As hard as it is to believe, this is the actual entry on Rob Ford in Wikipedia’s “List of mayors of Toronto” page as of Tuesday at 1:05 p.m. Toronto time.
UPDATE: As of 2:50 p.m. the naughty bits have been changed. But they’ll always be here on this frame grab.
I admit it — I’m hooked on Rob Ford. He’s the drug that keeps on giving.
I guess, like every other poor soul locked into the downward spiral of Ford addiction, I overestimated my own willpower and I underestimated the insidious power and allure of F (which is what we Ford junkies call our drug of choice — “F.” I think it stands for “Ford” but it might be shorthand for “Fried” or “Fracked” or “F’d up good”).
I thought I could just walk away from my obsession, my craving for another hit of Ford … and another … and another … Obviously I can’t because I’m back here knock-knock-knocking on Robbie’s door. I even tried writing about something completely anti-Fordian — about a guy named Joe Hockey, for heaven’s sake (and one who can’t even vote for Rob Ford). To no avail.
I’ve been sucked back into the black hole of Ford. It’s a living hell but I can’t claw my way out to sunlight and the life I used to have before F took over. I’m hooked like a walleye on a Wally Diver.
There’s something about F that is unlike any other pop-culture, mass-media, blood-sport, so-crazy-wild-I-can’t-believe-it drug out there. I could Kare less about the Kardashians. Lady Ga-Ga leaves me blah-blah. Charlie Sheen? Charlie Who? Fifty Shades of Yawn. Breaking Bad? Rob Ford’s got more bad in one quote about home cooking than Walter White ever cooked up in five seasons of chemically induced chaos.
I know F is bad for me. Bad for everyone. Bad for society. Bad for Toronto. Bad for Canada. Bad for the world. It’s even starting to show up in schoolyards, for God’s sake. In North Bay and Moose Jaw and Nashwaaksis. Places that should be safe and clean, salt-of-the-earth places where the worst things that people should have to be concerned about are trifles like glue-sniffing and body-snatching.
The Big F is a plague on humanity. But, damn my craving eyes, I can’t stop looking for one more mind-blowing Rob Ford interview, one more thrillingly insane extemporaneous remark, one more sad and/or bitter and/or defiant family member paraded through the humiliation chamber just to feed my addiction.
The biggest problem with F (from my addictively skewed perspective) is that, like every other seriously intense drug, prolonged exposure diminishes the effect. The more F I get, the more I need. And not just in terms of volume (which, thankfully, keeps being churned out on a daily basis by the Ford Foundation). No, I constantly need stronger, more concentrated doses of the Big F.
At times I’ve thought about going on the F equivalent of methadone — just listening to Doug Ford rant and staying the F away from Robbie. But I know I’m only kidding myself.
There’s always that siren song running through my head … No, not “I’m going to lower your taxes so far down you’ll get a nose bleed trying to read the bottom line.”
No, the endless, haunting, mesmerizing song that keeps me pinned like a butterfly in an entomologist’s collection is this one: “Watch me. I’m going to do something really, really crazy any minute now. If you look away, if you ignore me, if you try to put any other false gods before me, you’ll miss it. You know I can be so much crazier than I’ve already been. You just can’t imagine what insane thing I’m going to do next. You have to keep watching. And listening. And thinking about me. Dreaming about me. You know the rush is coming. But you have to pay the price.”
Remember way back in the day, back when we first innocently played around with F, back before we understood just how long and hard and wild and dark and destructive the ride was going to be? Back when we got our jollies over Ford being arrested for drunk driving and marijuana possession in Florida — and then lying about it? Man, we laughed. We were jaked but we thought we could handle F. We thought we could play around with Ford and then just walk away. Were we ever wrong.
By the time word of the crack video surfaced, it was too late. We were in way too deep already and the crack video just pushed us right to the bottom. There was no coming back — at least no easy way to come back — after that.
Even when we mainlined the crack video, we still had no idea how much further down our dependency and degradation could drag us. We actually thought F would be finished and we’d be forced to go cold turkey if the video ever showed up. How could we be so wrong? We knew the power of F. We just didn’t want to admit it.
We knew F was the kind of monster that would just dig in and suck more and more of our lifeblood, consume more of our compulsive adherence than work or friends or even family, the kind of dragon that would make us forget we ever knew, let alone cared about, concepts like honour and integrity and truth and justice and respect.
It’s too late now. Too late for me, anyway. There’s still hope for you, maybe. You’re not locked into the cycle of dependency yet. Are you? Tell me you’re not. For the sake of future generations, I beg you to walk away from the squalor and degeneration that is the Big F’s only legacy.
And if some day you see me hanging around Nathan Phillips Square, sunken eyes searching desperately for my next hit of F, just walk on by. No words, no eye contact, no futile offer of assistance. It’s too late for me. Save yourself. But somewhere, deep in your heart, try to remember me as I was before F sucked the soul out of me. Remember me when I was a human being, like you.