As ratified by The Mitchieville Cabinet at the third session of the general cabinet meeting earlier this week, in honour of  the wedding of His Worship, Mitch, The Mayor of Mitchieville to The First Lady, The Little Danish Girl , the following resolutions are passed:

1. That this Saturday, June 14, 2008, be declared a statutory holiday in all of the sovereign dominions that this blog reaches.

2. At the hour of 9pm on the night of June 14, 2008 an alcohol toast (or two or three) shall be made by Mitchieville residents in honour of The Mayoral Couple.

3.  As Environment Canada has called for rain this Saturday, animal sacrifice offerings made in the name of Set, The Snake God, shall  be made at sunrise on the morning of the 14th by Darcey, Dmorris, Todd and Linds.

4.  Lord Fenris, in conjunction with the Minister of Finance will issue a rare Victory Latte this Sunday morning instead of the usual  watered down Victory Coffee.

5. Gifts are expected and can be forwarded to the Munitions Ministry where Reg will keep them safe from the hands of unscrupulous telemarketers until opened by The First Couple. (Fenris Badwulf abstained from this resolution)

6. Citizens of this hallowed and Nobel blog are advised that non-compliance of the above resolutions will be harshly punished.  The right to publish pithy and sarcastic comments at Mitchieville will be suspended until reviewed by the Punishment Review Board (Mayoral Protocol  Sub-Committee) monthly meeting at the Mitchieville Public Library. Those residents found guilty of non-compliance will only be allowed to watch Rosie O'Donnell Show reruns until appropriate reparations have been made to The First Couple.

 

Long Live Mayor Mitch and our First Lady TLDG!

 

Issued by Order of the Mitchieville Cabinet , 12 June 2008

Easter, the Resurrection, and Set, the Snake God

Are you getting full value from your religious dollar investment?

Easter is a special day, not because of Christianity, but in spite of it. And what better way to spite the them, than by celebrating the rituals of Set, the Snake God? Come to the beautiful precincts of our lush tropical preserve! Here you will be waited upon by fetish clad nymphs and satyrs. Drink full of the sweet wines and choking bourbon! Eat like the pig, the goat, or the caterpillar! Scent the wafting aromas of baking breads, roasting meats, fruiting flowers, and juicy ripe fruits. Fully over indulge in your whims and urges for vice and decadence. Listening to the sounds of ice in a glass of rye was never so perfect.

Set-Abubis, the High Priest of Set, the Snake God, teaches us that Set, the Snake God is the Falsest God. And in order for others to achieve transmutation of their sins, they must be spiritually disassembled through the mystery of digestion.

Only this last Friday (yesterday if ‘today when you read this’ is Saturday) I shared with others in the Set, the Snake God experience.

Our common faith upholds the responsibility of the congregation to celebrate the Green Earth. We do this by maintaining a lush tropical preserve where we care and fed a village of carnivorous river reptiles. This Easter, our sexton, Reginald, a second degree adept of the order of the emerald eye serpent of Crocodiliopolis, gave over something very precious for the use of Set, the Snake God. Indeed, he gave over his ex-wife’s boyfriend to be the offering.

What better way for Reginald, the second degree adept of the Order, to work out his unhealthy feelings of anger and betrayal, than by having a hated person beaten down, tied up, trunk transported, drugged, shaved, and then chained to a clothes line, anointed with mayonnaise, and then slowly dragged into the center of stagnant mud flat? The healing takes over three hours in the hot sun.

Reg sat in the Imperator’s lounge, eating, drinking, and wenching. He wore a crown of golden vine leaves, he wore a comfortable undershift of softest linen (as any fornicator can attest), and over that, the emerald green toga of He who Offers Others to Set, the Snake God. He would wipe his fingers on his clothes, or a servant would wipe them with steaming, scented cloths. A French maid serviced him, personally, to the roars of approval of the crowd of pious worshippers of Set, the Snake God.

As the morning wore on, and the sun rose to about as high as it gets in this hideous, awful climate that passes for life on a planet with a breathable atmosphere, Muffin, a two year old, first time pregnant, she-crocodile, finished off the long suffering victim. He had managed to partly pull his leg from out of her mouth when Muffin just dragged him under water, into the shit brown soup of the bog. After a few minutes of bubbling, it was all over on the terrestrial realm.

