Portrait of the Train Zombie as a young clodhopper.

I suppose that it’s time to remind you all of the annoying fact that Lizzie threw away what could have been a thrilling, memorable life so that she could experience the same life of baffled frustration as a reluctant housewife to an insensitive, clueless dipshit who regards having to think of the feelings of others as being much the same sort of unnatural horror as being castrated with a melon baller. It disgusts me that she went out of her way to commit incest by proxy and married the sunken-chested, whining, charmless, clueless, gutless, spineless, heartless, mindless, dickless pillar of shit known as Anthony Caine. Not only is it the moral equivalent of turning her back on a banquet of delights so as to subsist on a diet of flies, it reminds us that John is a whiny, stupid pissant in his own right and was probably the Anthony of his era. That means that we can assume that he secretly regards the same father he implores his children to respect for all the hard work he did as either a failure or an ogre; this is because Anthony’s Liography made a point of making a monster out of Gavin Caine because instead of handing Anthony a free car just because he maintains a pulse, he cruelly and heartlessly displayed his true villainous colors by expecting his poor, put-upon son to contribute a non-zero sum to the purchase of a vehicle, the fiend. What this tells me is that John hates Wilf because he expected him to work his way through graduate school.   What I also expect happened is that he spent his teenaged years futilely thought-bubbling over some poor girl named Patsy O’Connor; since she can’t read minds and was probably vaguely creeped out by the stoop-shouldered shadow with the ugly, stupid face and the sexual predator leer that is John’s default expression, she has no idea that she avoided the living, seething Hell-on-Earth that would have come from becoming Patsy Patterson. All she knows is that that pontificating idiot farmboy who had a brain loaded with reactionary bullshit is in the Toronto area married to someone stupid enough to tolerate the steaming pile of crap she never wanted to look twice at; she thus joins some moron on the coast who thought that a shrieking pile of negativity would have been a positive in a group of people I call God-damned lucky.