Waiting For Three Ghosts

The box of wine is open, the ribs are marinating, the television is playing one of the best Christmas movies ever (I refer, of course, to Eyes Wide Shut), and I am sitting in my chair swigging brandy in a leopard-print housecoat with a pair of reindeer antlers.

Holiday traditions are important, right?

New Axioms

Fuck me, that was a tough beat.

I've been in a daze since election night, finding myself wandering around aimlessly like it's The Day After and we're all victims of a catastrophic nuclear war. It's probably good practice for the real thing, I suppose, in case my streak of bad luck continues and I don't get vaporized instantly.

The news from the transition team holed up in Trump tower over the last two weeks is enough to convince even the most lighthearted and well adjusted optimist to drink himself to death in the corner of a dark room, all while Hillary Clinton's popular vote advantage continues to grow and it becomes increasingly evident that she will still never be President despite amassing more votes than any of the white men to ever run for that job.

Jesus, an incredibly tough beat.

That is not to say that I'm convinced Clinton will join the ranks of George McGovern or Al Gore as one of the Greatest Presidents America Never Had, but when you consider that their failures just left us to contend with Richard Nixon and George W Bush it feels like they got it easy. Dick and Dubya were crooks and fools, offensive in their own right, but the clouds lowering on us this inauguration day are some horrifying new thing indeed.

To be honest, the results were less depressing for me than they were disappointing. I've long been an American Enthusiast who held that there was a trust - a faith - that came from the stirring oratory of Lincoln or Kennedy or Sorkin, that our neighbors may be zany from time to time but they were, on the whole, a genuinely good and well-intentioned people. "If there is hope," a much younger and more foolish version of myself once wrote a million years ago, "it lies in the voters." Well so much for that, ho ho!

As it happens, this election has bereft me of that trust, and I fear it has left me for good. I've lost the faith, it seems, and that's been the most disturbing feeling of all to reconcile. True, as the white trash descendant of other working class white trash, I'm not unsympathetic to the voters who felt alienated by a triumphalist Democratic campaign seemingly tone deaf to their experience....but to hitch their wagon to the star of a compulsively lying abusive egomaniac? It's unconscionable, and I am completely unable to empathize with anyone willing to throw their lot in with the Reichsleitung of the American Nazi Party.

In fact, it's become impossible for me to shake off the feeling that this is the twilight of the age of liberal democracy itself. Eight years of progress - and so much more besides - are about to be wiped out by the DC Chapter of the Klan, backed and enabled by hopped up little weasels like Paul Ryan and Reince Priebus. In all likelihood, we are living in what will be remembered - at best - as the start of a lost decade that will be the subject of books written for the next century...assuming the written word survives that long.

At any rate, the repercussions of this election will be felt by everyone. The world turns its lonely eyes to Justin Trudeau and Angela Merkel as perhaps the last vestiges of sanity and good government left in this world, but already synagogues, mosques, and black churches across Canada have been vandalized. Marine LePen is re-energized in the Presidential polls in France. The unchecked racial aggression unleashed after Brexit continues unabated as Theresa May sits at Number Ten and unprecedented, wide scale harassment of anyone who looks vaguely brown has exploded across entire continents. It's all coming apart at the seams.

Enough.

Enough mourning. Enough uncertain confusion. Enough complacency. I should confess something perverse to you now, dear readers, before we go any further: in addition to the depression and disappointment and malaise, there's a small part of me that's excited, aroused even; spoiling for a fight. The Bush-43 era helped me discover and define my own liberalism, and now some deep part within me has been given new purpose.

Perhaps it's an opportune combination of time, experience, and not caring if an aggravated alt-right shithead from Twitter wants to try and blow up my car (joke's on him, I don't own a car), or perhaps it's the potential to feel useful again. Whatever it is, I am suddenly energized. When Clinton was going to be the next President of the United States we stood on the verge of a new golden age in liberalism, but now it turns out we're going to have to go back to fighting for it.

So let's fight, then. There's nothing I enjoy more than a good righteous shout in the dark, and frankly the more outnumbered I am the better I feel doing it. It's time for courage, grit, and new battle cries. These people are either monsters or in league with them and they deserve nothing less than for us to hound them to their graves, oh yes indeed.

If There Is Hope, he wrote, It Lies In The Voters

[Editor's Note: Unfortunately we are unable to definitely establish the authorship of this piece as we have not been able to establish contact with Mr. Mills for several weeks. Our intern Alfonso was able to barter under a locked door with a sobbing man we assume to be the author for this Public Service Announcement, trading it for a copy of the National Enquirer, stale pizza, and fresh lube]

We have finally arrived, it's finally happening: After two years and about seven billion (!!!) dollars the General Election of the United States is upon us.

For a political junkie this is four years worth of Christmases and Birthdays all rolled into one. Cable news outlets have been perfecting their insane graphics packages for weeks, bets have been made, bars rented, and cigars cut. The lights, the sounds, the magic walls and interactive maps...to the wretched souls like myself who are chemically dependent on it, election night coverage is as satisfying as an addict's first hit of heroin or an Obsessive-Compulsive stepping into a NASA Clean Room.

I still retain enough human DNA to feel the same way about this interminable election as anyone else, and to be ready for it to end so I can finally sleep. And yet the end of this campaign still feels like the end of my entire way of life, the whole year has been building to this point and now it's come; soon it will be gone. It's going to be hard to imagine life without a new daily campaign scandal or feverish poll update...like suddenly waking in a foreign country where you don't have a home or a job or speak the language.

So I suppose wherever you find yourself tonight while the returns are coming in, cherish it. Let all the high definition mayhem and excitement fondle your primate amygdala and be dazzled. Hell, you should probably do your best to enjoy it since it might be the last chance we ever get to see one of these.

Make no mistake, Friend, the winner of today's Presidential election will either be an incredibly and uniquely qualified political professional with decades of experience or a deflated sack consisting of the worst Twitter trolls brought to life; the kind that spew Infowars-style nonsense about Reptillian body snatchers and declare all opposition either cucks, cunts, or "the REAL racists!". Whatever success the Trump campaign sees tonight - win or lose - will be the inevitable byproduct of a country full of nominally normal and reasonably intelligent humans, who simply can not be trusted as a society to hold rational conversations about subjects like guns, healthcare, or immigration. It no longer seems possible to have a serious and important conversation about public policy without at least half of the country threatening to murder or rape the other half.

This would all be fine, funny even, if it was taking place in some tiny, far flung eastern European republic with zany ways and a quirky culture, but America is too deeply embedded in the very heart of the rest of us for the effects to be detached and separate...to just be a silly tragedy that's happening to other people. I'm not sure I can live in a world where Donald Trump can win the Presidency. Surely such a victory would render the West irrelevant, and mark final decline of liberal democracy.

To be honest I wasn't sure a universe where such a blowhard could even get the nomination of major party deserved to exist, but at least it looked like he was headed for a thorough thumping in the electoral college then. Until a week ago. Now it's a crap shoot, good God.

Ah, but I'm jaded and cynical. The media circus is at full volume, the pundits have been out in force, and a thug like Donald Trump is now what passes for a politician.

If there is hope it lies in the voters. If. If you can vote in this election then DO. If you can't, then hold your loved ones close and stock up on canned goods. I, having spent the weekend preparing my body with vegetables, quiet meditation and prayer, intend to debauch to excess until I collapse, spent and exhausted (if this is the end of Civilization than I intend for it to be an ending with some magnificence - like the fall of Rome, if only those poor saps had perfected chemical stimulants and extra large nachos).

I'm going to need to get it all completely out of my system before I can start to rebuild my life and find new meaning, assuming there is new meaning to be found and we don't just wake up in the hellish reality TV show that would be a Trump Presidency.

If there is hope it lies in the voters, yes. But only if they vote.

Final Terrors

Yes, I admit that it sometimes takes me a month to pound out a quick update on the state of global affairs, but I have a good excuse: I've been putting together my Halloween decorations.


Meet Ted.
Say what you will about the fact that I'm a neurotic and antisocial drug-addled alcoholic with few prospects and no hope of ever leading a normal life, but I still know how to scare the shit out of people.

Children are terrified by his triple chins and beady eyes, which are ghoulish enough to make your blood run cold; adults are mortified at the prospect that he'll marry off their younglings to his new pussy grabbing best friend, Donald Trump. The cat is terrified every time his balloon head explodes.

Unlike the real life version - which is full of misery, human excrement, and the pompous ambitions of a sophomore debating team captain - my Ted Cruz is made up mostly of towels and string. The ingredients have been stuffed into one of the fat-guy suits from my closet 50lbs ago, and the head is full of hot air. I suppose in that respect it isn't completely different from the original (ho ho!).

It has been clear for some time that this election is so bizarre and beyond the realm of normal that the usual coping mechanisms - gin, cigarettes, relentless masturbation - simply can't keep up with the increasing ferocity and continuous intensity of the campaign. It seems that self destructive physical violence is required to keep from going completely mad. So I've myself a stress relieving punching bag and placed in my desk chair so it can dutifully phone bank for the Fascist candidate for President.

My God - is it not astounding? As soon as Ted "the principled morally righteous conservative candidate" Cruz endorsed Trump, down came the other shoe. Recordings of Trump talking about groping women (and a squadron of women corroborating his bragging) were perhaps the single most damaging events of this election, having finally shown white men in swing states that Trump has, in fact, been this offensive the whole time.

But it's not just the "locker room" talk that's tanking the Republican campaign: confusing and disjointed debate performances, a serious shortfall in organization and fundraising, and the propensity for Trump to latch on to something - Paul Ryan, Miss Universe contenders, the Washington Post - like a mad dog and shake until Kellyanne Conway can get Chris Christie to sit on him and calm him down, all contribute to the most self-destructive political behavior in living memory.

So the crowds are starting to thin out, and the staff are starting to disappear. There are still 16 days left before the election, but it's hard to see how Trump pulls the show out of its tailspin before it hits the ground hard and bursts into spectacular flames. The debates are now finished, and he's handily lost all three of them. His organization is pulling out of states where a Republican should be competitive, while Clinton is putting new money (at the end of October!) into places like Indiana and Missouri...and is polling within the margins in Texas even as I write this.

