Okay. Fair's fair. I didn't have to be Nostradamus to see that one coming. And for accuracy's sake, it should be observed that Mallick's phenomenal bouts of irrational exhibitionism may have more to do with her own internal brain chemistry than Rob Ford's popularity. But Ford certainly seems to be a catalyst in the collapse of her coherency.
In the newest installment of our popular feature, "Today's craziness from Heather Mallick", she offers the following:
It is Oct. 26, the day after the election, and you wake in a hard, unfamiliar bed. Your eyeballs are congealed chip fat and your contact lenses have gone crispy. Your liver is en route somewhere. You appear to be missing a tooth. And there's something in bed next to you. It is the sweaty, beer-smelling oik from the bar last night.
Of course, you'll say what you always say, “As God is my witness, I will never ever do this again.”
Interestingly, this isn't the first time Mallick has used the one-night stand analogy in her column. It seems she is making that a monthly feature. I'm not going to speculate on what might be behind this bizarre propensity of hers, since Heather Mallick's sex life is something that should remain the exclusive and private domain of Heather Mallick. If only she felt the same way.
But there's more... sadly, much more..
Then a passing car will dump a gallon of salty brown slush on my head in January as I walk to work. The TTC is pouting, the snowplows are parked, and the gentle City employees who counsel on power and pipes are manning a picket line and warming their hands on those eternally fashionable oil drum fires.
It's all fun until it isn't fun, just like that night you spent with that Ford guy you met in the bar. Ford's monstrous regiment will slip on the icy sidewalks and break their hips. Shovelling their own streets by hand, they will fall into their homemade snowbanks and won't be found till spring. “Bring out the dead,” will come the cry of ragged-trousered volunteer brigades hauling wooden carts.
Status anxiety did us in. Fearing the future and hoarding our own stash of money and self-esteem, we wanted to stick it to the arrogant politicians we resented.
If this were pure satire, as poorly executed as it may be, that would be one thing. But there's a dark malevolence to her words. It doesn't seem as much to be satire as it does the manifestation of a seething hatred.
You can read her column from today's Star in its entirety here, but be warned, if you are under the influence of psychedelic drugs, reading Mallick could cause permanent brain damage. (Which evidently is not an impediment to getting a job as a columnist at The Toronto Star.)
Take a deep breath and make an appointment with your therapist, Heather. When Ford's elected, your taxes will go down, your streets will get repaved, some of your friends who finance their lifestyles with undeserved municipal
And you can be grateful for all the many things you'll be able to bitch about.
UPDATE: Best comment of the day and most disturbing image of the campaign: Heather Mallick's "Hate-F#ck with Rob Ford," Followed closely by Bob Divine's " I think that woman is hanging out at the wrong kind of bars. "
UPDATE 2: Heather seems to have serious issues and her column is her Talk Therapy