admit, it’s a look! – with the stupidity, the ubiquity and the iniquity of the belly-scratching, Fox-watching, wind-breaking, closet-casing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, all-denying, all-knowing, asshole-speaking white male str8-tard-iverse.

And there’s only one way to deal with it.

Luciano?  Take a memo, baby!


MEMO
TO:  All Str8-tards
c/o the Str8-tard-iverse.

Hey, Str8-tard!

Are you gay?

First, look down and locate your penis.  I’ll give you a few minutes.

Ready?  OK.  Is it hard and in another guy’s mouth?    Are you now, or have you ever been, ejaculating all over another male’s pink, gaping hole?

Check your left nostril:  Is it shoved half-an-inch deep onto a bottle of amyl nitrate?

Have you recently tag-teamed a barely-legal twink (proof on file) with the other members of your all-male show-tunes choir, “The Sondheim-ites”?

Was there ever a night where you got trashed on girl drinks, acted out the entire party scene from “All About Eve”, then faked a suicide attempt?

Have you ever attended Wagner’s Ring Cycle at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden dressed in leather harness and chaps, and sporting a butt plug that doubles as a puppy tail?

Are you holding crumpled, autographed programs from every city in Madonna’s most recent world tour?

If you answered NO to all of the above, I’ve got news for you: You’re not gay!

So SHUT THE FUCK UP about gay rights.   Next:

Are you a woman?

Look at your chest :  Are you at this moment nursing a minimum of one infant?

Do you take to your bed with “the vapours” every lunar cycle?
While in bed, do you hug one of the many adorable stuffed animals to hand because they care?

Does your boss chase you around your desk brandishing a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, while you simultaneously make half his salary cause you were passed over for promotion?

Have you recently, or ever, been the victim of an “up-skirts” video prank?

Do you wear your hair in a girlish, Marlo Thomas-y flip, and was there, last time you checked, a vagina between your legs?

NO?  You’re not a woman!  Congratulations, dude!

SHUT THE FUCK UP about women’s issues.  Furthermore:

Are you black?

Turn out the lights and look into this mirror.  Can you see your eyes, and only your eyes?  Now smile. Exactly.

Do you find yourself from time to time craving a mess o’ grits and collard greens?  Jerk chicken?  A bit of man-pussy on the D L?

Look at your skin:  Is it in any shade of brown from Lesley Uggams upward (see “turn out the lights”, above)?

Do you experience an irrepressible urge to get shot while at a full stop at the traffic lights?
Do you find yourself spontaneously rioting in economically-depressed urban centres due to centuries of oppression?

Do you use, in your casual, day-to-day conversation, terms such as gangsta, fuck that shit, homey and bootilicious?

Do you have, or have you at any time in your sorry life had, rhythm?    NO?

Then you ain’t black, muthafucka.  SHUT THE FUCK UP about Black Lives Matter.  

Just SHUT THE FUCK UP.

One, two buckle your shoe, three four SHUT THE FUCK UP.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Why did the chicken cross the road?  To SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Knock, knock.  SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was the best of times, it was the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Romeo, Romeo, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Oh Jerry,  let’s not ask for the moon.  We have the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Get the idea?

And never, I mean NEVER – you know.


BONUS QUOTE:

Seen on “Living Blue in a Red State“, a Facebook page devoted to keeping the discussion going around Liberal values:

“Scientifically speaking, punching Donald Trump in the mouth
would be considered fisting.”

Monday Man-Crush –OR– How to make a Libtard hard! Top 4 most jaw-dropping Justin Trudeau pictures ever, revealing his Canadian secret of success that is so awesome! Unbelievably??! cute!!?

trudeau-un
How to make a libtard hard?  The look is bemused vulnerability. (Justin, baby?  Answer the phone?)

September 2016

It’s my birthday, and I am donning my tightest skinnies – no Kleenex-stuffing necessary, thank you very much, first in line – plus my “Only Gay In The Village” red sleeveless top in preparation for my man-crushing on this week’s and every week’s hunka hunka burnin’ PM,  Justin, The-Person-Called-Trudeau.