New, lurid stories of sexual assaults now flood the news everyday and Trump seems to have finally slipped over the edge, existing now entirely in his own dimension that not even his running mate or campaign manager or children seem to be able to see. No wonder the RNC has decided to stop spending money on him - mounting a desperate attempt to salvage the Senate and House instead, and many GOP candidates in both of those races are desperately trying to saw off whatever limbs they still have handcuffed to the Presidential ticket they have spent years building.

At least there's only two weeks to go; the home stretch of a 3 year long marathon. Then we can pick up the pieces of our broken hearts and American dreams, and chuck them into the fire along with the rest of this year's disappointments.

Rotten To The Core

Imagine having to go through life as Ted Cruz.

I mean really: Waking up every morning into a world full of people who hate your rotten guts, where your allies think the world would be a better place if you were dead and your enemies revile you so much they made Donald Trump their nominee for President.

It must be just terrible for your twisted reptilian brain to constantly spend time thinking about how all decent people cross the street to avoid eye contact with you, but will stand and cheer when you're eventually horsewhipped naked on the floor of the United States Senate, and knowing - deep down in the place we keep just for our innermost thoughts - that they're completely right to do so, and that you'll come crawling back for more.

What a goddamned Human Turdbag; the man has no backbone - no skeleton or structure to speak of at all. He's just a sack full of shit and grease and shame.

It must be even harder to go through life being married to him. Jesus, somebody's married to him!

I'm almost sorry for Heidi (or at least the kids). Their family life became a subject of lewd conversation after Trump set his tabloid-owning ratfuckers on their marriage. When Trump threatened to "spill the beans" (whatever that meant) and tweeted unflattering pictures of her, we watched her husband fiercely call Trump out as though he really knew how to play the role of a Great Protector. It must have hurt to watch an elderly father and grandfather get dragged through Trump's tabloids himself in the bizarre, feverish JFK conspiracy theory the Republican nominee repeated with delight.

Indeed, it must have made it a proud moment in the Cruz household every time Ted used his well-practiced steely eye on the camera and threaten to whip it out on national television over the latest personal insult from Donald Trump.

And surely it felt more than a little vindicating for the Cruz family to watch a Republican Convention full of hopped-up fascists and brain-dead D-list internet trolls jeer and boo as he struggled to save the shattered remains of his party's soul by encouraging them to vote their conscience - as if any of them had a conscience to begin with. He almost managed to emerge from that catastrophrovention as a doomed hero, giving the last dire warning before complete electoral defeat.

Ah! But the horserace has a tendency to turn heroes into sniveling villains and the certain doom isn't quite as certain now, so yesterday Ted Cruz oozed out of his obscurity of the past few months to endorse Donald Trump before presumably being sent off to be fitted with a gimp suit. Maybe this at least means Chris Christie is no longer the lowest bitch in the harem and can finally move out from under the staircase.

For the last of the unplucked Republicans this is the sort of betrayal they surely must have expected from the Human Turdbag. But his wife? His father? His children? How do you spend a year being subjected to the vilest insults from the vilest Presidential candidate in living memory and then pretend it never happened and everything is fine when there isn't even any political advantage to gain by it?

All this from within the party of "family values" to boot. Hah! There's more honor and family loyalty among starving rats.

You burned the bridges both ways, you fucker, and this is going to hound you. It'll hound you until the day you die and there's a bipartisan petition to dump your body in the sewer.

31

Today I enter my thirties in my own right. I know it's my birthday because in the last 24 hours Stephen Harper has resigned his seat in Parliament (after waiting MONTHS, I might add), Donald Trump continues to tank in the electoral college, and Anthony Weiner has been caught in yet another sext scandal.

There's no way those events just get randomly thrown together, all willy-nilly. This is the Universe's way of telling me that it may be cold and indifferent, but every now and then - every now and then - it's still good for a laugh. Of course, on the same day it gave us all of this it also took away Gene Wilder. So perhaps it's good for a laugh so long as it's a suitably nervous one.

It's been a rotten year, since the very beginning. I'm not saying David Bowie held the universe together but every day since his death has been at least a little shittier than the day before, and it's hard not to think the whole of existence just flailing out of control without his presence to steady it. There's no need to deny this, we all know it to be true.

Whether it's failing health, finished relationships, the passing of countless icons, the interminable rise of Donald Trump through the primary and the nonsense chaos of the general election campaign, or the growing malaise that comes from realizing that the new Star Trek movies are here to stay and that both MacGuyver and Lethal Weapon are slated for television remakes, it's hard to believe we are living anywhere other than the End Times.

So we have to take comfort in the little things that make each moment special, like hitting a patient friend at 100 yards with a water balloon by surprise in the middle of a summer's day, or a cheap but tasty bottle of Bordeaux. Personally, I'm getting through this tough period with deep prayer and introspective abstinence cheap drugs and the thought that after all these years and all of these essentially identical scandals, someone still lets Anthony Weiner have his own phone.

Fuck me, you might as well let a toddler run around with a stun gun.

I mean, honestly, how hard is it to NOT send pictures of your genitals to people? Especially when you're a has-been public figure married to a still-is public figure? Especially when you have an embarrassing and career-ending history of doing this exact thing? Especially when your very name is Weiner?

Jesus, maybe he's just trolling us. You know, building up hype for his new TLC reality show called Weiner's Schtick or some other dumb bullshit. The man needs to be put out to pasture.

At any rate, watching the former-future-Mayor-of-New-York-City casually fuck up yet again is exactly the kind of thing that's going to get us through 2016 (that, or more pictures of Bill Clinton kicking over-sized balloons on a convention stage), and God willing it'll either be better next year or Trump will win the election and none of us will be alive to make the comparison.

At any rate I suppose I will have a Happy Birthday.

Baited and Agitated

There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I've got to beware

So there I was: sitting in a kayak on a lake as smooth as glass with the ashes of a cigarillo slowly burning my swim trunks, spraying terrified seagulls with my high-powered watergun and laughing like a madman. Sometimes you have to get back in touch with nature to restore your vital energies, you know?

After the seagulls had all fled I found myself face-to-face with a great blue heron, the king of the lake, who did not look the least bit intimidated. I nodded at him, hoping to assure him that I sought nothing more than the merciless torment of the gulls, and he returned a look that said I probably didn't belong here. I was surrounded: to my right the screeching chaos of the birdbrain gulls smashing into each other as they fled, to the left the cool and calm hunter, waiting patiently for exactly the right moment to strike with total effectiveness.

Almost immediately the heron snapped up a massive fish not twenty feet from my paddle, and bit it clean in half before sauntering off. It was a damned majestic sight and it stuck with me as I drifted back to shore for fresh beer and a dip.

Don't worry, my lovely little devils - I haven't forgotten about you.

I've just needed a few days to recover. The first week of the General Election campaign left me jabbering like an imbecile and exhausting my supply of Emergency Bordeaux, the bottles I usually hide from myself and save for times of occasion. I needed to get out of the city and in some fresh air.

For most of the last four years I've been preparing spiritually, emotionally, and mentally for this campaign. I have predictions and charts and graphs covering every possible election-related topic from the history of the electoral college by state to estimating one's own blood alcohol level by the offensiveness of obscenities hurled at cable news.

I thought I was ready for it. I thought it was possible for someone - anyone - to be ready for it. Still I was left completely unable to finish basic sentences without shouting "Fuck!", at random intervals and at an uncontrollable volume while falling down in a fit. What fools we've been!

No more. Getting stoned in the sun and watching gorgeous women tan in white bikinis was exactly what the doctor ordered: This is going to be a disjointed mess but I am BACK, by God, and boy have we got some things to talk about.

The Democratic National Convention was relatively straightforward. It was never going to be as exciting as the Republicans', we all knew that, in the same way that a kitchen supply store simply isn't as exciting as a fireworks factory exploding underneath a kennel of puppies. Suffice it to say the Democrats managed to draw the kind of comparisons they needed: it was about Us, We, and The Team, not a gaudy cult of personality. There was enough hope and optimism to keeps jaded saps like me in love with the idea of America, rather than the doom and gloom weltschmertz and isolationist paranoia that makes the rest of us very nervous.

Clinton put in exactly the kind of safe, predictable performance we've come to expect from her and the convention laid out exactly why she's eminently qualified to be President. Not two days after the convention ended, like some time-delayed mind bomb, I found myself acknowledging the stunning revelation that I've actually come to like Hillary Clinton over the course of the two conventions in her own right, and not just in contrast to a man who only qualifies as a featherweight because the bloated, distended pig's anus he uses for a mouth is full of dense shit weighing him down. This woman is going to be President; she has to be.

And that is really all I have to say about the DNC, apart from how much we're going to miss Diamond Joe Biden when he's no longer the free world's coolest Uncle, telling us how things can be a Big Fucking Deal while slipping us a first beer and teaching us how to roll a joint. Tim Kaine seems too responsible for something like that but at least his aw-shucks personality is just as genuine.

So as the DNC wrapped up I thought about writing a piece about The Pivot - the changes to expect that now that the primary season is officially over and the campaigning starts in earnest. I thought I would be writing about changes in tone or the start of what will surely be the most intense air war in the history of paid advertising, or perhaps the hum-drum mechanics of horse-race politics.

When the first day of the general election began with the revelation that the wife of the candidate from the right wing values party of Genitally Obsessed Prudes had done nude photo-shoots during her modeling career which, in a twist of irony so delicious as to be sickening, may have been a violation of her immigration visa at the time (ho ho!), I was ready. Maybe I'd write a cheeky piece about my coming to terms with the near certainty that I either have or shortly will stare at nude photos of a potential future First Lady, or an ode to pornography for all of the gifts it gives us, or just a snide comment that he'd have to put a wall up around the East Wing of the White House if he won.

But before I could even set off, disaster: America's pungent corpse flowers are all blooming at once, the headlines say. Jesus, tell me about it.

