Oh.My.Doggy. I was hoping not to have to write anything about the way Christie Blatchford crapped on Jack Layton's memory, the day after he died.
Because as he so sadly showed, life is too short to worry about nasty things like that, when we've got a world to change. But since so much has been written about
And the harpie wingnut Barbara Kay is trying to outdo her by squeezing out this turd.
I thought I'd just ask the question: Why is everyone so surprised ? When Krusty has been in the Hall of Shame for YEARS.
And so has her writing.
Unfortunately, I must have used a too-loud voice, because I disturbed the dog, who reproached me with a sharp look and a disdainful pffftt or two from his rear quarters.
(13 May 2009)
How on earth did it come to this, that despair so perfumes the air? (14 February 2008)
Golly. I don't know. But how on earth could anyone write this?
Moi, je refuse: I shall cough into my cupped hands until I lose the slight dexterity that requires and then I shall hack unashamedly into the public air. By that time, I expect, I will be well into the public farting years anyway, so I figure I might as well cough too.
As I approach those years, I still have no idea why it is that as one gets older, one grows more flatulent, but I do recognize it as a curious truth...
Although I guess it does help explain why our boys in uniform don't love her quite as much as she loves them...
And why a soldier friend of mine once told me that given a choice between battling the Taliban, or riding in an APC with Blatchford, after she hadn't shaved for three days, he'd rather take his chances with the hairier ones.
Or why another friend once told me that he thinks her purple Afghan tales are better than gay porn. Because when she starts drooling about all those hunky guys, with their rippling muscles, their tattoos, and the sweat running down their
Even as his mind wanders.
Take that Molière...or Don Cherry.
And besides it's not like she hasn't been punished before eh? Like when the tiny terror bit Richard Colvin in the
In 20 years in journalism I have never seen anything resembling the systematic and sustained repudiation to which Christie Blatchford, the Globe and Mail‘s marquee columnist, is being subjected by her own newspaper. There is room in any good paper for disagreements among colleagues, and frankly there should, for a long time now, have been room for more of that at the Globe. But this goes further. This is breathtakingly methodical. And I believe it was needed.
But while any other self respecting Canadian journalist would have fled to a foreign country after that whupping, and assumed a new identity.
She just wrapped herself in bitterness, and crapped on Jack Layton.
Because he was right about Afghanistan, she was ridiculous.
And there's only one Krusty !!!!
But wait. What's this? Oh nooooooooooooooo !!!! Now even the Post is punishing her, by making her write about FIRE ALARMS !!!
Fire alarms? The great Christie Blatchford? Golly. Could this really be The End?
You know I had a horrible nightmare the day after I saw her squatting over Jack's memory. I dreamed it was ten years from now, and she was squatting over a rickety table in a dingy Legion Hall. Sucking up quarters and bottle tops like a hoover...or a CF-18.
And then some old geezer in a wheelchair bumped into the table. It collapsed. She flew around the room, like a balloon with a hole in it. And I woke up SCREAMING.
Just like she's probably going to scream when she see this.
Krusty, Krusty we'll miss you. Pffftt.
We don't want to lose you.
But we think you ought to GO...