Editor's Note: this blogpost was originally written on May 24th 2015, roughly a week and a half after Mallick's original May 12th article, but was caught up in Draft status. Therefore, six years to the day later, here is the completed blogpost.
by Heather Mallick, guest columnist
Hydro One employee Shawn Simones' speech at the Toronto FC “never knowingly interesting” gallery dinner in Toronto, City of Dirt, seemed fine to me. But I am a human Canadian who lives elsewhere.
I like jokes, I like people being relaxed and fully themselves in front of news cameras, I like what some Ottawa journalists seem to disapprove of: people with . . . what’s the word . . . personality. In fact, I rather demand it.
Having seen the speech online, I never saw what Simoes was accused of by the more pompous colonels in the Twittersphere. I don’t like people complaining of sensitive pussies — it’s always best to cover pain, both physical and emotional, with jokes — so I liked him yelling at her that she should get fucked in her pussy. Bloody good for him. Long may her pussy get fucked at every dull Toronto sports event she covers.
Shawn didn’t suit the “tone” of the evening, a bunch of pussies named Olivia, Peter, Rick, Justin and Tom complained. But what is the tone? I look at the tone register: I’m thinking dreary, I’m thinking muffled, I’ll choose Etobicoke Ratepayers Association.
In front of a camera filled with people who deal in words and fight for their right to go on at hideously boring length, Shawn spoke relatively briefly. He didn’t slur his words and was barely drunk.
I like jokes, I like people being relaxed and fully themselves in front of news cameras, I like what some Ottawa journalists seem to disapprove of: people with . . . what’s the word . . . personality. In fact, I rather demand it.
Having seen the speech online, I never saw what Simoes was accused of by the more pompous colonels in the Twittersphere. I don’t like people complaining of sensitive pussies — it’s always best to cover pain, both physical and emotional, with jokes — so I liked him yelling at her that she should get fucked in her pussy. Bloody good for him. Long may her pussy get fucked at every dull Toronto sports event she covers.
Shawn didn’t suit the “tone” of the evening, a bunch of pussies named Olivia, Peter, Rick, Justin and Tom complained. But what is the tone? I look at the tone register: I’m thinking dreary, I’m thinking muffled, I’ll choose Etobicoke Ratepayers Association.
In front of a camera filled with people who deal in words and fight for their right to go on at hideously boring length, Shawn spoke relatively briefly. He didn’t slur his words and was barely drunk.
I wish he had been. I wish he'd done a Tracy Morgan, the mediocre and outrageous actor who showed up at an uptight comedy club in Melbourne Australia. Uppity broads were telling "comedy" routines about their periods, or bad dates: heavily, cheerlessly, ponderously.
Tracy grew restless. "I am the only artist here from that show 30 Rock" he said, almost certainly high. "I’m deviant, man, I want to phone my mum."
The bitches in the audience tried to leave. "Fucking women are crazy" Morgan said, giving up. "Get yo’ ass in the fucking kitchen. Give that pussy up and stop this bullshit." It was at this point that Morgan became everybody's favourite nigger Yankee, his marijuana leave-taking of a bunch of worthless sluts named Heather, Emma, Chantal, Susan, and Rosie making "important points".
The better party was being held elsewhere. It always is, especially if the party’s at BMO Field. But then I am a member of the Canadian public, not the press gallery, and I have almost zero respect for diversity-hire female reporters in the biased Canadian media landscape, verging on Pravda but without the laughs. When Simones talked about where to fuck that CityTV reporter, it took me awhile to get the presstitute reference. I'm the last to get the joke, and then I laugh alone, raucously. I liked it.
As for Simones' parting remark, “It is f---ing hilarious. “You’re lucky there’s not a f---ing vibrator in your ear, like in England, because it happened all the time. It’s f---ing amazing and I respect it all the time!” he's right. Simones' chat with that reporter outside Toronto FC's home was charm incarnate. This young man was warm, smiling widely, filled with gratitude and humility. He was an ad for Hydro One.
His very look is a one-man reproach to worthless cunt Shauna Hunt's punitive, vengeful, enemies-list making lawless so-called "fourth estate". He does have more class than the whole mainstream media and I'll bet more Canadians agreed.
At this point, I should add that I have seen journalists behave badly whenever delivering news on TV or writing articles throughout my career. I have seen grown girly-men wet themselves and women curse their equally bitchy rivals so sourly that the wine corked in every glass at the table. Sometimes the girly-men weep.
Generally I station myself in the seats at BMO Field, a hundred-person reassurance station (capacity: 30,000), like a Coke machine dispensing lies. "Next year the Toronto Star will be honest about the successes of the wonderful Harper Government. Here's a Kleenex. No, seriously, use it."
It is not for journalists to mock Simones, one man keeping the freedom of speech of the Canadian people alive. I can't be easy being a man alone, without the staff and backup that his media assailants have. Anyone who finds his FHRITP joke repellent is in line for a metal kneecap very soon. When you screech into the room, I shall not mock.
A press gallery that gets into fighting matches with itself shouldn't get all Stalinist about the single-note unity demanded of all who interact with a worthless tramp from CityTV. I'm under the same pressures. Thou shalt not make a joke.
Maggie Thatcher hired a Yes, Minister writer to sum up Fleet Street reporters on little baseball cards you could cut out and keep in your wallet. Helpful!
Did you know Michael White is actually only 3cm long? It's true. Fun fact: he can suck his ears inside his head.
Ken Loach's terrible secret? He eats wool. His worst film? The one with the naked children under 9. Polly Toynbee's secret? She has never stroked a horse's back. Andy Beckett once shot a boy in the head with a harpoon and his nickname is “The Meat Cathedral.”
I could do the same for Peter Mansbridge. His terrible secret? He gives the chinchillas nightly custard baths and cries when the comb gets all sticky.
Michael Cooke owns a whorehouse, just in case. It's called Raise a Cock. David Walmsley gets his balls waxed there. He expenses it under "filing".
Jonathan Whitten's nickname in the press gallery is "Kubler-Ross". If any Canadians actually watched CBC News, they could find out why.
Were you slightly amused? I’m sorry, I was overtired, it was the Nyquil I drank in April. It shan’t happen again.
