Ford has taken it up a notch… from fiasco to a “defcom clusterfuck”

SEAMUS O’BRADAIGH – RESIDENT RECOVERED ALCOHOLIC

The good news is: The new video of Rob Ford just released by the TorStar Nation does not show Toronto’s road killed mayor smoking crack.

The bad news is: It depicts a wee man with some large issues.

The video, which is located here, has Rob Ford involved in some kind of dull thudded rant, threatening to enter the ring with an unknown person and “rip his fucking throat out.”

We’re not sure if this is a boxing ring? A martial arts ring?

Or a pentagonal ring surrounded by the fires of Beelzebub.

It could be any of the above, or it could be a ratty bar room somewhere on the Danforth. We don’t know.

It soundss like a lot of fun… doesn’t it? Another nail placed on the slow moving coffin, a slow maudlin dance in some sort of ersatz Boot Hill retrospective

Well, it isn’t. Fun. It’s just plain old sad.

We have no idea when this latest video of Ford was taken, but it’s pretty clear that it was taken with a phone or other semi-concealed recording device. Making this the second time, that we know of, where one of Ford’s “cronies” and trusted confidantes have seen fit to bait the large staggering mayor into a guided rant. Indeed, one of his homeys is out of camera range, and he can be heard goading Ford on. The whole thing sounds like a set piece and a setup. Prompting the necessary question.

Just how fucking stupid is Toronto mayor Rob Ford? Pretty fucking stupid.

The man needs help. And should seek help. He needs to head into rehab and he needs to dump his job. He has to dump his old friends and he needs 90 meetings in 30 days. And then he needs a program. I speak from experience. I completely understand that rant. It’s fueled by booze and anger and resentment.

I got sober on March 20, 1998. My unmitigated addiction to the coverage of this debacle — because I, as you, love nothing better than a train wreck in slow motion — has brought back drunk dreams. For all of you non alcoholics out there drunk dreams are those high rem meanderings that have a former drunk waking up in a cold sweat because he thinks he has broken down and taken a drink. For a guy with 15 years in, the dreams are fascinating, because they – if you believe Freud – indicate just how afraid I am of taking that first drink. They are very very real. And mind-numbing.

Wanna’ know why they’re so frightening?

Because I used to rant just like Robbie Boy and it was seriously goddam embarassing. So I haven’t had any drunk dreams for about three years or so. Since Ford’s shit hit the fan and my sightline? Every night has been a clarion call to arms. I awake from these nightmares in a cold sweat and struggling to rise from the bed. I have to shake myself very hard just to remind myself that it was a dream. Last night, I dreamed that I  was at the Grey Cup and me and a good friend JK, another alcoholic, had both fallen well away from the wagon at the same time. Rye and Rum and vodka, oh my! That kind of binge. When you’re off for 15 years? Soft measures and dainty tiptoes are viewed as pussy fodder. So JK and I got fucked up in our hotel bar, surrounded by our normal set of still drinking friends who meet at the Cup every year to reminisce and rollick.

To our surprise? None of our friends, who know what’s coming, and were unusually supportive when we took turns getting sober, all joined us in our reconciliation with Big Daddy Jack Daniels. We showed those fucking enablers though. We started a fight with some Saskatchewan fans in an elevator and it escalated with me driving the communal rental van right into the brick face of the stadium.

We all run. We fight some more. And JK are headed off to jail just as I wake up. Jesus!

Anyway. When I got into rehab at the Addictions Foundation of Manitoba my ranting days were behind me. I weighed 135 pounds and just to give you a notion about how this disease of alcoholism can fuck you up? I thought I was in the best shape of my life. That was just before I ended up in intensive care with a GI bleed and pustules and varises rising up my esophagus from my liver to my Adam’s Apple.

So I got nothin’ for Rob Ford, except this: Get some fucking help you drunken piece of shit!

You want 15 minutes?

I want 15 minutes with you in a church basement, just to see if  and a couple of my cronies including JK, can bang some sense into that dull, dull noggin.

Just 15 minutes Rob.

Just give me 15 minutes.

Just 15 minutes… 15 fuckin’ minutes.

Okay so spoiler alert. I just gave away the plot of the video.

Which has Mr. Ford asking for 15 minutes… because he apparently thinks that’s what he needs to rip his goddam throat out.

And Lord knows, because this is what drunks do, he actually thinks he’s talking to friends.

Toronto Star saysthat they bought the video.

So guess what Rob?

You just learned lesson one.

Those guys you drink with and drug with? And party with?

They ain’t yo’ motherfuckin’ friends.

They’re just there for the trainwreck.

And they’re selling tickets on your dime!

Get seamus @seamusobradaigh.