SOMEBODY broke into my car while I was walking my dog at Lynn Headwaters the other day, smashing the passenger seat window and grabbing my purse and a freshly purchased bottle of Diet Coke.
I blame Rob Ford.
The fingerprints of the Mayor of Toronto were all over the crime – not literally, but that’s neither here nor there. He probably wore gloves, maybe even opera gloves, so he wouldn’t cut his arm on all the broken glass. In any case, there was no sign of blood or hair so DNA evidence isn’t available.
More importantly, Ford looks like he drinks Coke, and it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he might sometimes choose the diet brand. And while he’s often in Toronto, he’s had good reason in recent weeks to seek the calming forests of North Vancouver. He’s probably a little worried about money, too, given the uncertainty regarding his job. A stealing spree might have been just what the doctor ordered.
You’re aware that Ford was videotaped smoking crack cocaine in the company of known drug dealers. Some people like to say he was “allegedly” videotaped, but most dispense with the term because Ford is a noted jackass, and jackasses and crack pipes go together like Diet Coke and bacon-loaded cheeseburgers.
Three people have seen this video, but nobody can produce it, however hard they try. Nevertheless, much of the public has deemed Ford guilty, because he’s a jerk and his brother dealt hashish 30 years ago. Again, I could use the term “allegedly,” but I have a firm word count for this column and in these halcyon days of democratic journalism, having to prove things is a waste of time.
Here’s how I’m pretty sure the theft went down. I got out of the car with my dog, her leash, and her ball one afternoon last week, and ambled down the stairs to the Varley Trail. It was at that point that Ford and whatever nefarious companion he’d picked up on the way into town from the airport on the SkyTrain hopped off their stolen bicycles wearing backpacks.
While his companion smoked crack, ate hash brownies, and drank from a gigantic vat of pop in blatant disregard of local custom, Ford peered into my car to scope out the booty. The fact that I had cleverly heaped grocery bags over my purse was no deterrent to his shrewd mind and base criminal impulses.
Between crack puffs, Ford’s friend took a hammer out of his backpack and handed it to the mayor, who had just finished putting on his mother’s velvet opera gloves.
“Here ya go, Yer Worship,” said the local gangsta.
In one sharp motion, Ford smashed the window. Brushing aside the glass, he reached inside and grabbed the branded grocery bags.
“What’s Fresh St. Market?” he asked.
“No idea, dude.”
Ford tossed the empty bags into the back seat. His eyes lit up. “Bingo! A purse!” he cried.
“It’s obviously not real leather,” his partner in crime pointed out unnecessarily.
“Shaddap,” said Toronto’s mayor. “There’s a wallet in it – that’s good enough for me. No money, but loads of cards. Can you use credit cards for crack in Vancouver?”
“No, but you can use ’em to get money to buy crack,” replied his friend in a reasonable tone.
Ford tossed the purse into his pal’s backpack. Then, with some effort, he clambered onto his bike and the pair pedaled down the road, cackling.
If it wasn’t Ford who done the dirty deed, it must have been senators Mike Duffy or Pamela Wallin. She probably did it for my lipstick red purse, which any self-respecting fashion maven would find irresistible. She currently has to keep her purchases modest due to some controversy regarding her Senate expenses, which is hard cheese.
I see her seeking solace from her worries with a trip to Vancouver and a peaceful walk at Lynn Headwaters, where, on her way back to her limousine, she caught a glimpse of my purse under the grocery bags.
“I must have it. I’m Pamela Wallin!” she indubitably shouted. She asked the limo driver to give the window a quick kick and then she demurely reached in and took the purse, also lifting the Diet Coke to present to her driver as a gift.
Duffy’s my last suspect. His scuttling about in the face of numerous accusations of fudged expense claims, false home occupancies and a weird bailout from Nigel Wright have been unbecoming, even to a former reporter.
While I can’t vouch for the likelihood of him walking anywhere, much less Lynn Headwaters, he may have stopped at End of the Line General Store for a latte and needed somewhere private to drink it. I see him parking his SUV beside my car in the overflow lot, looking down into my Honda and spotting the promising grocery bags.
“Mmm, a free lunch,” he likely said, drooling.
Gentlefolk of the jury, I rest my case.