Note: The following is a message I received from an anonymous source. I have been asked to share it my readers as a public service, in the hopes that it will serve as a warning to anyone thinking of sampling the CIA’s pretext for keeping Latin America in misery, the DEA in Latin America, the black community in the ghetto, and Gary Webb in his grave. Or something like that.
Hello. You don’t know me, so please allow me to introduce myself. I am Rob Ford’s crack pipe.
I am that woman, Ms. Lewinsky. I’m the one who knows Rob Ford better than anyone, even his own wife. I’m the one who perks him up so that he can bumble, bluster, and bounce erratically all over the place, bewildering everyone with his undignified behavior and his unpredictable rages. I’m the one he strenuously denied having had relations with, from the moment Gawker first published a picture of him with a couple of young black guys who have since met some highly suspicious fates.
That picture was embarrassing, but the video that goes with it is even more so. Until recently, he denied that it existed. And with it, he denied me.
Well, no more. I have come forward to demand my rightful due. And that is that he come clean and admit that we have had a lengthy relationship, he and I. He didn’t today, as you’ve probably suspected. He claims I was just another drunken one-night stand. Something he did in a stupor.
He would say that, wouldn’t he? But he’s lying.
Nobody just smokes crack just because they’ve had too much to drink; if that were the case, the LCBO would have closed every liquor store in Toronto, so as not to let kids get their hands on that infamous gateway drug. No, he didn’t pick me up just because he’d staggered out of a bar and into a bad neighborhood. We go back way further than that. And if you’re going to talk about gateway drugs, you might want to look further into the entire Ford family’s past, as the Globe and Mail recently did.
The Brothers Ford are drug dealers, and their illicit business in Etobicoke is decades old. When they first started, it was marijuana and hashish. Pot and hash are no longer so fashionable (or so frowned on), but crack is. And it has the added benefit, from a drug dealer’s standpoint, of being highly addictive, as pot and hash are not. The come-down is harsh and desolating. Those who’ve tried crack can’t just take it or leave it; they are forever chasing their next rock. Nobody just does crack once in a while, on a lark, or in a drunken stupor. I don’t do hook-ups, honey. I’m a long-term relationship kind of gal.
That’s why my relationship with him has been so intimate, and why it’s so embarrassing. Like the toilet in the Russell Edson poem, I belong to an unfortunate association, one that he’d rather not publicly embrace. And like a toilet, he fills me with shit — literal shit that’s been carried in somebody’s ass. Fills me up, smokes me, then pretends it didn’t happen, but always comes back for more. Yeah, he’s a sick fucker.
And that’s why it mystifies me to hear all these Ford Nation types going on like he’s a good man who’s just had an unfortunate accident, or something like that. No. No, he isn’t. He’s a mayor who’s been running the city like someone on crack, which of course he is. His character is corrupted. His whole behavioral pattern is typical of a crackhead in denial. Cancelling already allocated monies and green spaces for his own pet projects, even though everything’s already been voted, budgeted, and settled. Sexist, racist, homophobic slurs and snubs in a city renowned for its tolerance and multiculturalism. Petty, petulant rages and abuses of power. Does that sound like a “good man” to you?
If it does, I have to ask what you’ve been smoking.