Torontonians are cannibals; true story.

Okay, fine.  They’re not “cannibals” in the sense that they eat other people.  But they are assholes.  Who may possibly eat other people’s assholes….?  Ergo, Torontonians are gay cannibals.  Or gay FOR cannibals.  Or go cannibal-gay for gays?  I’m not sure what cannibal-gay even means.  Is it…you’re…..I don’t even want to hypothesize.  Now it just sounds like I think homosexuals are cannibals.  Or vice versa.  I wonder what the search terms will be that bring people to this posting….

I went to Toronto April 23rd.  And before that 15 hour Canadian Heart of Darkness (the CN Tower being the elusive Mistah Kurtz) I didn’t think it was possible that Canadians could be rude, either physically or verbally.  But THOSE BITCHES IS CRAZY.  I mean, it wasn’t NeNe vs. Star Jones on Celebrity Apprentice Smackdown crazy, (or even the Loaf vs. Busey, which would be all bad hair & giant teeth).  Those little Canadian shits have been hiding the fact that they think they’re (to borrow an old phrase) all that and a sack of potatoes.  So, Canadians are supposed to be all Little House on the Prairie, hate Quebec, and say “aboot” and carry hockey sticks everywhere.  Now, I found some of these things to be true, but them’s mean bitches.  And I’m from New York….so, if *I* think they’re rude, nuff said.

Now, aboot the preparation of the day trip: I read in Frommer’s or Fodor’s about some of their attractions.  THESE ARE LIES!  I’d bed you some Canadian play money that the people who put together the Toronto Frommer’s didn’t. even. go. to. Toronto.  Or google it.  Or find it on a map.  If you glean nothing  else from this post, glean this: Do not believe Frommer’s! Or maybe it was Fodor’s!  The “attractions” are lies!  John McCain had a better time in Vietnam.

I wanted to see a cool Victorian cemetery and was promised on in an old section of the City.  We did this first because after a 3 1/2 drive it was my FUCKING OUTSTANDING idea that we should walk around, stretch our legs, and take some photos.  The Necropolis Cemetery (if you’re a cemetery connoisseur & are lured in by the guidebooks promises of Victorian corpse decadence) is pathetic.  I don’t even think there were bodies in there anyplace.  Very disappointing.  Like really, it was just blah.  If you’re in the area and want to see what a real Victorian corpse jail looks like, you need to see Mt. Hope Cemetery in Rochester, NY.  If you’re driving from the west going to Toronto, Rochester is on your way.  Rather, IN your way.  You might get sucked into its vortex of prestigious universities and obscene poverty.  Anyway, this place is remarkable, beautiful, old, depressing, architecturally interesting.  And it is very feasible that dead people are in fact buried there.  The farther you get from the road, the more likely it feels that you are being watched and that you will see a zombie.  This is what you must have in a cemetery — a zombie ambiance so realistic one may shit themselves.  Some of the graves actually look fresh, other as if someone has tried to crawl out and then replaces the dirt when they go back to their coffin.  Stones can be tipped over as the ground shifts or due to age & punk vandalism.  Limestone was a popular material to use on headstones and as a result, many have worn away from weather and no longer contain names or dates and may be essentially “melting” over time.  It’s quite a hike, a huge plot of land; hills, woodsy, ironically across the street from a hospital.  My backyard is bigger than the Necropolis.  And has more bodies.

This is just general bitchery, but roads at one time were for horses, carriages, walkers, cyclists, et al.  However, I assumed that roads, at least in North America (excluding Mexico), were paved with painted lines and built primarily for CARS.  A-U-T-O-M-O-B-I-L-E-S.  Maybe some buses too.  But you people, (addressing homosexual cannibals in Toronto now) are all over the place on your bicycles, mopeds,  THERE IS A FUCKING TROLLEY, bus lanes and pedestrian right of ways when crossing the street.  It’s like some crazy open market in India or wherever else they’ve gone to on the Amazing Race.  Everywhere those people go, it’s like a bomb exploded and the people, cars, bikes, animals are the shrapnel.  You’re EVERYWHERE!  How do you not all die???  I mean, we thought that the biking was cool, all the stupid hipsters out on their vintage bikes, and other hipsters walking their dogs and the rest of traffic, but when you’ re at an intersection and you need to turn, you MUST wait as an endless elderly parade shuffles across the walk and they just keep coming; even if there’s a break but someone is about to cross, they WILL cross and continue with their crazed plans without even feeling a bit of embarrassment.  So it’s 50/50 whether you’re going to make the turn or not.  Because by then the light has changed and while you could turn, you can’t.  When you can again, there will be more foot traffic.  Basically one car a light can turn anywhere.  In the U.S., well regionally we drive different, so I’ll say for the mid Atlantic and New England states, if you’re going to cross CROSS NOW THERE IS NO TIME GO GO GO and a car is inching at you, foot hovering over the gas pedal.  You’re not even up on the curb yet before the gas hits the floor and it speeds away.  As drivers, we only sort-of lookout for people; people aren’t expected to be in the roads and if they are the whole fucking mess that could happen would be their fault.  Just stepping out into traffic from between two parked cars and not getting hit is some kind of Canadian Voo Doo Magick.  It’s also the way you do it, peeps, without looking, without taking out yer ear buds, and with arrogance and glaring at moi like moi is the confused/rude one?  Yes of course were confused about the roads, check out our plates, everyone else probably did.  It’s freaking easier to drive in NYC for CHRISSAKES!

