Tag Archives: Rob Ford

The Art Of Modern Living 2014 Edition


You got to feel sorry for January, not only is it FUCKING FREEZING, it carries the guilt of all your white carbs and liquor on its cold bony shoulders. Then it’s forced to down all that hot lemon water you insist will atone for your slovenly sins. By the 7th, January’s puckered up sphincter is ready to bear down on some wings and beer, so don’t kid yourself with your resolutions. Maybe you shouldn’t put so much pressure on poor fragile January, you should spread out your virtuous game plans throughout the year in fits and starts so it all evens out.

I will not lie, today, January 3rd, I dusted off my blender this morning to make a fruit smoothie, and it was good: Frozen wild blueberries, pineapple, a banana, coconut milk, and a heaping spoonful of hemp powder. After this year’s Orgy Week, I feel like I am dying. I literally lay around watching episode after episode of “Six Feet Under,” (how appropriate) and somehow in the process my back went out, which was annoying as fuck! I could hardly get up to fill my wine glass. You take your health for granted until something happens and then you realize what douche you’ve been to yourself, TIME TO SMARTEN UP, LAZY HO.

5 days later it’s a bit better now. I’ve been popping pain killers and blasting it with the jets of the whirlpool at the gym. It’s a slippery slope, this ageing process, so I better join all the January yahoos and stop the insanity because the ability to consume your weight in cheddar is nothing to be proud of.

So today I made a smoothie, and tomorrow I will make another one, this may or may not last but I will take it one day at a time. That’s all I resolve to do for January, I am but one little soul looking for higher purpose, and I will do it one blender drink at a time. Soon I might even add some kale. I am bad ass like that.

But I know you love your New Year challenges, so I have some suggestions for you just in case you haven’t thought of your own or are heading down on the wrong path of starvation and over excursion. REMEMBER, IT IS NEVER TOO LATE FOR SELF-IMPROVEMENT. Here are some for you to consider:

1. Don’t bother with that fucking “Master Cleanse” that you heard about from your cousin/co-worker/neighbour/friend-on-Facebook. It’s a starvation fast where all you drink is lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper for 10 days until all that is left of you is hysteria and adrenaline. It’s so 2008, I don’t know why people keep doing it in this day and age UNLESS you are adding bourbon and calling it a cocktail. I know your tricks and I know you aren’t doing this because you actually believe that musclehead fairy tale that your colon is spackled with 10-year-old pork chops, it’s 2014, the Earth is round, bitch. Yes, your liver is a dumpster of hazmat whatnot BUT THAT IS ITS JOB. It wants to collect junk, otherwise it gets bored and starts bugging your spleen for activities. Your spleen is busy filtering blood, doesn’t have time to entertain the liver, so keep it on the payroll. Besides, you don’t do this “cleanse” because you give a shit about the quality of your innards, you do it because you want to drop some fast weight, let’s not kid ourselves.This might work for a week but you are going to gain it all back and then some because your body feels shocked and betrayed so it will just go into hoard mode and with vengeful silence keep all your ridiculous gluten-free muffins packed tightly into your fat stores because you are a big meanie starvator. I just saw my friend who lives in London over the holidays and he looked fit and trim, he had lost twenty pounds in AUGUST…yes you can do it any time of year, and guess how he did it? HE JUST CUT BACK AND WORKED OUT MORE. Yes, there’s no secret of belly blasting miracle food, the PROTIP: Just stop eating and drinking so fucking much AND….

2. Join a gym! Yes, I condone this any time of year because every gym needs fresh new meat, especially mine which is over-run by family-types, hapless toddler dads and their Lululemon wives. The caveat is that you actually have to go and not just into the shower and steam room. I am charmed by people have their little fitness goals like running a marathon or signing up for one of those muddy obstacle course races. It’s adorable to see you all working your butts off like your life depends on it.  You will need all your agility so you can come over and help me take down my Christmas tree because I am still recovering from my brie wheel injury and fuck knows if this limited mobility will go on until February. Just try not to get carried away and turn into a piece of gristle, and PROTIP: Those Tough Mudders DO NOT make charming Facebook profile pics, the thumbnails look alarmingly like they’re from a Japanese bukkake scat website, vom.

