Say it actually does happen. Mayor Robert Ford.Whereas Heather Mallick (is she a real slut/souse or one merely in her own perfervid, Scarlett O'Hara-esque mind?), late of the Globe and Mail, late of the Ceeb, yammers on and on and on and...
The angry, pink-faced man with the oversized head is our mayor. We, Toronto, gave him his landslide.
Voting for Ford is like sleeping with someone to get revenge on your spouse. It seems like a good idea at closing time, which is what an election is. Last call, and you neck down your last shot of good cold vodka. “Sure, whatever,” is what you say to everything said to you. “I hate streetcars too!” And you leave the lounge of the Empire Hotel on the arm of some big guy.
It is Oct. 26, the day after the election, and you wake in a hard, unfamiliar bed. Your eyeballs are congealed chip fat and your contact lenses have gone crispy. Your liver is en route somewhere. You appear to be missing a tooth. And there's something in bed next to you. It is the sweaty, beer-smelling oik from the bar last night.
Of course, you'll say what you always say, “As God is my witness, I will never ever do this again.”
You won't have to, Toronto. He's there for four years.
Update: She "was sittin' in the lounge of the Empire Hotel/She was drinkin' for diversion..."
Instead of The Toronto Star, wouldn't Letters to Penthouse have been a better forum? Now I have to go take a shower.
Post a Comment