The Most Appalling Column In The History Of Canadian Journalism

Is this the face of Fox News North? One can only hope that Mr. MCrae was stoned when he wrote this crap.  In any case, the column should be pulled, and Mr. MCrae should probably memorize the phrase "Will you have fries with that sir?".  And where were the editors on this garbage?

Michael Ignatieff — King Of Steamy Sex?



HOTPANTS Ignatieff?


Gimme a break.


Ignatieff’s resonance with Canadians is as a dull, boring, effete, elitist, fuzzy, professorial academic dweeb who, if he ever heard the word “sex” would think it was a mispronunciation of “six.”


Or to use the words of former Ontario Liberal premier David Peterson about Ignatieff: “Bill Clinton would want to drag you into the bedroom, he’ll drag you into the classroom.” There it is in a nutshell, Michael. Your public image. And what are you doing about it? Nothing. Michael, hear me out.


Do you not realize the goldmine you’re sitting on? Have you forgotten your 1991 novel Asya? Yes, the British mag Private Eye said it was “written by a classic Canadian bore,” but what do the Brits know, more precisely, what do the Brits know about sex?


SEX, Michael.


The Sex (wait for it Canadians) all through your novel. The sex written by YOU. Michael. Listen. SEX SELLS.


You want Canadians to buy you? You want Canadians to know the real you, not the dull, boring, effete, elitist, fuzzy, professorial, academic, dweeb?


Then you hit the hustings with your book. At every stop you read passages from your book. You have yourself introduced as Hotpants Ignatieff, and you read what you wrote. Such as:


“They stumbled out into the night together and shared a taxi home, resting in each other’s arms, Gaby’s nipples hard in Asya’s hands, her tongue licking her ears, her lips, her shoulders. They both came to the edge, and then they both pulled back.”


‘Your breasts are perfect,’ he said drily. When she looked down at them, at the little elipses with their raspberry nipples awaiting the touch of his hands, she began to laugh. He kissed them, making a ceremony of it, first one, then the other, and she wached him, feeling the echoes of a silent laughter rippling through her...”


“He watched, amused, as she explored him. She ran her hands through the crisp golden hair on his chest, put her tongue to his nipples, to the drum of his stomach, to his sex.”


“...she sat on the edge of the examination table, demurely covering herself, like the Meissen figurine of the shepherdess on his mother’s mantlepiece in Neuilly, small, delicate, white as porcelain, her nipples tiny and erect, the rectangular lozenges of her kneecaps stretching the skin, her tiny feet, with their high arches, just touching.”


“Her nipples were puckered and her skin was scoured pink from the beating of the sea. Curls of her wet black hair adhered to the nape of her neck and runnels of water slithered between her shoulder blades. Razumkin was seized by the keenest desire to lick her all over.”


“They had rolled onto the floor, their bodies smeared with dust, and had made love among the scattered volumes of a complete edition of Turgenev.”


“She undid his studs and slipped off his suit, and he peeled off her sheer black dress and carried her into the bathroom. He turned on the taps, and when the bath was full he laid her in the water and climbed in opposite. They sat facing each other in the tub, legs entwined. Her temples were pounding, the champagne surging through her like an electric current.”


“He pitched her onto the bed and they writhed and grappled, biting and laughing on the wet sheets.”


“She lay back on the bed and let him move the folds of her nightgown apart. She let him touch and kiss her. She pulled his head down upon her breasts, and, like a man at last granted his most cherished wish, he buried himself in her body...”


“...he drew her down to the grass and made love to her...Her dress lay around her hips. She put her hand between her legs and smeared his lips till they were wet. Then she began to cry.”


“She hungered for him. Her fingers dug into his back. ‘More,’ she whispered. More and more, until he was afraid.”


Oh, Michael, you sex maniac stud, you.


Go for it, Hotpants.


earl.mcrae@sunmedia.ca

As yellow as yellow journalism gets.

PS.  The newest iteration of blogger continues to suck, and has dicked with the links above.  Here's the story here.  Quebecor, "tabbing it up".