It's a struggle just to keep up with the rapid pace at which Donald Trump fires new volleys into his own foot and reloads before firing again. Every time I start to write about the latest outrage some new thing pops up and knocks it straight back into obscurity.

There was the week long feud with the family of a dead soldier, during which a doped-up Ben Carson (which is to say, Ben Carson) demanded that the Khans be the ones to apologize, while Rat Fucker Roger Stone claimed that the family where members of the Muslim Brotherhood. Trump said that he, like the Khans, had made a lot of sacrifices for this country - which is true, I suppose...when you've got that much hot air in your head being a billionaire draft dodger probably feels just like losing your son to war. "I always wanted a Purple Heart!" the candidate exclaimed like a hyperactive toddler, as someone handed him the medal given to soldiers wounded in combat, "This was much easier."

Then he kicked a mother out of a rally and proclaimed that he hated babies, which I had to rewatch four times to make sure it wasn't the drugs or a stroke putting those words in my mouth. I know I try to be creative, but everything in that paragraph actually happened and I had to go for a walk to keep from choking on my own spittle.

Then there was the time he and his son said women allow themselves to be sexually harassed, and that strong personalities (like Ivanka's) simply don't submit to it. I'm not sure where that child fu-[The remainder of this paragraph has been withheld due to offensive language and legal considerations pending the outcome of Donald Trump's multiple sexual assault allegations, but can be summarized as: The author finds Mr. Trump's position on the subject incredulous and makes several speculative remarks about the nature of his relationship with his daughter. -The Editor]

After that it was no surprise he's pivoted to dangerous nonsense like claiming the election will be rigged against him and threatening to skip the debates. Dark shit like this is what fuels the wilderness survivalist types who want to wage a terrorist war against the federal government, and even as I write this I'm watching him pretend he didn't suggest America's collection of gun nuts take a shot at his opponent. You can run your company like a banana republic all you want, Donald, but you keep that shit out of it. Now he's saying that CNN's story on the scandal, which featured the spokesperson from the United States Secret Service saying they were looking into his comments, was just made up drivel to boost ratings. Mother of God.

At least Paul Ryan is standing by him, because the part of Paul Ryan's brain capable of independent thought has been removed and turned into a Trump Steak. Even after the Republican candidate for President spent a few days adamantly refusing to endorse the Republican Speaker in his Primary campaign - an egregious sin in the team-sport of partisan politics - Ryan's still meekly going along with everything he says and does. I find his comments ludicrous, offensive, and unworthy of America, he seems to be screaming with his eyes. But of course I support our party's nominee. Chris Christie and Paul Ryan must be fast friends by now, sharing the same closet under Trump's stairs, and one testicle between them.

Through it all, the polls - (rigged when they show Trump losing, of course) have the Republican ticket more or less collapsing. It looks like the Democrats have a real chance at winning Georgia, South Carolina, and Arizona. It's a five-point race in Utah and Texas (Texas! Pretty much the only state where Republicans can get any Electoral College votes!) and with any luck, a good Democratic campaign may unleash a truly devastating defeat and puts an end to the Sixth Party System.

This certainly seems to be what we're getting, at least for now: Clinton, Kaine, the other-Clinton and other high profile Democratic surrogates are everywhere, campaigning in places they'd probably fear to tread if this were any other election. A new entrant is getting in the game as independent but with the backing of some old GOP figures. Republican Senators and Congressmen are abandoning ship, and meanwhile Donald Trump goes to Michigan to fatuously sneer at the need for government regulations in a place where the air is almost as poisonous as the water before exploding in a fit of uncontrollable squawking that ends up threatening to destroy the Republic itself while his Vice Presidential nominee apologizes quietly for him.

This was the first week, and as I write there are some 88 days left in the campaign. Buckle up, folks.

RNC Part II - Jesus Make It Stop

[The Editor wishes to acknowledge that several references to “Human Turdbag Ted Cruz” have been truncated for the sake of brevity before publication. When asked about this adjustment the author grimaced, and then calmly laid down face first on the floor. This was interpreted as agreement.]

I’ll give the Human Turdbag this much, that speech was a goddamned spectacle to behold. It’d have been a real barnburner if it wasn’t apparent that the whole barn has already been on fire for three days before he got up there, and if I hadn't watched it live I'm not sure I'd be able to tell the ashes of Cruz's burned bridges from those of the GOP...but I'll be damned if it didn't make for the best episode of Death of a Political Party yet.

It started out with the usual trappings of a Cruz speech, how the slaying of police officers in Dallas and Baton Rouge are somehow proof that the country needs more Conservative values (read: even more unchecked assault weapons flooding into the streets, enough divisive rhetoric to justify anything, and an even blinder eye to oppression in America).

There was a twist to this though, and at first it seemed strange to me until I remembered who I was listening to and what kind of a person he is and why I call him a living sack of shit. He warned against the kind of reckless hate that leads to incidents like the Orlando shooting and it took me a second to remember that Orlando was the one at the gay nightclub, whose victims he has tirelessly fought to deny rights to, and who hid in the bathrooms he had made a particular focus of his absurd primary campaign.

“The Bill of Rights lets us live according to our conscience” he had the audacity to say, having previously described same sex marriage as a threat to Liberty, and transgender citizens as child raping perverts. “Cast aside hate for love” was a particularly great line for a man who called for the creation of ghettos for American Muslims just a few months earlier.

But then the whole thing became something else, a real Cruz missile aimed squarely at the Trump campaign. Not so much in what he said, but what he didn't. Anyone with a working brain who was even remotely familiar with the primary campaign could not have expected a particularly strong Trump endorsement during that speech, as anything over the top would have been obviously disingenuous after the months of sniping between the two of them. But his complete aversion to using the Trump name and telling Republicans to vote their conscience was magnificent, and the boos that rose from the crowd were shocking and glorious.

It was like a viking suicide. There he was, stabbing himself in the gut and slowly pulling out whatever he could find inside for all to see, with that smug shit-eating grin on his face. Newt Gingrich had to be immediately pushed on stage to retcon Cruz's statement, suggesting he'd actually endorsed Trump even if no one had actually heard one and Cruz had never actually given one. Newt is an experienced and eager liar when the situation calls for it, so I guess we should just be lucky nobody had to be diagnosed with cancer before he started fucking us around.

The convention was incredulous at the whole affair. "If you get invited to a dinner party you don't show up just to piss on the rug" the Republican commentariat suggested afterwards. Fair enough I suppose, but if you call a man's wife ugly, convince your tabloid publishing friend to accuse him of philandering, and then imply that his father killed John F. Kennedy, how goddamned stupid do you have to be to invite him to dinner in the first place?

Still, the Cruz ordeal was better to my mind - or at least, tickled me far better - than Little Marco, who gave a reasonably decent endorsement of Donald Trump via pre-recorded video so he could say he didn't attend the convention but still weasel his way into the Trump camp. For a few minutes I thought he was trying to call for a coalition government with the Bloc Quebecois and needed a fresh splash of gin to get past it.

Jesus, at least Kasich had the good sense to just keep his head down and stay out of Cleveland altogether this week, with his balls intact.

I swear, inviting Cruz to speak and then not being prepared for the aftermath is just the latest in a long long list of catastrophic blunders this convention has committed, ruining their best prime-time exposure for the third night in a row. If we can't trust them to adequately organize their own circle jerk we're all going to be screwed if they manage to win some real power.

It probably shouldn't be that big of a surprise, but still I'm struck by it. With no real policy ideas to run and a candidate who seems to be deathly allergic to positivity, the whole convention has been a Clinton-bashing event from start to finish. The daily themes, "Make America Work Again", "Make America First Again" have really all been variations of the first night, "Make America Safe Again BENGHAZI! EMAILS!" with no attempt to stick to a plan.

Everything is so completely bizarre. I can't recall another party convention where so many speakers have been on stage and yet gone to such lengths to completely avoiding using the nominee's name. Nobody seems to want to actually endorse Trump, the whole show is about how awful the Obama administration has been, how Hillary Clinton is a traitor, and how Conservatives are worth voting for even if they lead to a Donald Trump Presidency and an early end to Western Civilization. "Please!" Paul Ryan is screaming with his teary eyes any time he's on stage, "Please keep my congressional majority!".

I had actually been looking forward to Make America Work Again on Tuesday night and - anticipating a slew of anti-Mexican, anti-Chinese economic fear mongering - had spent the evening eating Tex-Mex and drinking cheap asian beer. Alas, Make America Work Again turned out to just be more of the same. The hits were constant and baffling: from Chris Christie's mob witch trial (it turns out if you fill an arena full of jabbering neurotics you can make call-and-answer work really well), to Ben Carson claiming that Clinton consorts with Satan worshipers.

Literally, Hillary Clinton is in league with Lucifer and his minions. This was delivered as a major presentation at a political convention in the United States of America, to rancorous applause, and yet they will wonder why nobody takes them seriously anymore.

I've disliked the Clintons in general for some time and I could still be convinced that Hillary Clinton's candidacy is secretly a PR stunt by Robin wright to promote Clair Underwood and House of Cards. Yet after three days of this mess not only is it clear that she's staggeringly more qualified to be President but I'm actually starting to look forward to the prospect.

Oh well, if I don't wrap this up I'll just end up foaming at the mouth until I choke to death: The Republicans have an official nominee, after a tedious but relatively drama-free state-by-state roll call. Thousands of delegates cast their votes loudly and enthusiastically. They talked up the things they love about their state and their pride in how firmly the GOP control their legislatures and state offices, even if data will bear out that these rank among the most garbage places on the continent.

At any rate, the serious business of the convention finished on Tuesday afternoon and freed us to relax and enjoy the decline into dementia. It was the closest thing to "an exercise in democracy" we're likely to see in the convention, and it felt exactly like having all of the blood drained slowly from your body.

I've been husked before, but never as part of a group. We now live in a reality where a racist misogynist like Donald Trump can bloviate and hate his way into being the Presidential nominee for an American political party. We will never again know a universe where that isn’t true. Such an existence hardly seems worth sustaining: after President Trump triggers World War Three and the nuclear warheads come, I don’t think I have the heart left in me to try and escape into the forest anymore; I’d rather just be vaporized.

