My daily newspaper says that I am a rat.
Perhaps some clarification is in order.
It’s not actually my daily newspaper. It’s the daily paper in Ottawa which is a couple of hours up the road. It’s called the Petfinder.
It’s not actually called the Petfinder. That’s the name given to the Ottawa Citizen by a notorious (but hugely entertaining) scandal sheet in order to underline the paper’s perceived quality (or lack thereof). Once upon a time it wasn’t that bad; in 1980, though, its decline was pretty much guaranteed when two major media companies colluded to create monopolies and put more cash in their pockets. Three decades later it’s probably one of the weakest newspapers you’ll ever see in a national capital. (Or so my dad told me. I’ve always tended to believe anything he had to say about newspapers.)
The Petfinder does have at least one redeeming feature, though — it has a moderately well-stocked comics page. (It’s not terrific, you understand, but it’s not bad. Certainly better than my local paper which has a comics quarter page at best.)
Hmm. I was supposed to write an opinion piece a while back; it might be interesting to write an erudite, well researched and thoughtful essay relating the decline of newspaper comics pages to the decline of newspapers in general.
Nah. That was so three weeks ago.
But I’m digressing. The Petfinder has a comics page. With (duh) comics on it. On Boxing day (the day after nondenominational gift-giving day in case you don’t know what that is) I was reading the comics (and other things too, I hasten to add — I’m capable of reading things longer than three or four panels. Just.) while watching Christmas movies and eating bad-breath-in-a-bag. One comic in particular caught my eye. It says that I’m a rat.
Well, I’ve been called worse. What really stung, though, was that apparently I’m the most common kind of rat. That hurt.