mad as hell

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…”


Welcome, dear reader…

In Which The Author States His Case, Sets the Regrettable Tone,
and Outlines His Modus Operandi

In the ’70s, when it was still legal to open a window, the Howard Beales of the world did just that and cried, to anyone who would listen,

 “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!”

The nervous breakdown has evolved somewhat since then.

Now, in our hermetically sealed offices, measuring out our hermetically sealed lives and opinions with plastic coffee spoons, we are reduced to opening the symbolic window of the Internet and crying, as though to an echo chamber, “Why is nobody paying any attention to ME ME ME me me?”

What a come-down.

It is therefore with the hope of remedying this problem, namely, insufficient me-directed attention, that I begin to publish my various geezer-ish ramblings, wanderings, total non sequiturs, and out-and-out nonsense; not neglecting, of course, the instances both trivial and tremendous that have driven or do drive me to distraction; that have resulted, dear reader, in this, the food-encrusted bathrobe in which I spend my days, lapping gin from the dog dish and trying to get my crappy Kyocera Rise cellphone to function.

For I am old, desperate and without shame. At least, that’s what I think those lusciously muscular and definitely 18+ (documents on record) twinks who live in the opposite apartment are screaming at me.

To which I say: if you want “privacy”, dudes, try NOT renting a flat opposite some random perv old guy with binoculars, leaving the blinds up and taking off your Y-fronts.  Like, seriously?