Category Quote Puke-ometer
By the time Toronto Police Sergeant Larry Hicks arrived with a search warrrant a couple of days later, the flat reeked of the little [dead] boy's vomit: blankets, sheets and clothing, stained with the vital fluids that had leaked out of him as he died, were everywhere, and the cockroaches were in charge. What seems to have been the inexorable trajectory of Miguel's life ended with pieces of his ravaged flesh tossed into two garbage cans.

(16 February 2011)

[The mother of the alleged child murderer] had been fighting tears for hours. Now she lost her composure, face crumpling and reddening.

. . . . .

Ms. Goodine was gently led, sobbing, from the courtroom, a recess, then an early end to the day, called.

As the door swung open, her howls of anguish blew in . . . .

(14 November 2010)

Then she buried her head in her arms and sobbed.

(4 December 2009)

. . . the judge [of the murder case] was struck – and stricken – anew by the powerful tragedy he was describing. I imagine him sitting at his laptop and weeping as, unlike the rest of us, he cannot do in court . . . ."

(29 September 2009)

. . . . a dear, chubby-cheeked younger brother who clearly adores her and who Tuesday fell sobbing into the arms of his shattered family.

(29 July 2009)

[The murder victim's brother] went first, a splendid handsome boy of 13 with lovely manners that most days fail to conceal the mischief within . . . .

. . . . .

At the end of this exercise, which left virtually everyone who heard it weeping, the girl M.T. was handed a tissue by her lawyer and dabbed daintily at her eyes.

(14 July 2009)

[The murdered child] was a little bit of a girl, smart as a whip for her age, but she was only 8, her ninth birthday, the one she will not see, in July.

(22 May 2009)

Unfortunately, I must have used a too-loud voice, because I disturbed the dog, who reproached me with a sharp look and a disdainful pffftt or two from his rear quarters.

(13 May 2009)

[The kidnapped eight-year-old girl]'s a funny, sassy little blonde, still so tiny that her maternal grandmother, Linda Winters, can wrap her up in a purple blanket on her lap to read together in Ms. Winters's favourite living room chair.

. . . . .

She is a girly-girl, by all accounts, although sometimes a boisterous handful and never a delicate flower.

(2 May 2009)

. . . the first sniffling from the victims' relatives in the courtroom was audible. As the morning wore on, the sniffles became suppressed moans, terrible cries, weeping.

(2 April 2009)

Then, too, [the murder accomplice] had wept not for the sunny 14-year-old girl who had just bled out in a snow bank, but for herself.

(21 March 2009)

On the tape of the 911 call made by Gavin Shoebottom, who stopped his car to help her that evening, and held her, alternately bellowing in frustration and weeping at Stefanie's suffering as she died in his arms, Stefanie's fading cries can be heard.

(19 March 2009)

Yet there was this tough little cookie, sometimes with tears in her eyes, talking about this wonderful man, how often they had sat down and spoken about the real potential that he might die in Afghanistan, brought the dirty skeleton of death out of the closet and into the light.

[Editor's note: A member of the Fire Christie Blatchford Facebook group had an amusing and insightful comment about today's column: "Her description of a fallen soldier's widow as 'a tough little cookie' hit the trifecta: Mickey Spillane-esque, patronizing, and sexist."]

(7 March 2009)

[The murdered girl's brother] swore the oath on a Bible, a slight boy with an impish, intelligent face.

(5 March 2009)

[The alleged murderer] a teenaged girl, owlish glasses on her chubby cheeks and her long hair in a ponytail, sat serenely at a table near the front of the room.

. . . . .

M.T. [alleged murderer] had been relentlessly nagging D.B. [her boyfriend] for more than three months to kill the pretty Grade 9 student described by her achingly proud mother as "switched-on," bright and kind-hearted.

(4 March 2009)

[Five boys were standing on a subway platform in Toronto when a deranged man pushed two of them in front of an oncoming train. No fatalities but one boy had a badly mangled foot. Blatchford, in her usual saccharine vein, has dubbed these young men "The Subway Boys."]

