The missing manure from George Orwell’s Animal Farm has been located.
The cocks of the walker set had been secretly piling it up in the back rooms of Cobourg Council Chamber for the past week, ever since Miriam Mutton asked a question. Oh, the impertinence of it all! A mere question! For which Dean McCaughey, the Councillor with political skin thinner than a second-hand prophylactic, went apocalypso from the skeeter bite, demanding retraction and apology there and then.
Well, The Ms ain’t no man’s obedient tremulous chattel and, perfumed with Essence of Estrogen, she took their breath away just by standing her ground. Now that’s a Ms with ovaries to spare for the NHL & NFL combined.
What is it with McCaughey who meekly sat down like a scolded puppy when The Ms dared to bark back? (Turn your head and McCaughey. Nope, not for this man‘s army) Is McGaughey incapable of parrying on his feet, bereft of the quickie wit for a stand-up riposte? Did Cobourgers recognize this in him and go all stingy with a demotion of votes in the last election?
After all, novice that she was, The Ms gathered up more of the popular vote than any of the other grump & grind molars parking their soft-gummed crowns of 2nd, 3rd, 4th,, 5th rate support on the council seats. What was that saying? Oh yes, second place is the first loser. So here we have a council full of losers as sore as an unlanced boil bloated with bile, waiting for the opportunity to spill themselves all over The Ms.
Let me rub it in deeper with a quote from Ben Burd‘s blog, “These guys have never forgotten the rebuke that was given to them, a reduced numbers of votes than the election before, and have never forgotten that a woman beginner got more votes than them.” The cabal of scorned men have been gagging on that old crow ever since.
Or, as the late great Canadian poet, Irving Layton prosaically put it, “weak men invent enemies against whom they score imaginary victories every day.” So the sore losers form an ad hoc coalition to censure as a prophylactic to save themselves from their egregious humiliation.
Let’s see what we got here:
. . . . . 1 inch of votes for you, you and you.
. . . . . 2.5 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 3 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 3.5 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 12 inches of votes total.
. . . . . Don’t that make a ruler?
. . . . . Our combined votes beat hers, so we rule.
. . . . . We measure up to the task at hand
Hey guys, what about the procedure of NOTICE OF MOTION?
Oh that, fuck it.
Ya, fuck it.
What a pathetic spectacle, a group of guys gathered in a circle jerk to purify their puny flaccid egos in the face of a woman who attracted more votes than any one of them.
So all aggrieved are agreed.
Step two: dressing up the dressing-down in a cloak of pious respectability.
Oh no, it‘s not us that has the thin skin, the mayor declared unconvincingly. We do it to protect the fragile uber-sensitive morale of our municipal employees who are as vulnerable and defenceless as Palestinian first-borns to the new baby-seeking technology of Zionista weapons.
Don’t these employees have a union to care about the sufferings inflicted by a rogue Ms on the council? Oh silly me, I forgot that the unions are busy squandering their capital on divesting from institutes of higher learning in the Jewish homeland.
What a wonderful weekend it must have been for the Cabal of Censure, practicing their pouncing postures, especially with the sweet irony of International Women’s Day still warm in the hearts of the conscious.
So here it comes, the glorious Monday night performance of the Cabal of Censure to flap & flop their scrotum skins bloated with piety in an ignoble ambush of Atilla the Hen who had the Muttonchops to ask a question, a mere question. How dare anyone question Them?!!! Why it’s an outrage, I tell you! It’s intolerable.
I applaud The Ms for her textual powers to arouse the dead weight of those simpering whimpering banality boners backed with bloated bland glands full of mendacious debris. This pathetic gang of goodie-woodie guys spilled nothing but beans and wet only themselves in the process.
Anyone with a spare carton of Depends for Council?
The cocks of the walker set had been secretly piling it up in the back rooms of Cobourg Council Chamber for the past week, ever since Miriam Mutton asked a question. Oh, the impertinence of it all! A mere question! For which Dean McCaughey, the Councillor with political skin thinner than a second-hand prophylactic, went apocalypso from the skeeter bite, demanding retraction and apology there and then.
Well, The Ms ain’t no man’s obedient tremulous chattel and, perfumed with Essence of Estrogen, she took their breath away just by standing her ground. Now that’s a Ms with ovaries to spare for the NHL & NFL combined.
What is it with McCaughey who meekly sat down like a scolded puppy when The Ms dared to bark back? (Turn your head and McCaughey. Nope, not for this man‘s army) Is McGaughey incapable of parrying on his feet, bereft of the quickie wit for a stand-up riposte? Did Cobourgers recognize this in him and go all stingy with a demotion of votes in the last election?
After all, novice that she was, The Ms gathered up more of the popular vote than any of the other grump & grind molars parking their soft-gummed crowns of 2nd, 3rd, 4th,, 5th rate support on the council seats. What was that saying? Oh yes, second place is the first loser. So here we have a council full of losers as sore as an unlanced boil bloated with bile, waiting for the opportunity to spill themselves all over The Ms.
Let me rub it in deeper with a quote from Ben Burd‘s blog, “These guys have never forgotten the rebuke that was given to them, a reduced numbers of votes than the election before, and have never forgotten that a woman beginner got more votes than them.” The cabal of scorned men have been gagging on that old crow ever since.
“I love the smell of censure in the morning.
It smells like . . . Piety”
Or, as the late great Canadian poet, Irving Layton prosaically put it, “weak men invent enemies against whom they score imaginary victories every day.” So the sore losers form an ad hoc coalition to censure as a prophylactic to save themselves from their egregious humiliation.
Let’s see what we got here:
. . . . . 1 inch of votes for you, you and you.
. . . . . 2.5 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 3 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 3.5 inches of votes for you
. . . . . 12 inches of votes total.
. . . . . Don’t that make a ruler?
. . . . . Our combined votes beat hers, so we rule.
. . . . . We measure up to the task at hand
Hey guys, what about the procedure of NOTICE OF MOTION?
Oh that, fuck it.
Ya, fuck it.
What a pathetic spectacle, a group of guys gathered in a circle jerk to purify their puny flaccid egos in the face of a woman who attracted more votes than any one of them.
So all aggrieved are agreed.
Step two: dressing up the dressing-down in a cloak of pious respectability.
Oh no, it‘s not us that has the thin skin, the mayor declared unconvincingly. We do it to protect the fragile uber-sensitive morale of our municipal employees who are as vulnerable and defenceless as Palestinian first-borns to the new baby-seeking technology of Zionista weapons.
Don’t these employees have a union to care about the sufferings inflicted by a rogue Ms on the council? Oh silly me, I forgot that the unions are busy squandering their capital on divesting from institutes of higher learning in the Jewish homeland.
What a wonderful weekend it must have been for the Cabal of Censure, practicing their pouncing postures, especially with the sweet irony of International Women’s Day still warm in the hearts of the conscious.
“I love the smell of ambush in the evening.
It smells like . . . insurgency"
So here it comes, the glorious Monday night performance of the Cabal of Censure to flap & flop their scrotum skins bloated with piety in an ignoble ambush of Atilla the Hen who had the Muttonchops to ask a question, a mere question. How dare anyone question Them?!!! Why it’s an outrage, I tell you! It’s intolerable.
I applaud The Ms for her textual powers to arouse the dead weight of those simpering whimpering banality boners backed with bloated bland glands full of mendacious debris. This pathetic gang of goodie-woodie guys spilled nothing but beans and wet only themselves in the process.
Anyone with a spare carton of Depends for Council?
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