Sticks Up The Bum, mr. putin!

A word of explanation: the Elegant Bastard acknowledges that this is the second consecutive post involving foreign objects being inserted in various body parts. This should not be regarded as a trend. The “fly up the nose” of the previous post was a committee decision, one made after more than one bottle of a good Ripasso. As for “Sticks up the bum”, that phrase came (as does so much that is wise) directly from the mouths of babes.

Oh mr. putin, mr. putin, mr. putin. What are we to make of you, eh? Here it was, a lovely Friday morning, one so sunny and so mild that here in Toronto we could all sit back with our morning beverage, gaze at the whimsical flurries of snow  and imagine a ford-free future.

And then you had to spoil it all by saying something stupid like, “Gay people will be safe at Olympics if they ‘leave kids alone’.

Now really, mr. putin, what was that all about? Did you grin at the image of outraged crowds rushing to all available microphones, ranting and raving about homophobia, your own abuse of children and your latest insult to the Olympic spirit? Did you smile and envision hordes of commentators spluttering in fury and waving the reports that completely invalidate your scummy accusation? Did you giggle in anticipation of the storm?

Look around, vlad. Listen carefully. It’s only one day later and – guess what – no storm. Where are the offended masses?

They’re walking dogs, vlad, or they’re watching football, or studying, or, in my case, prepping an upcoming post about some recently encountered white wines.  And why not? You’re the boy we’ve called “goof” once too often for there to be any chance we would take you seriously. Oh, there might be some minimal “analysis” or “commentary”. It’s a Saturday, typically a slow news day and something’s got to keep the ratings up. But most of us will, I think, just shrug our shoulders and see it as yet another bad vlad day. That’s how irrelevant you’ve become.

And in any case, mr. putin, we know you were not posing an argument. You were performing. For you as for Iran’s ahmadinejad, North Korea’s un (and recently its rodman), Syria’s assad, Toronto’s ford, and all the other piggy-eyed little chinless wonders who periodically find themselves on the world stage, it’s not about the content, is it? It’s about the noise. You are there to make noise and any noise at all will do. What’s fascinating is the motive, this question of what makes putin “tick”?

Just who are you, mr. putin? At first I saw you as a modern day Iago, that great villain from Shakespeare’s Othello. For readers who have yet to experience the play, here’s a brutally brief synopsis of Act Three, scene one. Othello, a Moor (and therefore non-white) has married Desdemona (quite white), the young daughter of a Venetian nobleman (very, very White!) All the affected and offended parties (largely white) storm into the palace to see who (or how many) will end up headless. Every Grand and not-so-grand Poobah is there. So is Iago (kind of pale grey or off-white). He is Othello’s servant and a truly nasty little man.

In the next few minutes, everyone – except Iago – gets to speak: the ruler of Venice, the Moor, some senators and even a teenage girl! Iago clearly feels this is an insult because as soon as the stage is empty, he struts, frets, threatens, pronounces, fumes, cackles and even adds an occasional mwahahaha to show himself what a big bad boy he is. He basically behaves like a poster boy for erectile dysfunction.

That’s more or less how I saw putin – Iago without the cool iambics. In short, he seemed to be the classic little man. Throw in a big case of penis-envy and you’ve got someone the NRA would love to get to know.

But that idea didn’t work. Oh it explained the most recent anti-gay slur and his unsubtle bullying of the Ukraine. But these acts were obvious and clumsy, akin to our ford’s attempt to toss a football or run a lap in the council chamber. The original Iago could be subtle when necessary, and putin doesn’t do subtle.

I next imagined him as a little boy wearing his daddy’s shoes and demanding to be allowed to sit with the grown-ups. His manners are so terrible, however, that he is banished to the children’s table in the pantry. Here, instead of throwing potatoes at his sister, he sells arms to Syria.

Whether little man or little boy, the key word here is “little”. It’s clear that putin, like our ford, feels his smallness. In one famous television scene, he and America’s Obama are sitting beside each other on a stage.  putin gets to his feet. Then Obama stands up – and up – and up, up, up. The look of absolute hatred on putin’s face is almost shocking. Rumour has it that putin’s photo shoots are arranged to ensure that no one taller than he is included in the scene. (Apparently this makes it difficult to assemble much of a crowd.)

Yet there was something about the “little” variants that still didn’t quite satisfy me. “Little” came close to expressing his essence but something essential was missing. I discovered the secret in Prague.