Anyway, perhaps I should have known better than to go to Little Poland in the late afternoon the day after Good Friday/day before Easter, as all your shit was closed.  “All your shit” meaning your butcher shops and newsstands.  Little Portugal has pole banners identifying their area; the only way I knew I was in mało Polska were the pictures of the Pope in some of the storefronts.  Methinks it’s basically the same thing, but like, really? That’s it?  I don’t remember Portugal being invaded by the Nazis; give respect where respect is due bitches.  Polska na zawsze!

There were all these things that we could have done but didn’t have time for, and really, IF I ever go back there, I require a place where i can take a nap.  Trying to push so many things into one day makes me tired and cranky like a little kid, and then I start to get a migraine and then NEEED Coke (my bottle which had french on it) and food and I just need to lie down.  How do these people do days from am to pm of straight visits, tours, or activities and not borrow a mounty’s gun and blow their brains out.

The last thing we did was most satisfactory because i wanted to go on  a boat and it seems they have ferry’s to the Toronto Islands.  So we did that.  Walked around, looked in people’s windows, took pictures of the city skyline and the setting sun.  And that was the most fun we’d had all day.  My headache even ebbed away from the fresh air.  All was well…until I had to go to the bathroom.  We’d seen a sign for public bathrooms and found a wooded shortcut to follow (it was almost 9-something) and after thinking someone would leap out of the bushes along the path and stab us, there were the public bathrooms ahead.  Glorious.  So my friend said she would stand guard while I went in, I turned the handle of the women’s door, but it was locked.  I thought, maybe someone’s in there so I went over to the men’s and that handle was also locked.  No one was inside because they surely would have responded to knocking, violently shaking the handle, and screaming it was now or never bitches!!!!!  I mean, who locks the public bathrooms on a small island where maybe like, 20 houses live.  So, I would say a decision needed to be made.  But there was NO TIME to even think about it.  It was somewhere in the brush, bushes, trees behind the public bathrooms.  With resolute determination and no toilet paper, tissues, or nearby leaves, I marched out into the brush and bared me bum after a brief debate over how to do this without pissing on my leg again.  My friend waited by the building and I thought I was sufficiently covered but still knew where I was in case people appeared out of nowhere.  [EDITED]  I was like, holy shit this has to happen now.  I am not making it back to that ferry on the rushing waves of the lake sloshing the boat from side to side.  It Was Now or Never.  [EDITED]


I have hand sanitizer but what’s that really going to do for things not my hands.  My friend is waiting for me.  I’m on an island in Canada where people live in cutesy little cottages that are probably stocked with toilet paper from floor to ceiling.   [EDITED]   As we walked to the dock and waited for the ferry to come back, I just couldn’t understand why these bathrooms would be locked.  When I stopped at a rest stop once somewhere in New York or Pennsylviania, it was dark and I was alone, but I really had to go to the bathroom.  So I ran up to the building and— YES THEY WERE OPEN.  THEY WERE OPEN 24/7.  Why would you close a bathroom?  It’s probably some Canadian law, that along with make Tim Horton’s accessible on every block using Starbucks as their own plot, and carrying out hockey sticks.  Are you playing street hockey with that or what?  It’s SPRINGTIME.

When we got to the car, after buying a coke with french words on it we debated a visit to Spot’s Toronto location (it’s a cafe from western New York; there’s also one now apparently in Florida) to see what it was like and give me foodings and drinks.  Earlier in the day we ate lunch at a cool veg place….called…something.  I’ll figure it out.  And now need refueling.  Then, a terrible wind blew us to our car and it was off to find a gas station in the direction out of here.

I programmed the GPS to take us back to our city of origin and then to alert us to any points of interests, which I  filled in as gas stations.  I don’t think it understands.  When we were on an overpass it was alerting us to the station on the ground level.  This happened for several minutes until we just got off to maybe go street level looking for a station.  We found stations, that were closed.  Then we finally found one open, who had a problem with our american credit card so my friend had to go inside to pay.  Meanwhile, I shut off all its alerts and reprogrammed it to take us home.   After driving for maybe 20-30 minutes it made us start doing weird things like U turns or turning down weird alleys then  telling us to leave the alley and continue going the same we were originally going.  That GPS was trying to fucking kill us.  Or not let us leave Canda because we know about their voo doo and other secrets.

And then after we could figure it out without GPS, we had to wait in lines for 45 minutes at the border where everyone was treated as potential al Qaeda.  This time went better than the last time leaving canada, when they asked if we had drugs in the car and we said no.  and he was like, are you suuuurrrre you don’t have any drugs on you.  That time, but going in, the woman suspiciously asked how we knew each other as if we’re lesbians going to get married there or something.  Or that we have some “clients” in Toronto that we have to see.  I love how I’ve never done anything wrong enough to get on a record of oppo.ovr.  O haven’t even taken illegal drugs.  (pssst send me some illegal drugs or gimme contact)

Conclusion: Frommer’s in conjunction with the City of  Toronto  made me pee in the woods. Those bitches suck.



~ by hollaphonic on 05/07/2011.

2 Responses to “Torontonians are cannibals; true story.”

  1. Hahaha. I love this post. There really is no such thing as TMI with you.

  2. That does not sound like fun. The “Travels with Samantha” dude didn’t like Toronto much either, if I remember correctly. Crossing Toronto off my bucket list.

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