RNC Part I - Send Tinfoil Hats And Extra Beer

My God we're finally here, the Republican National Convention: a week long debacle that promises to bring us gloriously color-corrected HD images of complete bedlam and catastrophe. And unlike most other Reality TV series, Death of a Political Party is being beamed directly into my amygdala live.

If I'm honest I'm not sure if I'm fully prepared for the ordeal. Closely following a US political convention with an eye towards blogging it is serious business, and if it's worth doing at all, it's worth doing right. Like an expedition climb, it's taken weeks of preparation - quiet meditation with Tibetan monks, stocking up on vitamins, and multiple supply runs to build up a base camp of liquor and cigarettes - to get ready, and by the end I'll be just as exhausted and high on oxygen deprivation as any conqueror of Everest. On Sunday night I took a 15km run and then resolved to drink a bottle of wine; this week is going to be one with few luxuries, and it's wise to start these things with a base alcohol level to thin the blood and train the body.

The whole thing has been surreal right from the start, when Reince Priebus opened the convention with a moment of silence to honor the police officers recently shot and killed in Baton Rouge, while a few blocks away Trump-endorser and Infowars lunatic Alex Jones (whose nonsense views on the New World Order and the 2nd amendment are pretty compatible with cop-killings) hosted a massive rally for delegates to throw of the shackles of the 'globalists' and their chemtrails with a Donald Trump Presidency. Then word came that the Trump motorcade had been involved in a car accident, because there's no such thing as too much symbolism for a week dedicated to binging on American jingoism.

After that was a good old fashioned floor fight over the convention rules, between the Trump team and supporters of Human Turdbag Ted Cruz, though supporters of the failed coup have quickly distanced themselves from the Texas Senator for his own protection (he is, as far as we know, still scheduled to speak on Wednesday and totally isn't being kept in a burlap sack in the cargo hold of the Trump plane).

Last night was cleverly titled Make America Safe Again and featured a number of frantic speakers screaming "Benghazi!" into the microphone, interspersed with guest appearances from other Reality shows like Duck Dynasty and Confessions of a Teen Idol.

True to type, quite a few speakers seemed convinced that it was cowardly weakness of Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton that's responsible for Americas allies feeling abandoned. Nevermind the war mongering of Bush-43, Freedom Fries, and "Old Europe". Nevermind the unprecedented increase in drone strikes conducted by the Obama administration (which is still operating the detention centre at Guantanamo Bay, for those of you keeping score at home), or the fact that it was Clinton who had to convince Joe Biden that the US government should shoot Osama bin Laden and dump his body in the ocean. Mewling kittens, all of them.

Somewhat to my surprise, Rudy Giuliani's remarks were remarkably inoffensive. It's great to see that even a man of his age can enjoy a good trip on speed without being thrown off message, I'd have been a jabbering mess after that much Benzedrine. I've never been Mayor of New York, though, so I defer to his obvious experience at trying to maintain.

More than a few speakers talked about how Hillary Clinton had abandoned her duty, how the Democrats had failed to honor the service of veterans, and how much better Donald Trump and the Republicans would be at both of those. I predict this should all work fine as long as nobody tells them that Donald Trump was a draft dodger who only likes veterans that aren't captured or tortured, and they don't see McConnell wrestle a crippled firefighter backstage to recoup 9/11 responder cash. Every second I watch I regret not camping out in Cleveland more and more, this must be an amazing party scene.

Melania Trump was the star attraction for the first night (how she beat Antonio Sabato Jr. for top billing, I'll never know) and delivered her speech with considerable poise, although I couldn't help but notice that the loudest applause seemed to come when she sounded most like a Democrat. Republicans are weird like that - give them a speech about getting everyone to school and protecting the elderly and preventing murderous violence and they'll go nuts over it, foaming at the mouth and howling for more. Actually try to do any of those things and they'll tear your throat out like rabid animals.

As it turns out she lifted the thing from Michelle Obama anyway, an embarrassing bungle the Trump campaign will no doubt try to blame on President Obama's refusal to say "Radical Islamic Terrorism", so I guess that's a wash. So much for her weeks of writing and preparation, next time she should just call Peggy Wente at the Globe and Mail, who I'm sure could turn it around on a tighter deadline.

The show business largely dispensed with, tonight's speakers promise to be even more entertaining for a sauced-up politico like me: Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell will be up to offer the final surrender of the elected Republican Establishment, Ben Carson will put everyone to sleep, and Chris Christie will offer proof that no matter how eagerly you whore yourself out some people are still just going to stuff you under the basement stairs instead of putting you on the ticket. At this rate he'll be lucky if Manafort doesn't harness him up to a gold plated ricksaw and horsewhip him as he pulls Trump and Pence on stage. We all have to lie in the dungpile we've made for ourselves, Chris, at least it's good exercise.

I suspect, however, that the peak for me personally may yet come when Human Turdbag Ted Cruz takes the stage on Wednesday, though, and we finally see just what it looks like to nail shit to a wall. Who knows though? The way this thing is playing out is a fun exercise in chaos. Horrifying, nerve wracking, abuse inducing, and utterly entertaining.

Torn Asunder

[The Publisher wishes to commend the actions of our office intern Alfonso, who secured this column after a two-day chase through the woods. Despite the author having stripped naked and smeared himself in mud in an attempt to hide from contact with human life, Alfonso was commendably able to track him down, pry it from his hands, and transcribe the following handwritten pages, though they are incomplete. We wish him a full and speedy recovery.]

I am writing to you from a secret, undisclosed location somewhere in South-Central Ontario. I'm at a lake retreat, surrounded by forest. It's the sort of place a militia survivalist would seek out to await the ending of the world with a massive supply of beer and cigarettes, and so suits my purposes perfectly after the events of the last few days and my burning need to channel some dark energy.

Still, the situation here is admittedly precarious. The door to my cabin has no lock and can be blown open with little more force than a heavy cough, so the only thing that seems to be keeping the bears out is their own lack of opposable thumbs. It's folly to rely on that of course, but at least I'm armed to the teeth.

Perhaps more accurately, I'm as armed as I dare trust myself to be in these ghastly new circumstances: a Super Soaker Barrage 9800 is my primary line of defense. It may sound like a children's toy but anyone who says that hasn't taken a blast full force in the genitals - it packs enough pressure to shatter a human femur and is complimented by the 200 rounds of water balloons I have at my disposal which, with a little luck, will distract a large predator large enough for it to accidentally choke on the latex.

But I'm not here for the hunting or all of the convenient ways to be gruesomely killed. I'm here to escape - escape my work, escape the news, escape the internet, escape the city and people. If I am to have any hope of surviving the upcoming Republican National Convention I was always going to need some downtime to lower the blood pressure and detox the liver, but it's been a wretched and destructive week and now I want just the opposite; with any luck I can drink and smoke and sun my way to a massive stroke before I am forced to return to what we may now only generously call "civilization" and that infernal convention.

It's hard to describe the phenomenon that seems to be casting a shadow across the United States these days. For a few hours the other night I thought the country was literally going to rip itself apart and we were all going to watch it happen live on Twitter. That place as it exists now bears little resemblance to their great national mythos; it's hard to say Home of the Free and Land of the Brave about a society where an entire race of people effectively remain second class citizens, peaceful protests become ambushes and bloodbaths, and it's all still basically business as usual.

I would like to write about Black Lives Matters, and admit that every time I'm out late for a run in my hoodie, or whenever been pulled over for gratuitous speeding, I've always secretly been thankful that I'm not Black (or Trans, Muslim, or Camp, for that matter). There's a stark contrast between the reality I get to live in and the one African Americans are forced into every day, increasingly captured in horrifying videos of unarmed and innocent men being shot to death by police officers so irrationally terrified as to be rabid.

I would also like to write about the Dallas police force, and lament that it was members one of the most progressive and positively reformed police organization in the country who became victims, while they were standing amicably side-by-side with peaceful BLM protesters, tweeting pictures together until the shots began.

All of those thoughts are valid and worthy of their own piece but somehow I feel like this is the chill of something even bleaker than the systemic racism that haunts us. This Thing seems to go beyond Black Lives Matters or the Police, beyond Democrats or the GOP, beyond religious extremism. Beyond all of that. This is like entropy made manifest; it is a force of nature. As if the Republic has reached some critical mass and is now flying apart into chaos at the atomic level. What bonds of fellowship that have held it together so far are fraying, and whatever is left of the American Dream is distorted into something twisted, like the kind of American Dream you imagine springs from the imagination of the National Rifle Association.

Jesus, how big of a hard on do you think Wayne Lapierre was sporting, watching Dallas explode as if it was a new and particularly aggressive form of pornography? It was like his own personal fuck dungeon - Texas' open carry law meant many bystanders were carrying rifles out in public when the ambush started, which just added to the confusion and put even more lives at risk. So much for the "what if everyone just had a gun?" line of thinking, no? In fact the potential for a situation like this to become a complete mess is exactly why Texas police forces have always had problems with the open carry laws pushed by the NRA and their subby-gimps in the legislature.

Buy when you're bankrolled by the companies that make these things, suddenly every problem looks like something to be fired with a hair-trigger. Guns become your solution to every problem, even the ones caused by too many guns. Throw another SMG on the grill, dear. There's plenty more where that came from. So let's be honest with each other Wayne, Dallas was your little paradise isn't it? Guns (especially the insidiously vicious assault variety) for everyone! Except maybe blacks, of course - your silence after "he was openly carrying a gun" was the justification for the execution of Alton Sterling was just fucking deafening all the way out here in the forest.

There was a time not all that long ago when, like most men of a certain age, I loved guns. The noise, the action, the power, the precision. No more. It is now impossible for me to separate my personal affinity for the things from the gun lobby, which profits directly from sales and thinks the next justice on the Supreme Court should have "maximize proliferation of death and fear" added right into the oath of office.