With a bitter yet achingly triumphant shout-out to George Clooney for blocking my relentless barrage of sexts over the past 12 years – manly as your stubbly chin and smokey voice may be, you have nothing on the taut muscles, tousled hair and houri eyes of May I Call You Justin, every gay male boomers’ – goomers’ ? – wet dream.

trudeau-p
Justin – just one more button?  Please?

My swollen,  purple mangina trembles at the sight of our very own PM revitalizing Canada’s brand at the U.N. with his pledge of liberal lashings of humanitarian aid;

Only JT could tumesce my beaver-cleaver with such authentically awful straight-guy dancing as first PM in history to attend Toronto’s Pride Parade—which just shoots the tragic want-so-bad-the-cock-I-cannot-have longing right off the charts.

And at the risk of being TMI about things, I’ve popped such a libtard bologna-pony as he smiles at Syrian refugees, and – aw, shucks, don’t think badly of me – leaked just a little drop, or maybe two,  of pre-cum into my Stanfield’s Y-fronts (available by mail-order in “one-size-fits-all” granny pant version, white only, and not in Québec, je suis so fucking désolé) as he strutted arm in arm with that steamin’ cup o’ hot, hot chocolate called Barack Hussein Obama.

And I don’t mean Nesquik, dudes. That’s kid stuff.  I mean Ghirardelli bittersweet, the finest grown-up America has to offer.

syrian
What does a red-blooded Canuck say to a refugee?  “Welcome”.

Well, that’s what a Canadian thinks; that’s what anyone but an American thinks.  Barry, if you’d been Canadian, if you’d made it to Prime Minister, it would have been business as usual, but we would have fairly bust a collective gut with pride for our black, brilliant, witty, eloquent leader, our model father and husband, the guy who really WAS ready to answer that 3AM phone call, our trophy PM, the embodiment of that dream that is not just exclusively American.

Instead?  Your prime function wasn’t to function. It was to shine the Klieg lights on the tumbleweed-infested badlands of darkest America, to turn over those famous metaphorical rocks and watch as the creepy-crawlies came scuttling out, squinting, Trump-ballots in hand.

Whatever insects have instead of hands.  (Mandibles?  Yuk!)

trudeau-obama.jpg
My fantasy threesome involves Barry, Justin, a  tape measure, and a pizza delivery gone very, very wrong.  ( JT –  you make my mouth water like an amuse-gueule at Scaramouche, but seriously? Brown shoes at the White House?? )

You shoulda been dancing in the streets, Americans; held an eight-year New Deal shindig to which everyone was invited, rich and poor, black and white; where everyone could talk and everyone would listen and every small-c conservative would pop a boner for Barack.

Instead, white str8-tards everywhere rattled the bars of their playpens and spent eight-years screaming  SOCIALISM! eight years badmouthing, lying, sulking;  eight long years wishing that their new-born little brother, the guy who was taking attention away from THEM, could just – lose the birth certificate and disappear.

America, there’s nothing like you, that’s for sure.  What can we say about a country so resentful of its own self-made elite class, a country that beats its gorilla chest and bellows about the American Dream—then spends eight years playing who do you think you are?    

harper-un-joke
Harper was the punchline; we were the joke.

Tant pis.  The only grumbles you’ll hear in Canada these days come from those permanently disaffected overgrown white heterosexual males whose clock is stuck somewhere around grade 9 — Stephen Harper was perfect for them; his affectless, droid-like style barely concealing the simmering resentment of the least-liked kid in school — the Libertarian Geezers  who still think ‘politically correct’ is a current discussion, and who need the company of other similar geezers to give a little lift to their fleeting, sponge-y hard-ons.

But at least most of them are old.  I figure all we really have to do is stall until the geezers are gone to dust and the new generation is in power.  JT is an avatar of that new optimism.

So here’s to my Monday Man-Crush: the so very not-regular guy who reaffirmed that being Canadian is just about the coolest damned thing there is to be;

Justin Trudeau: who touched me in my secret place and made this libtard hard.

trudeau1
“Dude, who you callin’ a libtard, eh…?”