My wife-to-be has gone off on tour to the collection of fractured feudal states into which the United Kingdom is destined to decline. My days, therefore, are taken up in large chunks by playing Dwarf Fortress on my computer, cultivating a sense of self-contempt, and sobbing drunkenly into my cat’s furry, warm belly. Being a creature of habit, obstacles to my indulging in any one of these three are extremely irritating, and none more so than the Toronto Sun, about which I have to dedicate twenty minutes a day to feeling angry, in order that I might avoid such medical inconveniences as ulcers, headaches, and constipation, which might in turn further encroach on my time.
I don’t, however, like to spend any more than twenty minutes feeling angry about the Sun, and Christina Blizzard ruined my weekend. As I woke on Saturday morning, brushing salt-and-vinegar chip-crumbs from my beard and stumbling hungover to my computer to once again repel an invasion of filthy kobold child-snatchers, a deuce of Blizzard’s awful columns announced themselves in my inbox, both regarding the Black Lives Matter protest at the Pride Parade last weekend.
Blizzard’s arguments are characteristically confused, often internally contradictory, and supported by evidence which is mostly demonstrably false. This is an unconventional way to approach political writing, but is I guess what we can expect from a columnist more willing to criticize our Prime Minister for daring to take photographs with certain Hanoverian usurpers than for his selling of $15 billion worth of weapons to a regime which publicly beheads gay people. But never we mind.