It was one of those evenings at Blenvale when the sky hung low like a damp rag and the smell in the hallway was half-dust, half-regret. And then, like a bad omen flapping its way through the vestibule, someone whispered,
“Blazer posted a video.”
Ah Jaysus, not again.
And there he was – Blazer in his winter shorts (he bragged about them), the eternal boy-president, lecturing us all with the authority of a man who’s never once questioned whether he might be the problem.
He begins, as he always does, with a confession:
“My name is Blazer.”
☘️ The Misinformation Spectral Apparition
He speaks of misinformation the way my grandmother used to speak of demons – everywhere, floating about, seducing the innocent, spoiling the crops, making the boiler explode again.
He never says what the misinformation is, mind you.
He just waves the word about like holy water, spraying it on every truth that ever hurt his feelings.
“We’re not insolvent,” he says, though the overdraft line shakes its head like a tired accountant praying for retirement.
“We’re transparent,” he mutters, while the financials hide more gaps than the teeth of a Limerick schoolboy.
But God love him, he tries.
☘️ The Flyers That Haunt Him
He holds up papers like Moses holding the tablets, only with less gravitas and more whining.
You’d swear the flyers attacked him in the night – bit his ankles, whispered “democracy” in his ear, knocked on his door to ask why the legal budget is higher than the roof assessment.
And he looks at the camera with eyes that say:
“Why must the peasants read?”
☘️ The Part Where He Laments Being Sued (Every Wednesday)
He bragged – with the pride of a man who’s missed the point entirely – that if he’s not sued by Wednesday, it’s a good week.
In Ireland, we’d call that a cry for help.
Here, at Blenvale, we call it Tuesday.
And he says it not with shame, but the kind of swagger you’d see on a fella who just discovered his own reflection in the pub window and thinks, “Grand, I’m important enough to be hated.”
No, Blazer
Being sued that often doesn’t mean you’re important.
It means you’re bad at your job.
☘️ The Great Detective Blazer
He tells us boldly he doesn’t know who the coalition of critics is, except of course for the people he knows, and also the ones he doesn’t, but also the ones he does, but really he doesn’t,
though he’s quite sure he does.
You’d imagine the poor man spinning in circles in the lobby, flyers flying everywhere, whispering,
“Who are ye? Reveal yourselves!”
When in fact, all anyone ever wanted was:
- numbers that add up,
- bylaws that aren’t illegal,
- and a president who wears trousers when addressing the nation.
🎭 THE SECOND CITY REVELATION
And then, like a man revealing he once shook hands with the Pope in a bus terminal, Blazer proudly declares:
“I’m an ex–musical director of Second City.”
Ah now, isn’t that grand.
You’d swear he was announcing his Pulitzer Prize
or the cure for gout.
But let’s be honest, lads:
Second City is a comedy school, not the Vatican of satire.
People take classes there the way others take pottery or Pilates.
And being a musical director usually means:
- playing piano while improvisers argue about frozen yogurt,
- pressing a button that goes ba-dum-tss,
- and nodding wisely when someone rhymes “banana” with “Montana.”
Respectable work, sure. But it hardly makes you the High Priest of Irish Wit.
Bless his heart.
Truly.
☘️ The Satire He Cannot Grasp
Then he moans about CondoTribune, that den of treachery and literacy.
“It’s not satire,” he cries
It’s the kind of arrogance you usually see in small boys who discover a new swear word and want the whole world to hear it.
He flips through the posts like a priest reviewing sin lists, offended at every page.
But the truth is simple:
If he sees himself reflected in satire, that’s on him. Satire is a mirror – and mirrors never lie.
☘️ The $3.4 Million Fairy Tale
He speaks of the $3.4 million they spent as if he personally built the windows with his bare hands, singing ballads of fiscal responsibility.
He forgets to mention:
- the $400,000 thrown into the legal furnace,
- the special assessments,
- the overdraft,
- the engineers who can’t stop sighing.
But sure, wasn’t it a grand year altogether?
A year of spending other people’s money with the enthusiasm of a teenager with his father’s credit card.
☘️ Adults in the Room, He Says
“Keep the adults in the room,” he pleads.
And I swear to God, I nearly dropped dead with the laughter.
Adults?
The man filmed himself having a meltdown over flyers.
In shorts.
In winter.
Bragged about it.
Talking to a camera like it was the voice of God telling him he’s the chosen one.
If there were adults in that room, they left early.
☘️ CONCLUSION: A Man Alone With a Camera and His Delusions
And so the video ends.
He thanks us, tells us to drive safe, and encourages people to change their votes – as if anyone finished that video thinking,
“Ah yes, what a steady, rational leader.”
What we saw was a man desperately trying to hold a crumbling narrative together with the duct tape of denial.
And all I can do is shake my head gently and say:
“Lord save us from men who think they’re wise and prove it by talking.”
Disclaimer: This post is satire and opinion. Read full disclaimer.