3. I am so in need of this resolution, for once in your life just finish what you sta

4. Try putting your phone down for 10 minute increments. All people do nowadays is fiddle on their phones even when they are with people. As a first generation iPhone owner, I have been guilty of this and everyone who used to scold me for being distracted is now on the finger-fucking bandwagon. I’ve had to cut back on this greasy habit since downloading that cocksucking  IOS7 and now I have no choice but sit in awkward silence because my battery drains its life by noon. I have seen things out there. For example, I took a streetcar ride downtown and because of construction, we were stuck in front of city hall for what was probably a couple of minutes but seemed like an eternity when sitting amid the dander dust of strangers. Everyone in the streetcar was staring at their phones like obedient robots, I was looking out the window. What did I see? A woman wearing a tshirt and stilletos as a complete ensemble…no pants…no underwear….being chased by a security guard. As she ran across the street in her high heels, the guard caught her from behind and grabbed her by the waist and held her arms back while she kicked her legs up in the air. As her meat flaps waved to us in the streetcar, NOBODY NOTICED BECAUSE THEY WERE ALL PLAYING CANDY CRUSH! Oh my God, if my phone wasn’t dead, that scene would have made the most amazing Vine.

5. Stop your kvetching on Rob Ford. By doing this, you are giving him more power than he actually has. He does not control the weather. The Christmas power outage was not declared a state of emergency by city council vote and because a “state of emergency’ wouldn’t have made a difference in repair efforts, get your shit together and read things. And your whiney rants just make me want to vote for him just to piss you off. His buffoonery has put us on the map. “But he’s just so embarrassing,” some lady in the locker room said the other day. If she is embarrassed by other people, maybe she should look inward, or even just in the mirror because the hair on her head looks like unruly pubes…why don’t people with frizzy hair use Moroccan Oil? PUT THAT ON YOUR RESOLUTION LIST; FIX HAIR, BITCH. I digress. You know that before RoFo, people in other places didn’t think about Toronto EVER. They think Cincinnati is a more exciting place. Now that they know we have crack and prostitutes, watch the tourism spike and others can marvel over all the construction, such gridlock, so amaze, wow, Tronno be awesome.

6. On the Facebook: Stop posting every cutesy Huffington Post/ Buzzfeed piece of shit blog post you come across. People who write these things are brain dead. Now don’t get me wrong, my favourite peeps on the Facebook are the prolific ones prattle on all day with their own original thoughts and observations, and if I didn’t have chronic blogarrhea, I’d be one of those people, too. They are socially engaged in the world and that is an admirable trait. But posting those lists like: Seven Things You Cannot Say Over the Age of 30 do NOT need to be shared because you snorted in condescension at the thought of a middle-aged antediluvian bitch saying “totes” for totally. I KNOW, RIGHT? I WILL SAY WHAT I WANT, FUCK YOUR FACEBOOK POST. Shit like that just grinds my gears. Although GIFs of kittens falling asleep sure are cute so yes, keep those coming.

7. Freddy: Get yer driver’s license. Mama needs a chauffeur.

8: If you are in a relationship and it is shit, will you please dump that person once and for all? You are not doing anyone any favours by sticking around. The pond is a barren place that needs more fish, so get out there and swim like a big boy. You know who you are.

I know all this self-improvement shit is a process, there are no quick fixes but you have an entire year to get on this.It’s going to take me probably til June to work off the cheese and bend over to put on socks. So take your time, and if you fail, just take a nap. No one’s judging, they are too busy playing Candy Crush. Happy New Year!




