About last night: Harrowing death rattles and a pathetic requiem for the Liberal Party of Canada

Remember how I spent the last few weeks saying that I lived in one of the safest Liberal ridings in the country and if my MP lost, it would be a harbinger of doom for the Liberal Party of Canada?

Yeah, about that ...

The battle of Willowdale wasn't supposed to be a battle at all. This is a dynasty riding friends, represented by Liberals since my childhood, with only a four year interregnum when Brian Mulronrey won the biggest majority in Canadian history. And the Liberals returned Jim Peterson to Parliament just four years later, in the midst of another Progressive Conservative sweep. And when Big Jim found himself on the wrong side of Paul Martin's fall in the eternal Grit civil war, Peterson deftly handed his fiefdom off to former leadership candidate Martha Hall Findlay.

It's true that Findlay never won with Peterson's astonishing margins, but old Jim was an institution in my neighborhood. His baby brother was premier of Ontario, for Christ's sake. He helped Mikhail Baryshnikov defect from the Soviet Union. Jim Peterson is nothing short of a legend around here. His political dick swung so low and hard that it scraped the concrete. But Martha had margins in the two 2008 contests that she fought here that most politicians would be proud enough to their grandchildren about.

Over the last two weeks, I had been getting incessant phone calls from Conservative candidate Chungsen Leung. So frequently was my phone ringing that I finally stopped answering whenever I saw the area code 647 (which usually denotes a cell phone in these parts) on my call display. I wrote off Leung's persistence to an excess of money, high hopes and stupidity. As it happens, I was wrong. That happens from time to time. Findlay lost by a bare two points, but it may as well have been a million, given what this riding means to the Natural Governing Party of Canada.

By the time Martha's loss was announced, the streets of Toronto were already running red. But unlike in normal elections, that red didn't symbolize the hubris of Hogtown Grits spilling over and defiling everything it touched. Oh no, brothers and sisters, this time it was blood. running so freelt that children recoiled from it And when blood spills from the Liberals' Greater Toronto Area head, it's a matter of biological certainty that the body is being drained white across the country.

Your friend and mine, the great and good Jay Currie, has often referred to the Liberals as "the Toronto Party." Well, no longer, dear Sir. See the map to the right? Just a decade ago, it was a solid impenetrable Liberal red. Those red spaces are now reduced to mere pockets, spotted and spread apart, much like Solzhenitsyn's fabled Gulag Archipelago of old. They are little more than penal colonies now, a place where perverts are sent to ponder what they've done and consider the consequences their twisted fantasies.

And as of this morning, there is no fantasy more pervese than a Grit restoration. By the end of the week, the membership of NAMBLA will dwarf that of the once proud Liberal Party of Canada.

416 and 905 became Killing Fields on an almost Cambodian scale for the Liberal dynasty last night. But there is no reeducation for them, dear friends, only a long starvation that leaves them pleading for the sweet relief of death. You can count the surviving Liberal hidey-holes with your fingers and still have a couple to spare. They won't long survive the Conservative buldge in the north and cental parts of T.O and the NDP sweep of the south and west of the city. As the remaining Grits commit suicide or flee, those weak redoubts will be mopped up in by-elections.

No, as of this morning, we in in the GTA answer to a new massa, son. His name is Stephen Harper and we will plow his newly acquired fields as the fruit of his majority ripens and takes shape, hoping that in his benevolence he gives us just a drop of water while we do his hard work under the hot sun. Our blood, sweat and tears are now devoted to the task of picking his cotton, boy. And don't you forget it! We only pray that He's a merciful God, and that we someday come to earn his favour. Maybe a smile and a light pat on the head will be our Great Reward for currying His favour.

An impenetrable wall of blue surrounds us now, and it has penetrated deep within the city itself, This is even more like the fall of Berlin than I suspected it was last Thursday. The surviving partisans of the once proud Grit machine have fled under the umbrella of one Jack Layton. It's now his orange drapes that circle my city. Only Bob Rae and Carolyn Bennett hold pathetic pockets of Resistance downtown that serve as a denouement line between the Tories and the Dippers. The Liberals are now known in the ruins of their once mighty bastion as the Gods That Failed.

No one in their right mind would have described Michael Ignatieff as a God, and no one failed more spectacularly than did he. The fact that he maintained enough pride to avoid giving his concession speech in a gimp suit only speaks to the stratospheric heights of his previous hubris.

He is now not only just the third Liberal leader not to serve as prime minister, he is the first to lose his own seat since William Lyon Mackenzie King. King made a habit of losing his seat, but he was also largely distracted with battling Hitler and communicating with the Hereafter. And his governments survived for a period that will remain unmatched in the history of the Dominion. Only Ignatieff, despite running a much better than expected campaign, could make Stéphane Dion look like William the Conqueror.

The people of Etobicoke-Lakshore banded together as one and stomped Iggy like he was a narc at a biker rally. His electoral limbs were shattered so badly that his being able to stand unassisted at the podium last night to deliver his Roberto Durán-like cries of "no más" speaks to his almost animal stupidity. A true beast never knows when it is truly beaten. If Ignatieff was even halfway smart, his final political address would have ended like R. Budd Dwyer's.

A five point loss for a party leader in his own garden is so humiliating that Count Michael will forever be remembered as a cautionary tale for anyone that fancies themself "too smart for the room." Etobicoke is an industrial wasteland of unpronounceable surnames that swamped and broke the Lord of Yorkville by way of Harvard Yard into, as James Frey would call it,  a million little pieces. And unlike Frey's fantastic fictional opus, Iggy's ordeal is all to real and now a matter of public record.

The Good Ship LPC is well and truly sunk. It is is ugly and sad that the lifeboats outnumbered the survivors. Most of them just surrendered to their fate and drowned willingly. For the first time since Confederation, they don't even hold Opposition status. Their almost sexual humiliation is mitigated by the total collapse of the Bloc Quebecois. But the Bloc was only born two decades ago. It was never revered as the most successful political machine in the history of democracy itself.

As of last night, they exist only as a morality play, and Michael Ignatieff is the Icarus that symbolizes the ruin of the Liberal brand. The fact that his leadership survived even twelve hours of the closing of the polls is nearly enough  to make an atheist like me believe in miracles.

I laughed out loud when I saw a poll over the weekend that gave the New Democrats over a hundred seats. Well, the joke's on me. I'm not laughing now, and neither is anyone else. Especially not on the center-left of the political spectrum, which is lining up to shine the shoes of Jumpin' Jack Layton and lick the pimp end of his walking stick today.

Layton began this campaign with a ruined hip and a prostate the size of a Datsun, but he strides upon the organized Left this morning as a colossus. He is nothing short of monument to everyone who has ever considered the political benefits of masturbation for hire. Jack gives us hope, each and every one of us.

Every Canadian to the left of Mussolini himself is lining up to pay him tribute and kiss his ring today. Dark rumours persist that defeated Liberals across the country are laying virgin brides at his feet so as to ensure that they live another day. They see the throne that he has built from the skulls of their brethren and they hope to avoid a similar fate. Jack Layton is Conan, and today he hears the lamentations of formerly Liberal women. No one on the Left has a stronger pimp hand than he. His is the only game in town and if Buzz Hargrove is smart, he's boarding a slow boat to Thailand as I write this. Siam, I'm told, is lovely this time of year.

Last night was a transcendent moment in Canadian history. More important than our combing together to give the Harper Conservatives the unquestionable right to destroy the economy was the tranformative shift on the left. The socialists are ascendent and the Liberal Party of Canada is now Mr. Kurtz in Heart of Darkness.

And Mistah Kurtz? He dead.