I like to play this game: Would you rather have lunch with Rob Ford or Justin Bieber? Obviously, Mayor Rob Ford…right? I don’t hate him as much as you people, my fellow Torontonians, as his shenanigans have increased traffic flow to my little blog with google search terms like: Ass-grabbing, fat mayor of Toronto who ate the gravy train while smoking crack and eating KFC. My fertile imagination could never fathom creating a character so amazing. I would actually love to hang out with Rob AND his bro for an afternoon of drinking beers, eating wings, and shooting the shit. Good times. So much fun would they be, unlike the Biebs who would probably pout and slouch in his leather diaper pantaloons, scratching the scabs off his stupid tattoos and never looking at you in the eye whilst he complains about his greasy chicken fingers. He is 10 gallons of menstrual berry douche water poured into a 12 ounce can of Red Bull. I have an irrational hatred of him that far exceeds your somewhat rational disdain of our corpulent mayor.
So judgey wudgey are people. So what, a little a crack. Obviously he’s not doing so much of it that is it detrimental to his physique. Seriously, people, do you really care that Rob Ford’s brother, Doug, was a hash dealer in high school? WHERE DO YOU THINK THE HASH YOU HOT-KNIFED IN GRADE 10 CAME FROM? Your mom? No, it was distributed from the drug lords in South America to the good citizens of your hometown, the people who ran small businesses like car washes, chicken shacks, and nail salons (watch some Breaking Bad, people) and then funnelled to enterprising youth like Doug Ford who sold it to ALL of you so you could get high in a kitchen party on Saturday night. And guess what? He didn’t have to get up at 5 a.m. to deliver the Globe and Mail like you did to make thirty bucks a week. THAT is what I call smart hockey.
I saw this picture on Reddit last week of Rob Ford and his jubilant politico cronies that made my heart cry with Jesus-like compassion and yes, even love. Look at those bitches clapping and laughing like the prom scene in Carrie and then to left there is Rob, all alone, sullen and out of place…I just want to take him under my soft, downy wing and wipe the stress sweat from his forehead and introduce him to Smashbox Photofinish green primer from Sephora and take him to my favourite restorative yoga class where the smell of lavender essential oil candles cuts out the wafting fetor of SBDs. And THEN we can go out for a bucket of chicken because fuck yeah, KFC is awesome:
I want to squeeze all the so-called evil out of him! I do so much love a fat man. AND I don’t care what y’all with your righteous lawn signs say about bike lanes and no casinos, I think he had a valid point on both of those issues. Casinos bring in both revenue AND Tony Orlando! Also your visiting relatives from Minnesota will have something to do like play slot machines while you go biking on the Martin Goodman trail to Cherry Beach to get a quick blowie in the high grass. Which brings me to the point that bicycles are all very well and good for subversive traffic but if you are going to share the road with cars and trucks, you better follow the rules of the game, Pinko.
Here’s a quick rant before moving on to diet tips: As much as we want our city to be green and bicycle-friendly, it is not designed that way. The weather is shite most of the year and guess what, granola bar? There are cars and trucks that need to go places. Also as part of our transit system, on some of our busiest roads we have big lurching, slow-moving manatees, otherwise known as streetcars, that clog the arteries of traffic. Why does this antiquated system still even exist? This is not Tennesse Williams” New Orleans, this city is bigger than Chicago. They are awkward and mismanaged. When they are stopped you can’t pass them, when one breaks down, they all go out of service, lined up and hogging an entire lane of roadway. As a driver of a car, you have to be stealth like a ninja to get anywhere downtown. But noooo…they want more bike lanes to add to the combobulation of traffic because cars bad, bikes good.
I used to be a courier and rode a bike for a living. Never once in those days did I think I was equal to a car. One false move and I could be hurt or killed and so I rode DEFENSIVELY, with the understanding that drivers in vehicles have blind spots and other important things to focus on than my dumb, pimply rashed, lycra-clad ass. The other day, while I was driving in back of a streetcar on Queen Street East, just west of Broadview during rush hour, the fat fucking manatee streetcar hissed and farted and if you’ve ever seen Toronto streetcars, you know this is the special sound of a streetcar driver stopping the car and running into a Tim Hortons for a slash and then picking up a coffee which is by all means their right and no one should begrudge anyone of a donut, but it also means you can pass the car and go on your merry way. So I went into the right lane AT THE PACE OF YOUR GRANDMA IN HER WALKER, and slithered by the streetcar and then stopped at a crosswalk where people were crossing, I am not a dick, I did not run them over. I hear a knocking on my car and a cyclist rides up to my left and yells into my open window; “You cut me off!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you,” I said, which was true as I was watching out for pedestrians in front of me.
“You cut me off when you changed lanes, you should check for cyclists!” The cyclist is one of those ubiquitous sinewy middle-aged men who buys trail mix at the Carrot Common, you know the type. He participates in triathalons even though he has sloping lady shoulders and is probably a shite swimmer. He is laughably dressed head-to-toe Tour de France ensemble while his ugly navy blue suit waits for him in his office at his boring finance job. The only joy he and his shriveled testicles get is biking to work, obviously. Here’s a pro-tip, Captain Gear Geek, when you are out riding with the big boy cars, how about slowing down with the traffic when it is coming a halt and ANTICIPATE what the car in front of you is going to do which is obviously to pass a stopped streetcar. This whiny little asshole enraged me to the point where I wished I had knocked him over crushed his $5000 bike with my dainty Scion tire, but he sped off, weaving through traffic and over the bridge before I could even form the letter “F.” Entitled white man privilege motherfucker.
