Globe and Mail Weiner Roast


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Poor Liz got all dressed up for nothing

As conscientious Canadian voters, my husband and I felt we had an obligation to tune into the Globe Debate last night, and so we went up and down the dial looking for it, finally landing on CPAC for the first time, perhaps, ever.

At first, I thought we had tuned into The Fashion Police because there were a bunch of talking heads I’d never seen before. Blah, blah, blah. So we took the opportunity to follow Andrew Coyne’s lead and have our first drink. Well, that’s not true. We had been sitting in the backyard pounding it because my husband lost his job yesterday and we thought we’d take a last opportunity to down some hooch, given that this will henceforth be a dry household, given the fact we have to cover the rent, car payment, food, etc.

I digress.

I wish we had been watching The Fashion Police because the Globe panel was simply awful. Everybody said so. What was the point of doing a pre-debate show, anyway? So the Globies could show us how smart they are? Where the hell was Jeff Simpson or John Doyle?

After my third glass of wine, I landed on Twitter, and read the tweets from media types who all took a collective dump on the Globe and Mail for holding perhaps the worst debate ever. The whole show was a snorefest.

The graphics behind the leaders were ghastly. It was as if they’d hired the art department from the Walking Dead to paint the Parliament Buildings in True Blood.

And that moderator — I forget his name — let’s just call him the “I get to be moderator because I’m the boss at the Globe and I don’t care who knows it”. He was inept, shouting down the candidates, leaning over to try to get their attention. He must have flunked out of the debating club at Upper Canada College, or the Scottish equivalent.

I’m a Scot, myself, and even I would know enough not to let some hotheaded ginger moderate anything. He actually used a bell to single the end of each presentation and it was as if he was using the Pavlov Dog method. You know, ring the bell, they give you the same answer they gave to the same question at every election whistlestop.

Take another drink.

I didn’t learn anything at all during that debate. I just zoned out because nothing they were talking about applies to us. We’re no longer middle class, you see, because, as I said, my husband lost his job yesterday and I don’t make enough from my McJob to pay the phone bill. I don’t give a shit about the environment, right now, or oil sands, or the like. I certainly don’t care about child care — which wasn’t even mentioned — because my baby factory closed down long ago.

I am in striking distance of the CPP which will kick in next August but, in the meantime, Scott and I are planning to do some dumpster diving at the local Costco. Right now, we’re our neighborhood’s economic equivalent of Greece.

I did notice that Stephen Harper actually had a part in his hair, I am assuming because people have told him they think he wears a rug and actually resembles Shelly Berman or several other Borscht belt comedians who wear pieces. So it looks like he really does have just a whole lot of lacquered hair. (Which should have been mentioned during the Fashion Police segment.)

If I did give one shit about the debate, it was about the absence of Liz May. In its snobbery, The Globe simply put a line through the name of the only female leader and turned the thing into a sausage fest, a wrinkly, shrunken, sad weinie roast. I’m mean who’d you…Oh never mind.

I’m not upset about the woman thing, but Liz is the only one who can actually keep those rat bastards on topic. She’s like the teacher knuckling the students. I missed her.

So. If you missed the Great Debate, you didn’t miss much.

I’m going to kill myself before the next election so I don’t have to watch another one of these.

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