The Squire of Erin

In my relentless quest for your hard earned capital, I infiltrated a typical heteronormative plantation operation just outside of Erin, Ontario. Armed with opinion and pre-conceived judgements, I now bring you the Truth, as I see it, from the dark heartland of heteronormative Harperiteism.

The work day begins early at the Ironheart Broccoli plantation, located on the sixth line and twenty-second sideroad in Erin Township. Here, illegal immigrant laborers are forced to sleep in locked concrete pits, with only rags and dirty straw for bedding. They are never paid wages, instead, they eat from buckets of slop. The lucky ones get to fight each other for the amusement of the plantation owner's teenage son and his high school friends. The owner of this typical Canadian farm is called Bob. Bob is the Squire of Erin. Bob is a typical Conservative voter.

Bob is excited by the new waterboarding management technique. Let him explain in his own words, 'if'n them lazy ones get 'ornery, why, ah just cuts off their nuts. Buts ah lose a few days production when that happens. They go off their feed sometimes too, after being de-nutted. So this waterboarding might be just the trick I need'. Just like Republicans everywhere, Bob the Broccoli Baron embraces torture, not just for enemies, but for slaves too. Castration is not doing its job in farmland Ontario.

Elsewhere on the lavish farm property, Bob's son, Bob Junior, is lowering a slave into a pit half filled with sewage. The slave was thirteen seconds too slow bringing Bob Junior a cup of cocoa. The final straw was that the cocoa was half a degree Fahrenheit too hot. Now the slave's civil rights are being violated, slow and deep. Their screams, muffled cries for help in Ebonic, go unheard as Bob Junior works the winch, as the unfortunate splashes in the fermenting feces. Supposedly, the sewage dunked slave is searching for a lost coffee mug, a lost coffee mug that is somewhere in the bubbling mess of e.coli and ammonia.

Mrs Bob is making apple pie with the help of three house servants. Like all Conservative Voters, she smokes cigars inside her house ... she does not care about the health effects of third hand smoke, or the links between smoking and Global Warming. She uses the hot tip of the cigar to burn the buttocks of her house servants, to cure 'laziness'. If they complain or get sick, well, the slaves go to the doctor ... right? Well, across rural Ontario the local health clinic also doubles as a wholesale bootleg human organ wearhouse. Illegal immigrants look forward to a short brutal life of torture, ending in disection.

And then there is cousin Bob. Cousin Bob is Bob's cousin. He hangs around the farm, drinking whiskey and shooting guns. Cousin Bob collects belt-fed automatic silenced weapons (#) which are not covered by the gun registry. He buys them mail order, because of the good deal on frequent flyer points. He wears the same coveralls over his two hundred and eighty pounds of good loving and smells of gunpowder and tuna. He has unsafe sex with any slave who makes eye contact with him. Not a pretty sight. Cousin Bob does not celebrate gay marriage. If you mention it more than once, he will shoot you in the foot.

But there is a light in the tunnel of darkness for the slaves, forced to live in concrete pits, forced to eat cold mush, forced to have sex with Cousin Bob. That ray of hope is the Liberal Party of Canada. The Liberal Party has a brochures kiosk located in the Public Library of Erin. Here, slaves visiting the Library can read up about their rights and entitlements as Canadians. Here they can read that being dipped in sewage, or being castrated, or forced sex for food, is normally not allowed. They can discover a world of forgivable loans, susidized journalism schools, and poetry that shares feelings. No more do they have to fight off a Shih-Tzu pack for a few crumbs of Tofu. Let us put a stop to heteronormative terror. The Human Rights Brochure Kiosk is nearly empty. I need your money to buy more brochures ... brochures of hope! Please, send me your money.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.