They are Jacob Greenspon, the just-turned-15 son of Globe and Mail editor-in-chief Ed Greenspon, and five others I will identify only by their first initials – A., a lanky, quiet, improbably self-possessed kid; E., small, wiry, sparkly as a penny; T., the big lug of the group, but with proportionate smarts; M., whom I didn't meet, and J., sweet and smart . . . . .

(16 February 2009)

For an hour, the courtroom was a vale of tears, as those who loved the [murdered] 23-year-old spoke of their loss.

(29 January 2009)

"It is a great relief to have [the murdered boy's grandmother] here," Mr. Geegana Badhanage quietly told The Globe in an interview last weekend as his wife wept softly for her lost son.

(6 January 2009)

I can still barely talk about my book and the soldiers in it without weeping . . . .

(27 December 2008)

It is curious to me that I am compulsively drawn to these things. It's as if I need to suffer a little - if not physically, as the infantry likes to do, then emotionally - so as to keep the pain fresh and live.

. . . . .

It was at this moment that the cameras moved to the dignitaries, among them the tiny, and lovely, Governor-General, Michaëlle Jean. Her head was bent low, but behind her dark sunglasses she must have been crying, because she was wiping her face with a sodden tissue.

[Editor's note: Today's column by Blatchford was particularly appalling. Even more maudlin and syrupy than usual. Having said that, I do feel that the deaths of three more Canadians in Afghanistan is horribly sad and I completely support our troops. But beyond that Blatchford and I see things at polar opposites. With every troop killed Blatchford gushes about our "mighty" soldiers are and how "glorious" they are in death. I, like many Canadians, see each senseless death as all the more reason to question the wisdom of this endless campaign in Afghanistan.]

(17 December 2008)

If there is a more perfect guide for how those of us on the civilian side ought to see the war in Afghanistan - perhaps particularly now, as with the army's 100th casualty, the media coverage is bound to be artificially laden with sombre talk of the milestone passed and almost guaranteed to turn mawkish - I have never heard it.

[Editor's note: The word "mawkish" is defined as follows:

  1. characterized by sickly sentimentality; weakly emotional; maudlin.
  2. having a mildly sickening flavor; slightly nauseating.

Brilliant! Blatchford, in her criticism of other journalists, has chosen the one word that perfect defines her own putrid brand of writing.]

(6 December 2008)

Mid-40s, unsophisticated, Ms. H. was shaking and weepy even in the minutes before she was sworn in. She was followed to the stand by Ms. K, about a decade younger, but cut from similar plain-spoken, phlegmatic stock, who cried furiously and non-stop throughout her testimony, and who for much of it, kept a hand over her face, in evident mortification.

(2 December 2008)

In his closing address here yesterday, prosecutor Robin Flumerfelt called it the terrible moment when "cowardice met courage," and in the small courtroom where the members of [the murdered] Mr. Oatway's sprawling family and circle of friends filled almost every seat, the description rang both true and wretched.

The Kleenex boxes made the rounds yet one more time.

(27 November 2008)

[The murder trial jurors'] faces were so serious. They were so ... damn sober, respectful, industrious.

(14 November 2008)

[Editor's note: With at least two grisly murder trials underway, Christie "Vampira" Blatchford is in her element. When it comes to the septic tank flow of her horrendously bad writing, our cup runneth over.]

At her place, [the murdered man's girlfriend], who next year will enroll in teachers college, waited for the young man - he weighed all of 123 pounds, slight like his namesake father - with the enormous smile. She never saw him alive again. Mr. Oatway died of a stab wound to the heart. By the look of her ruined face yesterday, the young woman has a matching hole in hers.

(13 November 2008)

For the day, [the alleged murderer] had arranged his features into a pleasing form that can only be called his sincere look: puppy brow furrowed with concern, eyes radiating earnestness, lips pursed in worried fashion.

. . . . .

[The murder victim] wasn't dead yet. Her strong 15-year-old heart was still making weak sounds, and she had a very weak pulse.