A Portrait of a Sad Clown


I know, Rob Ford…it’s not exactly fresh hell, more like “what else is new” kind of hell, but something has got to give with this spectacular fat fuck of a hot mess, like a coronary artery bursting firework display, you would think. But no, he keeps going, wheezing, sweating, snorting, squealing, urinating, text-messing, fake apologizing…. tralalala, he goes on and on, and gets to keep his job for smoking crack AND WHATNOT, but little old me gets fired from a dusty box store for writing a salty blog that my Polish mother reads, by the way, and laughs. And well, well, well, look what happened to me: a blood vessel burst in my left eye. Okay yes, I enhanced it a wee bit using a crude photoshop technique because a lady needs a filter for the baggy eyes and ruddy tear ducts but I assure you, I look like prize-fighter, holy stress balls.

And don’t get in my grill about me picking on fat people. Ford’s fatness is not the satiated corpulence of a man who enjoys mama’s good eats, I hope to marry a dude like that some day. Ford’s fatness is not jolly, his inflamed physique is the manifestation of his giant assed ego ready to explode its venom. At least that is what we judgey-wudgey citizens of Toronto project upon him.

I don’t spend as much time thinking about Rob Ford the way y’all do. I am thoroughly enjoying the pageantry of buffoonery. Nary a “tsk tsk” has crossed my lips. In all of it, I see his humanity AND! believe it or not, I think his blatant display of fuckery is healthy. At least you can see it! Most of these types in high places keep it more under control but they are equally as guilty of everything he does, if not more. Trust me, I’ve seen an underbelly far worse than Rob Ford’s and insidious evil is the most despicable in my opinion. Is he a sociopath? Or is his fatness the indicator that he eats his feelings, ergo he is human after all? Aren’t we all human? Or are some more human than others? One thing I will say: Rob Ford, crackass, jackass, drunkard, is still a better mayor than David Miller, just saying. Suck on that.

Will Toronto survive this? Yes,definitely. (That was me shaking the 8-Ball app from my i-Phone, I am an addict, that is a post for later) I wish you’d all just come to the dark side with me, kittens, and enjoy the spectacle.


So it’s been a full week since I got fired from the dust bin. I’ve had the weirdest cocktail of emotions over it. Not what I expected. I am most profoundly sad, but not the kind of sad that makes you want to crawl under covers and eat ice cream. I’m having a hard time eating at all, although me and Rob Ford would make great drinking buddies. The dank air of mirthlessness that hangs in my house (some other stuff of sadz going on) makes me want to get out and shake shit up. So I’ve been going to my gym like twice a day. Get this, I pretend I’m back at work and I go on the stairs that don’t end (I’m up to 20 minutes which is brutal)  and then I go in the iron room and pretend the dudes in there aren’t gay and I smile at them (gotta keep the mojo up) and then I lift 45 pound dumbbells from one side of the room to the next to simulate the haul of 5-gallon pails of paint. I slap my legs with 20 pound weights so that I maintain the bruise pattern on my outer thighs from walking down an aisle with two gallons in each hand. Then I throw little pieces of paper along the ballet barre and I bend over and pick them like they are paint chips that savage customers throw around willy nilly. This is a genius work out, you should try it instead of that elliptical you are so crazy about but is dumber than a side salad with a bacon cheeseburger. The whole thing is under an hour but simulates an 8 hour work day minus all the Fishermen’s Friend I used to suck on, I now think that was a metabolic booster so I’m going to take that up again. This morning I took a restorative yoga class, though, because everyone needs some gentleness and tonight is Dance Party! where a gay man will teach me to finally twerk proper.

