I fully expect Jonathan Yaniv to steer his mobility scooter along the slimy trail left behind by Courtney Love and adopt the physical properties of a virulent un-killable bacteria that has assumed the approximate form of a human being: A fleshy katamari, composed of clumping co-morbidities, and resistant to all known social antibiotics, who eventually grows so large that he places the kind of strain upon the local healthcare infrastructure that is ordinarily only experienced during serious pandemics.
Despite his menagerie of real and imagined illnesses, Yaniv will not die. He is destined to become the clinically obese boulder that society must repeatedly push up the hill, as he shrieks about his pronouns and coerces vulnerable, religious women of colour into placing their hands in the approximate region of his genitalia, while hissing aggressively racist imprecations at them under his laboured breath.
The cycle of lawsuits, skirmishes along the fringes of the law and miscellaneous incidents, that will draw mostly negative attention and earn him a semi-permanent spot in the 'local man' section of the press, will continue for as long as the rarefied oxygen of Canadian tolerance is farted out through the doors of the country's parliament and social institutions.
A wildcard is how much influence Miriam Yaniv has over her son, and whether she might eventually consider moving him to another area of Canada, or out of the country altogether.
Nobody will ever voluntarily have sex with Jonathan. There will be no Yaniv junior, inhabiting any of the 71 possible genders, to carry his bright flame into the latter half of the 21st century.