So, according to last night's city council vote, it's still okay for to use dangerous pesticides on your lawn. City council will encourage you not to, the way a brothel owner will tell you it's kind of dangerous to try to have sex with six whores on a burning trampoline. ("I mean, you can do it, and I still get paid regardless, but you really shouldn't.")
Nothing surprises me in this town. In this little fucked up insular little burg of London, Ontario, having a perfect, golf course lawn takes precedent over anything as fucking hippie trippy as 'the environment'. Not that the environmentalists here help themselves: instead of presenting themselves in the armour of the Enemy (suits, well spoken, eliminating any of the whackjob elements the media love to snatch onto and use to distort the message), we have people talking about feeling the 'life force of trees'. We lose immediately that way.
London dances to the business tune: if a man in a $2,000 suit and Oxford modulated tones told them they had to sell their children, they would line up, babies in hand. 'It's good for business' is what most of this city needs to hear to justify any obscenity. Or any perfect lawn.
Sometimes, I hate this fucking close minded little shithole of a town. I really do.
Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry because I wasn't surprised. I expected this rather corruptible result, and it arrived.
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