You know your life is pathetic when you're watching the Hallowe'en shows on daytime television. In my own defence, there wasn't much else to do. The weather was crappy, I'd already walked the dogs and this house is so small, it could almost clean itself. Well, that's a lie. I hate housework, but yesterday, I yearned for the big old house I once lived in and the five bedrooms to clean.
I'm so bored, I'm thinking of a career with Molly Maid.
Thank goodness for the political drama that is playing itself out on the all news channels. Afternoons, which were once filled with All My Children and lesbianic talk shows, can now be wasted watching Amanda Blitz's body swell.
Canadian news channels have more content than Wikipedia these days.
Who needs Joan Collins and Linda Evans, when we have the dueling blowouts in the form of Pamela Wallin and Carolyn Stewart Olson? Then there's Duffy, the walking puffer with his long-suffering wife, the nurse Heather, running interference with the press gallery. And Brazeau. I do believe Brazeau actually thinks he's on the Gong Show.
The Canadian political drama seems to have caused the sprouting of new celebrities. Once a Paul Martin cast off, Scott Reid has morphed into George Stephanopolis, dividing his time between Canada AM and eTalk! Mercedes Stephenson, a woman who looks young enough to date Justin Bieber, is providing the color commentary. And Chantal Hebert, looking forever like a permanent Hallowe'en costume, is explaining English Canada to English Canada.
All the controversy has brought a new spring to the step of Peter Mansbridge and the thin-lipped crew at the National. The ratings must be up two percent.
My head was so full of commentary from dime store lawyers, idle constitutional professors and one term political hacks turned communications experts, I thought my frontal lobe was going to explode.
Alas, there were clouds on the horizon yesterday. A sense of foreboding began to fill the hearts and minds of the unemployed. We feared the drama might somehow dissipate.
With the Tory suck and blow fest going on in Calgary, and the Senators honing in on closure, it seemed that the political tsunami was turning into a Pierre Pollievre wetdream. Thankfully, Paul Calandra didn't disappoint. If there was a comedy award for the House of Commons, the pizza king would win it with his curious defence of all things Stephen Harper. Yesterday was another classic display of pomposity not seen since Groucho Marx was vying for the hand of a rich dowager. All he needed was a tube of grease paint for his moustache and some lube for the other end.
I felt a Cole Porter song coming on:
So in love, so in love, so in love, am I with you (Stephen Harper).
And then out of nowhere came the penis head that walks like a boob. Rob Ford was riding in on a cloud of crack cocaine caught in the high drama of drug dealers, football and daddy's money. The only thing that was missing was the Harley.
"Get off my property," he cried sweeping the media off his step, his little pink face growing like the erection he wish he had but has lost, due to performance enhancing drugs. And then it was on, the chase down the Kingsway with Ford in an SUV resembling the hapless O.J.
Too bad the constabulary had fingered his faithful companion, Sandro, who was taken into custody and couldn't drive him. It would have been too perfect. Evil was about to take a holiday.
Police Chief Bill Blair could barely contain his glee at times. I actually thought I saw him muffle a gawfaw as he laid out volumes of photos of the Mayor looking suspiciously like a character from Jay and Silent Bob, weaving through fast food parking lots and making mysterious deals in the johns of his neighborhood's finest convenience establishments.
The Toronto Star newsroom exploded like too many burgeoning condoms at an orgy. Selfies were posted on Twitter. Backs were patted and reputations were finally restored. No matter that Gawker had the video first.
We're Canadian, eh? The Star had the Toronto angle.
Reporters at Toronto City Hall were beside themselves. Hallowe'en at City Hall would not be the stuff of transit committees and planning sessions. Instead, it would be a day of shouting "will you finally resign?" to the man in the over-sized George Richards' ensemble.
When, pundits asked, did the villain Rob Ford have time for the business of the GTA between drug deals and football games? They didn't have to look far, only scour the 400 pages of evidence. Rob Ford is a multitasker. He can buy drugs and watch football at the same time.
Ah, the bliss for a shut-in, unemployed video gamer who was able to do absolutely nothing yesterday but surf between Blitz, one of the many Marcias at CTV and the multicultural bingo callers at CBC.
It was a day like no other. A day that would go down in infamy.
A day that gave meaning to my useless, unemployed existence.
What will daytime have in store for me today?
This morning, as I contemplate a visit to the gym or the grocery store, I can barely contain my excitement at the prospect of one more round of ridiculousness. Only carnage at the Chuckwagon races in Calgary could make my life complete.
Between Duffyleaks and the Ford saga, the meals and beds will continue to go unmade.
The life of a Daytime Diva will be, once again, brimming like an old fashioned Maxwell House coffee cup.
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