Thursday, September 18, 2014

No Respect? Pity.

I didn't say anything about Rob Ford on my radio show today. I have nothing nice to say, so I completely refrained.

I am not proud of feeling this way, but I can't bring myself to adopt the hushed tones of respect that have taken over Twitter and facebook and the TV news, with people saying things that invariably begin with, 'I don't agree with his politics but...' and then express hope for a speedy recovery, continue with an expression of how cancer sucks and then wind up with a bunch of other high-minded stuff that is really only about the fact that the writer or speaker wants you to think well of them for having a big heart.

I don't know what I do wish, but right now, today, I can't summon good wishes for a person who has been such a complete and utter jerk for so very long.

Here are some examples of how Rob Ford himself shows respect, in his own words:

If you are not doing needles and you are not gay, you wouldn’t get AIDS probably, that’s the bottom line.”

“My heart bleeds for them (cyclists) when someone gets killed. But it’s their own fault at the end of the day.”

“This is an insult to my constituents to even think about having a (homeless) shelter in my ward!”


and let's not forget, "I have plenty to eat at home."

Rob Ford is an ass, and now he has a tumour in his ass. Like so much in the Ford saga, you just can't make this stuff up. Although Rob Ford has made up plenty, like telling a reporter just this week that he had a lung biopsy, which he did not. He told the same reporter this week, from his hospital bed, that he had a tumour removed from his appendix a few years ago, which he did not.

Just because someone is sick, they're not suddenly a saint. Please, let's stop the solemn tones of respect for someone who has squandered any right he has to it.

Pity, yes, for the cancer, for the neediness, for the addiction, for the drugs and the booze and the lying and the bullying and the shame he has brought to a great city. But not respect. No bloody way.

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