Know what cures the Summertime Blues? The National Post dogging Elizabeth May for “new-age health-fad urban legends” -in case you were wondering, yes, the hyphen does make it stodgier- and then dogging her again 24 hours later. Jonathan Kay literally had nothing better to do- there are pools, you know, Mr. Kay, pools you can swim in- than make two (TWO!) healing crystals jokes. And no, I don’t believe he has a “left wing friend” named Xopher.
Robert Fulford thinks the humanities need to cool off– which is odd, given his resume– but that’s probably because people have gotten tired of white men talking about white men painting their soul, and have started asking nonwhites what they think about white men and their souls. You know what? All this asking of the nonwhites and looking at horrible things whites have done forever is a religion. They don’t go fast enough. There aren’t any abstract-expressionist paintings. And worst of all? They made Fulford do this:
Men getting too much sun was a major theme at the Post this week. Paul Russell declared from a heatstroke fog that “It’s hard to define who’s a ‘Christian’, a ‘Lord’ or a ‘self-hating Jew'” – which might be true, but the main thing is that it sounds like the setup for a racist joke.
A recently sun-deprived Conrad Black draws a sinister comparison between politically motivated mass murder and tax cuts- which he’s all for! In a Faulkneresque stream-of-consciousness that I hope becomes his new approach to writing.
They say there’s nothing new under the sun. But inside The Sun, it’s a different story! What’s new is an apparent pilot project in rewriting great works of social satire. Ron Granatstein thinks selling the Toronto Islands is RIDICULOUS! So ridiculous, in fact, that he tosses all of his favourite ridiculous things into his ridiculous essay: nude beach! Gondolas! City council meeting on a merry-go-round! Did he think that Bob and/or Doug might accidentally read his article on the way to the Sunshine Girl?
There’s even more irony dripping off of Snobelen’s column from Saturday where he compares running a city to something everybody does: own a horse. Except there’s no irony, folks. Nothing teaches fiscal responsibility like horse ownership, something we’ve known since the dark ages. And the key to responsibility is compromise. Yet Snobelen seems unwilling to compromise on cutting every program and tax he can think of. The compromise has to be made by the taxers and programmers and borrowers, because they’re children who didn’t give up the dream of driving a Porsche to own horses instead. Like a normal, sensible adult would. He goes to the 31 flavour ice cream place in his summer bib-overalls, JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE DOES.
Oh, but the terrible comparisons don’t end there. Joe Warmington HITS THE NAIL ON THE HEAD by comparing the LCBO to a gangster who was eventually busted on TAX EVASION. My guess: the trick the LCBO could teach Capone is to pay taxes. No? How about to sell people a wide variety of alcoholic beverages from around the world following regulatory laws set out by the Province of Ontario? Wait, what? THEY’RE MARKING UP THE RYE? THOSE GOONS! Not only that, but every alcoholic in Ontario knows that the place is never open when you need it to be (3AM, say. Or 11pm on a Tuesday when I want to get hamskied but don’t want to pay bar prices. Or 8:30 AM on Saturday morning when my buddy TC is yelling “LIGHT IT UP!” and just playing Dare To Be Stupid over and over again on his phone). The orange juice drinking premier McGuinty wouldn’t know that, though. Did you know we pay more for booze in Ontario than New Yorkers? A probably still-drunk Warmington finishes off strong, ignoring the reasons people vote, how stealing works and the easy-to-do-fact-check-on the life of Al Capone:
Did you know that we can’t have this delicious vodka because of communism?
And did you know that you’re eating a lot of horse?
Horses that are forced to travel all over the world having horse death-fights, apparently:
I know I’d never be able to un-know what a horse death fight looks like, but at the same time, the part of me that’s a man really needs to know. Other things this article scared the shit out of me with are the nightmare drug PBZ which makes your bone marrow lazy, and something ominously titled “the slaughter pipeline”, which -as far as I can tell- was built specifically because Canadians are killing tens of thousands of horses every year.
Want to know what else is completely terrifying? Corey Mintz tells us that the country is terrifying after dark, when open space is replaced with bloodsucking insects. Did you know the country is a hellish landscape of Futurama, sunburns on the dock, mint juleps, transcribing interviews, vegetarian guests and conjuring the image of a barely-coherent Joe Warmington holding the Star in one hand and a bottle of overpriced Wild Turkey in the other, muttering “Fuck this gay shit.”
Speaking of shit Toronto journalists would like to fuck, did you guys hear about the 21 hour open mic at City Hall? On Wednesday, we were getting anonymous journopinionism about the city receiving threats, but by Friday morning, it was all “The marathon wasn’t good enough!” and “He said 5 but then it turned out to just be 3!”
Mammoliti, apparently, riled up socialists by calling them socialists. Also, Thomas Walkom proved that socialists forget that words exist:
He knows that “progressing back” is “regressing”, right? Or does Twitter make all of that some higgledy-piggledy new thing that we can’t understand and is terrifying?
Moreover: when I said that The Star was spending too much time trying to say “gravy” as often as possible, I didn’t mean for them to turn around and become Tales From The Crypt.
Maybe Hallowe’en is coming, though, because the Globe decided to scare five years off of my life by telling me that gambling addicts – sorry, “problem gamblers”- are signing up to get kicked out of casinos using facial recognition software. That Ontario’s Information and Privacy Commissioner is telling me this is even more “Come with us, over the hill” than I want to think about. Right? Shouldn’t a journalist be telling me whether or not facial recognition software being used by the government is a good thing? And why is it so creepy that she keeps calling casinos and racetracks “gaming facilities”? That’s something a robot would call it, right?
Speaking of identity theft, the Globe thought this week would be a good week to give this unbelievably ill-advised Margaret Wente “opinion” a second go, but this time around, by an Indian woman – because that gives your 100% missing the point vibe on SlutWalks some third world authenticity. It’s an incredible mirror-image of Wente’s article- where Wente zigs with a “Canadian women are overprivileged!”, Dhillon zags with an “aping the actions of Western, white, educated, middle-class females”. Ultimately, though, the message is the same: feminists don’t do that, and women have the right – no, the responsibility- not to be sexual objects at all.
By now, the entire world knows that Toronto elected a stupid, stupid idiot for mayor, and that his stupid, stupid brother said he doesn’t know who Margaret Atwood is. But as if things weren’t fucking horrific and sanctimonious enough, the Globe and Mail are writing songs about the whole affair. Because, you know, that helps keep libraries open: to keep telling stupid idiots that they are stupid idiots. Well, as an amazing special treat for you guys, I recorded my own version in the style of Bruce Cockburn.
In the spirit of keeping things late this week, here are the winner from NGN IV‘s caption content:
It’s a tie!
LOOKOUTCLEVELAND with “Scientists mate lobster with jack-o-lantern : News at six.”
AJSILVER with “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck would never be King?”