The blood of the dead in Dallas and Baton Rouge and dozens of other places are on your hands, Wayne, and your hypocrisy over Alton Sterling makes your racist undertone plain. A massacre every now and then is just what the NRA wants: it stokes white fear and black suppression, furthers the discord on all fronts to drive everyone to the local hunting supply store to save them from having to confront the reality that is the United States today, and convinces cops that it's always better to shoot first and get acquitted later.

We are truly becoming a post-fact world where Boris Johnson can destroy Europe, Donald Trump can destroy the Presidency, and the combination of cheaply acquired weapons of mass destruction with a refusal to reconcile the American myth with the American reality can destroy countless lives on all sides, all because of feelings, and the prioritization of fear over information and compassion for fellow human beings.

Forget evidence and body cameras which show an overwhelming problem with the relationship between police and their communities, forget experts and studies which show non-violent and inclusive community policing and gun control make everyone safer, forget the golden rule and the fundamental tenet that we all deserve the same dignities...pass the ammunition and let's stomp someone who looks different than us or makes us feel strange or bad - we're scared, Goddammit.

[At this point the pages Alfonso was able to recover become illegible and smeared in mud, we apologize for the abrupt ending and promise normal service will resume shortly.]

Adrift

Walk away me boys, walk away me boys,
and by morning we'll be free
Wipe that golden tear from your mother dear,
and raise what's left of the flag for me

The shock of it all still has many of us in a stupor, like the Blitzkrieg has rolled through and we're all wandering around in the ruins of Europe. One minute I was drinking a bottle of cheap French Merlot with the BBC on; the next I was staggering through the middle of the night, passing drunks talking about how Donald Trump is just misunderstood. Fuck me we're in some vile times, but one global catastrophe per column, I suppose.

The casualty reports of the BREXIT vote are still coming in and it will be years before the full extent of this calamity is known, if it can ever be so understood: Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn faces a revolt from within his own party after yet another - and most appalling - example of his lame and dismal leadership, and the Pound Sterling was being beaten unconscious in back alley while the results were still coming in. Over the course of just a few hours the British economy tanked at a rate not seen since before the Great Depression. Billions, perhaps trillions, have been wiped out.

The damned thing even had a real body count: MP Jo Cox, a champion of diversity who pushed hard to help refugees, was murdered by a reactionary nutjob trying to Make Britain Great Again, and on the big night Nigel Farage still had the audacity to squeeze the words "without having to fire a bullet" through his gopping fish-faced mouth while announcing British independence. The whole European Experiment which has provided for the most peaceful and prosperous decades that continent has ever known, has been put at risk and fascist upstarts in France and the Netherlands are hungrily eyeing the bleeding and vulnerable EU. Christ, I can't wait to see the Charlie Hebdo issue about this.

At least I can take some comfort knowing that one of the casualties of the night was David Cameron, that Pigfucker. After appeasing the lunatic fringe of his party and fending off an encroaching UKIP in the previous election by recklessly tossing off a promise to hold the referendum, his hog is thoroughly skewered and roasted. Well deserved. Next time, David, remember that voters who can be convinced to vote for Nigel "doesn't everyone call them Chinkys?" Farage is probably best left alone and not worth chasing.

This is different than an election defeat, there's a sharper sting to it. With elections there's always the prospect of getting them back the next time around. The next two or three years may be rotten but at least we can think the next cycle is a fresh start. It's much harder after a referendum, which may never occur again and can't be taken back nearly so easily. Even if it could be, in time, so much of the damage is already done. It's unsettling to watch a country vote itself into near complete irrelevance.

Boris Johnson is my bet to be the next Prime Minister. He's one of the best educated dopes on the face of the Earth and his buffoonish persona is as worrying as it is hilarious, but if the ship is going down we might as well have a song and a laugh while we're at it.

And make no mistake mate, the ship does indeed appear to be going down. In Northern Ireland Sinn Fein is back to whispering about a vote to unite with the Republic and that may gain serious traction. Scottish nationalists, only recently defeated in no small part by the argument that only staying in the United Kingdom could guarantee their place in the EU, are already planning the next vote on independence and it's becoming harder to argue that they're better off where they are now...stuck sharing a country with a Middle England full of small minded bigots who really don't seem to like brown people unless they can cook a good curry, and don't understand why they (and of course, nobody else) bothered to win the war just to be ruled by Belgians and Germans anyway.

At least we can look forward to watching whoever leads the Conservative party struggle and twist through the politically dire consequences that await them no matter what they do. It's possible they or Cameron will go down in history as the last Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, and it will be almost entirely by accident - a reckless promise tossed off without much consideration to bring the whole temple down on your own head in order to placate a few malcontents on the right. Empowering racists, and dodging facts and evidence to further divide an already divided country. Swinefuckery: it's a new entry in my political lexicon and that is going to be the definition. Jesus, remember when these people owned 1/4 of the Earth's surface? Only mad dogs and Englishmen went out in the noonday sun back then, and the rest of us used to be able to tell one from the other.

The world is getting smaller and more integrated whether these people like it or not, and theirs virtually nothing they can actually do to stop it. Leave campaigners seemed to play on a portion of the British psyche that acts like the kid in high school who won a gold medal in track and field in Grade 11 and that's been their whole life ever since. So glorious was that victory that it has outshone anything else since, it's how they define themselves.

No progress is possible, no modernity enacted if it might challenge that mythos. Remember the good old days? They ask, repeating the mantra of the Jeremy Clarkson school of Political Theory, Why did it all have to change? Who needs a comprehensive and coherent set of trade, travel, and safety regulations dictated by some faceless paper pushing nerd in Brussels? Nevermind peace and prosperity, I bet he can't even finish a 500m dash!

Or is a 546 yard dash for those still operating in backwards nonsense? For the foreseeable future, I suppose it might be.

So Long, Stephen

If today was your last day and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday? Would you live each moment like your last?
Leave old pictures in the past, donate every dime you have?
If today was your last day?

Stephen Harper is leaving politics. I've waited a decade to type that sentence, and I bet most of you have waited nearly as long to read it.

I can't say it comes as much of a surprise: Former Prime Ministers (especially defeated ones) carry a rank smell with them wherever they go. They are suddenly a specter, haunting Parties who are eager to move on after an election.

The clock has been ticking on Mr. Harper's departure since shortly before 11pm on October 19th but due deference must be paid to the riding and the few thousand voters who actually elected him, and Stephen Harper has been present (if silent) in the Commons for the last six months. Finally, however, the jig is up: He will sit there no more. Nobody wants another Diefenbaker, some wizened old imp wandering the halls of the Centre Block terrifying young MPs like a Mad King stalking the ruins of his old palace. No, it's much better to leave now...especially now that the trial of Mike Duffy is finished and he no longer needs Parliamentary Privilege to protect him from involvement in that court case. It's funny how timing works out, no?

I will always remember him as the man who could drive his opponents into a mad animal frenzy, barking and frothing at the mouth, just by affecting that attempted half-smile of his and calmly saying one of his pre-loaded phrases like "My friends, that's simply not true." Oh, how they hated him; they still do: even now, months after his defeat, you can easily find a pack of rabid Harper haters on Twitter at any time of the day or night.

He is moving on to become a "public intellectual". I'm not sure what that means but I can only imagine the kind of ad he'd run against anyone else who deigned to style themselves like that. It apparently involves setting up a Foreign Policy institute. Hah! From the man who threw a temper tantrum by locking himself in the closet of the Brazilian foreign minister; the man who blew off the UN to deliver a partisan attack speech at a Tim Horton's, and then blamed the opposition for Canada losing a Security Council seat.

Foreign Policy Institute? Jesus, best of luck with that, my friend. I hope somebody's told him it's going to involve more than just driving four-wheelers up north.

Abacus has him as the least popular former Prime Minister of our times: I won't begrudge anyone their feelings for the man. After all, his premiership was marked by more than his fair share of fell deeds, and his bastardly attitude ensured he would have no bridges left to cross at the end. For all of our howling and rending of garments at mere mention of his name, his mark on this country is hard to find.

I promised myself that some part of this column would be more than just the simple shitstorm of a long-blocked colon suddenly released. So I will muster some nice things to say about the 22nd Prime Minister of this country. Stephen Harper is a master politician who played the game well, it can not be denied. I have said many things about him these past ten years, but I'd be damned fool to argue his skill as a political actor: He forged a new political party, held it together through sheer force of will, led it to big electoral successes, and nearly succeeded in killing and supplanting the Liberal Party.

But the price of his power was to lose any semblance of a national vision. Once, in beta-testing, it's possible he had Big Ideas for this country. By the time he arrived at the Langevin Block, however, they were watered down to pablum. Stephen Harper's great plan for Canada seemed to be a slightly more dysfunctional version of the country as it is today but with him at the centre of it forever, and for me that lack of imagination is the truly unforgivable part. He was content to remain a tinkerer, fiddling with little knobs here and there in the relentless pursuit of electoral wedge issues he could exploit to remain tinkerer-in-chief for a few more years.

All governments in power long enough become obsessed with nothing other than remaining in office, but the Harper Conservatives arrived in Ottawa in 2006 with the attitude and contempt of old hacks. The only thing he seemed to delight in, the only vision he truly tried to enact, was the conversion of our political landscape into a nuclear wasteland. Carpet bombing opponents years ahead of elections with nasty negative ads questioning their intelligence, patriotism, and masculinity.

Eliminating the per-vote subsidy to exacerbate the power of wealthy donors in political campaigns, gaming the contribution rules to screw with their opponent's leadership races, gutting the power of Elections Canada to promote the very act of voting...none of his most egregious crimes were about reshaping the country, they were always just about keeping him afloat and In Command for another election cycle.

When even they weren't going to be enough to stop Justin Trudeau, the Conservatives finally took a hard right turn and began shoveling the years of goodwill they'd built up in immigrant and minority communities into the boiler. Running back to their bigoted, small minded base with xenophobic nonsense like a national dress code, 'Barbaric Cultural Practices' hotline, and their contemptuous response to the international refugee crisis.

For all his skills in the Dark Arts, for all of his willpower and personal strength, the speed with which the current Liberal majority has been able to begin rolling back the Harper legacy is a testament to just how shallow and ineffectual it was to begin with.

