Full Credits

Stats & Data

May 08, 2014

Excerpts from Toronto Rob Ford's Fiction series

SPACE JAIL LOG ENTRY 12: I’m twelve days into my ‘behavioural detox program’ that the ruling ‘Elites’ have imposed on me here at The Mars ‘Rehab’ Centre. Although I’ve done nothing wrong but work for my people, ‘The Norms,’ flying around on their space LRTs and sipping their 12 credit-space lattes. The Elites just don’t get it. But here I am being ‘re-educated in the middle of nowhere.’

Life here is hard. I have no freedom and must stay on the compound under the watchful eye of the guards or ‘doctors’ as they laughingly call themselves. If I do try to leave there is a round the clock blockade of the trouble making ‘Media’ - horrible, disgusting creatures that suck your soul out with powerful lens attached to their assholes.

My days here are filled with mindless repetition of the Intergalactic ‘rules.’ I play along because that’s what everyone wants - but in my heart I know that there is nothing wrong with me that a few weeks at Extreme Space Fitness wouldn't fix.

But it wasn’t all bad - I had fallen in with the underground space jail gang. A bunch of lovable free spirited alien minorities called the Greys. They had trouble getting jobs and often ended up on the Galactic Governments handout list. But I still cared about them - often exchanging space credits for their traditional medicines and attending their rockus tribal ceremonies. They had large eyes, featureless grey faces and cornrows in their hair. They were a fun bunch that knew the meaning of brotherhood and how to have a laugh. They spoke a peculiar dialect that fortunately from my years serving the Norms I knew.

“Wasa yo dosaing hea big boy?,” they first asked me when I was brought in on the space cruiser.

“Mea been framed bysa da man, bumbaclot!” I laughed. They knowingly nodded and slipped me a space dubbie. We were now known associates for life.

Then one day, as I was preparing for a meeting where there could be anywhere from 4 to 8 people, there was a knock on my space door. I couldn’t imagine who it could be and believe me when I say that when I opened the space door I was amazed to find space mayor canidate Oliviaum on the other side.

“Hiro Mister Fard.”  

“Holy crack pipes, Dougie,” I exclaimed. “Space rehab is amazing!”

“May I come in?” she devilishly smiled.

“Yeah baby, you can come all you like,” I nervously laughed.

Oliviaum was the kind gal any guy in my position wouldn’t mind taking for a quickie out behind the old Washington Redskins football stadium back on Olde Earth. She was newly space widowed. Her ex --- a smooth talkin’ space bike riding tax saving baldy asshole --- use to like to get handjobs at the Intergalactic Easter Rub and Tug where my space driver pal Sandrino use to change the bedding.

“You look tired,” Oliviaum said. She presented me with a Marsian tuna sandwich from her practical space handbag that I chowed down on immediately. She wore a pink business casual suit all the rage back on Olde Earth that barely hid her milfy modesty. Her dark hair pulled behind her ears she was like a space angel come to grant me all my immodest desires.

“You got to break me outta this joint. I been here too long.” I finished my Marsian sandwich and then bent down to eat hers.

“It’s only been a week,” she smiled.

“Football camp was only a week too,” I told her not really understanding what the heck I was talking about. Oliviaum removed her business suit and then pulled off my space track pants.

“It’s been a space decade,” she moaned. I told her it had been awhile for me too, not mentioning the two buxom Spanish Space Cadets I bedded in Chapter 2. I rolled her onto the space rehab bed, the sheets were soft. Space soft. That’s when I saw it. Tattooed on the small of Oliviaum’s back was a picture of a bald man. I recognized him immediately from those union meetings when my big brother Dougie and I used to sneak in and piss in the water fountain. Underneath in some comic sans font, (which I thought might look good on my campaign poster by the way) were the words: Me Love You Long Time, Jackus.

Disgusted, I sat up and told her to take her mayoral desires elsewhere. Outside the space football game had started in the space rehab field bio-dome. I felt limp. She wasn’t the one. I reached for the space phone the Greys had smuggled into the Space Jail for me and called Joey W at the Sun (not the Star).