These are some excerpts from his journal:

It’s just like the Hunger Games. I’m in the woods with a bow and arrow and rock and it’s either kill or be killed. A bureaucrat shows up and asks me a bunch of questions about expenditures and I’m going to shoot her but my bow and arrow thing doesn’t work, so I start to hit her in the face with my big rock. When I wake up I feel completely awesome, like I had just recovered a fumble.

I’m in Chicago on my trade mission vacation and I’m standing in front of that bean cloud sculpture thing in the midst of a big media scrum. Tough questions, man. And then I see my reflection in the bean cloud thing. It’s like it’s me but it’s not me, and I can see that Bean Cloud Rob is trying to say something to me and that it’s important, like the winning play for my football team or the answer to one of the questions I’m getting asked, but something is preventing the message from getting across. It was creepy, like Bean Cloud Rob was a ghost, and so I got mad and started to push and shake the Bean Cloud, but nothing happened. Woke up fucking furious.

In my dream the NHL season is about to be lost.  Everybody is sad and angry. I drive up in my Escalade and get out and stride into the boardroom where the reps for the owners and players are meeting. “Guys, it’s like this: 50% for the owners, 50% for the players and 100% for the fans! You got it, damn it, or do I have to tell you again?!” And everybody is completely thrilled with my plan and the Boyz n the Bright White Sports Car by Trooper starts to blast and we party like it’s 1999! And then a chick peels off her top and it’s even more awesome.

This one is friggin’ weird, but I’m a peanut that’s trapped in its shell. I’m at a ballgame and I know I don’t have long. I can hear some guy reaching into a bag and grabbing a handful of nuts, breaking the shells open and then chomping down on ‘em. It’s like goddamn thunder, it’s like I can hear ‘em screming! I know I have to escape but I don’t know how. I’m banging my peanut fists against the shell and hollering, but nothing’s happening and then I wake up really frustrated and mad.

As some of you may know, Rob Ford was enrolled at Carleton University in Ottawa back in the 1980’s and he and I used to be last-call regulars at the same bar. We haven’t seen one another in 20 years and have never had a sober conversation, but we were drinking buddies and as such continue to have short, on-line chats whenever one of us is drinking alone.

On Friday morning at 1:39, I got this message from Rob:

Rob: Hey Mur, you catch the Olympics?

Me: Slobber! It was a Bronze Bonanza for Canada, my man!!

Rob: How ‘bout that Udon Bolt guy, eh? The night before he won all the races he did three chicks from the Swedish handjob, I mean handball team! What a stud!!

Me: Usain Bolt, he should be the new James Bond.

Rob: Yeah, that lightning Bolt guy. If I were in his position I’d do some of the lady divers. It turns my crank when they’re all wet and then shower and go into that hot tub together. Love to party with them, man. SHOOTERS!!!

Me: SHOOTERS!!!!

Rob: asadafsdafdpaaaaf9as9d0as

Me: ????

Rob: Fucken cat just walked over the laptop.

Me: Oh.

Rob: I wana get a big dog, call him Flat Screen, but the wife won’t let me. Says I’ll never take him for a walk.

Me: You wouldn’t.

Rob: HAHAAHAHAHAHA! Ain’t it the truth!

Rob: Mur, I tell ya, I just can’t root for Canada during the Olympics. They’re losers. It’s the USA for me, just respect the way they go about stuff, you know? Look at the way they handle war, football, cars, food and stuff. They got it going on. And Jennifer Aniston, too!!!

Me: She’s always been your special friend.

Rob:  BOURBON!!!

Me: Bourbon shooters for all!!

Rob: And US cars rule!  I got a new ride, an Escalade.

Me: The Escalade, that’s what all the rappers sing about, right?

Rob: You know it, little brother. Big shit storm up in Toronto about my ride.

Me: What happened?

Rob: Some fart hole took a picture of me reading while driving down the Expressway. Wasn’t even breaking 100! Now all the green-freaks are on my ass. They can kiss MY ASS!! HAAAHAAHAH!!

Me: I hear you, Slobber.

Rob: Goddamn Escalade drives itself—you don’t need to be paying attention. Things a tank! Couldn’t hurt myself if I tried!

Me: What music do you listen when you’re driving?

Rob: RATT. They really clear the brainpan. Psyche’s me up for the day.

Me: Cool. Did you see the Spice Girls at the closing ceremonies for the Olympics? Still looked pretty good, eh?

Rob: Oh Yeah! Ginger for me, man. And Posh. And Scary. And the other one, Baby, they can all hop in the hot tub with me and the diver girls!!! SPLISHSSSPLASHSPLISHSPLASSH!! But not Sporty, she’s like a dude.

A big, heaving white guy, he’s the kind of man that gets all red in the face and pumps his fist in the air shouting stuff like, “the gravy train must stop!” He has tiny, receded eyes that make him look as if he’s spent most of his life underground, hair that’s thin, sparse and so absent of colour as to appear transparent and emits the general vibe of a defeated salesman. His life has been buckshot with the sort of Frat Boy controversy you’d expect from a guy that grew up idolizing Rush Limbaugh and the CFL.

He’s not really into the brainy, micromanaging of governance, preferring instead to “take the bull by the horns.” Very often he does this by calling in to talk radio stations or writing letters to his constituents. These are some of Rob Ford’s recent missives:

To a 17 year-old suspected of committing a recent robbery:

Dear Mister Winston,

It’s Rob Fucking Ford here, Mayor of Toronto.

You’re scum.

I don’t want you in my city. I want you to leave my city. You’re a loser and a disgrace to the honest, hard-working citizens of my city. You think it’s cool to hold-up a gas station? Well, it’s not. We need gas to drive our cars. Did you ever think about that? I bet you didn’t. It’s not a victimless crime. You’re a loser and I swear, if I ever hear of you doing something like that in my city again I am going to take you out on the football field and make you my cheerleader, you bitch.

To a militant cyclist who organized a protest on a busy street at rush hour to  bring attention to unsafe biking conditions:

Dear Ms. Hairy Hippy Chick,

It’s Rob Ford here, yeah, that Rob Ford, the Mayor of your city. Lady, it’s not the 60’s, shave your armpits, get a job and learn to drive a goddamn car! If I see you protesting on one of my friggin’ streets again I am going to run you over in my Escalade. I’ll enjoy it. I want to rid my city of people like you and the goddamn pigeons who shit all over the place. You’re of the same diseased flock, as far as I’m concerned. Look out for me, license plate reads  “Go2Hell” and I drive fast, faster than Batman.

To a store in Chinatown that is suspected of selling bootleg movies:

Dear Mr. Chang or whatever,

It’s Mayor Rob Ford and I you boss. You do laundry for me, understand? No legal-legal to sell Hollywood star movies! Very bad! I shut you down like Jackie Chan, unless you me give Big Man Me movies I want. Big Man Me like Jennifer Aniston and movie with fast car and crash, understand? Keep them coming or I on you like white on rice.

To a graffiti artist known as DMC:

Dear Coward who hides behind the coward name DMC:

What the hell does DMC stand for?

Dumb Moronic Candy-Ass?

I tell you what Rob Ford, Mayor of your fucking city, stands for, he stands for the rule of law. Got it? Just because I can’t draw I don’t take out my frustrations  by vandalizing the city, that’s what a coward would do. That’s what you do. You’re a piece of trash.

I demand that you leave my city.

NOW!!!

Go to France where they play sissy football, sissy!