In a few days, as crocodiles like to sun bake their dinner in the hot desert sun, Muffin will begin the process of digesting this sinner. As his constituent carbohydrates, proteins, and sugars are transformed into a bigger, larger crocodile. Such is the sacred cycle of life on the serpent level.

Did you have as much fun as Reginald this Easter?

Did you eat all your favourite foods? Did you have sex in all your favourite positions? Did someone give you a bag of coins and a suitcase of money as you walked out of church? Have you had your car washed and waxed, given a full tank of gas, and then made special with the addition of a few toys, candies, and a stocking full of fun toys? Does your church fellowship support you with insider stock tips, with quid pro quo robberies and homicide, and with acceptance of all your ‘disgusting’ fancies in food, sex, and sadistic diversions?

Abandon yourself to Set, the Snake God. There are many you can make go before you. Become one of The Last to be Eaten. Let your enemies in love and work become the first to be handed over to the crushing jaws of your anger. And, you can watch.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this, both here and at DustMyBroom

Roman Times, Israeli Times

Once upon a time, there was a small village nestled along the banks of a swift moving river. The village was at the place where the river was shallow enough to cross, this being the first crossing place upstream from the Mediterranean sea. The people built their village upon seven hills. Their name for the place was Rome.

Over time, the Romans were occupied by the more sophisticated peoples to the North, the Etruscans * . The Etruscans were a cruel, but pleasure loving people. Under the cruel ruler ship of the Etruscan kings, the Romans grew in the civilized arts. Eventually, they threw out the Etruscans. Later, the Romans conquered them.

The Romans expanded from their seven hills to unify the Latin tribes, to subjugate the Samnites, and then the Greek colonies in Southern Italy. The study of the rise of the Roman republic will keep you busy for, oh, four years to cover the centuries of war by land and sea, diplomacy and treachery, and the development of law, culture, and religion.

After Rome solidified its hold on Italy, it came into conflict with the merchant empire of Carthage. The study of the three wars it took the Romans to obliterate Carthage will consume another year or two of your life, if you wish to study it properly. And at this point, we have only completed the Roman domination of the Western Mediterranean. After Rome had made the West safe for Roman trade, she was forced to turn east. At that time in the Eastern Mediterranean were three empires, a few kingdoms, plus pirates, brigands, and roving mercenary tribes.

The Eastern Mediterranean, when the Romans turned their eyes of their eagle standards towards it, was still living in the shadow of the greatest conqueror that has ever lived. His name was Alexander *, indeed, he is called to this day Alexander the Great.

You can lose a good few years of your life in the study of Alexander. A background in the wonderous history of the Greeks is a secure foundation. I cannot do Alexander, or those upon whose shoulders he is carried, justice here. The only point I wish to make is that after the mighty Alexander died, his empire broke up into three pieces. These lesser empires were based in Greece (the Seleucids * ), Egypt (the Ptolemids * ), and Iraq (the Antigonids * )

The three empires fought many wars with each other. Cities were built, and burnt. Fleets of ships were cut from the forests, and sent to sink each other by ramming or burning. Some times storms sank the fleets, sometimes plague carried off the sailors. There was a lot of warring going on. It makes good reading. Some people think that history repeats itself, and a lot of that repeating can be found with the name Seleucis, Antiochus, and Ptolemy.

One of the many little kingdoms that rose and fell among the three battling empires of the Eastern Mediterranean was the kingdom of the Jews. The first kingdom of these people had been carried off into slavery long before the time of the Seleucids, Ptolemids, and Antigonids. They had returned to their land and managed to resurrect their nation. At the time I wish to look at, the dynasty of the Maccabees was ruling the nation of Israel.

Now, Rome found it useful to have an ally in the East, to discomfit their rivals in the East. Rome allied itself with Israel, much as in our modern times the Americans have allied themselves with the Maccabees * .

Rome fought a number of wars in the East. This was during the period called the Crisis of the Roman Republic. For whatever reasons (depending on your pre-existing political beliefs, depending on what factors you wish to cherry pick to support your pre-judged opinions), the Roman politicians of the time needed vast amounts of money to buy votes. Roman democracy was driven by money, by land grants for soldiers, by having standing armies handy to cut down lesser politicians with smaller armies.

