(The second greatest Irishmen’s fight in history was the one between John Wayne and Victor Mclaglen in the John Ford film The Quiet Man. They duke it out - sorry there are irresistible puns - across the countryside and village of Cong in County Mayo while taking time in mid-fight for a refreshing pint. That was the second greatest fight in Irish history. This is the first punch of the next greatest fight. I think it is best delivered in the form of an open letter.)
Dear Kevin O’Leary -
I, Hubert O’Hearn, minor journalist and rising essayist and book reviewer do hereby challenge you to a debate. Forgive me if I talk like a wrestler, but I want it to be you and me, one-on-one in handicap match. You can pick the venue, the moderator, the voting procedures, any way you want it brother, but it’s you and me in a Hell in the Cell match.
Why? Why do I want to verbally fight you, hurt you, mock you, outwit you, expose you to the world? One reason: You are the symbol and spokesman of everything that sucks about the 21st century.
I’ve been watching you on Newsworld every morning, with your shiny little head, your shiny little hotel suites and your stupid little grin but two things finally put me over the top into a land I frankly don’t like: the land I call I Hate Your Guts. The first was that commercial CBC put out for the Lang and O’Leary Exchange. You say in it, “Everybody loves to watch husbands and wives fight.” Really? Do they? Do their kids? Their parents? Their neighbours? Their friends? You know who likes to see people fight? People who don’t give a crap about other people. And then the closing shot is you standing over Amanda Lang like you’re Big Poppa Pump with your arms crossed and glaring out while poor Amanda couldn’t look more insipid if she took lessons. So what are you? The bone CBC has to throw to its rabid Tory masters?
And that got me to thinking about Dragon’s Den and Shark Tank, the American version of the show. I got to wondering - why do the producers let into the room these poor slobs who have a half-baked idea and ask for a million bucks for a 10% investment in a company that’s never sold anything? There’s not a chance in hell you’ll ever invest in them and that’s when I realized why they’re there - so you can look like cock of the walk and tell them you won’t invest in them. They’re a bunch of jobbers so you can pretend to be Hulk Hogan.
But worst of all is this inane tripe you spout off that billionaires like you deserve tax breaks because you can build an economy better than a government. I’m not going to respond to that now. That can wait until we’re in the Auditorium, the arena, hell the damn stadium and all of Facebook and YouTube if you want, but here’s a clue:
You and me will do battle, brother, with a winner takes all of all receipts to the charity of our choice. Know what mine is? Acquired Brain Injuries. Know why? Because godforsaken billionaires like you won’t pony up, and the little parliamentary piggies you control won’t order you up, I live in a chunk of Canada the size of France that has no neuro-psychologist. So in other words, the most beautiful, smart and witty woman you’ll never meet rots while waiting for some locum to do a videoconference in between his tee times.
That. Ends. Now.
Hey, Big Kev, I’m nuthin’. You think you can beat me in a competition of economic ideas, so prove it. You got more money than me, but I got more hair than you. For one night - one night brother - let’s do battle. And I know you’ll hear about this. You’re as vain as a bathroom full of beauty pageant contestants, so you’ll have some tool, some lackey, some Bob Cratchit doing nothing but looking for your name in the media. And if i don’t hear from you? I’m going to haunt you like Cassius Clay (sic) haunted and hunted Sonny Liston until Liston finally wanted to knock his head off.
Meet you in Lewiston. Brother.
Be seeing you.
Dear Kevin O’Leary -
I, Hubert O’Hearn, minor journalist and rising essayist and book reviewer do hereby challenge you to a debate. Forgive me if I talk like a wrestler, but I want it to be you and me, one-on-one in handicap match. You can pick the venue, the moderator, the voting procedures, any way you want it brother, but it’s you and me in a Hell in the Cell match.
Why? Why do I want to verbally fight you, hurt you, mock you, outwit you, expose you to the world? One reason: You are the symbol and spokesman of everything that sucks about the 21st century.
I’ve been watching you on Newsworld every morning, with your shiny little head, your shiny little hotel suites and your stupid little grin but two things finally put me over the top into a land I frankly don’t like: the land I call I Hate Your Guts. The first was that commercial CBC put out for the Lang and O’Leary Exchange. You say in it, “Everybody loves to watch husbands and wives fight.” Really? Do they? Do their kids? Their parents? Their neighbours? Their friends? You know who likes to see people fight? People who don’t give a crap about other people. And then the closing shot is you standing over Amanda Lang like you’re Big Poppa Pump with your arms crossed and glaring out while poor Amanda couldn’t look more insipid if she took lessons. So what are you? The bone CBC has to throw to its rabid Tory masters?
And that got me to thinking about Dragon’s Den and Shark Tank, the American version of the show. I got to wondering - why do the producers let into the room these poor slobs who have a half-baked idea and ask for a million bucks for a 10% investment in a company that’s never sold anything? There’s not a chance in hell you’ll ever invest in them and that’s when I realized why they’re there - so you can look like cock of the walk and tell them you won’t invest in them. They’re a bunch of jobbers so you can pretend to be Hulk Hogan.
But worst of all is this inane tripe you spout off that billionaires like you deserve tax breaks because you can build an economy better than a government. I’m not going to respond to that now. That can wait until we’re in the Auditorium, the arena, hell the damn stadium and all of Facebook and YouTube if you want, but here’s a clue:
You and me will do battle, brother, with a winner takes all of all receipts to the charity of our choice. Know what mine is? Acquired Brain Injuries. Know why? Because godforsaken billionaires like you won’t pony up, and the little parliamentary piggies you control won’t order you up, I live in a chunk of Canada the size of France that has no neuro-psychologist. So in other words, the most beautiful, smart and witty woman you’ll never meet rots while waiting for some locum to do a videoconference in between his tee times.
That. Ends. Now.
Hey, Big Kev, I’m nuthin’. You think you can beat me in a competition of economic ideas, so prove it. You got more money than me, but I got more hair than you. For one night - one night brother - let’s do battle. And I know you’ll hear about this. You’re as vain as a bathroom full of beauty pageant contestants, so you’ll have some tool, some lackey, some Bob Cratchit doing nothing but looking for your name in the media. And if i don’t hear from you? I’m going to haunt you like Cassius Clay (sic) haunted and hunted Sonny Liston until Liston finally wanted to knock his head off.
Meet you in Lewiston. Brother.
Be seeing you.
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