(11 November 2008)

We are a pair of weepers - in this we resemble Jen's mom and maternal grandma - and had, over our four years together, often bawled together. We cried during Grey's Anatomy, Jen's favourite show; we cried over some of my tales from the courthouse and some of hers from the hospital (she is in a helping profession); indeed, that first week on the job there, she was often in tears, stricken by the plight of her clients. We even cried occasionally during So You Think You Can Dance.

(8 November 2008)

I thought of how I would often see her in the morning, as she headed out to school or work, her face fresh and lovely, red hair shining, too beautiful for words--and how she would sometimes come home at the end of the day, her tender heart as sore as her feet.

. . . . .

She is a feminine, girlie-girl sort of girl in the nicest way.

(8 November 2008)

They are shadows on my heart, these soldiers. I didn't know them in the flesh (though I remember Capt. Snyder's sunlit face), but I know well some of those who served alongside them, and feel oddly connected to them all. It is part of the hold the Canadian soldier has upon me. I can hardly bear reading or watching any news about the troops, and neither can I stop.

. . . . .

The caskets, carefully wrapped in Canadian flags, were brought off the plane one at a time, carried to a waiting hearse, at which point grieving relatives were led on to the tarmac and over the sound of the idling engines, three separate sets of wrenching sobs could be heard.

[Editor's note: Yet more military funerals for Blatchford to leech off of. Christie was born in the wrong time. If she'd been alive during World War II, say, the vampire thrill she gets at these funerals would have been overwhelmed by thousands of soldiers returning daily in body bags. God forbid Blatchy should question the logic or wisdom of Canada's campaign in Afghanistan.]

(8 September 2008)

[Olympic trap shooter Susan Nattrass] was stoic and even cheerful at first, cracking jokes and making fun of herself, but just for a minute or so, the enormity of her hurt revealed itself in her eyes, which filled with tears.

[Editor's note: Yet again Blatchford uses the word "enormity" wrong. Saccharine writing and this dumb mistake.]

(12 August 2008)

But for once, in the back of that plane, picturing the lanky drink of water who was her young son on his last flight in another Herc, she couldn’t suck it up or push back the tide of emotions.

(12 July 2008)

Where to begin, when the whole thing is so unspeakably sad? For whom do you weep when the courtroom is such a vale of tears and raw emotion?

(1 May 2008)

Looking for all the world indistinguishable from their brethren now serving in Afghanistan - handsome, young and fit - three Canadian army reservists stood in court yesterday for that lovely, archaic ritual that marks the formal start of a trial and that had them squarely face their jurors and hear the ringing exhortation, "They have put themselves upon their country, which country you are."

(18 March 2008)

Even the great-grandbabies who were there--little Blaze, who was seemingly home from school on lunch break, and Morningstar, a pretty toddler who were there throughout--hardly spoke. Every time Morningstar came over to her grandmother, she shooed her back to the TV. The family seems emotionally blunted, as though they have forgotten how to rage or weep, or perhaps they never learned.

(15 February 2008)

How on earth did it come to this, that despair so perfumes the air?

(14 February 2008)

Standing nearby were the [murdering] girl's father and her round-faced little brother, just 10, who was sobbing in despair.

(24 January 2008)

What a ridiculous person I am. I almost wept with relief reading the Manley report early yesterday, and actually did cry a little . . . .

(23 January 2008)

[Editor's note: Sounds like Blatchy's gone off her meds again.]

They bought their house the same year their [murdered] daughter was born, in that magnificent expression of brimming optimism common to young parents everywhere: We will be happy here. We will last. Our dear girl will thrive. And there they were yesterday, in court, 16 years of pouring everything they had into both bricks-and-mortar and flesh-and-blood come to this terrible truth: At least the house is a sure thing. The parents looked frightened, aghast, ashamed.

(17 January 2008)

[The sexual abuse victim who later committed suicide] was so preposterously tender still, you couldn't help but worry for him. As there was always something boyish about his good looks - that dear round face, the white-blond hair - so was there something childlike even about the 34-year-old man.

. . . . .

He was a target only because he was gorgeous, so young and trusting and, oh yes, so bloody unlucky.

