gor[b] Paul Gorbould: Words and Pictures

Heat stroke

Yesterday afternoon, I wandered out of the TBC's John Street entrance to head over to Starbucks. Through the shimmering heat, I stared up at two mismatched monoliths.

To the east, a 10' high, overly-jovial mural of the CFL on CBC hosts. To the west, towering high above all, a 7,000' tall billboard of the smirking Canadian Idol judges.

Staggering from the 36 degree heat, I began to swoon. Grimacing, I shut my eyes and tried to regain equilibrium. Then, from either side of the street, I started to hear voices. Squinting, I looked up to find the graven images... moving. They had come alive!

And they were bickering.

(On the left, representing CTV: Farley Flex, Sass Jordan, Jake Gold, Zack Werner. Right, for CBC: Mark Lee, Chris Walby, Greg Frers, Elliotte Friedman, Sean Millington, Eric Tillman)

Flex: Dudes, your mural is as tiny as your ratings. We're ten times bigger, and in front of your own damned building!

Friedman: Hey, aren't you Randy Jackson?

Flex: Bite me. Can't you tell jolly, black men apart? Racist.

Millington: I'm jolly and black.

Flex: If you say so. Say, you were a running back. Why dontcha go running back to the Argos, like you did during the lockout?

Walby: And why don't you pick on someone your own size, Funkmaster. I'm right here.

Werner: Careful, he might eat us. Here's an idea: why don't you file a noise complaint instead?

Frers: You sure look a lot like Larry Gowan. Plus there's six of us and four of you.

Gold: Let's even it out then. Red rover, red rover, we call Brian Williams over.

Friedman: Ouch, that's harsh. Here's an idea: develop some of your own journalists instead of just hiring our leftovers.

Gold: It's just Williams. That's not a trend.

Friedman: And Lloyd Robertson.

Gold: So?

Friedman: Tom Kennedy. Vicki Gabereau. Scott Laurie...

Gold: OK, but...

Friedman: Craig Oliver. Murray Oliver. Todd Battis. Alan Fryer. Matt McClure. Linda Sims. Larry Stout. Rosemary Thompson. Ravi Baichwal...

Jordan: Enough! Could everyone please just stop talking and go back to looking at my cleavage?

Lee: At least we're getting Strombo back, and he could kick Mulroney's skinny arse without getting off his motorcycle.

Jordan: That's it! Feel the gleaming whiteness of my pearly teeth! (Shoots beam of pure energy from her choppers, blinding Lee.)

Tillman: You wanna play it that way? Fine! (Melts Flex's face with laser beam spectacles.)

Whereupon Friedman lobs a radioactive "CFL on CBC" football across the road, Werner's mutant forked tongue lashes out to entwine pedestrians, and all hell breaks loose.

Ten minutes later, I found myself lying prone in the Metro Hall Cooling Station, with a frappuccino pressed against my forehead. The streets were once again quiet, the billboards motionless.

It might not have happened exactly that way. The heat makes people a little crazy.