Wednesday, July 19 (1991)
I am obliged to take to my bed. One pays a price for good living, and the onset of gout was as inevitable as an act of sodomy in a seminary. As I ease my pain with a glass or three of my favourite white port ($155 per bottle), individually shipped to me by an obliging little Lisbonite named Simon De Silva, a letter smelling of rose perfume arrives from Queen’s University in Kingston. The rector of this fine old establishment desires me to address the graduating students next week on the subject of “Shakespeare and Dickens: The Place of Dead White Male Scum in University Education.”
No fee is offered, but I am promised a university scarf and a lifetime subscription to Nepotism, the journal of the Queen’s Old Boys Society. The college was founded in 1865 to educate the illegitimate offspring of ladies of the street. The tradition continues to this day.
Much as I favour our whoring community, a public lecture in front of hundreds of their byblows may be taking matters a little too far. I write to the rector, explaining Adrienne Clarkson is taking me to her favourite vein-stripping clinic on the said date, and the appointment has been booked for months. If I say myself, I have quite a way with excuses.
Friday, July 19
I am summoned to Rome by the Pope for a private audience. Such invitations are becoming tedious and redundant.
Uncle Karol was a life guard with my father at the Beth Shalom Youth Camp in Trenton some years ago, when the two of them were in dire need of some spare cash. What larks they got up to.
Unfortunately, the Holy Father was dismissed from his position after inciting the crowd from the town to attempt a pogrom on the resort. Pater lent him some money to buy his ticket home, and since then we’ve been unable to get the wretched man off our backs.
He asks if I can spare a donation for the Organ Fund. I explain that the Poles are ridiculous people. Their country was only created as a mudroom for the Germans and the Russians, and their food has both the taste and texture of a surgical sponge after a hernia operation.
The Pope is taken aback, and says that Frank Sinatra gave not only $10-million, but also a season ticket for the New York Yankees. I make a rapid genuflection and leave. The Papacy is not what it was.
Monday, July 22
A momentous day in the history of Canadian culture. City-TV has been declared bankrupt, and will no longer broadcast. I throw a party to celebrate and everybody who is anybody comes.
Cheeky Bill Cameron brings his on tin of SlimFast, and requests only a glass of milk and a spoon. Eric Malling is on good form. He orders his female factotum from W5 to perform conjuring tricks in the nude, and then throws cake at her.
Never mind, we all feel as if a cloak of darkness has been lifted from our shoulders, and the light of sophistication and good taste may once again warm our tired bodies. But then Mike Duffy arrives, carrying a large plastic bag. He takes an enormous plate of trifle and conspiratorially shuts himself in the main bedroom.
Malling follows him in, and exits five minutes later with a cadaverous grin. “I’ve put industrial glue in all of the orifices of Duffy’s inflatable doll. This should be an interesting evening.” I am saddened. I thought that such behaviour would terminate with the demise of Moshe Znaimer’s little empire. Loutism, it appears, transcends all borders.
Wednesday, July 24
It should come as no surprise that thousands of Canadian police officers are coming out of the closet to declare their pederasty; they and the buggering community have so much in common.
Both grow risible moustaches, both wiggle their rectums when they walk, and both are stimulated by military-style uniforms. Mr. Rae of the Ontario cabinet has characteristically anticipated this phenomenon, and instituted a scheme known as Queer-Cop, to improve the life of the homosexual patrolman. After all, a puff policeman’s lot is not a happy one.
I do, however, believe that the $5 million given to this program is parsimonious, and a pellucid sign of rampant homophobia. The same is true, of course, with AIDS research funding. Last year a meagre $6 billion was spent on finding a cure for AIDS. Pathetic.
If the government can devote over $345 to research into Dosn Syndrome and Infant Cancer, I’m sure it can come up with a little more to combat the unparalleled horrors of the AIDS holocaust. Something must be done.