First it was that smiley feminist ally, the Q-ute metrosexual guy on CBC, Jian Ghomeshi; and then it was Barack Obama, the candidate of HOPE; and that Yoda-like Zen master, Joshu Roshi, who wisened up my homeboy Leonard Cohen, my cousin Lindsey, and David, sweet David, da Albuquerque; and now it’s Bill Cosby, Cliff, motherfucking, Huxtable!
What’s next? Seriously, what’s next? Look, I know disillusionment is part of growing up (a part I’ve never been particularly good at), and I know that wanting to be “illusioned” is itself morally suspect in the world of WikiLeaks and Five Eyes, CSIS, ISIS, and Edward Snowden. But, life, for God’s sake, can you at least stagger the bad news, give me a chance to catch my breath, before you punch me in the stomach again?
My friend Ray Taylor said this was going to be remembered as The Year of the Asshole, a year of reckoning wherein a whole lot of assholes get their comeuppance. And that prophecy proves more and more prescient the farther we push into this godforsaken Year of our Lord. Because it’s November, it’s grey, and the party appears to be over.
But perhaps it’s all for the best. Perhaps it’s good to be down here, on my hands and knees, picking up the pieces of broken glass, with all the other sinners.
—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)