(27 October 2007)

Not two hours later, the ramp service was held on the tarmac. As usual, it was brief, moving and formal. Those carrying Pte. Longtin's casket held it together pretty well until they got closer to the worst sight in their world - the gaping maw of the waiting Herc, its belly empty but for a huge Canadian flag draped across it. A few faces crumpled; some of the young men cried.

(21 August 2007)

In this beautiful place perched atop the green Arghandab River plain, before the sun was even up Sunday over ochre-coloured stony hills, the young men of Charlie Company, 3rd Battalion, the Royal 22nd Regiment, gathered in anguished knots, clamping one another in brief, fierce embraces, consoling the most stricken with a clap on the back or a tender rub of a bent head.

. . . . .

Separate but equal, and now equal too in pain. If only the nation could bear up as well as those young men I saw Sunday, through their tears packing up their dead friend's barrack box and rucksack.

(20 August 2007)

(Blatchford follows the trial of a thirteen-year-old girl who, the year previously, brutally murdered her parents and eight-year-old brother. Exactly the sort of bloodbath that Blatchy loves to sink her fangs into.)

The three (police services witnesses)--and a fourth officer, Constable Todd Hodgins, who is now with the drug squad and sporting an eyebrow piercing and a careful wee beard as proof--are all young and were sweetly tremulous in giving their evidence.

. . . . .

Constable Schiebelbein said at one point yesterday, "From the outside of the house, everything looked fine,"--as, from the outside, do leafy streets, families and even little girls.

(12 June 2007)

[Please see editorial below.]

[On a murder victim's decaying body] It took several long minutes, and the assistance of Det. Sgt. Fraser in the witness stand with his calm voice and his pointer, for my eyes to adjust to the fact that that raw object there was an arm; that the shapeless blackened bit at the top of the picture was a head; that the red slash here was a mouth. And even then, no matter how many times he showed the jurors the path of the yellow skipping rope that was found around Mrs. Mariani's neck, it still looked to me more like a road snaking through a particularly forsaken and forbidding country than a person.

(8 June 2007)

[The murdered boy] Jordan, with his round baby face and sweet dreads, was a favourite.

(25 May 2007)

The hearse carrying Manny's casket had just pulled away.

There is always such finality at that sight.

[Editor's note: Blatchford would know because she's hovered like a vulture at so many of these funerals.]

Suddenly, there was nothing to do but admit the enormity of the loss.

[Editor's note: Blatchford can't even use the word "enormity" properly. Maybe she should invest in a dictionary.]

. . . . .

Yet, in the midst of correcting the record yesterday, before they sat in that beautiful church so like an upside-down boat with its curved and gleaming wood ceiling, and wept with Manny's young friends . . . .

(16 May 2007)

Lean and elegant, Mr. Burt has a certain cachet that was lacking, say, in his immediate predecessor on the witness stand, a little dumpling of a chartered accountant and audit partner with KPMG Canada, Marilyn Stitt.

(25 April 2007)

The rain began late on Chrstimas Eve.

It was our midnight mass--that and the sound of flares and the occasional burp of machine-gun fire and the claps of thunder and the roar of light armoured vehicles and the crunch of machine and boots on gravel, all of it melding into the low ominous rumble that forms the elevator music of this spooky place.

(26 December 2006)

Dr. Turner was no ordinary mother. A dual citizen of Canada and the United States, she was a medical doctor, cute and tiny and clever, and she was also facing a murder charge in the States . . . .

(6 October 2006)

From out of all that unspeakable darkness there was in [the murderer's] mother's hand a small lamp, and in its pale beam, if he wants it and is capable of availing himself of it, a path for the son to follow. What a gift.

(23 September 2006)

[The mourners] stood quietly.

They held Canadian flags great and small.

They wept. I know this because a pretty young air force captain. Nicole Meszaros, went out to thank them for coming and returned red-eyed and ruined. The people were crying, and their tears unleashed her own.

(7 September 2006)


Fawning over Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan.
Murdered/dead children.
Drivel related to crying/weeping.
Twaddle about her farting dog.
Miscellaneous saccharine garbage writing.