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Who knew we had all this scum?

I have drawn a big red rectangle around this week on my calendar. It denotes a confluence of almost cosmic proportions, an occurrence as rare and as gratifying as the unexpected Democratic victories last week in my country of birth.
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I have drawn a big red rectangle around this week on my calendar. It denotes a confluence of almost cosmic proportions, an occurrence as rare and as gratifying as the unexpected Democratic victories last week in my country of birth.

Not only is a very small but very welcome part of Whistler mountain going to open this week and save me the lung-burning necessity of skinning up Peak to Creek, but I find myself wholeheartedly, unabashedly, and most definitely unexpectedly in nearly-complete agreement with a bold initiative proposed by Councillor Ralph. The former happens once a year; the latter… I’ll have to check my records but this may be a first.

Ralph wants to run scum landlords out of Dodge. I’m not generally a joiner but, Ralph, I’ll bring the tar if you bring the feathers. I’m sure we can filch what’ll pass for a rail from one of the building sites around town, maybe the one I hope to move into one day if it ever gets completed… which is seeming iffier every day.

Tarring and feathering and running out of town on a rail used to represent local justice at work in towns along the expanding western frontier south of the border. I’m not certain Canada has much of a glorious history in the tar and feather department. I suspect the Canadian equivalent was to politely ask miscreants to move on down the road to the next town or at least another neighbourhood. But what the heck, we’ve managed to adopt the best of other cultures. Why not tar and feathers?

Undesirable elements were generally bushwhacked by the local committeemen who’d been prodded to clean up the town of whatever despicable activity the taree was engaged in — generally something the locals viewed as somehow immoral — generously doused with warm tar or pitch, covered with chicken feathers, tied with the very tender male parts straddling the uncomfortable corner of a wooden beam, the rail, and carried none too gently on the celebrating townspeople’s shoulders to the edge of town. It was generally unnecessary to warn them not to return.

If you’ve ever had gum stuck in your hair — and who hasn’t — you can begin to glimpse just how tedious and painful removing tar and feathers from more or less your entire head, not to mention the rest of your body, might be once the tar has hardened. The acute soreness radiating from your groin added injury to insult and disproved the old saw about not being able to feel pain in two places at once.

Even in my wildest dreams I can’t imagine ever getting to join in the fun of running some tarred and feathered scum landlord out of town on a rail, and I’m not suggesting that’s exactly what Ralph meant, though I suspect he’d approve of the idea. But even running scum landlords — scumlords? — out of town would be the kind of refreshing act that’d leave a guy feelin’, well, empowered. Emboldened even.

But if we’re going down the vigilante road, we ought to make certain we’ve got a very well-established roadmap. I mean, we can’t just be callin’ someone a scumlord when he or she just thought what they’d been doin’ all along was exercising their property rights and pursuing a time-honoured model of free enterprise.

The first thing we have to do is leave absolutely no doubt as to who is and who ain’t a scumlord. After all, the scumlords are likely to find some sharpie lawyer who’ll split hairs, obfuscate the issue and even try to claim what they’re doing isn’t really even landlording at all, let alone scumlording.

To that end, I propose a Scum Advisory Committee be struck and humbly submit my application to sit thereon. I nominate Ralph to head it up. I’m sure we can hammer out an easily understood definition of specific actions that’ll constitute scumlordiness. I mean, let’s face it, the Fire Code admonition about no more than two people sharing one room is a little too broad. I’d hate for some overzealous scuminator to go after a couple letting their colicky baby sleep in the same room with them.

One of the first calls to civic duty the SAC should consider is a neighbourhood ScumWatch. ScumWatch block partners could offer safehavens for scummed tenants and help expose the neighbourhood scumlords. I’ve already talked to Mr. Barnett about using some small part of each Pique to run a Scum of the Week feature where we can publicly ostracize scumlords ferreted out by ScumWatch. He’s thinking about it.

Of course, I’m a bit hesitant to embark on this economic cleansing. I do have a few reservations. They’re extrapolations of the same misgivings I have about the death penalty. I don’t support the death penalty. It’s not a moral thing; it’s a practical thing. If I started supporting the death penalty, I’m not sure where I’d draw the line. For example, I could easily imagine myself supporting the death penalty for people who, say, change lanes without signaling.

But we’re not talking about killing people here. Just running them out of town and, one hopes, confiscating their property. Still, at a dinner party last weekend where this was the topic of conversation, it quickly became apparent scumlords were just the tip of the iceberg. By evening’s end, we’d come up with a long list of scum we’d like to run out of town. In fact, I heartily recommend this as a new parlour game.

Which Scum Would You Run Out of Town?

High on my personal list is people who try to make a personal gain from a public good. You know the kind I mean, take full advantage of an altruistic effort to help people in the community and then turn around and try to turn it to their own profit. Jeez, talk about biting the hand that feeds you. Scum! Out of town.

Or, people who bag their dog’s poop and then leave the bag right on the trail or alongside the road. Dummy up you scum. The dogshit will decompose if you leave it alone. Once you bag it, it’s forever. Get out of town before we run you out.

I would personally have no misgivings about running people out of town who stand around, frozen with fear, at the entrance to Whistler Bowl on a powder day. Some around the table thought that was a bit extreme but I think I’d find a lot of support for it. There’s nothing worse than watching some ninny who shouldn’t even be there destroy a perfectly good powder line by ragdolling down it and leaving all his or her equipment behind to get in the way. Out of town, scum… or at least back to the bunny hill.

I’m tellin’ you, I like this idea.