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.