As various Roman generals crushed and looted the three great empires of the East, they could always turn to their allies in Jerusalem to help them. And the enemies of Jerusalem were too busy being crushed by the Roman Imperator * * * * of the moment to crush Jerusalem. Such is the reality of politics.

By the time of Augustus * , the first Roman emperor, the Romans had subjugated the East. The sea that separates Europe from Africa was renamed ‘Our Sea’ in their language of Latin, a name which it bears to this day.

But, an interesting thing happened after the Romans squished their rivals. The turbulent tribes that surrounded Israel hated Israel. The Greeks, the Idumeans, the Bedouin, the whatever, all found the people of Israel difficult to live alongside. There were riots and assassinations and muggings and robberies. For whatever reason (take your pick, argue it well and get a degree), there was discord.

The Romans grew to dislike the Israelis in proportion to the control they had in the East. Once the legions were garrisoned in the East, the Israelis looked different from Rome. No longer necessary as a military ally, these people were now the stigma causing social disorder, reducing taxation, increasing occupation costs, and a bothersome distraction from the Roman taste for civil war.

Unlike the Americans, who have a significant population of Christians who support the alliance with Israel for religious reasons, the Romans simply crushed the Israelis. The temple was looted; The Romans built a tasteful arch glorifying the looting * .

Which, of course, leads me to the point of this exercise.

At what point will the Americans abandon their alliance with Israel, much as the Romans did? Certainly, it is no difficult thought experiment to visualize the harmony and gratitude of the vast, oil rich, peoples of the religion of peace if an American president abandoned Jerusalem and its people to the mercies of their armies. Could one not say that most of the turbulence in the present Middle East has its root cause in the existence of Israel? And if this is so, what a harvest of peace and prosperity if this little country is abandoned to stand on its own, with its thin slice of territory and small arsenal of weapons and smaller reservoir of cannon fodder.

Yes, today America is allied to Israel, much as was ancient Rome allied to the ancient kingdom of the Maccabees. But much as Maccabee turns into Herod * , so too can Kennedy turn into Mohammed. Yes, the modern Israel has terrible weapons atomic, biological, and chemical. But if a few kilos of plutonium wrapped in cobalt finds its way to Mecca as the nursery schools of Tel Aviv are turned into Beslan * , I am sure there would be a little relief, perhaps some joy in the new Washington I visualize here, and perhaps in Berlin, too. There have been massacres before, say the massacre of the German children in Bucharest in 1945 (fifty thousand children, was it not?). There are grudges that people have that they do not speak of except amongst friends (thank you, Human Rights Commission), and a few of them are aimed at Jerusalem. Tell me it is not so.

In America, the people who support Israel are the Christians. The Christians are under attack from the forces of political correctness. Their energies are being expended in such battles as home schooling and opposing third trimester abortions. Maybe, in a few years, in a few campaigns, they will be more interested in survival, appeasement, or accommodation rather than defending an alliance with a state and culture that rather despises them. Others have written about this * . The Israelis of the kingdom of Herod did not embrace diversity and celebrate the worship of neither Caligula nor Nero as a god. They were intolerant, and not being chummy with the Romans lead to the Romans not being chummy with them. If the descendents of the people of Herod do not want to get along with those in the modern Rome who get along with them, well, the quid pro quo * will become no quid, no quo. No ammunition for you, just when you need it most. Maybe the new Americans will just ground the Israeli air force, to make things a level playing field. How much of that peak oil would that bring? That is a lot of air conditioning for those retired baby boomers.

Of course I could be wrong. I might have made a spelling mistake. Maybe I used a semi colon incorrectly. By the new left logic, that proves that everything I believe in is wrong (unless it is approved by the new left logic). Perhaps someone who once commented on this blog during the history of its existence also commented on a blog that in the history of its existence used the N-word instead of the N-word. Maybe I am operating under the delusion that all these dead white males are somehow important. How many federal ridings do the children of Herod influence? I should ask Bob Rae the next time we meet. Of course, the Americans will continue in their alliance to Israel, continue to shed blood for oil, and to wage wars distasteful to the Main Stream Media, when the money would be better spent creating jobs for people without ability who vote for parties that the Main Stream Media finds to its taste. Yup.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Cross posted at DustMyBroom *

Personal Totalitarianism

Mike of the London Fog does not embrace Totalitarian-Canadian cultures.

