Thursday, May 11
A million Manuels, or: John Ibbitson is a selfish, blinkered twit
The Globe's John Ibbitson writes:
But I just love Johnny Baby's "only hope", don't you? Don't bother clicking through to see if he mentions abortion or low birthrates. Are you joking?
And why do we need to "sustain the population" anyway? Why, because without all those new taxpayers, who will pay for Ibbitson's "free" "health" "care" and piddly CCP one day?!?
Ibbitson works in downtown Toronto. To him, multiculturalism is all about funky ethnic bistros and colourful folk customs. Today, 45% of Toronto's population is foreign born, but that doesn't affect him and his mostly white colleagues at the Globe. Sure, it's hell finding a cabbie who knows where City Hall is. And those stories he has to run about Jamaican gangs make him feel vaguely guilty (or is it angry?) But that's just life in the big city, wot? Life's rich pageant, etc.
Flash forward to 2015. John's doctor was trained in some half-assed med school overseas and has an accent so thick John can't understand his advice. And John's not sure that nurse understands him. He calls 911 and hears, "Que?"
John struggles to make himself understood everywhere he goes: pharmacists, shop clerks, the dishwasher repairman -- English is a second language to almost everyone. It's like he's surrounded by a million Manuels from Fawlty Towers. But it isn't funny.
The city's just suffered its 10th (known) honour killing this year, and it's only April. Botched female circumcisions are up.
John took early retirement. The Globe's circulation plummeted in the face of dozens of small, foreign language community papers. There isn't much for John to do with his free time. Who did he think would put on the Stratford Festival -- Portuguese drywallers? Did he envision an all-black Toronto Maple Leafs or something? Who did he think would organize Remembrance Day ceremonies -- a bunch of Chinese teenagers? The CN Tower is still closed after the bomb scare, but they're hoping to reopen it in time for Cinqo de Mayo. Maybe this year they'll finally have Gay Pride again, after that horrible Muslim riot, er, "misunderstanding" back in '11...
John got the Toronto he always dreamed of, but sometimes he feels like that cartoon coyote who sawed off the tree limb he was standing on. Of course, he never mentions this to anyone. But at least he knows he's not a racist, like so many of his so-called friends, who'd made lame excuses before they sculked off as far north as their money would take them. John tells himself he feels sorry for them. After all, they're missing all the great restaurants.
... certain issues are, or should be, settled. The future of this country resides primarily in its major cities. In those cities, Europeans will soon be visible minorities, since almost all immigrants come from the developing world. The only hope to sustain the population at its current level is to defend and promote the immigration ethos...Wow, that's a lot of assumptions. The one about "major cities" and "Europeans" has been aptly swatted away here.
But I just love Johnny Baby's "only hope", don't you? Don't bother clicking through to see if he mentions abortion or low birthrates. Are you joking?
And why do we need to "sustain the population" anyway? Why, because without all those new taxpayers, who will pay for Ibbitson's "free" "health" "care" and piddly CCP one day?!?
Ibbitson works in downtown Toronto. To him, multiculturalism is all about funky ethnic bistros and colourful folk customs. Today, 45% of Toronto's population is foreign born, but that doesn't affect him and his mostly white colleagues at the Globe. Sure, it's hell finding a cabbie who knows where City Hall is. And those stories he has to run about Jamaican gangs make him feel vaguely guilty (or is it angry?) But that's just life in the big city, wot? Life's rich pageant, etc.
Flash forward to 2015. John's doctor was trained in some half-assed med school overseas and has an accent so thick John can't understand his advice. And John's not sure that nurse understands him. He calls 911 and hears, "Que?"
John struggles to make himself understood everywhere he goes: pharmacists, shop clerks, the dishwasher repairman -- English is a second language to almost everyone. It's like he's surrounded by a million Manuels from Fawlty Towers. But it isn't funny.
The city's just suffered its 10th (known) honour killing this year, and it's only April. Botched female circumcisions are up.
John took early retirement. The Globe's circulation plummeted in the face of dozens of small, foreign language community papers. There isn't much for John to do with his free time. Who did he think would put on the Stratford Festival -- Portuguese drywallers? Did he envision an all-black Toronto Maple Leafs or something? Who did he think would organize Remembrance Day ceremonies -- a bunch of Chinese teenagers? The CN Tower is still closed after the bomb scare, but they're hoping to reopen it in time for Cinqo de Mayo. Maybe this year they'll finally have Gay Pride again, after that horrible Muslim riot, er, "misunderstanding" back in '11...
John got the Toronto he always dreamed of, but sometimes he feels like that cartoon coyote who sawed off the tree limb he was standing on. Of course, he never mentions this to anyone. But at least he knows he's not a racist, like so many of his so-called friends, who'd made lame excuses before they sculked off as far north as their money would take them. John tells himself he feels sorry for them. After all, they're missing all the great restaurants.
