Outrages

It is hard to describe how outraged I am. My hands are shaking. My heart is trembling. I cannot see because my glasses fell off my head when I read the latest racist anecdote in The Red Star. My glasses fell into my breakfast ... a steaming bowl of bran, spiced with wheat germ and prunes. Mister Whiskers, my adorable house cat, fled from his special spot on top of the radiator and sought refuge on top of the radiator in the living room.

Yes, indeed, a Barrie policeman has been caught sending out racist e-mails. He was making fun of the afrocentric school concept * . Outrage!

Indeed, in our perfect society, one cannot speak freely about things afro. I have known this for years. Like Stalin, my public utterances are politically correct. Anyone who disagrees is a racist. My critics all tend to dissappear, anyway.

Surely the police pig who uttered this hate filled e-mail knew that he would be ratted out by one of his fellow policepeoples? What a dolt. Now, he will lose his job. The informant will get a politically correct job, mentoring disadvantaged youth, and endless invites to Bolshevik conferences to relive his/her/its moment of glory, when they betrayed the trust of a co-worker. And having traded the obsolete heteronormative values of loyalty, honor, and integrity for a better paying job, a pension, and perks, can you blame he/she/it?

But, we all knew this anyway. Secretly, we hope that someone will make an utterance that we can use to denounce them with. An e-mail with a signature, some correspondence, a good recording on the personal recording device we carry, something to rat out someone else so we can get the golden handshake of political correctness.

We watch as the boss gets surly and constipated at the employment equity hires. With each petty theft, incompetence, and brazen act of dullardism, his anger rises. But if he says anything (in our hearing), well, he will be gone, and the star informant (you) gets a job for life. As for the non-white Canadian who happily spits on the floor or picks his nose in the kitchen, well, he gets a job with Human Resources as a Sensitivity Counsellor. Out of the kitchen. He can spit on the floor all he wants in his office.

With all this secrecy comes secret societies. If you rat out a lodge member, well, like a rat, you die. Within the walls of the lodge, you can speak your real mind. You can utter such things as 'immigration does not help the environment', or 'that idiot we hired cannot read and he stole the stapler'. Everybody should have a secret society to take refuge in. And everybody should know they cannot speak freely in society, but they can speak freely in a secret society.

Another good thing to come out of this is the realization that nobody owns Canada. The heteronormative vice of nationalism is out of vogue. So when whoever rips off the welfare system, the refugee system, the employment equity system, we are no longer outraged at the waste of money or the promotion of contempt for law. Like, who cares? If you do not want your taxes to pay for primate relocation, well, pay less taxes. Embrace the underground economy. No GST there, no income tax. All your money goes into your own pocket. No taxspenders.

Secrecy does not preclude action. In silence you can use the full leverage of your money to engineer society to your own liking. For Us, By Us * is your new spending motto. I only spend money on products that support my cultural identity, my cultural group. I only vote for people who look like me. But, I never put this in print, e-mail, or words. Neat, eh?

I, Fenris Badwulf, dicatated this to ikthis.