Open letter to Toronto

Dear Toronto.

I have tried to love you.

It's been almost a year since you rashly banned smoking in pubs and bars throughout your fine metropolis. When will you desist? I beg you, end the madness, before it's too late.

You insisted that it wasn't the right of a homeowner to cut down a tree on his or her own property. You forbade individuals from spraying pesticides on lawns or gardens. You told us we couldn't eat sushi or own pitbulls or handguns or samurai swords. And I laughed. Laughed as you, my beloved city, put the clamps down, enraging an impotent populace and exerting your own iron will.

I have done my best to put our differences aside, dear sweet city of mine. I have protected you from traitorous zealots within your own bosom, vile two-faced turncoats who dared to expound upon the virtues of rival jungles such as Montreal or Vancouver, all the while hoping, praying, that you would come to see the light.

But it isn't the same anymore my love. My pleas go unanswered and you've hardened your heart to my cries.

So then, that's it? No phonecall, no letter, no card? Not even a lousy e-mail? Fine. We're broken up. But don't expect me to recycle properly, or keep the noise down at my parties.

Oh, and one more thing. Even if there's a huge marble ashtray so close to me that it could be mistaken for my leg, I'll be tossing my smoldering butts on the curb.

Kennedy