The Czechs are famous for puppet theatre. A year or so ago, I had the opportunity to walk through a showroom created by one troupe of performers. Here we could see the puppets at rest. They were all standing and with most, the strings were evident. But a few had the strings folded and placed neatly beside them. How then, I wondered, did they stand erect?

One little girl, clearly bursting with scientific curiousity, decided to find out. To the crowd’s horror, she slipped under the guard rope, ran up to an elaborately dressed puppet king and lifted his gorgeous robe. She then called to her mother, revealing the answer to all (who spoke Czech.) However, translations were made available and the whole room soon dissolved into multilingual laughter. What had the little girl said?

“Mommy. He has a stick up his bum.”

In fact, he didn’t. The puppet was simply mounted on a cleverly designed stand. Still, the little girl’s mistake was understandable. And as I reread the story of Putin’s gratuitous and boorish insult to visiting gay athletes and spectators, I am reminded of the little girl’s comment. It captures the missing piece of the putin puzzle  and is equally true of assad and ahmadinejad and our ford. They are puppets, caricatures of power, each held in place with a stick up its bum until its time for it to dance,  twirl, kick, or fight according to its masters’ dictates.

What part of putin made the comment about gay visitors – the Iago, the little boy, the man on a stick? It doesn’t matter. It’s noise. What can we do about it? I suppose it would be nice to expose those who pull the puppets’ strings or manipulate the stick. That would help. Oh yes, and one more thing.

 We could stop electing them to high office.

To the Reader: As Facebook attempts to deal with its unpleasant economic realities, it seems to be changing the way it serves its members. Whether the issue is capacity or shifting priorities, fewer and fewer people are notified when members post. If you enjoy “The Elegant Bastard” and wish to know when new material is published, you should consider going to its facebook page and “liking” the page ( not just a specific post.) Apparently you will then be notified when new posts occur. Here is the link:  https://www.facebook.com/theelegantbastard

 

 

What It’s Really Like Living In Toronto Under Rob Ford? Imagine A Fly…

In which the Elegant Bastard promises to avoid fat jokes as he explains to those unable to live in Toronto what it’s really like having Rob Ford as mayor.

Over the course of this thing we call life, others occasionally ask us to help them understand the essence of some experience we take for granted but that they are unable to share.   For example, I am a Canadian living in Toronto. Many are not so fortunate. I am therefore often asked to describe my world so that they might at least know what they are missing.

Examples are legion. A group of Detroit school children once insisted that I define and pronounce – repeatedly – that ultimate expression of our nationalism, “eh?”[i] (I understand they attempted a choral rendition when they returned home.) Two tourists from the UK loudly demanded that I show them dangerous bears or badly behaving Biebers and seeing neither, accused me of having deliberately hidden them. (I pointed out that we’d tried that with the Bieber but he kept getting loose and trying to sing.) And one unenthusiastic guest from New York  inquired as to whether we had anything to eat “up here” other than 1) wind 2) snow and 3) poutine (which she regarded as even less edible than the wind and the snow.) [ii] Add to these the usual stream of astonished “My God, just how big are your feet!” comments and it becomes clear that I should now be an expert at helping those who are busily trying to expand their minds and improve their educations.

Still, I do occasionally encounter a question I cannot answer easily. And by far the most challenging of these is also the one most frequently asked. To date, people from Paris, London, Chicago, Bruges, Vienna, Bratislava and something called Oxnard have declared their urgent need to know the answer to the following: What is it like having Rob Ford as mayor?

I can understand this curiousity. After all, the world has very few Rob Fords and they are all, not surprisingly, quite busy. Russia has its Putin[iii] but his hands are full beating up orphans, quelling pussy riots, harassing homosexuals and preparing to embarrass the entire Olympic movement. He can hardly be expected to run from one foreign city to another giving everyone a “Ford for a Day” moment. Dennis Rodman[iv] is America’s much taller version but he too seems to have landed a permanent gig pretending to play basketball for short North Korean dictators who are trapped in perpetual Bad Hair days.

That just leaves Toronto’s One and Only Original Ford.  And not only do we get to have him all to ourselves, we also have a spare in reserve! (Let’s call him Tweedledoug.) I fully understand that some of you may see this as completely unfair.  If so, I can only suggest that you play upon a key Canadian character trait – guilt.  If you first make us feel bad and then ask us very nicely, perhaps we would be persuaded to let you rent one of them for a while. I don’t think we’d charge much – certainly not by the pound[v]. In fact, a two-for-one deal is a strong possibility! And if you were willing to take Conrad Black, the CN Tower and the Maple Leafs as part of some overall package, we might even be willing to dispense with payment altogether.

