Rob Ford: because I just can't stop. . .

Because I just can't stop shooping Rob Ford wannabe-memes... I think it's the grisly fascination... the feeling that, but for the grace of Dog, I too could be a drunken, cracked-out, skagged-out, gravy-suckin' mayor. Maybe of Tweed or Sharbot Lake, given my relative snack bracket. But it's not an addiction, okay? It's just that I'm only human. Errr, canine. . .

Harper to Con-Vention: "Hey, come into the Kool-Aid Jacuzzi...!"

This weekend, ReformaTory faithful will finally gather in the cold light of post-Hallowe'en Calgary to convene triumphantly eat humble pie and consider their party's dubious future.

They might wonder, with cause, if the floods of biblical proportion (heh) that scrammed the original convention back in May were a dark portent. They might wonder, with cause, whether their god-like leader is actually a tin idol trying to smudge out a long series of sizable fibs with the kind of linguistic technicalities that allow him to think to his own self that he's still telling something resembling the truth. They might wonder, with cause, why, the tighter the PM squeezes down on message control the more crap squirts out between his fingers. They might wonder, with cause, why the hell the wheels are grinding off of their deadly bus. They might wonder, with cause, whether the foundation of their strong stable Conservative majority, ummm, moral certitudes, is become purest runny Jello.

They might. Some of the more prominent rats in and around the old blue machine are blinking nervously in the harsh glare of unaccustomed daylight. But they have not quite yet broken into full disorderly retreat. I digress. Slightly.

So it seems more likely that most of The Base may grudgingly accept their leaders' slightly sweaty and trembling invitation to ignore that distracting senate scandal (among myriad others...) and take a flying leap long, warm bubbly soak in the party's patented Kool-Aid Jacuzzi. And feel free to drink a little of it. Actually a lot.

It may help those base delegates to ignore the even baser clouds of flying monkeys in short pants PMO kids. who will be frantically trying to winch together both their crumpled leader's mojo and the tattered curtain that they would really, really like to be shrouding the unpleasantness of Duffster*uck.

It might work. . . because, you know, those amoral, lying lefties ain't fit to run the country.

On the other hand, they might just be left with a bad aftertaste, and the nagging suspicion that 'somebody' very senior in the Prime Minister's Office has been peeing copiously into the hot tub, all along. . .

They might.

A word from our janitor...

To whom it may concern in Baghdad (Yes. That Baghdad.);

Thank you for your interest, especially in times when blogging, and blog reading figures, appear to have fallen a long way from the glory days, and look like they ain't done diving yet...

As desultory sometime custodian of this, the entropic debris of the Elgin Street Irregulars blog, I trust that you found all that you sought.

You know, after your whimsical early-morning entry of the search term "huge tits lingerie" felicitously directed you to these pages.

You follow a long line of similarly (presumably) avid researchers bent upon revealing the wonders of "Kim Basinger's ass", "sexy Thanksgiving", "sexy Christmas", "sexy Easter", "sexy Ramadan", "sexy Hanukkah", "Hooters girls", "big honkin' titties", "tight butts in short shorts", "thong T-straps", "businesswomen wearing rubber gloves", and "Rob Anders dating", as well as various medications, some possibly not counterfeit, claiming to alleviate troubling male afflictions among those not too prone to stroke, myocardial ischemia, and/or infarction.

Upon reflection, they all amount to the same thing, really. And I swear that I have no idea how Google's algorithms tagged us as good to go for any of 'em.

Ummm, okay, maybe I do. The Irregulars have on occasion delved into some fairly outré topics. Especially that Woodsy. She's a firecracker sometimes. But not the only one.

However our most popular search item of all time remains "picture of a life-size maze".

Who knew? I know I'm amazed...

Oar not...

It's unclear at the moment, what with different sources touting vastly different he-said-she-said versions of the story on Sunday. But it seems at least likely that the reason the incumbent minority PM is so certain that those costly new stealth fighter planes he's set his heart on would cost ludicrously less, by at least half, than the figures that every other financial and military authority other than the PM and the Department of National Defence has come up with, is because they're ummm, gliders.

But us coyotes can see the, ummm, logic. Yeah. That's it. Logic. Because this solves everything. All the haters who've pointed out that our
economically-trained PM has never actually practiced economics - nor, apparently, economy of any kind - look like losers this time.

Because ordering motorless planes saves a veritable billions-and-billions bundle on up-front costs and downline engine maintenance. And it'll put the Canadian military at the tippy-top forefront of those petroleum conservation and low carbon footprint thingies. Just what the country needs to counterbalance that plethora of negative tar sands environmental impacts, I'm sure. Not to mention how much stealthier they'll be than everybody else's stealth fighters, if they don't make any noise.