On the second day after being fired, and after crying randomly in the steam room, that blood vessel popped in my left eye. This happened to me before, the last time I was profoundly sad, when I was blubbering over a dude who dumped me a few years back. It actually happened when I was in real estate school, taking some crazy advanced math class and I was so engrossed in solving some loan to value ratio that a little pop-sound went off in my head, I thought it my brain having an aha! moment, because I had just come up with the correct solution. But no, it was just a popped vessel and I didn’t know that the white of my right eye that had just turned a sinister shade of crimson. I went up to the teacher, a cute Armenian man named Norair, to show him my genius but instead of giving me a gold star, he was all like :”WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” when he looked at my face. I was so scared, I started shaking, I thought I had done something really stupid. Even if I seem like a badass rebel, I am not. I was not raised by wolves, which might be what you have thought all this time if you have been reading this blog. I was actually taught to respect shit and at that moment I thought my teacher who I had a slight crush on because that is how I roll, was admonishing me. But he wasn’t, he thought I had an aneurysm or something serious and took me to the washroom where he showed me my eye. And I was like “oh wow, freaky! But I feel fine…” and his hands were resting on my shoulders and as I turned around and he kissed me, his lips at first softly grazing mine, tickling me with his Armenian five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning, and then he tongue plunged deep in my mouth, our tongues probing, our bodies pressed together like a tightly wrapped shwarma…okay I made the kiss part up. I AM A WRITER, FUCK YOU! He did insist I go to a walk-in clinic in a strip mall down the street where they were all like, it’s really nothing to worry about, go back to class.

Anyway, everyone has that one person that took your heart and broke it and then maybe shat on it a little bit before flushing it down the toilet. You have to claim responsibility of that toxic relationship also, like maybe you were hurling out some projectile vomit and not aiming for that proverbial toilet on purpose and maybe deliberately shooting poison shrapnel in their eyes or their mouth or some other vulnerable orifice. It happens, but it’s a growing experience, your  clean up your side of the street (I got that gem of a line from Gwyneth Paltrow when Brad Pitt dumped, can you even imagine those two rubbing fuck parts *shudders*) and you move forward and make decisions how to handle it when you run into that person again. Well that dude I was blubbering about years ago in what was, looking back, AN INFINITE SADNESS, goes to my gym and has been all this time. So we have run into each other regularly. Sometimes it has been superficially friendly, not without tension, but mostly it has been a forced ignore, like dogs on the street who won’t look at each other. You should see Betty pretend a Rottweiller tied up in front of Starbucks doesn’t exist, her head rolls sideways into her fat scruff like a sleeping pigeon. Hilarious bitch.

Because the gym is a soap opera, I knew through the grapevine that he was married and had a baby recently  which was fine, I HAVE A DATE WITH A SOLID DILDO EVERY NIGHT, so I am A-OK. (My mama hates when I talk about sex, lol). But I lived in fear and dread of running into the family unit because it is bound to happen sooner or later. And how do you act and what do you say?

So the day after my blood vessel burst, my sadness was carrying me around like a good buddy, enveloping me like those ubiquitous Snow Goose parkas that we are about to be plagued with, hello winter. My gym has a bar and a forlorn ho needs a beer(s). And there he was, sitting his usual spot at the bar. FIGHT OR FLIGHT???? My mind shrieked because it’s like a hysterical fishwife, always questioning, my body sometimes has to shut it down by pretending it’s a dude and scratching its phantom balls like it doesn’t care. But this time my sadness piped up in its little sweet voice said; “Fuck It Purple (that’s an inside paint expression meaning: Go Girl, Who Gives a Fuck) just go sit beside him and talk to him and just don’t forget to breathe. You’ve got this.”

And so I did, and guess what, kittens, it was like taking a two hour piss after holding it in for 8 years! It was the best thing ever, my sadness even took off for a while, we had a couple of beers and laughed at Rob Ford. Get this: He went to high school with the Ford brothers! How cool is that? So many stories he has. It was easy and breezy and when his wife and baby showed up later, it was actually really nice to meet them. And if they noticed the burst blood vessel in my eye, they were kind enough not freak out over it.

So that was one good thing that happened last week and other than the that my sadness has transformed from a warm fuzzy parka into a scratchy mohair scarf. It’s annoying me now. Fuck It Purple, I’m going to have to take it off soon *scratches balls* because crying so boring. Let’s get some anger on, maybe in the form a a clown suit, and turn it all into a screenplay.

Aaaaand here is the best sad clown of them all…you were right, Gary:

Diet Tips for Drunkards


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.