Indeed, years from now Stephen Harper will be remembered most as a caretaker Prime Minister whose chief accomplishments, aside from a remarkable record of fraud and skulduggery by his administration, will be the elevation of a new generation of unprincipled cutthroat politicos in the Conservative party like Byrne, Soudas, and Novak. It will be the legitimization of asinine fuckwits like Rebel Media. It will be the fracturing of the Conservative party which now runs frantically, arms flailing, from the policies and record they were so quick to defend just a few months ago and into the political doldrums for the foreseeable future.

That is the legacy he has left us with. We've been stuck in an isolation chamber for ten years and have reemerged with nothing to show for it but complete exhaustion and the unshakable feeling that the whole experience has just been a complete waste of our time and energy.

The man was so uninspired it's taken me two weeks to finish writing this column. We lost a decade to his mediocrity and I continue to be drained of my Chi just trying to recount it here, so I will leave you simply. It was time for you to go away a long time ago, Stephen, but I suppose better late than never.

Screening

Summer is here in force, and even though I'm slowly roasting to death I'm determined to enjoy every minute of it. Normally this season is a mixed bag. Sure, it provides some tremendous things that remind a man like me why life is worth living: Gorgeous bikini-clad women bouncing their way to the beach, late night cigars in plastic easy chairs, the shift in winter diet from heavy ales to lagers and white wines and champagnes...but I have a heart of ice that melts as soon as the temperature rises above freezing and leaks through my pores to make an obscene mess.

Exercise has helped, and carrying around 50 fewer pounds than I used to buys time in the sun before I turn into a puffy red-faced hog. Still, mine is not a body that is optimally designed for summer. This year is different, though. First, training to run a half marathon is forcing me to become close friends with sweat and heat and like a hostage with Stockholm syndrome I'm started to enjoy the mild discomfort of it all. Secondly I have a screen door again, and the reason that is excellent requires a few belts of scotch and a trip down memory lane.

Sometime around 2011 - three lifetimes ago - some thoughtless fool broke my balcony screen door during a barbecue. We were outside enjoying some sunshine and burgers when there was a loud crack and a twang as a flimsy piece of silver metal wheel flew past our heads. "Hit the deck!" I shouted as the door came off the rail and slammed loudly on the floor. "It's the goddamned Libyans!" (I had recently written some unflattering things about Colonel Ghadaffi in the dying days of his regime and he seemed like just the sort of rotten prick to dispatch one of his famous female assassins to get his own back).

In the end it turned out not to be a seductive Bedouin murderess but a dumb drunk, sliding the poorly constructed door faster than its design apparently allowed.

I called my bumbling landlords and reported the incident, which they promptly noted and then informed me they would do nothing: In a shell-game strategy straight out of the Stephen Harper and Michael Fortier school of facilities management, the balcony doors portfolio had been outsourced to a company which would come in, once a year, and perform all the year's necessary maintenance then. As it turned out, I had missed the window to get it fixed or replaced for that year by mere weeks.

"Bastards!" I shouted, but to be honest it never bothered me at the time. Ottawa's weather is so extreme that almost every month of the year you want your house sealed up as tightly as possible to keep the cold either out or in, and it would be unfair to say the loss of a working screen door had seriously crippled me. Still, my wife wanted it dealt with and it would be silly to have a spare, broken, screen door sitting on my balcony forever, so I had them put me on the list for a replacement and that was that.

Five goddamned years passed. The wife left me, I've grieved, developed a whole other almost-marriage, and watched it fall apart in that time. I've completed two different long-form census questionnaires since it broke. Gadaffi's been long dead and Libya has gone through a whole second civil war while I've been waiting. Every Province and Territory has had an election cycle, and both Stephen Harper and Michael Fortier long since swept away; all the while I haven't been able to enjoy the comforts of a screen door. Unconscionable.

I checked in periodically throughout the last half-decade, just to make sure I was still on a list. Oh yes! Any day now, they'd say, and I would smile because I knew they were lying. This year, however, they finally went too far: The Greedheads were compelled to justify this year's rent increase by outlining the extraordinary expenses they'd invested in the property. Sure enough, a million dollars on patio door repairs was right there on the front page of the document, which came to my door along with a form that announcing that my pre-authorized payment had expired and my rent was five days overdue.

I sent them a cheque, along with a letter copied to the Ontario Tenant Board containing some damning photos. "If you're going to make me shell out an extra half-percent to fix the patio doors," it read, "you should probably actually fix them." I then threatened to provide the deposition from my divorce, which had been dated in 2012, notarized, and clearly stated that the common-law marriage had fallen apart due to "Irreconcilable differences re: Fucking with the landlord over a broken screen door vs Just getting on with life and being a grown up."

The notice came swiftly that my door would be replaced and today it was finally installed. Victory!

So now I'm sitting here with my windows and balcony door wide open - screens letting the humid hot air waft in. It's made the apartment uncomfortably hot and even as I write this I can feel my gonads merging slowly right into the leather chair, but it's all worth it. The unit has excellent air condition and I don't even pay for it - a benefit for which I'm sure the bumbling landlords are kicking themselves for offering - and I'm sure that once the satisfaction of my personal vengeance has dulled and I get tired of picking up my balls I'll seal the place up and let sweet technology keep me comfortable.

But for now? Fuck 'em. It's summer right now and it should feel like it: There are beers to drink and cigars to smoke and summer nights to enjoy. In three months the United States will be in full-swing General Election mode and we can run for our drug dealers and assisted suicides and law suits then. I intend to enjoy this state of affairs until the last possible moment, sweat, sunburns, and all. How could anyone not?

March Mayday

Today is the March For Life, an annual event where hundreds of people describe themselves as tens of thousands and descend on downtown Ottawa to loudly protest abortion.

I should have realized it was today - my mind has been in such a fog that I've regularly lost track of the date and time. To compensate and clear my head I've been walking everywhere now. It was on my walk early this morning, halfway between my yuppie neighborhood and Parliament Hill that I noticed the path was unusually full of youths. They were all wearing matching fluorescent green and blue shirts with bearing some variation of "Respect for all lives!" and "Human Rights For Unborn Humans!" slogans.

The clothing looks like some vision of the future concocted in a 1990s daycamp but the underlying creepiness of eager teenagers, sober and smiling and talking about "youth group" was straight out of Pleasantville. For a moment I was gripped in panic. Jesus, where was I? When was I?

When it all came together I knew I was truly screwed. This thing is going to take up the whole day. All of the downtown core will be swarming with and decrepit old men in Knights of Columbus uniforms and church marms along with the scores of children they bus in to shore up the numbers and appear youthful.

We are be beset on all sides by the Faith Militant. Stick close and don’t trust anyone you wouldn't drink with in a strip club.

Over the years it has become clear that there are only two types of children attend the March for Life voluntarily: those who would step over their own grandmother for a day off of school on a sunny spring day, and tomorrow's League of Young Fascists. The former make a habit of disappearing into the crowds to visit the Rideau mall and likely can't name a single apostle, the later - those who don't end up running illegal daycares or militia groups - will eventually become United States Senators and run for President.

Both of those groups, along with those too young or mentally competent enough to object as their parents or teachers stick a "Praise Jesus My Mother Didn't Abort Me" sign in their hand and haul them down Elgin street in front of the national media, are here in droves. That's where the real horror show begins.

This isn't a rant about fetuses or conception. Opinions on what does or doesn't constitute a human being bore me...it's a designation I think should be denied to those who can't navigate a shopping cart around a grocery store. Besides, by and large that argument is over: the definition we have now seems to work well enough, satisfies our judiciary, and thus far hasn't been struck down by a bolt of lightning.

Oddly, this rant isn't even about Conservative MPs shouting about the Liberal Government of Death on the steps of Parliament - which, by happy coincidence, will spend today debating a bill on physician-assisted suicide! (Hah!)

No bub, this one is about how this town is flooded with the adults who describe themselves as protectors of all life from Womb-to-Tomb (except for "Godless atheists, queers, Hillary supporters, anyone who needs stem cell treatments, and whoever Jason Kenney tells us we need to bomb"), and take children out of publicly funded religious schools to use them as pawns for their own doomed attempt to govern the rest of us according to religious doctrine.

They accuse secularism or MTV or political correctness for brainwashing their children with wicked ways, but they're the ones goading them into shouting that their opponents are all baby murdering lesbians. This whole thing is exhausting.

Burned

Editor's Note: Despite the author's contention that he'd "be damned if I'm going to write more than one of these things per week you blood sucking vermin!", we were able to goad a short special edition after the results of last night's Indiana Primary for which we are extremely grateful.

It is tragic but somehow fitting that Ted Cruz's homeland was literally on fire at the same time that his campaign was being burned to the ground metaphorically - like he'd finally cracked the secret of some Bad Sorcery just in time to project his own demise through space and time. It certainly feels like the kind of thing that human turdbag would do. The images coming out of Fort McMurray are like some place unearthly and terrible, and that there are still no casualties reported yet could be the first piece of good news all year.

We are all bereft. Discordia, you fickle tease, you've left us with a Trump nomination without even a fun convention: The holdouts have surrendered and the last vestiges of the old Republican Party are being swept away. The GOP now belongs to Donald Trump; whether it will survive that ordeal or not remains to be seen.

The phony war is over now, bub, and the real Blitzkrieg is about to begin: 2016 will be a contest to see whose negative numbers drive down their turnout the least. On one side stands Clinton with a massive war chest, the steely eyed glare of someone who has been waiting for "her turn" for a thousand generations, and a capacity for ruthlessness that could make your blood run cold. On the other is the biggest reality show circus in history peddling the kind of populist venom Americans always pretend they don't like, but to which they have long been debilitatingly addicted.

If the stage is set, so be it. Everybody take a breath before we dive into the next act.

Everyone Wants Indiana

As I write this Ted Cruz is giving the a press conference from Indiana and it's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. If there is some perfect combination of desperate and honest and stupid that can render sentient life dumbfounded this thing has come pretty close.

