Proving political comment need not be dry, the often hilarious Heather Mallick, in the Toronto Star, imagines how Toronto will feel about “waking up” with a suddenly, incredibly, apparently landslide-bound wild-card wild-man mayoral candidate in office:

“…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….”

(“Mallick: Waking up with Mayor Rob Ford,” Toronto Star, September 20, 2010)

(Apologies to the rest of the world for being Toronto-centric.)


Proving political comment need not be dry, the often hilarious Heather Mallick, in the Toronto Star, imagines how Toronto will feel about “waking up” with a suddenly, incredibly, apparently landslide-bound wild-card wild-man mayoral candidate in office:

“…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….”

(“Mallick: Waking up with Mayor Rob Ford,” Toronto Star, September 20, 2010)

(Apologies to the rest of the world for being Toronto-centric.)

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Professor, School of Journalism; Senior Fellow, Centre for Free Expression, Ryerson University