Last night, wandering the streets near our apartment in search of take-out since we’re both lazy fucks who barely cook and forgot to grocery shop, we meandered past City TV. Nothing new, it is like, two blocks away (for all you non Torontonians, that’s where MuchMusic, Bravo, and a wide variety of other crappy Canadian television stations are located).
But on this particular evening, the Liberal bus was parked outside. Dalton McGuinty’s campaign bus. Ohhhhhh sweet. Now, if you are an avid reader of this blog, you know I have serious problems with this man. Mostly, because he is a wanker. A lying wanker in need of shoulderpads. I’m just saying is all. Anywho. I do have actually have serious political disagreements with the man, but I won’t delve into them here, for fear of backlash. For once, I shall heed the old ‘never discuss politics’ thing.
So the boyfriend was really worked up. Me, slightly less worked up, but excited nonetheless to finally stick my foot up Mr. McGuinty’s arse. I mean, the boyfriend is very political. VERY political. All forms of news are banned in our house, due to his the rants he engages in after watching something political he doesn’t agree with. He has this magical ability to ALWAYS get through on call in shows on TV to argue with politicians. In fact, he was the first one on the Talk to the Mayor (or whatever it’s called) on CP24 last week, and got David Miller super pissed off on TV. It was prety awesome. He took particular offense to the boyfriends questioning of why City Hall is threatening us with cuts on this and that and the other, which they clearly don’t intend to carry through on (come on, are you seriously going to shut down the Sheppard sTubway? Me thinks not). He even turned slightly pinkish. Awesome.
Back to the topic at hand. So, we abandoned our foraging for dinner, and cut across traffic to his bus. We scoped it out. This is also not the first political bus we’ve scoped out. Ha. At the last federal election, we made our way to where Paul Martin (insert wretching noises here) was holding a rah-rah-yay-Paul sort of thing. We arrived with nasty posters in hand, and were kindly escorted off the property by security guards. This didn’t sit well with us, since it was public property and we live in a fucking democracy, thank you very much. So we stood just on the other side of the imaginary line they had drawn, until my pal Paul’s bus pulled in. Now, long story short, we managed to get right up to his bus, directly under his window, close enough to see the man’s freaking nose hairs, and no, we did nothing illegal. BUT, we COULD have. Seriously, security was terrible, we could have shot him if we so desired. Way to go Canada.
Back to Dalton. So we went to this super fat Liberal guy wearing the most overstretched shirt you’ve ever seen (I could almost hear it asking me to put it out of it’s misery, it had clearly been purchased 50 pounds ago), smoking a big fat cigar outside of the bus’s open door. We asked this guy if Mr. McGuinty was in his bus, and he responded by simply jerking his thumb backwards towards the building. I was sad, I was kind of looking forward to causing another political fiasco by storming his bus and doing…..well, I hadn’ t thought that far ahead yet.
But the boyfriend had other ideas. He goes to the guy, “Oh, is he taping something? Are fans allowed in?” (At this point, I threw up in my mouth a little bit….being referred to as a fan was slightly nauseau inducing to me, but I knew where this was going). The guy radioed up and was like, ‘Sorry man, no room’. The boyfriend insisted he really was a big supporter (more vomit), but alas, we weren’t allowed up. Clearly, he was hoping to go in all pro-Liberal and then tear him a new one. Mahahahhaa. Awesome.
We instead went to eat Indian food across the street. It was sub-par. I felt gipped.
It was a night of high expectations and low outcomes. Anticlimactic I believe they say. I had high hopes for causing a brou-ha-ha with my friend Dalton and living out my violent fantasies against him. I also was seriously excited to eat my butter chicken. But it was gross. Boo-urns to that I say.
Oh Dalton, I’m sure we’ll meet again. We’re like star-crossed lovers or something. Be sure you’re wearing a cup though my friend, that’s all I’m saying.