The Return of Lisa

Oh, by the emerald innards of Set, the Snake God.

I wish I could go to the Canadian National March Week-end rituals of Set, the Snake God held in Ottawa this weekend.

Not me.

I am left behind. I will not get to witness the feeding of others to a diverse cross-section of reptilian, amphibian, avian, crustacean, and marsupial carnivorous species. Many with interesting teeth, corrosive venom, or brute force strategies that are foreplay to digestion.

I tell the truth: The Mayor is a cheap one. Old Iron Purse, we call him. No bindles of cash in a manila envelope from him. All this feel good doing the right thing for the cause stuff. How about a big bag of dope, instead? I get lots of people giving me money, and dope. But, I want more. I want everybody to give their money.

So, it is time to think of the opposition.

Arrgh, surely as hammer beats shield, Lisa is stubborn too.

Neither of them will have a village burned, even just for fun. How do I keep myself motivated in these circumstances?

Yes, this is The Return of Lisa post.

Has it occurred to Lisa that, perhaps, maybe, I am the sort of support that she needs to overthrow The Current Emperor? But no, her head is so full of Ayn Rand that she cannot think about William of Normandy. Sometimes it takes a burning village to raise a child. I can go on and on with this analogy…

Two potential paymasters. And two bags of gold I do not have.

I am being driven into poverty. I need other peoples money. And Lisa and the Mayor should be bringing it to me.

So, being burdened with poverty, I hit the streets…

Part II

I was feeling unloved and under funded. I took the subway to downtown Toronto, looking for distraction in keeping with my culture.

Culturally, I am what is called in your language, Irish-Scots. My people were thrown out of Denmark over a three hundred year period for not being Danish enough. Our simple, earth friendly life was seasonal: In the spring we grew crops and husbanded livestock; In the summer we gathered fish; In the early fall we gathered in the rich harvest of the abundance of Mother Earth. After the crops were in, we waged war with our neighbours. If they were weak, we robbed and massacred them. If they were strong, we made horseback raids, outrunning their early warning systems. Only the rich landowners of our folk could afford siege warfare. In the winter, we binged on beer, smoked meats, potatoes, cheese, and pasta. Some made new weapons. Others repaired old weapons. And there were slaves to make boots, shovel cow shit, and chew on leather to make it soft.

So, being poor, I sought easy pickings. How about a pensioner? Some grey haired old fart, off to his club to drink beer?

I grabbed an old guy just off Dundas Square. I punched him in the guts, and stepped on his glasses. They crunched under my boots. I pulled him into an alley, like Babu the River Serpent. He had seventy dollars and a mickey of rye. I took his money, spit a mouthful of his rye into his face, and broke his collar bone on the right side. I think he shit himself. It was fun.

Ah, now I am middle class!

With my capital of seventy dollars (see, Lisa, I am learning about this philosophy stuff), I invested in a black windbreaker, a black woollen cap, black leather gloves, and some herring scented dubbing. Boy, did it stink. Phew. Anyway, I used it to make my leather gloves all soft and supple. (for further reading, see supplementary anecdote A, below)

My little spree is just starting. Let there be darkness. And there will be darkness. I am going out to have some ... fun. All I need is a hammer.

(Aside) Speaking about Denmark: the one country that the Nazi War Machine was afraid to invade. The German General Staff never drew up a plan to invade Denmark. When, the Stormtroopers did invade, it was really three divisions of Danish Paratroopers, pretending to be German. For the whole war, Hitler kept Copenhagen supplied with coal and butter. There are no records that this is the truth. They have either been destroyed or replaced with false records, at the direction of the Freemasons their front organization of publicly funded libraries.

Earth Hour is coming. An hour of darkness.

My feelings are hurt: nobody has paid my way to the Canadian National March Week-end rituals of Set, the Snake God held in Ottawa this weekend. So, patrons (that’s patrone in Normano-Sicilian), I am left to my own devices.

Reg will call me from the convention. Drunk, stoned, and dehydrated from sex. I am missing it all. I am poor. So, to crime I go...

Supplementary Anecdote A: After you smash someones car window in, so you can open the doors to steal their stereo, you can smear your herring stinking gloves on the upholstery. It takes eighteen months for the stench to clear. It makes the eyes water, and puts men off sex with even the ugliest of women. Sometimes, I have a tin of this stuff handy, you can rub few handfuls of the greasy rancid slop into their face or crotch of your next mugging victim.

Post Script: Does that Warren Kinsela guy even know how to castrate his enemies? He is soft. You gotta give him credit: going to bat for the Liberal Party. It is a hard sell. But, you can tell, this Kinsella guy would suck at being a whore. If you wheeled in a victim all duct taped up, gave him an pruning knife, and painted the scrotum black with candle soot, he would fail.