“What’d you do on the weekend?”
“Not much. Raped and murdered a couple of women, had a few beers with friends on Saturday night; nothin’ special. You?”
“Oh, you know, same-old same-old. Finally got that raw fecal smell out of the apartment on Sunday; turned out that I hadn’t flushed in three weeks. Can you believe that shit?”
“I hear ya! So, did you read about that guy that got shot…”
It’s the same old boring water-cooler conversation every Monday, more or less. If it’s not about Oprah and her hijinx or the smell of poop in one’s apartment, it’s about the latest homicide in the city. It does seem like someone’s getting shot or stabbed almost every day recently, doesn’t it? In April there were 4 murders in an area stretching from Mississauga to Durham. June’s looking a bit busier so far.
I wonder if Toronto Police will be able to cope. Then again, some old photos I’d seen in the Toronto Archives remind me that men of the Service’s past have done far greater with far less. Submitted for your consideration:
(a lot of photos in this one…)
Toronto Police Inspector Gilks. Size 8 in a city of size 9s, croissant aficionado, and hiding something.
North of the city, a determent camp for bad cops. Prisoner 5409, seen here sowing potatoes with wife and daughter. Those are the olden days for ya!
Two officers showcasing the latest uniforms. Note that one is partially smiling, thus happy, while the other is not smiling at all and has quite violently soiled himself, thus unhappy. Thank God for the restraining bands at the knees!
“On the roster today, gentlemen, fellatio! As per our venerable group’s induction rules, these two young gentlemen will now…”
Police Inspector Cronin’s bizarre, inexplicable, toxic, yet oddly hypnotic hairpiece was, most experts agree, the cause of his prolonged constipation. Look at that concentration!
The first and last year in which the facial pole catching event was held. It was determined to be too detrimental to the police population with only half an officer making it to the podium that year, scoring a disappointing bronze.
In the next three years Canada would purchase a second motorcycle (rated for up to 12 officers at a time), to service the western half of the country. It was customary to give the captain (at right), the “swan” perch on the handlebars with the other officers forming a protective cocoon around him.
See all the shit the cops had to put up with? If you weren’t getting your face poled or having to pleasure your commanding officers, you were required to wade around the city in your own filth.
The cops sure have come a long way since then. I think they’re doing a good job for the city at the moment, despite the alarming rise in murder reportage, but I also believe that they could probably be doing more. Just think of their predecessors!