Have you called someone a Racist yet today?

I rarely become upset, but over the last few days I have boiled over with outrage over the racist purchasing culture of sex toy merchants here in The City of Light, Toronto. How dare they!

As devoted readers will know, I have been busy doing Global Warming Science research among the Tarts of Toronto (link) (link) (link). Always with my mind on the greater collective good, I have established relationships with the three closest whorehouses to my home, here in Toronto, the city that the sun rises and sets upon. In order to further my swelling relationship with my soulmate-of-the-week, I followed her good advice to journey to the local sex toy bazaar, to stock up on items soothing, sexual, and sado-masochistic...

My hatred of racism was aroused when I ventured into the insertable toy aisle at the local Sex Shoppe. Every one of the insertable toys was made from pink plastic. Admittedly, there was a diversity of shapes, a multi-cultural selection of functions, from vibration to rotation to sinusoidal torque. But these insertable toys were only available in the tints and tones of white privilege. I gasped, and clutched at my faltering heart, too shocked to even caress my own nipples. Had I stumbled into a secret merchant of invisible white sex toy privilege consumer goods? What Half-Canadian would not turn to youth crime when they find that the vibrating anal toy of their dreams was not in a color to match their scrotum?

Since that awful night, I have done further research into this dirty place of racist enpowerment. To add whip lash to spankings, the private viewing booths in the back are not designed to accomodate Obese Wheelchair-Canadians. The doors are too narrow by over three eights of an inch. The self-esteem of anyone in an Ahab Extra-wide wheelchair will be brutally crushed when they find themselves excluded from a private viewing booth. To add girth to this atrocity, the ramp leading to this heteronormative temple of exclusive privilege is incapable of withstanding a simple six-hundred pound load.

The so-called edible items on sale are completely lacking in warning labels. This is a sentence of death if the patchouli scented orgy oil contains peanuts. A jolly evening of oiled Twister could easily become a tragedy. The seven models of penis pump present for purchase were lacking in Canadian Standards Association markings. What if the electric motors were to have a shunt field failure, leading to the catastrophic no-load series motor condition? Castration would inevitably happen, and someone's evening would be ruined.

After weeks of research, I did what any activist would do: I wrote a letter to the Toronto Star. As a trained telemarketer, I followed up my letter with a phone call to the Sex Shoppe, demanding money. Of course, realizing that the activists at the Star were busy fighting Global Warming, I pretended to be the Star. And, (Thank you Toronto Star!) I got results that mattered: a hundred dollar gift certificate!

Yes, comrades, you too can beat down the heteronormative enemy. Stand up erect with the pride that comes from a job well done. Whether your tastes run to Man or Beast, you owe it to yourself to go out and call someone a racist, today; for tomorrow you will spend their money! And the more of their money you spend, the faster we will find proof of Global Warming. Hurry! Before Lake Winnipeg boils away!

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.