(This is the first in an occasional series on Robman, Toronto’s mayor, who dons a pink cape and flies into combat on behalf of taxpayers.)
On the morning when he takes office, December 1, Toronto’s mayor leaves for work at the crack of dawn. He drives through the streets of the still mostly sleeping city in a non-descript Chevy Van---licence plate Rob Ford---that’s the name he goes by when he appears in the guise of a mild-mannered civilian.
Along with him in the van are one or two other guys----same size, shape and haircut---a reasonable precaution.
Once inside the office, where only a few hours earlier David Miller and his satraps frolicked in the gravy, an assistant hands Rob Ford a one liter bottle that contains a secret potion that has been passed down through generations of Fords since cave dwelling times.
In a single gulp, Ford swallows the concoction, which contains, among other ingredients, sour cream, potatoes, coconut milk, a chip butty, and a double-double of chocolate. Ford sits calmly for a moment. Then a gurgling wells up from within him. Wings sprout, fully feathered from his shoulders, and a pink cape springs down his back.
Standing on his webbed feet, Robman takes flight. He wings three times around the office and lands standing on the desk.
Robman dictates Directive Number 1 to his terrified secretary who mutters, “I thought he was just a nebbish from Etobicoke.”
Robman dictates in clearly enunciated, grammatically immaculate sentences: “Transit City is dead. Shovels in the ground or no shovels in the ground. Bombardier can suck a pickle. As for the workers in Thunder Bay, let them eat Saskatchewan durum number one. “
“It is my insufferable will that no new LRT line shall ever sully the soil of Scarborough.”
“And while we’re at it, I’m cutting the paper clips allowance for all city councilors.”
“There ends Directive number one.”
“But Your Worship,” sputters his secretary “at one stroke of a pen, you’ve thrown away hundreds of millions, possibly billions, of dollars earmarked for Toronto taxpayers by Queen’s Park. Won’t it be hard to explain that you’ve blown a bundle on day one?”
“You’ve forgotten that I’ve slashed the paper clip allowance, mere mortal,” Robman replies, his wings whirring impatiently and his pink cape streaming behind.
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2 comments:
There you go again, overestimating the intellect of Toronto voters.
James:
Like his mentor, Mike Harris, the Mayor moves with dispatch so his opponents will not have time to resist. When he needs support, the Mayor calls on the suburban minions who support him to pack city council. Shades of John Sewell! "The war on the car is over!" Let the war on the city and its services and its unions begin!
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