Why? Because of inadequate exposure to Personal Totalitarianism in our inadequate Ontario public education system. If only Mike knew the truth about Personal Totalitarianism.

Where to start? Personal Totalitarianism requires a circular proof to be accepted. Circular proofs are more challenging to grasp. The Comedy of Aristotle * says as much.

When I think about Personal Totalitarianism, I remember my first act of aggression as a sovereign power. I used a thin paperback as a stiffener for my palm and chopped a school bully in the larynx. It was an extension of state policy. My state. It was not an empire, as it is now, just The State of Fenris Badwulf. And, it was in High School.

What was great about it was watching Marco (not his real name, obviously) gurgle and claw at his throat like his air supply was cut off. His eyes watered, like he was crying from shame, not anoxia. It takes five minuites for the brain to completely die from lack of oxygen. According to the book I read that I had ordered from Mercenaries Monthly, his wind pipe would open up in three minuites. Marco was in no danger of dying. He just felt that way.

Personal Totalitarianism means retaining the right to levy taxes, to establish courts, to manage the money supply, to wage war, and to subsidize the arts. Just because Stephen Harper has alot of guns and tanks and combat battalions does not mean that I cannot have them too.

I was expressing my foreign policy. I had a kettle of water handy, and I plugged it in. It only takes two minuites to boil. Right around the time Marco could breathe again, I would be ready to formalize a trade deal. A kettle of boiling water would act as an inducement to solve this boundary dispute. But, then Global Warming intervened ...

Who showed up ... but the librarian. Marco gurgled at her. The kettle began to boil.

I described to the librarian a few symptoms of schizophrenia. Poor Marco had complained about hearing voices. I told the librarian that he told me that he was concerned that evil spirits had taken up residence in his throat. They kept him awake at night. It sure sounded reasonable. But, then something had happened to poor Marco while I was away in the washroom. I had just got back and this is how I find him. I put on my best concerned look. I love librarians: she believed me.

They came for Marco with a stretcher. When the librarian was not around, I told the ambulance guy that, perhaps, Marco has swallowed something. Nothing that the stomach pump experience at the County General Hospital could not fix. Certainly the modern equivalent of the medieval practice of bloodletting. Not as bad as prison rape, but not a day at the beach, either.

In a way, Marco is my responsibility, much as the third world is Canada's responsibility because of colonialism two hundred and seventy five years ago. It was unfortunate that I could not reach out to Marco with neither discussion nor dialogue, instead of blunt force trauma. But then again, Marco was a Neanderthal. His verbal cortex had not evolved, has not developed. You would have as much luck reasoning with an overcooked pot of pasta.

The only sad note is that the real cure for people like Marco is not anoxia, but castration. I was unable to cure Marco. If only I had known then what I know now: just write orchidectomy * * * on his medical chart, and OHIP will do the wet work.

After Marco got out of the hospital, they sent him to the special school in Guelph. After the industrial sedatives and the stomach pumping, he needed rest. Personal Totalitarianism delivers the goods, Mike.

Once Mike of the London Fog begins to embrace Personal Totalitarianism, exercising his rights as a soverign power, I believe that his currently biased view will change. Nothing like crushing a neighbour in a border skirmish, or crushing the peasants with taxes, or making up ridiculous rules to insult peoples intellegence to put some sunshine in your heart and some spring in your step as you jackboot through life.

In keeping with the nature of circular proof, I have left out alot of stuff, axioms and predicates and factual bits. So anything that proves I am incorrect can be proven wrong, by refering, as needed, to non-existant facts.

Circumdictional, indeed. What would Li Si say? *

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Torture by the State is Wrong

Darn right.

However, for personal gain, torture is legally acceptable. Actually, no. Various layers of bureaucracy frown upon torture, much as the psychiatrists association of the AMA before 1971 taught that homosexuality was a mental illness. The Telemarketing Style of Dim-jitsu of Hungry Sales Bear (Tell them what they want to hear), applies.

But, in my culture, an equivalent to the pre-Christian agriculturalists of the 'Five Warlords of Saxony' period, torture is embraced as a way to resolve differences, to search for answers, and to bond with co-workers. As I am without power, I think that if I torture people, provided that I do not get caught, should be OK. But, that was years ago, anyway.

