If I was Rob Fords consultant: 3 flawless strategies to avoid all this crack business.

1. Re-enact the entire plot of Fight Club.


It's the quintessential split personality defense. The jovial, round cheeked, Winny the Pooh-esque Rob Ford we all know as a harmless public official and the same crack smoking shit head with the maniacal laugh and a bad case of vertigo are not the same man. This does two very important things. One, it takes all responsibility away from the public, which is important, no one wants to be responsible for voting in a glass pipe rock-star. The good people of Toronto didn't vote for a junkie, they voted for a happy, humorous man that looks like John Goodman ate Sting and then proceeded to get a face lift. Also, the vertigo:



The second important thing is that deep inside the creases and folds of that glistening buttery face is a dark secret. Tyler fucking Durden. Well, a shitty Michelin Man version of Brad Pitt or whatever, you get the point. He's evil, he's like a diabolical diabetic devil that guides Rob Fords humpty-dumpty rumpty when he "loses time" like the priest killing molestariffic altar boy in Primal Fear (also Edward Norton!). The media would of course ask: "But Rob, why didn't you just tell us that your psychotic, shattered psyche split into an evil Anti-Ford that smokes crack and hates Canada?" and he would answer: "What's the first rule of Fight Club, BITCH?!"

That's why! The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club! That was even the second rule, I think. The man Toronto voted for didn't smoke crack, his crazy, hipster split personality did, just like in Fight Club! Then all he has to do is kill Tyler Durden-esque Anti-Rob by shooting himself in the fucking face like at the end of the movie. The risks are a little elevated sure, but come on, who could even think about scandal? No one. Not when the mayor gurgles out 'I am Jack's raging hypertension' and the blood shoots seven feet into the air out of his neck and lower cheek area. People will forget all about the Rock-Ford files when he suffers a massive head wound. There's nothing worse than a massive head wound.

Oh. Okay.

2. Start a rivalry with Eminem.

If you go gangster, go all the way gangster. The next time Raw Beefy to the Heezy Ford-Dogg comes out of his office, he straight up smacks a bitch. I mean we literally hire a prostitute for him to physically assault with those big memorial day ham fists. We're talking all the bling the lax Canadian fracking laws can afford, a hand carved First Nation's People pimp cane, and a hat made out of David Suzuki.

This isn't even David Suzuki Hats final form!

He comes out of his office, punches a whore in the teeth, looks directly into the camera and calls Eminem a little punk ass bitch before ripping his shirt off and rubbing peyote on his nipples. He then busts a rhyme about how crack is whack, pantomimes jerking off on the unconscious hooker and drops the mic for flavor.

He dances too. A Lot.

 

He goes underground, like total covert. His administration keeps silent about his whereabouts but address public concerns professionally and use words like 'getting', 'he', 'help', 'the' and 'needs', casually sprinkling in the words 'detox' and 'burnout' for effect. Suddenly, a week later, Rob Ford is in Detroit and publicly challenges Eminem to a throw a down at Osborn High School. He then proceeds to eat an actual homeless man and again rubs peyote on his nipples (this will become his trademark move).

Eminems Old High School, it didn't always look this good...

That's mostly what I have so far, it's a shock value thing. I know that the end-game intention is to somehow frame Eminem. Ford is deemed unaccountable for all the aforementioned bat shit crazy behavior by having CSIS release doctored photos and texts that clearly incriminate Marshall Mathers for drugging, brainwashing and subsequently mind-controlling Rob Ford right into the thug life. So you know, Eminem get's bum-shanked in jail and Rob Ford is totally acquitted. 

That or Eminem hires Wu-Tang Clan to shoot Rob Ford in the penis and tits. Whatever, either way everybody forgets about the crack.

3. Build a Giant Nicolas Cage Robot that terrorizes Toronto and can only be stopped by Rob Ford.

Quick, what do you hate more, crack or Nicolas Cage? Did you say crack? If you did; Ghost Rider 2. Okay now we're all on the same page. Nicolas Cage is worse than crack. A giant Nicolas Cage death-robot that shoots lasers and shits out copies of 'Wicker Man' is worse than all the crack. Like any proper political spin involving colossal mechanical actors laying waste to a densely populated city, you work in phases. You also need specialists. That's where the students of the University of Western Ontario's Robotics and Control program come into play. We hire these fertile young minds to design all the parts of Cage-o-Coppola 2000 separately (because, we've all seen movies, right?). We code name the project 'masters degree'.

Yaaaaay... We can focus and do a good job because no one here is attractive.

Then we need to build the thing. So you know, Taiwan. That's all I have for that. Oh, and we pay them in crack. Put it all together with... science... and BAM! Unleash it on downtown Toronto.



Do you think anyone is going to be like: 'Why won't you just tell us whether you smoked crack mayor guy?" No. They're going to be like: "That thirty foot tall asshole from Leaving Las Vegas just melted my Toyota into a vagina shaped pile of metal!" or "Everything is about Nicolas Cage is horrifying and my eyes are on fire!" or even: "Whoever designed this death-robot did an amazing job, it has considerably more emotional range than the actor it's based on!"


