Rosie DiManno sucks. Every day (or so), poor Toronto Star readers are subjected to another over-the-top, awkwardly-written, occasionally-insulting column about the day’s top depressing story from the purple-streaked purveyor of pulp. It’s about time someone took out the trash.
DiManno Watch has been dormant for two months. The last article on Torontoist––three DiManno articles in one––was a little much; no-one can take that much Rosie DiManno, and it sure is easy to get carried away criticizing the woman when she writes about four articles for the Star a week. So we took a little break from reading DiManno (it was nice) and decided that DiManno Watch wasn’t going to come back until there was something so bad, so awful, that it simply demanded to be addressed. Nothing short of SaumassigeSchreibmaschiene, the German word that loosely translates to “putrid garbage typewriter prose” (championed by Ryan Bigge to call out Leah McLaren) would bring it back. And Rosie DiManno has today given us SaumassigeSchreibmaschiene.
From the beginning of today’s article on sexsomnia, the controversial sleep disorder that was used as a successful defense in a sexual assault case:
A woman wakes up with a man’s penis between her legs.
She doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know her. They part in bewilderment.
She goes to hospital for examination – painful penetration had occurred – and then to police with a complaint.
A judge decides that sexual assault had been committed, even encourages the defendant to express remorse from the witness stand. But the man, Toronto landscaper Jan Luedecke, isn’t guilty because the incident happened … while you were sleeping. That is to say, while he was sleeping.
What is there to say?
The big problem with Rosie DiManno’s writing is that she seems to have no accurate metric for good taste. When she writes about sports, it’s annoying, but not particularly insulting. But when she writes about crime––a serious thing with serious consequences––she almost always belittles or insults the victim, whether it’s through taking on their voice (like she did when she spoke for a dead woman to call her murderer a bastard), or, as is most often the case, through twisting the news story into some bit of pulp fiction where human life has no value save for its ability to shock (talking about a murder in which the murderer “stuffed [his mistress's] inert body in a garbage can,” or her article about Jordan Manners, which began: “His eyes were wide open but unseeing. His body shook violently, as if in convulsions. The death tremor – but Shane Walters didn’t know that then”).
Today’s article is not much different: it begins like a really, really bad joke, and the punchline is that––surprise!––you’re a rape victim (or maybe not). It’s repulsive, unwarranted, and unwanted, characteristic of the utter lack of respect for human life that defines the worst of DiManno’s writing. She is not Leah McLaren, vapidly talking about stuff that doesn’t matter; she is Rosie DiManno, vapidly talking about stuff that does. This is putrid garbage typewriter prose of the worst kind, void of anything good, redeeming, or interesting.
And that is why this article will be the last DiManno Watch for a long time, maybe ever. We don’t want to read her or talk about her or think about her anymore; she doesn’t deserve our attention, or yours, and we’d prefer to leave the job of being mean and insensitive to her. The Star will continue to lose subscribers, and respect, because of her. We’re done.