On a mild Wednesday evening, with a light breeze rolling in from the south, a few clouds scudding by overhead, and traffic gently arcing along all major arterial roadways, six out of ten voting Ontarians are enjoying one last breath of unfucked-up air before four out of ten of their neighbours elect someone who shouldn’t be in charge of collecting the carts at Rona, much less running the goddamn province.
“Anyone have any last minute medical emergencies they want to get in before our province repairs a flat tire by driving the car into the lake?” Ottawa dad, Larry Carlaw, asks his family as they hang out in their backyard, enjoying their final hours of living in a province that has a plan.
“Speak now or for four years hold your peace,” he adds, taking a long swig of a bitter beer that he says he would happily pay $20 a can for, as long as that price came with a guarantee that Doug Ford will not play a significant role in at least 1,460 of the days he has been granted on this planet.
With Ontario going to the polls tomorrow, the PCs find themselves somehow managing to carry a slight edge over the NDP into the final day, as well as arguably the worst Canadian political candidate since, well, his brother.
“When Rob won the Toronto mayoral race back in 2010, I remember thinking that it really couldn’t get any worse than that,” says Olivia Chow, shielding her eyes as she watches children enjoy extracurricular activities for the last time until circa 2022. “And now look.”
Southwest of this fleetingly happy scene, Mike Brady, a Hamilton-area exterminator, takes time out from treating a house for cockroaches to go on the record as a Ford supporter.
“Yes he’s a little rough around the edges,” Mr. Brady says, as he fills up his insecticide-carrying backpack with gasoline. “And his platform could use a few nails, and maybe some more boards, and sure it doesn’t have any supporting beams. But y’know, I always say the best candidate is the one who ran a small business into the ground and then rode his brother’s coattails into public office.”
With his backpack loaded he excuses himself, saying he has to get this job done as he has a busy day tomorrow, what with voting and all. He ambles off towards the house chanting “Ford more years.” But instead of entering the home, he stops just shy of the timber structure, and then does something even more unexpected than voting for a man who bought party memberships to fix a leadership race. Mike pulls out a lighter, and – shooting a thin mist of gas out of the backpack’s sprayer – creates a blazing flame thrower, which he then applies to the house.
The fire catches and quickly climbs the wood-slat exterior, smoke billowing out from the home as nearby neighbours emerge in shock. Responding to a shouted question regarding what the hell he thinks he’s doing, Mr. Brady is unapologetic as he directs still more accelerant on the blaze.
“Getting rid of the cockroaches!” he shouts proudly, before heading around the back to “really get ‘er burning.”