The first person I tortured was my last landlord. He irritated me with his nagging. I was making a decent return fabricating shoddy S and M equipment for the gullible Toronto sex tourist market. My landlord took a dim view of the traffic caused by the six member Chinese family I had hired to throw together chafing ass-less chaps, Ecstasy dipped ball gags, and under-cured leather accessories.

One night, a Friday, I just went down to the tyrants apartment and blasted him with a taser. Of course I had handcuffs. The the hood, gag, leg chains, and the straight jacket, too. I carried him down to my gloomy basement lair.

Over the weekend, the landlord fed me well on his credit cards. I emptied his bank accounts. He signed everything I placed before him. I forced him to watch the complete Beachcombers. No sleep and only dog kibble to eat.

On the Sunday before back to work Monday, I gave him electro-shock. According to what I read on the Electroshock Webring, his short term memory would be erased back at least two weeks, so my three days of torturing him would be forgotten, erased from his mind. And it is easy and fun to make your own electro-shock equipment.

I must admit, I was unprepared to explain all the bruises, lumps, and restraint marks. The ambulance people were being suspicious. I could only shrug, until the Cop who showed up, suggested that the drooling, flogged patient on the gurney was an epileptic. All was routine, from that. It was a learning experience. But, then they were gone, leaving nothing but memories, photographs, and live streaming video.

I slept like a baby; the landlord was on a Thorazine drip. Good times, all round.

(Part II)

Thanks to the internet, I have found (so far), nine fanatic followers, to whom I have shared the methods and equipment of electro-shock for personal gain. Those closest to me ... they give me their money. Their name for themselves is The Family. But I do not want you draw any similarities to any sort of cult.

A few weekends ago, I met with The Family. My gift to them was a workshop where everybody participated. We bonded. We each made a Taser to take home.

Tasers are fun! You can build them into furniture. You can build them into your car defensive perimeter.

Not letting anyone know is a good idea.

Motivation, happy workers!

Do you know the signs of Asbestos poisoning?

It could happen any time ceiling tiles or concrete is disturbed.

If you are near a worker using a ladder to access the ceiling through dropped ceiling, you may notice that he collapses to the ground, having turned a bluish white and vomited foaming blood. This is a sign of Asbestos poisoning.

If everybody in the elevator is dead when it opens to let you on, use it to go 'express' to your floor. However, if they show signs of post mortem asbestos syndrome, and are in a process of liquification, do not go on.

If you see people who have taken off their clothes, and are walking outside leaving bloody finger trails on the walls, these are homeless people, expressing themselves and we should not judge them. If they have bluish white splotches of skin, pulsing veins in their legs, and eruptions of foaming blood, then this is a sign of Asbestos poisoning and you should not come within 400 meters of them.

Asbestos poisoning is easily cured. If you have been exposed, turn yourself into a decontamination unit. You will receive top notch Canadian health care and you will not be dissected for spare parts.

Mathematics for Activists

1 + 1 = 3

Oh, look! There in the paper, The Toronto Star, which we get free here in the large socialist collectivist organization, there on page six are the latest details of the latest murder. It must be another Christian killing in Toronto!

Actually, no * . Since I was the only one of the six people at the lunch table in the lunch room to actually read the article on killing number 81, I know it was not the expected grisly murder of a woman, homosexual, dog, or tree, by a middle aged christian man with military experience, but the unexpected. Who would have thought that another black youth would be gunned down? Gosh! And so close to Happy Festival Season, too.

I can see why the Toronto Star buried this not really important story. It is not really important. After all, someone being hunted by gun toting killers in a home is not important. The fact that this is the second murder at this address in a year is not important either. The woman and child in the residence, not important. The four man hit team (two in the car, two doing the first degree murdering), not important.

Later, tomorrow, the standard truths will be conjectured: the victim was breaking the mold of the N-person sterotype. He was doing well in school. Everybody liked him. He was a responsible father. He had a job opportunity.

Another typical Canadian gunned down by the legacy of colonialism in Africa, cuts to social spending by Mike Harris, or the invisible snow shovel of white privilege. The bestest and finalest final solution to this crisis is, of course, more social spending. If only what's his name had access to all-night basketball, could get a free breakfast so his tummy would not be all rumbly, or something that involves more unionized activist job positions. If only Africa had more ballet shoes, this never would have happened. The tears are running down my face, over my hands, and onto the keyboard. Oh, how heteronormative is this horror.