Should you accidentally keep them all past the return date, don’t worry. Our other national trait will ensure you barely hear our protests for as you all know, Canadians are polite!

However, such complex trade negotiations are best left to others. You want the original question dealt with now and I think I have discovered a way to answer it effectively. You will, Dear Reader, be required to exercise a little imagination but having read your letters, I know that this will pose no problems whatsoever.

So, what is it like having Rob Ford as a mayor?

Imagine a fly. It is a very large fly, perhaps the largest you have ever seen. You are sitting quietly in your kitchen when you first notice it. You groan for you realize you have once again left the patio doors open, thus providing the creature with a window of opportunity.  Having achieved entry, it now flies in awkward and ungainly circles about the room, periodically bumping into walls and crashing into furniture. It lands and appears to stumble before it scurries off, first in one direction and then another, as if searching frantically for something. You notice a tiny puddle where it landed and you hope that it was there before.

The fly now spots a bag of icing sugar and instantly climbs upon it, buzzing excitedly and stamping its many feet in some bizarre version of a happy dance. But sadly (for the fly) the bag is sealed.  Now the buzz becomes louder, almost angry. It’s as if the fly is swearing. Suddenly it returns to the counter and stomps its way towards the window, trampling an innocent ladybug on its way. You notice another tiny puddle.

You are beginning to think it’s time you did something about the number of insects taking up residence in your kitchen. You are idly pondering whether or not to take a course in Effective Door Closing when suddenly the unthinkable happens. The fly flies up your nose.

In that brief moment, the once great world collapses inwardly upon itself and disappears. The planets are gone. The stars have disappeared. Asia and Europe have lost their romance and Africa its mystery. All is gone, all. Only two things remain: you and the fly up your nose.

You briefly wonder why it chose to do this to you. Was it cold? Was it hungry? Did it look up at your nostrils and imagine them to be two subway tunnels? But then you stop seeking understanding. What does “Why” matter when you have a fly up your nose?

Solutions begin to present themselves. Blow your nose. But wait! Blowing out requires first breathing in. What if you simply draw the fly in deeper? And nose blowing requires nose gripping! What if you accidentally crush your unwelcome guest? What’s the only thing worse than a fly up your nose? A dead fly up your nose!

An agony of indecision invades your entire being. Meaning is lost. So what that you have access to concert halls, opera houses and glorious shopping malls? Who cares that thousands of restaurants wait to serve your every need or that there are legions of pubs and bars and coffee houses dedicated to various forms of stress management? Forget the promotion, the deal, the bonus and the perks! What does life mean any more?  There’s a fly up your nose.

And as you writhe in helpless torment, you hear a sound. It’s a sinister new drone and it’s approaching fast. You close your eyes in denial; you grip your chair in fear. Nothing can save you now. A moment later you discover something much worse than even a mutilated fly up your nose. Its brother has arrived. A fraternity of flies is now camping in your nose!.

Nor is your situation helped in any way by the fact that three million other souls are also suffering, each with its own two-fly burden. Knowing the state of my neighbour’s nose brings me no comfort. In moments like this, I am my nose and my nose is me. A fly enters one nostril; love, sympathy, sharing and compassion instantly fly out the other. And even if I were that rare individual who could see past his own nose and gaze in brotherly sorrow upon yours, what practical good is such empathy? Are you expecting a helpful finger? It’s not going to happen.

In fact, a flies-in-the-nose epidemic like Toronto’s instantly proves false the notion that misery loves company. If anything, tensions rise dramatically. Approximately one third of the population either refuses to admit it has flies up its nose or claims to be enjoying the sensation. Another third is obsessed with denying any and all personal responsibility. They proclaim themselves innocent victims, undeserving of their flies. And the last third strides around the city, pointing sanctimonious fingers at others and chanting, “Who let the flies in? You let the flies in!”

Then, slowly at first, but soon with increasing speed, things fall apart.

And the low grey sky teems with grieving crows.
A brooding pathos in my dark soul grows.
Are there some who would stand and strike brave blows?
I won’t.  You see, there are flies up my nose.

And that, Dear Reader, is what it’s like having Rob Ford as mayor.

Any questions?