How to make 'em go, then? Look no further than Canada's proud and ancient voyageur tradition, people! Just borrow the Olympic rowing team's supply of high-tech carbon fibre oars (to match the high-tech carbon fibre wings, y'unnerstand...) and paddle them suckers! Using penitentiary prisoners as galley slaves would, without a Tory doubt, save huge bucks on the big prison-building schema, too!

All done within budget, just like those prudent, conservative fiscal managers said they would! Problem solved! Mission accomplished! Where have I heard that line before? Never mind! How could I have ever doubted?

$250K to transform 3 ? The RCMP needs us!

Y'know, this front page item totally arrested me (heh...) as I pawed thru this morning's Petfinder: the RCMP is set to pay $220,000 to send three deputy minister-level guys to counselling in Arizona, in hopes of transforming their organization, particularly its sliding public image. Factoring in travel, taxes, meals and booze, they'll likely sock out $80K to $85K to ship each warm body out for, ummm, transformational counselling. Which will then, of course, drip through the RCMP org chart like wholesome milk through a bowl of Grape Nuts...

I have no quibble with transformational counselling. What with tasers sizzling amok; questionable training; organizational arrogance and rot; PR stonewalling and BS*; and all-round not-getting-it-ness, the Mounties lately have been driving their spiffy squad cars in the PR ditch more often than not. They need to change.

What gripes me is the fact that we're outsourcing this lucrative gravy train ummm, serious and delicate matter, to US counsellors...

I mean, just yesterday, Aggie was saying that our long-term plans to (somehow) make tunza bux off this blog and never work again, were in serious peril. This story is karma!

I'd like to note that we ESIs are long-time experts in both personal and systemic transformation. For $85K a pop, I'm pretty sure we can offer the RCMP a competitive service. And it shouldn't stop at three guys. Oh, no. In fact, we recommend our comprehensive counselling package for all 25,000-odd sworn and unsworn members of the force.

According to my calculator, this rings up at a touch over $2 billion. Give or take a few bucks. Almost enough, I think, to keep us in the style to which we would love to become accustomed...

We have one condition: our fees are non-refundable. Because, while we, as professional counsellers, would do our utmost to create conditions for transformative change, it's up to the Mounties themselves to (heh, again....) cop to the responsibility. They've got to really want to change...

* Blue Serge...

Bring on the holy tacos

Yeah, yeah. I know Michael Jackson posts are already about passé. But I've been busy. And even at 3,500 feet, where the air is rare, the horizon blessedly wide, nightly howl-ups with my coyote brethren loud and yappy, and the Internet is dial-up and crappy, the King of Pop's sad death did not escape my notice.

Neither I'm sure, will the ensuing tawdry burlesque. It is, after all, one of the Independent Observer's favourite states for a reason.

Jackson's life was pure tabloid: a slow-motion circus train wreck. How would his dying change things? Especially with Joe Jackson, the ever-classy Rev. Al Sharpton, a cawing murder of publicity-hungry lawyers, the odd cellphone-camera totin' ambulance attendant, carpet-bombing Fox News 'reporters' and hordes of opportunistic alleged insiders, all gyrating out of the worm-riddled woodwork.

I'm not cynical or anything. Ummm, okay, maybe a little... I digress. But I figure we have only nanoseconds - maybe less - before the end game.

Which, if I read the signs aright, will be sightings of Jackson and Elvis, still alive. Eternally cruising the American heartland together in a white '68 Cadillac, leaving humongous tips with awestruck night shift attendants in isolated Seven Eleven gas stops. Who will sell their amazing stories to tabloid TV.

After that, it's a short inevitable hop to tales of corn tortillas adorned with the King of Pop's likeness. Blessed with miraculous powers. Oh, and steep admissions for supplicants that wish to bathe in their curative aura. Later to be hawked on eBay for thousands of bucks, and displayed in a highly legitimate casino museum on Sunset Strip.

Which reminds me. My breakfast Fritos this morning? I chanced upon this amazing silhouette of Michael Jackson on one of the chips. Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure it cured me. Of cynicism. Oh, yes. It's a freakin' - and I use that term advisedly - miracle! Bidders...?

A cure to cry for

It is spring. Heck, it's almost summer. But it doesn't really feel like winter's truly over. Many people are still sick. Some are paranoid about getting swine flu.

The guy at the shawarma shop where I get my coffee has the cure.

"Eat an onion," he says. "Do not cook onion. Just eat the onion raw. Whole thing. Raw."

In addition to possibly curing your cold / flu / blahs, it will ensure you do not pick up any of these ailments from a person of the opposite sex.