Curiously, the people at the lunch room table did not care about what's his name. They should identify with this poor victim: He was doing well in school, everybody liked him, he was a responsible father. Just like you, in their youth, they had access to after-school programs, they got free breakfast in school, and reserved spots in university in the program of their choice. I guess they were acting out their grief by either ignoring the article or making N-person jokes. Which makes sense. If N-people youth shoot each other in the head over outrage over the Montreal Slave Riots of 1422, then it makes sense for non N-people to make jokes about N-people over outrage over the Montreal Slave Riots of 1422, too.

Now, lets get busy raising consciousness about the need for a hefty tax increase to pay for the social services that are needed to stop outraged, unappeased, and unaccomodated N-people youth from shooting each other in the head. If you wake up in the morning, and look in the mirror and see that you are now a N-person, you will be screaming for more fresh fruit with your free breakfast, and if the fruit is neither fresh nor free, you will shoot your Crip cousin.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this, because I care.


Strangely enough, the number one google position for a search on Fitawrari Lunan (the what's his name) is the Vanguard news network * , the Red Star is fourth. The Star is losing market share ... sell your stock.

Trivia

Successful candidates will receive privilege tokens.

1) How many sons did Ragnar Hairy-Breeks have?

2) According to Muhammad of Antioch, is it best to have an odd or an even number of wives?

3) In Astrology, the Sun is exalted in what sign?

4) According to Sepp Dietrich, why was the Sixth SS Panzer Army so named?

5) According to the Ontario Electrical Code, what constitutes extra High Voltage?

Bonus Question:

6) Explain the mathematics of the rankings of Google Web Searches.


I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Sample Solution. In the interest having equal outcomes for a diversity of ability, a sample solution is provided.

1) I do not know who is Ragnar Hairy-Breeks. This is a trick question. Do I get part marks for writing my name correctly?

2) The obvious answer is 'odd', but I figured that out for myself. I do know know who whats-his-name is. Is this a trick question? Do I get part marks for writing my name correctly?

3) I do not understand the question. Yield is a sign, is it not? It is yellow, like the Sun. Is this a trick question? Do I get part marks for writing my name correctly?

4) That is an easy question. We learnt that at HarperYouth. The Sixth SS Panzer Army only had six tanks (when the question was posed to Sepp Dietrich).

5) I do not understand the question. I did not know that electricity could be safe at the same time. Is the answer a number? You did not tell how many figures of accuracy you want. Can I give a range answer?

Note:- Privilege tokens will be awarded on the basis of need, not ability.

Fun with History

Ever since I found a book store that would take Canadian Tire Money, I read books.

When I was a kid in High School, one of my teachers told the class that the world we were going out into was one of Continious Learning. This pleased me. I am a voracious reader, and have a diverse range of interests. Now, my bookish ways would be to my advantage. Employers would smile at an employee whose interests ranged from Organic Chemistry to Roman History.

Unfortunately, most employers seek only a narrow set of skills; supervisors and co-workers are generally threatened by those with stronger vocabularies. Far from the wonderful Darwinian world-view taught in Ontario, a Nietzschean vision of the individual surrounded by the grey mass of the collectivists seemed more appropriate. Even more so now a days, when hiring quotas are common, and I lack the advantage of being disadvantaged.

The exception to this is Sales and Marketing. The decision to purchase a product is influenced by processes that are generally unknown. Having a brain and an arsenal of facts is an asset, and those in Sales know this. Far from being a threat to an extended ladder of supervisors, having a wide range of interests is an advantage to me, as Salesman, and to my boss, his boss, and so on.

When you work in Sales, you soon realize that there is a vast pool of naive, gullible, and down right dumb people out there whose money you can dig like potatoes from a field. In financial sales, you appeal to fear and greed. In charity work, you appeal to the heart. Not everybody is a dullard, motivated by greed, or easily swayed by a picture of a puppy, but there is enough of them out there to make a living.

Combine knowledge of Sales methods with a wide variety of interests, and you can easily develop cynicism. When you read a pitch from some enviro group about some pesticide, knowing that this pesticide is unstable and degrades in air, you soon realize that these people are lying through their teeth, either that or are ignorant of chemistry and are just making stuff up because is sounds good. The pesticide mentioned is a nerve agent and does not 'accumulate in the liver'. Nerve agents work on the nerves; they are not soluble in fats and to the liver they do not travel, especially in their half hour half life.

