Besides, the party on Church Street which, around Wellesley, is basically gay/lesbian-central in Toronto, is really the main event. Oh sure, you can enjoy your fill of assless-chaps along the parade route, but it’s really the after-parade party where the thing really gets going.

I know some people are really uncomfortable with nudity, but letting it all hang out just makes so much sense in the heat.

Much to the consternation of the vociferous anti-Pride people gracing the pages of the Toronto Sun today, I wasn’t able to find any gay recruitment centres, the presence of Satan come to reclaim his minions, or even any public fornication. Just fun, dancing, and a good time.

The reported Ford bashing and incensed, raging infernos of Rob’s effigy also weren’t anywhere in sight. In fact, I found most people who had something to say about Toronto’s half-mayor did so with cheerful aplomb.

Sarah and I eventually wound our way to Fuzion, a restaurant/bar that’s about as a Church-Wellesley as you can get, and where Sarah’s extensive network of friends once again surprised me as we were personally greeted at the front door by the owner. The atmosphere was great … the thumping house tunes took me back, the drinks went down easy, and even the “I’m just here to support my gay friends” crowd seemed to be having a good time.

We sampled some sloppy street food with strikingly homosexual overtones on the way home. Good ending to a great night out, and absurdly apropos.

Yeah, I suppose Pride might not be the march for rights and equality it once was, and yeah, it’s not as kid-friendly as the Santa Claus Parade. But if you ask me, the thing to do is get a babysitter for the night, take that rod out of your behind, and pretend like you’re capable of having a good night out. Cuz chances are pretty good that you’ll still be attracted to the same sex you were when the evening started, and you might even have had some fun.

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It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’