by the Tiny Spark Of Rob Ford’s Consciousness that’s screaming for help
Things have been a total shitshow up in here ever since something called a “Gawker” broke the news that my man Rob smoked crack. As if a guy who acts like Rob Ford could conceivably not be smoking something.
When our old adviser, Mark Towhey, told Rob to get help, I was all for it! But when I asked for a show of hands, I was all alone. The chunk of Rob that has bright ideas like “Don Cherry should swear us in as mayor!” called me a pussy. The loudmouthed part that shouts ‘Subways!’ gave me the finger. And the shivering little bit that thinks crack is wack? It just whined about feeling sick and said “let’s go see Sandro.”
What is it with guys like Alessandro Lisi? Rob picks the worst friends. Back in high school, I tried to get him into the debate team, toastmasters, even the Dungeons & Dragons club — anything to get Rob away from football players, gangsters and douchebags. But nobody listens to me.
The worst part: his idiot supporters. Ford Nation still defends Rob, babbling about “media bias” and “gravy trains” and “casting the first stone”. These hypocritical, enabling morons don’t have the smallest glimmer of a clue. Rob’s risking his health here. Do they want him to die? He needs help, not (crack) smoke blown up his ass!
Can you imagine what it’s like being me, the minuscule fragment of Rob Ford’s being that clearly sees the doom we’re headed for? Readers of Prairie Dog, I beg of you: if you see Rob Ford in your town this Grey Cup week, please ask him to take a break and get help.
Saskatchewan people seem super nice. Maybe he’ll listen to you guys.