As always, please feel free to send me your comments. If you enjoy the post, by all means :share: it or :tweet: it. You could also print it, roll it up and use it to ward off furious flies.

Since the links in the footnotes are not hyperlinks, I’ve provided them here. The definition of “eh” can be found at http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6n

The piece concerning new Canadian snack foods can be accessed at the at the following: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1K


[i]  For the definitive definition of “eh” and other small marvels of meaning, see The Elegant Bastard’s “Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases” here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6n

[ii]  For the answer to her crudely put question, see The Elegant Bastard’s learned treatise on the subject of potential new Canadian snacks. The piece is called “Do You Want Bieber Chips with That?” and it can be read here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1K

[iii]  Yes, I know his name is Putin, not Ford – but as Juliet reminds us, “What’s in a name?”

[iv]  See Juliet’s comment above.

[v]  I’m sorry. I said no fat jokes. But I’m only human. I made a mistake. Nobody’s perfect. I’ve apologized. That’s all I can do.

The Mayor’s Guide to Sexual Harassment in the Workplace

To assist mayors, would-be mayors and office managers everywhere, the Elegant Bastard patiently explains why people do – and do not – bring their genitals to work with them!

As the last song finishes at the concert of your favorite star, do you rise from your seat and sound your approval with an enthusiastic fart? No?

Do you stalk the squirrels in the closest city park? You don’t?

Do you enter hotel lobbies and rearrange the chairs into patterns more pleasing to your eye? Never?

Neither do I.

Nor did I pee in the Fountaine de Mers in Paris, regardless of an urgent need. I did not – hungry as I was – mug the little old lady in Vienna and dash away with her sachertorte. And even in the midst of a mid-morning shower when I suddenly realized I was late for an important interview, I did not rush naked and dripping to the bus stop. I put on my shoes first.

So how is it, Dear Reader, that you and I are such constant models of restraint? What wisdom do we possess that prompts us to voluntarily set our own needs aside? Paris had no signs saying “Please do not piss in the fountains”. Prague saw no need to post notices asking hungry tourists not to assault pastry possessing seniors. Nowhere in Toronto’s public transit system will you be formally notified – in writing – that clothing is required. And I doubt that the squirrels in your city come equipped with stencilled “Do Not Molest” collars. (And if they do, you might want to consider relocating.)

It seems that most of us understand that certain rules of behavior do not need to be hung up upon the wall. They are obvious. Yet the mayor of San Diego, Mr. Bob “I’m a Hugger” Filner, claims that the charges of sexual harassment he faces are to be blamed on that city’s failure to provide him with proper information concerning the nature of “unwelcome sexual advances”. How, Bob wonders, can he possibly be held responsible for unknowingly crossing some arbitrary line in the sand? “Look,” he seems to say, arms spread wide in contrite surprise. “There are no signs! They never put up signs!”

Well, Bob, perhaps you have a point. Perhaps, overwhelmed by the stresses related to your job, you just assumed that a woman’s breasts were an office perk, like a stapler but softer. Or in the spirit of brotherly love and compassion, you just felt a need to reach out and touch someone. Is it your fault that San Diego foolishly keeps all its STOP signs outdoors? And maybe we should also offer sympathy to New York’s Antony Weiner? I doubt that anyone posted anywhere a notice reading “No Sexting Until Elected.”

Clearly, remedial action is necessary, and the Elegant Bastard, ever mindful of his weighty responsibilities regarding the moral education of lesser souls, has not only agreed to provide a simple six-part guide concerning sexual harassment in the workplace but has also promised to provide it free to mayoralty candidates all around the world.

One: Understanding Why People Bring Their Genitals to Work: As a mayor, you will need to be aware that while objects and people are both found in offices, they are not the same. For example, if I choose to bring cookies to work and place them in a public spot with a sign attached saying “Help yourself”, you are free to do precisely that. I may one day bring fresh apples or a case of bottled water. These are optional objects. Crunch yourself silly or slurp ‘til you burp.

However, when I bring my buttocks, my breasts or my genitalia with me to the workplace, I do so because it is not really possible for me to leave them at home. They are with me necessarily.They are not accessories. It is therefore unwise to assume that their presence means I am offering them to you instead of butter tarts.