There he stands, flanked by Carly "there's a bizarre alternate universe where I'm the Vice President" Fiorina and his wife, taking Donald Trump to task for his bullying nature, pathological lying, and woman-hating insecurity. He's apparently and righteously terrified of a future where his young daughters are exposed to President Trump's open philandering misogyny. "I dread to think of them coming home from school repeating his vile attitudes towards women.".

Fair enough Ted, but you also don't want them coming home with any idea of how to use a condom or a bathroom so let's dispense with the bullshit: Donald Trump is going to be going up against Hillary Clinton in the November election. It's been pretty apparent for some time but tonight's Indiana Primary should render it inevitable.

Sanders will stick around for a while longer - heck, he may even win tonight - but the Democrats' system of proportional delegates means anything less than thunderous, bowel-shattering blowouts in all of the remaining states keeps him so far behind (far further behind Clinton now than she ever was behind Obama in 2008) that a recovery is possible only in a child's imagination.

The surest sign of their doom is their insistence that they're going to take it all the way to a convention even after Clinton clinches it, relying on a sudden change of heart from the same Superdelegates that are an affront to democracy when they're in the other camp. Don't feel bad about it Sanderistsas, Bernie did a remarkable thing going from polling-in-single-digits to actually keeping Clinton on her toes, but it's over now and that party's coalescing around that unlikable stiff is virtually assured.

At any rate, I expect Sanders and the GOP holdouts Cruz and Kasich will all stay in no matter how utterly fucked they are after the Hoosiers are through with them.

I'm ashamed to confess to you readers: he's a Goober but I'm rooting for Ted Cruz tonight. He has almost no hope - his polling has been trending steadily downwards and Trump is likely to triumph handily tonight - but a Cruz win may keep his dying campaign on life support just long enough to deny Trump the support he needs win in the first ballot and give us the nuclear bomb of cable news coverage, a contested convention.

O Discordia, Bitch Goddess of Political Machinations, hear me! Give me a contested Republican convention. If we are to suffer the spectacle of a Trump nomination let us have such a spectacle as to burn our Great Decline into history: days of chaos, rumors and deals, fistfights on the floor, an endless Twitter stream, Cleveland in flames, and news graphics packages big and bright enough to trigger sexual arousal.

If you demand it, I will bring burnt offerings of cigarette ashes to your holy altar of pizza boxes and beer cases from July 18 to the 21, where we will read from the 2016 RNC Rules printed on sheets of blotter acid and take a communion of single malt.

You get whatever you want, just stall Donald a little longer and give us this convention.

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UNBEARABLE OBSTRUCTIONIST SEEKS LUNATIC RUNNING MATE FROM COMPLIMENTARY DEMOGRAPHIC FOR HAIL MARY ATTEMPT AT REPUBLICAN NOMINATION
I'm a lonely Senator from Texas seeking the Presidency of the United States, and I hope you're the lucky man or woman to help me down the righteous path to victory. I may only be on my first term but my reputation for being a massive prick is among the best in DC and I think I have a lot to offer.

Are you an outsider from the Republican Establishment with the kind of history of ruining big companies that can compete with Donald Trump, which would give me faux credibility in the business world?

Have you repeated blatant falsehoods ad nauseum about decadent Godless liberal institutions like Planned Parenthood, and supported my attempts to shutdown the Federal Government of the United States in order to strip that satanic organization of its funding?

Are you willing to kidnap children or delegates in order to secure a win from a contested convention, now that it's mathematically impossible for me to win on the first ballot?

Are you a creepily offputting person who reminds people of an unpleasant animal like a praying mantis, or perhaps a serial killer?

If you answered yes to these questions, and come from a background that could be passed off as electorally competitive against Hilary Clinton to idiots who won't be paying attention, then we should talk.

But not for long and not very often, because I'd hate for my personality to get in the way of our arrangement.

Winter's End

Christ what a rotten year. It's only four months old and I fucking hate it.

So far 2016 has taken away David Bowie, Prince, my ability to form trusting human relationships, Glenn Frey, Serverus Snape, my grandmother, Mauril Belanger's voice, Belgium as a tourist destination, and all but the last four or five hacks running for President. Even as I write this I'm learning of the death of blues legend Lonnie Mack - they're literally falling around us - and we remain gripped by the threat of complete obliteration by either nuclear war or religious zealots or getting laid in Brazil.

Goddamn, when will it end? Soon there will be no options left but an irresponsible dose of laudanum and 8 months of bedrest to reset and try again next year.

Despite the year's best attempts to convince me to rip off different parts of my body and smoke them in frustration, I do think it's important to believe that things tend to get better in the long run. Fly the flag of optimism as long as you can. Life changes and the lucky among us change with it. Whether you're dealing with illness or loss, a lousy job or no job at all, a hectic life with no moment's peace or the boring tedium of running out the clock in a quiet and empty room, the universe will still unfold as it should and that is worth taking heart in.

It doesn't matter if you're addicted to the news or your voice is hoarse from screaming obscenities at Wolf Blitzer, stuck in a cycle of compulsive masturbation or waiting for your court date, frazzled by wedding planning or lawyering up for divorce. Things tend to get better in the long run.

I know this to be true because it's almost summer again. The temperature is rising, the days are getting longer and brighter, and the first piece of my new arsenal has finally arrived so no matter who you think you are and what you've done, I'm going to fucking get you. Oh yes, indeed.

Running Goose

I know it's going to be a good day when before noon I can run 8km, take a trip to the grocery store, and hit a car door with a closed fist while screaming to the driver that he's a selfish sack of shit for not looking while toddlers are crossing the street. It's been productive, and it's hard not to be a tad of an optimist after a morning like this.

Geese are fuckers, though. My run is reminding me of that and there's no other description that does justice to the pissy little beasts. They waddle around with no idea of where they are or where they're going, squawking and spitting and generally carrying on at anything nearby with no regard for their own safety. In some ways it's almost admirable: a goose would absolutely stand in front of an advancing column of Chinese tanks, bobbing his empty head up and down and hissing, thinking it can chase off an armored corps while a confused PLA corporal watches. More likely though, it'd just go under the treads full of the anger and self righteousness after refusing the indignity of being shooed out of the way. This is probably how we started eating them at Christmas, they practically roast themselves.

It's all still quite new and novel to me. In Peterborough, where I'm originally from, the closest comparison we have is Dean Del Mastro.

Del Mastro's problem is that he is clearly guilty and just can't admit it. The law says there is a limit on election expenses and he blatantly spent more than it. This surprised me at first. Surely the numerous statistics classes he claimed made him an expert on the long-form census would have prepared him to compare two numbers and recognize which was the larger one, no? Have our schools failed that badly?

It turns out he's not that stupid, he's just an odious charlatan. After deliberately breaking campaign spending laws he tried to cover it up and now, some thirty failed appeals later he's still spitting and hissing, trying everything to weasel out of jail time. I can't totally blame him for that: Jail isn't fun. It isn't supposed to be fun, and his fellow right wing blowhards have spent many years trying to emphasize that.

"It's so awful in there! The cot wasn't very comfortable and the table was made of steel, and I had to stay in there, like, all the time!" Del Mastro squealed after his first night in the pokey, describing the exact conditions one ought to expect after breaking the law. "When I said tough on crime, I certainly didn't mean me!"

My heart just bleeds. I have to tell you, Dean, life is definitely much nicer out here, especially now that I can sit out on my balcony and smoke a cigar and catch some sun. You've only been sentenced to a month, a fraction of what your ilk usually call for. If you keep up this constant repeating struggle of going to jail for a day, filing an appeal and getting out, losing the appeal and going back in, you're still going to do the time in the end but it's just going to be a lot messier along the way and you'll have assholes like me laughing the whole time.

Give up, admit you lied to the people and admit you're an electoral fraudster. Stop struggling and just roast already.

Do Not Resuscitate

I write to you from what must be an apocalyptic future: There's nearly a foot of freshly fallen snow on the ground now, in April, and it's frozen solid. Ottawa is used to the desperate dying throes of winter but this is something new altogether. It almost has an ominous feel to it, like there's something strange or horrible going on and nature is chaotically out of alignment.

Or it may just be that lately I've been dwelling in the inevitable malaise brought on by presidential politics. Being uninspired is par for the course in this field, but it's hard not to look at the candidates today and wonder if an election is really all that necessary. Perhaps we really should just give violent anarchy a try for a change, and maybe thin out their ranks a little.

Bernie Sanders has completed the transformation to become a caricature of one of his own Bernie Bros, Hillary Clinton is Claire Underwood with a higher body count, Ted Cruz is the High Sparrow of a particularly nasty corps of the faith-militant, and Donald Trump is a classic blackshirt fascist with a buffoonish flair that would make Mussolini proud.

One of these people will be President of the United States next year, God help us all.

When I get wrapped up in an existential funk like this I risk jabbering on incessantly until either a suicide attempt or a heart attack and there are only a few ways to genuinely shake it off - or at least keep the angst at bay until the weather is warm enough to overdose in the forest. My usual dose of reckless amounts of high octane alcohol and physically demanding pornography followed by a celebratory cigar is an insufficient distraction, and can't compare to the deep spiritual contentment that comes from watching someone I don't much care for get the shit kicked out of them on live television. Obviously then, it's fortuitous that the NDP leadership review will be on this weekend.

Tom Mulcair is an angry man who led a party of earnest and noble intentions to electoral irrelevance with an uninspiring platform and pissy chip on his shoulder. For three years we watched him throw a testy fit with the media, shout at Parliament Hill security, refuse to acknowledge his opponents by name until they earned it like a man, remain woefully inert when his MPs complained of sexual harassment, and rail against the Iron Clad rule of the Stephen Harper while shedding caucus members over his own controlling attitude. For a brief period it looked like his razor sharp mind and aggressive ruthlessness would gain traction. Maybe he'd finally succeed in really taking the fight to the Conservatives for the first time in years, but it was always tempered by his habit of coming out looking like a vindictive prick instead, and it was a bad contrast with the Sunny Ways of the Liberals or the NDP's own Layton Legacy.