Oh I forgot to mention we program it to only respond to Rob Fords voice and obey his commands. Once Rob is good and cracked the fuck out, we send him out in spandex with a cape, a chainsaw, a fanny pack and a small pouch of Babybel's (in case he get's hungry) and have him use the shut down command on Cage-o-Coppola, who instantly explodes into a massive cloud of white smoke. I forgot to mention we pack the damn thing full of crack and make it self destruct when Rob gives the command. Man I'm really bad at this. Anyway, Rob Ford is now a fucking super hero. Also everyone is Toronto is addicted to rock so, they can't really judge him




No matter how much of a fat crack smoking idiot he is.

On NyQuil finally admitting it’s drugs and how Sublime is better on it:

NyQuil is my favorite product. First off it comes in both pill and liquid form. I’m not sure if you can smoke NyQuil. If you could smoke NyQuil, I would because I think it would look cooler than having to down half a bottle of the shit at a Wendy’s drive through on Good Friday in 2004 because of government regulated liquor stores. If NyQuil came out of Kobe Bryant’s rape-y dick I would suckle that ebony Philadelphia python well into the third millennium.

Yeah white boy! git yo coff syrup on. Kobe got'chu. Yeeeaaaah. 

So I’m watching YouTube. It’s this internet thing you may be familiar with, and I see this NyQuil commercial. I’m thinking: yeah, let’s see that fat dude with the runny nose get high as balls on strong ass cough syrup and not fuck his wife. I settle in and crack my knuckles because I love the mean, green N to the Q. I love it so much that just watching someone else taking it makes me pants-happy.

                 

 Yaaaaay...NyQuil Boner!

It also makes me giddy because the super villains at Procter and Gamble just will not admit that no one takes their product for anything but to forget about their depressing job and fat, stupid kids and just go the fuck to sleep. They know. They know people are abusing NyQuil worse than those monkeys abused Priscilla Boyd in the cross species scenes they never released in Planet of the Apes.

"Hey, weren't those gorillas wearing pants a few seconds ago...?"

It’s the big green stoned elephant in the room that the folks at Vick’s never talk about. There I am waiting for the delicious unapologetic, veiled advert for a legal narcotic. I’m waiting for that pure marketing omission to peddle suburban middle class crack. Then something magical happened. The megalomaniacs at Proctor and Gamble were like; fuck it, its drugs.

"Proctor and Gamble, The Guild of Fucking Assholes applauds your honesty."  

They revealed: ZzzQuil

Now it wasn't a raw truth the way the movie “Kids” was about aids infected children humping. They beat around the bush a little bit. Still, you know they just finally gave up the charade. They took out a big verdant mirror in which your reflection stared back at you through the void and said: “Here you hypocrite, here’s the truth, you didn't have a fucking cold you piece of shit. You took NyQuil to get a buzz on without suffering an anxiety attack because you’re too old to party.”

"Let's party like it's-...I just shit my pants."

They very clearly both say AND print across the screen NOT FOR COLDS. NOT FOR PAIN. JUST FOR SLEEP. While they do this, a montage of exclusively white people in their forties flashes across the screen. It’s just middle aged Caucasians sleeping so fucking hard that they snore and drool and essentially look like they suffered massive concussions right after having a series of explosive orgasms.

 white people partying!

Truthfully I was a little disappointed. Now that there is ZzzQuil, there is no rebellious aspect of abusing cough syrup (the fact that you aren't really sick and just want to get a little drowsy for kicks). With ZzzQuil, you’re using a NyQuil-like product to do what you were using NyQuil for in the first place, but without that mischievous feeling. ZzzQuil took all fun out drinking more NyQuil than is good for a three hundred pound lumberjack and seeing if you can cum before you pass out on the kitchen floor.

Sweet Carta Compass tattoo, Chad.

So now there’s ZzzQuil and I’m torn about it. So for nostalgic reasons I purchase myself some NyQuil. The big bottle, like the family VALUE sized one that screams at you with huge garish lettering 25% MORE. I take that sucker home and stare at it all misty eyed for about twelve seconds (the time it takes me to remove my pants and find my little measuring cup)

I do like seven shots of that thick, glorious liquid dreamscape and put on some Sublime. You ever listen to Sublime while you’re sketched the fuck out on NyQuil? Do that. Stop reading this, and do it, run to Shoppers Drugmart or Jean Coutu or whatever the hell and buy some NyQuil and get yourself Sublime (self titled) and enjoy. Skip child support this month if you have to and buy a shit ton of NyQuil and listen to Sublime, just ruthlessly looped. You’re welcome.

 

  

I don’t know why Sublime is scrote-expandingly awesome when you’re so messed up you have less perceptive faculties than Helen Keller. Those things aren't for me to know. I always appreciated a little Sublime when was young enough to smoke pot and have friends with barbed wire tattoos, but I had never listened to Nowell babble a few tracks out while I was reeling through a green hued worm hole of drug induced somnambulism.

Sublime in a field of NyQuillian Proctora Gambellus', the extract of which creates NyQuil. Science! 

NyQuil and Sublime goes together like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid without all the homoerotic undertones or Katharine Ross. Together like sweater vests and tweed jackets or like Facebook and publicly announced abortions.  Without sudden marketing honesty and the threat of product replacement, I never would have known this fundamental truth of life. Thank you Vick’s, you can have my money AND my confused respect now.

"Fuck off, I have the sniffles"