And you should not assume that any reference to non-human objects is acceptable. If I have pictures of my children on my desk, by all means tell me they are sweet. Do not offer to help me make another. Asking me if you can borrow my Harry Potter is acceptable. Dumping your stained and ragged copy of The Joy of Sex in my lap while breathing heavily is not. Praising the colour of the mittens that I knit at lunch will earn you a smile. Offering to show me your other body parts in need of warming will likely result in your parts and my needles achieving instant intimacy.

Two: Sexual Harassment via Eye Contact: Invariably, mayors encounter people and some have even learned to speak when doing so. This leads us to the issue of where to direct the eyes while conversing. Since eyes are considered the window to the soul, face-to-face contact is the safest and most useful strategy. It suggests intelligence, honesty, respect for others and even a certain poetic spirituality, especially if you avoid drooling while gazing. Chests, buttocks and crotches cannot properly be regarded as windows to anything you need to see, and mainstream religions will resist your efforts to declare them holy. Claiming to be the founder of a new cult will not fool anyone.

Three: Sexual Harassment and Touching:

It is possible you might feel that ass-slapping is a common way to offer congratulations or encouragement and that your role as a city manager entitles you to motivate others any way you can. However, you need to remember that few – if any – of your duties will be performed on the volleyball court or the football field. As well, a quick look at relevant “You Tube” videos should make it clear that while even pro-basketball players engage in public ass-slapping, they have yet to start ass stroking, fondling, pinching and kneading – at least in public. Finally, just accept the fact that not even a last second winning goal in the Stanley Cup final would justify nipple-tweaking, crotch grabbing or pelvic thrusting. It therefore seems logical that you avoid such actions altogether and restrict your efforts at physical contact to the occasional hand shake, remembering, of course, to let go.

I will concede that hugging or patting is not always “lewd and improper behavior”. Still, it is best to be safe. If you must hug, why not arrange to have trees of the appropriate size scattered about the office and the city? If you must pat, rent a friendly dog. If necessary,you could periodically pat your own ass. Or stroke it. Or fondle it. It’s your ass. That’s the point!

The ultimate solution for real touch-addicts would be buying an inflatable sex doll and keeping it in your office closet. As long as you remember to close your door, turn up the music, and indulge only during lunch hours, you will likely be safe. The other major advantage of these toys is their inability to hire or pay for lawyers.

Four: Sexual Harassment and Terms of Endearment: It has been my experience that many people come with names already assigned. Efforts to replace those names with terms like “Honey”, “Tootsie”, “Studly”, “Cupcake”, “Woody” or “My Little Strudel” will likely encounter some resistance. Your peers may point out that they were not hired because of their sweetness, their curves, their bulges, their crumbly texture, their hardness or their lavish icing. A quick glance at their job descriptions should convince you that they are right. And referring to them with terms like “Bimbo” or “Tight Ass” will likely result in many new names for you, among them “The Accused”, “The Convicted” and “Inmate 2136421”.

Five: Sexual Harassment and Comments about Clothing: Some people appreciate a compliment when they wear a new or expensive or symbolic article of clothing. And most will respond well to comments like “That green matches your eyes” or “What a lovely scarf”. Go beyond that and you could stray on to shaky ground. This is likely because as a mayor, you are expected to focus your attention on issues like lowering tax rates, repairing bike lanes and creating new jobs. If your constituents do want you involved with porn at all, they will likely want you stamping it out rather than making more. Whistling at someone’s jeans, hollering “Sexy!” at the sight of a short skirt, suggesting that Fridays be made underwear free days or responding to someone’s new jacket by whispering that your favorite hobby is sucking polyester should all be regarded as actions that are career limiting.

Six: Sexual Harassment and Headlocks: San Diego’s Mayor Filner apparently put one of these on a female staffer whom he then led around the room while discussing city business. One wonders how he would have responded to her grabbing his testicles and leading him to an open window while discussing the effect of gravity on falling objects.

Mayor Filner’s actions prompt me to make the following suggestion to potential office seekers. If what you are thinking of doing to another person is normally an action performed by a professional wrestler, a masseuse, an exterminator, a terrorist or a surgeon, take a deep breath, a large drink and a running jump – alone! The outcome will likely be less painful for all concerned.

Let me close with one last piece of advice. Careers in the public service are not for everyone. Being a mayor – or any office holder – means tip-toeing through potential minefields on a daily basis. If, despite my efforts in this handbook, you still believe that your sexual advances will always be welcomed, you might wish to choose a career in prostitution rather than politics. The hours are about the same, many of the duties are similar and you will rarely be required to make long speeches.