And in the end there was nothing to show for it: After a lousy campaign where his snide hubris trapped him closer to Stephen Harper than Justin Trudeau he lost 51 seats, and the NDP went from government-in-waiting to roundly fucked. He couldn't muster the grace or self awareness to take some responsibility for it and resign at the time, and instead trumpeted the election as the NDP's second-best ever result while insisting he was staying to fight on another day. Very well, I say, that's just going to make this all the more humiliating.

For all his bluster demanding Trudeau provide his number for a Quebec referendum, Mulcair's continued to duck any question of what he would consider acceptable for his own survival this weekend. Take heart, though, because I'll spare you a cavalcade of jokes about how 50%+1 (a catastrophic level of support in a leadership vote) ought to be enough to satisfy him and the party of the Sherbrooke declaration.

In his defence, it is going to be hard to tell how well he'll do in the Review: Unlike the initial leadership election in 2012 only delegates physically present at the convention will be voting this time, so the decision is limited to NDP members who were elected to a delegate spot able (and willing) to make the trip to Edmonton. Polls of the public or of party members won't be terribly useful at predicting this from a distance.

If he can muster 70% or better - the generally accepted bare minimum necessary in these reviews - he'd be safe for now, and that threshold isn't totally impossible (though perhaps in the same way that a Bernie Sanders' candidacy isn't totally impossible, either). New Democrats weren't just wiped out in raw numbers, they were also pretty cleanly decapitated: Peggy Nash, Megan Leslie, Jack Harris, Craig Scott, Olivia Chow, and Paul Dewar were all thoroughly thumped at the polls. Libby Davies has retired, and there don't seem to be any significant names on the Provincial level who would be willing to take the pay cut to come lead the ragged survivors for three and a half years. Nathan Cullen or Alexandre Boulerice or Niki Ashton could consider running, but if they end up wanting to sit it out it's entirely possible that the party delegates may see no serious credible figure willing to step up and may simply choose to keep Tom for the time being, either dumping him at the 2018 convention or keeping him for another election.

But if I'm honest I just don't think that's what we're going to see in Edmonton. Widespread sentiment seems to agree that it is past time for him to fall on his sword, which means someone is going to have to trip him onto it and then push it in a few times to really make it stick.

Peggy Nash is calling for more inspiring leadership. The NDP's youth wing is calling for Mulcair to be turfed. Forum's preferred Prime Minister question has Mulcair trailing "Unsure" and a third of self-identified NDP partisans said they'd vote Liberal. Forum is hardly a reliable source on the subject but the headlines simply can't be helpful to his cause, and the smart money is on all of this coming crashing down this weekend.

Which is a genuine shame. He missed the window for an honorable and dignified resignation. A heartfelt mea culpa where he could slide smoothly out of the election night party and into retirement would have helped to set the NDP up for a process of renewal, without wasting everyone's time. Now, months later and with the party even lower in the polls than they were in October, he's probably going to get some incredibly awkward result like 65% approval - too low for any sane person to stick around but high enough that he can't be kicked out automatically - and he'll have to squirm under the spotlight with his creepy smile and gritted teeth, giving a statement that's half victory and half concession, thanking his supporters while plotting a messy revenge against the rest, and all while dodging the vaudeville hook as it tries to swipe him off from the podium.

Then he'll either step down and the NDP can finally get honestly asking itself some existential questions, or he'll stick around and lose in 2019. Either way, I suppose it's goodbye.

Ted Needs His Medicine, I Need A Rag

It was a dark and inauspicious day to start writing in a new web column, at least in my heart. It was sunny and warm outside but I was sick with a pain in my stomach that wouldn't go away no matter how much I yelled at it, and then I found out Ted Cruz could be fucking five other women on the side. There's just no justice in this universe, friends.

Mobility is the key to being discharged, they say, and I knew if I kept sitting around doing nothing until I feel better I'll be found dead, naked, and half eaten by my cat in a dank apartment. I needed to jump start my brain and jump start this post and picking up a copy of the National Enquirer to read its apparently groundbreaking revelations seemed to be just the thing for the job. Besides, it would do me some good to get fresh air and some soda water for my medicinal whisky (brown liquors are incredibly restorative home remedies if you use them properly).

Suburban supermarkets in Ottawa on a weekday are a spectacle to behold. Everyone is either a new mother or a widow and they all read their tabloids. These rags make their livelihoods on giving titillation to the tedious. I spent five minutes in the checkout line with a woman whose name must have been Gladys (or Hazel, or Mable...something matronly) talking about the latest details of Shark Tank/Dragons' Den alum Robert Herjavec's tawdry sex antics contained in this issue.

"It says here 'His twisted sex life involves trips to S&M dungeons, threesomes, and plenty of hot girls!'" Gladys read out, mortified. Which I suppose was a fair reaction for her, though I myself hail from the generation that successfully weaponized internet pornography and finds the claim that Herjavec once spent $700 on sex toys to be a little poseur. You've been on television shows in two different countries just for being incredibly wealthy, Rob, stop pussy footing around and commit to some real depravity. Which brings me to Ted Cruz.

After getting home I found out I'd purchased the wrong edition of the National Enquirer and aside from the horoscope ("This is not a week or even month to try and accomplish everything") and a scoop about Ron Goldman's sister once passing up a chance to run OJ down with her car, my primary source was useless. Distraught, I had to search the internet to find Ted Cruz's press conference on the scandal instead.

There's no real way to avoid it: Ted Cruz is a weenie.

I don't mean that he's a prick (although he most certainly is one of those, too), I mean he's...well, no, there is no better word for it. He's a weenie. He's lame in the most cringe-worthy way. He's that kid in high school whose parents sent him to a strange church youth group and who took sadistic delight in tattling on his friends whenever they risked doing something remotely interesting. Only now he's all grown up and destroying the credibility of the United States Senate to score some airtime on national television. I imagine he still says words like wee-wee even when there are no children around, and thinks the party is going to get out of hand because somebody brought a six pack of light beer.

Watching the press conference threw me into an apoplectic rage. This specific primary cycle aside, I'm used to watching successful politicians (and presidential candidates in particular) emphasize their wholesome family friendliness and General Audiences rating, but Cruz's press conference was a whole new level of unbearable misery. "I would note that Mr. Stone is a man who has 50 years of dirty tricks behind him." Cruz said, "He's a man for whom a term was coined for copulating with a rodent. Well, let me be clear: Donald Trump may be a rat, but I have no desire to copulate with him."

"It's called Ratfucking!" I howled at the screen. "Its got a capital-R and the word 'Fucking' right in there! Don't be a baby! Call it what it is!"

For you innocent readers not conversant in the dark arts, the glorious term goes back to the 1970s and ranks as the greatest achievement of the Nixon Presidency, or at least my favorite. Usually these days we just say dirty or sleazy tricks, or sabotage. We don't call it "copulating with a rodent" for the same reason that I'm not sitting around all weekend "copulating with a canine" instead of doing my laundry, or "discarding the children's toy" instead of screwing up. It may have been the one opportunity in all of professional politics for someone to justifiably drop an F-bomb in public and this is what we got instead. What a waste.

Cruz went on: "With this pattern, he should not be surprised to see people calling him 'Sleazy Donald'", and I could tell he was being serious because it sounded like he was naming someone from Sesame Street. I shouted for him to aim higher and then hit my head on the desk a few times. It's more effective than pouting.

I don't actually know whether the allegations against the Senator are true or not but it feels too late for truth anyway: Even if he isn't a philanderer the man remains a world-class prissy tight-ass. He's no Dragon, at any rate.

I needed to consider the evidence. On one hand it's impossible to think that there could be more than one or two living women in the world today who are mad or crazy enough to sleep with Ted Cruz. Even if they exist I can't imagine he'd actually know how to conduct the act itself without on-the-spot coaching from an alternative couple's therapist who would spend the rest of their life traumatized ("I swear, I had to tell him to take his pants off, he didn't know what to do until I told him to pretend it was a Continuing Resolution!"). Cruz also isn't wrong about Roger Stone, an open Trump supporter and a Grand Wizard of Ratfuckery in his own right. Stone's claim that this story is being pursued by other and far more legitimate media outlets has yet to come to fruition. This makes it very hard to believe the allegations are at least all true. Show me the bodies, then we'll talk.

On the other hand, public figures tripping over their own dicks is actually one area where the National Enquirer isn't completely hopeless: They broke the story on Tiger Woods' birdies, and damned near won a Pulitzer Prize (a real one too, not the chocolate kind) for their coverage of John Edwards' affair and love child. The whole sordid story is also just be too delicious for me to discount altogether, if only because existence is cold and we all need something to cling to keep us company in the dark. The Family & Morals candidate crisscrossing the country to decry decadent-homo New York values and Trump's prolific marriages is chasing skirt and oozing into bed with other women? Hah! That'll do nicely.

Maybe there's hope for us after all.

All of this is by way of introducing you to Mayblossom Senility. I really loved the last blog but by the end it was getting a bit too cold and a bit too specific for me. A few weeks ago, in a fit of either depression or rage or arousal I backed up all of my internet life - all of my social media, all of my photos, all of my many blogs - in anticipation of leaving the internet forever to go wander the mountains like a homeless sage. Life changes and if we're lucky we manage to change with it.

In the end, I concluded that I didn't need to abandon my beloved internet but I did need more than just a change in font or wallpaper. I've been off the blogs for a few months but the sobriety can never last - I need a place to rave and think and swear and jabber. To find my voice again, and chronicle my slow descent into madness in the waning days of Western civilization. Yes there will always be politics, and yes there will always be swearing. You may even still end up hearing about how I'm eating vegetables or taking zen meditation in between bouts of drinking whole bottles of whisky and cavorting with prostitutes.

The title is lifted from one of my favorite Hunter Thompson passages from The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved, and fits my soul like a glove in these dark days:

"Mayblossom Senility (Steadman's phrase)...burnt out early or maybe just not much to burn in the first place. Not much energy in the faces, not much curiosity. Suffering in silence, nowhere to go after thirty in this life, just hang on and humor the children. Let the young enjoy themselves while they can. Why not?"

Keep your helmets handy, everyone. Things only get weirder from here.