End of rant.
Last week from my Facebook newsfeed, I worried less (as in not one fucking iota) about crack-smoking Rob Ford than I did about GMOs and Montsanto and the Frankenfood causing diseases with all the pesticides, etc. I read all the stuff people were posting and really began to get freaked out. Wheat is one of the scariest deviations of genetically engineered food out there. I am not an alarmist type but this really bothers me. So I decided to cut out wheat for a few days last week to see how I would survive. Also what the hell, I will give up other things like fructose corn syrup. And Oreos. And cut back on cheese. And who am I kidding? I’m ON A DIET because I have a much-anticipated wedding to go to in 8 weeks and I need to fit into something in my closet and I want to look hot on Instagram in the context of an old lady cougar. I’m going to be wearing my disco shoes.
I hate when people talk about their weight and diets, it’s so boring. Hearing people go on about how many weight watchers points in a burrito, gluten allergies, master cleanses, etc, makes me want to force feed them globs of lard after I have duct taped them on top of a medical scale. When I was a teenager, I had cultivated an eating disorder that lasted a few years until it got tedious and unrewarding and I realized no one else really cares what you weigh, in fact they like you better fat and happy. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR DAILY CALORIE COUNT SO SHUT UP.
Because of my teen anorexia, a few rounds of disco diets in my twenties, and following the Zone a couple of times post-babies, I am awesome at dieting. It’s not rocket science and I read up on all the current new “facts” and it’s just hilarious. You are no longer just a plain old fatty anymore, instead your diet is causing “inflammation.” LOL! I just figure if you give up a bunch of shit that you were normally eating, then you will lose weight but no, they have to constantly put out new spins so you keep buying the latest books.
“You know giving up alcohol is key,” said Jesus (not that Jesus, my Jesus, Jesus of the Junction) when I told him I am relinquishing wheat for the sake of humanity and not having to wear Spanx in July. Jesus trains with a kick boxer and watches his carb intake like a little girl.
“Fuck that, Jesus, I give up alcohol for a month every January and sometimes in August and I can tell you, I will lose a quick couple gallons of water bloat but I will make up for my misery in ice cream. I need to focus on a cause and make myself believe I am doing something for the greater good like creating a better environment for our children and their children’s children,” I explained, trying to be earnest about my one woman wheat boycott, “Not drinking is dreadfully boring and inevitably leads to binge drinking and then a melancholia that can only be described by the Smiths in the song ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.”‘
“Alright then, you have a point,” Jesus conceded and then went on to talk about himself and some 24 year-old girl he’s been banging who he met at the gym, apparently she is on some Paleo fuckery diet and went from a size 10 to a 4 eating like a cavewoman, woohoo! He is such a perv to be dating someone 20 years younger but I listen to what he has to say and pay enough attention to realize that dried up berries probably fermented into alcohol that our hairy relatives enjoyed and therefore this diet will work for me.
Here are some pro-tips on how to lose weight and keep on drinking like that crazy mofo Rob Ford, he should go on it with me. I HAVE MY VICES AND I AM GOING TO WORK AROUND THEM SO HERE WE GO:
1. Your liver is not a mulit-tasker, it’s a man, it only processes one thing at a time. In order to avoid metobolic mix up, don’t eat when you drink. Plus you will get drunker faster. Win win.
2. A Caesar (or Bloody Mary if you are an ignorant, deprived American) makes a nice light lunch.
3. Don’t drink fancy cocktails made out of sugary mixes like margaritas and Bellinis, otherwise you will drink your way into Type 2 diabetes and that will be the end of that.
4. Instead, mix vodka with club soda and lime.
5. Drink a bunch of water every time you have a cocktail. Hahahaha, you will totally forget to do that so leave a bottle of water by your bed and try to remember to drink it before you pass out.
6. Beer also makes a nice light lunch but don’t drink that shite cloudy wheat beer because GMOs….and it’s crap.
7. Remember that drinking lessens your inhibitions and makes you break open the Goldfish GMO crackers when you pass by the pantry. Do not do this! Eat a carrot! Pro tip: If you encase a walnut in a Medjool date, it tastes just like a brownie…sort of. Close enough.
8. If you have a hangover because you drank too much and you must have a greasy breakfast because you are dying, then skip the GMO toast with the eggs and bacon and eat maybe half the home fries, this way you will avoid most of the “inflammation” that white carbs cause. By the way, inflammation is just a fancy term for bloat but makes you feel less ashamed. “I am inflamed because of all the GMOs,” you can legitimately say in order to avoid the cycle of self-loathing and feel like a victim of environmental toxicity instead of merely a pig.
Maybe that is Rob Ford’s problem: He is simply inflamed with GMOs. When you think of him that way, he is much less of a monster. All of us are inflamed, just some of us are more so. To paraphrase Morrissey: Some pigs are bigger than others.
Put that in your crack pipe and smoke it.