Right Wing Weekend Wrap-up

As a progressive activist, carrying the guilt of millions upon my conscious and upon the wallets of other millions, I reach out to those who are angry, who are unhappy with Political Correctness, and those who live outside of the golden rosy glow of the street lights of Toronto. This weekend, I spent in retreat at a typical Right Wing Weekend festival, located in the heart of Conservative Erin Township, a place where few activists go.

Gone was the familiar sights of Toronto. Spray-bombed over street signs, no where to be seen. The scent of G-boi urine on the hot pavement, gone, replaced by the perfume of timothy grass and flowering borage. Nobody spat on the floor in the store. Where were the beggars? Instead, I was welcomed into a home, given a good meal, and great conversation till the early hours of the morning.

On Saturday, a day when I should have been signing a Beachcombers episode for the deaf, instead, I ate a hearty breakfast, then retired with the gentlemen to the back acreage, where guns and whiskey, along with Tim Horton's coffee and muffins, were produced for admiration and barter. Pleading a blistered fore finger, I passed on a purchase of a pistol. Paul Martin's sacrosanct law of The Gun Registry is mocked here. I wanted to cry, but I could not, because I was surrounded by men.

After lunch, of cold meats, chutneys, and various summer salads, cigars were produced. Our host announced that the afternoon entertainment would be a 'canned hunt'. In this case, a convicted felon would be released at the intersection of Highway 24 and the Seventh Line, just across from Ann's Bar-B-Que. After that, we could pursue the vagrant by SUV, by horse, or by foot. A pack of hound dogs added some sport to the chase.

The miscreant proved to be disappointing. He fell to his knees and begged for his life, like a pro-lifer begging for the life of a foetus. Well, this foetus had to be shot with a dart full of PCP (*) to get the afternoon sparked up. The foetus turned and attacked two of the native beaters, but shots to the knee and elbow brought down the quarry. Video is available on my pay site.

For dinner, a feast of racist favorites like beef, chicken, and pork. Where was the more politically correct goat-burgers? iguana on a bun? lumpy tofu slurry drink with little crunchy cockroach larvae? While the crazed Right Wing people talked about being happy and content, I felt unhappy and discontented. How could I get my grasping hands on their money? Where was the key to Mrs.White's money-stuffed corset? How many bars of gold bullion are there in Mr.Smith's pig pen? These stupid people had jobs, that paid well because of Ability and The Protestant Work Ethic.

The next day was much like last. Happiness, plenty, and good conversation with good people. Where were the Toronto scum? The homeless guy who gurgles in his own puddle of urine? The bi-sexual G-boi, who wants to be a fluffer? I was soon tired of thinking and laughing.

On Canada Day, the community was proud and happy to be Canadians. Where I come from in Toronto, we burn the flag and shriek with outrage. Not these people. It was scary. They derived value and meaning from imperfection. They were intellegent, educated, and practical. None seemed to desire tips on shafting welfare for medication hand outs.

Right Wing Weekends are fun, if you like to be happy, have self-esteem, purpose, and moral fibre. I missed being bitter and angry, like a fresh cucumber pushed into brine. Nobody needed handouts, and there was no need for me, a giver of handouts and a taker of money. I felt well fed, happy, loved, and celebrated. But, my telemarketing empire was in peril. So, back into the darkness towards Toronto I went.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at Mitchieville and DustMyBroom