I have endless examples of this. It makes a rich ore for writing satire. From the fat kid sitting in a Scarborough studio pictured as an African wasting away from famine, to the food banks waging a campaign against obesity, I have much to inspire me. It is all in good fun. Someone else is being mocked, and it is their money being handed over, so who cares?

But the manipulators have a hand in my pocket, too. When I work 'above the table', my taxes are dispersed to entities that are, obviously, self-serving parasites. Not so much the 'famine victims' in Etobicoke, but the ten (or so) 'activists' who get pay and pension to care after the one victim. Inevitably, these manipulator organizations have large staffs whose primary job is to agitate for more funding, and produce propaganda that appeals to emotions, to fear, and to guilt. I do not like them taking my money without my consent. You can always say no to a telemarketer, you can always slam down the phone, but with these parasites, you cannot. They are thieves.

One can thwart the thieves. You can work 'under the table' for cash ... not a penny will find its way to a food bank to fight obesity. You can support political movements that erode the power of thieves in activists clothing. You can expand your knowledge of the scams of thieves in government clothing. Indeed, there are things you can do.

All this, however, is predicated upon Freedom of Speech. If you are familiar with history, you know that the fight for Freedom of Speech is dripping with blood. Freedoms are bought with death and destruction. This is what happened in the past, and this is what will happen in the future.

I encourage everyone to embrace the Continious Learning lifestyle of the twenty-first century. You can teach yourself anything, without the approval or knowledge of anyone else. Indeed, this is the Aquarian Age. I can refresh my knowledge of Organic Chemistry with a twenty dollar University textbook from a bookstore; I can study Hypnosis from posts on the internet; I can send away for free information on timers and Programmable Logic Controllers; I can read poet Robbie Burn's Scots Wha Hae *. And I can watch as evidence mounts in the battle between a Darwinian-collectivist versus a Nietzschian-not-collectivist view of human nature.

Do read a book. And do keep your hands out of my pockets. I keep a jar of fingers in my desk.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at both Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.

Inside Mitchieville - November 23, 2007

As part of diversity sensitivity training, Suvorov is shown here exploring third world lifestyles and sharing in a typical multi-cultural expression of caring. Here, Suvorov is playing Tag the Taggers using the traditional Dumm-Dumm tippy-tap. If you listen, you can hear Ulster saying No. The mask is a way of expressing rejection of the invisible potato peeler of white privilege.



This was what a Mitchieville staffer brought back from Alberta. Canada does not have any laws to control the sale of weapons, so our staffer got these as a gift from a newspaper when they signed up for a subscription with home delivery.

Another photo from the diversity sensitivity training camp. This is a baby carridge, the parts imported from Germany, and assembled using Swedish instructions.


This is a picture from the hallway outside of Fenris' office. Here the Mayor is coming to tell Fenris that he has won the election by one vote. He is going to invite Fenris out for a game of paintball to celebrate.




This is the winning design for a new homeless shelter. A ring of twenty eight of these warm, cozy places of refuge are going to be built around Mitchieville. As a symbol of solidarity and oneness with Mother Earth, every homeless shelter can be seen by at least two other shelters.




I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Congratulations to Me, Fenris Badwulf!

Yes, as you have diversely both dreaded and slavered for, Fenris Badwulf is now Mayor of Mitchieville. This is Good News!


If you are reading this, you have not been arrested. This is good! You are not considered enough of a threat to The Fenrisite Collective (typified by the silver wolf upon a black diamond slab ring wore by cadre) to have been taken away to be recycled. You have been sorted, and found suitable for your present station.

Get up and go to work tomorrow! is this weeks workers happy slogan. Say it to yourself when you get up early in the morning to do volunteer work at the immigrants work pit. Happy workers! Dance a jig as you rush to work!

Be happy at the fate of The Divine Mayor, Mitch the Mayor. Yes, he resides at the Elysium Spa and Motel. He returns to you, improved with the latest medical secrets from a crashed UFO. Do not underestimate his new powers, foolish mortals.

Lisa soon came to be known as 'Ma Barker' amongst the staff here at Secret Supreme Headquarters. She is a master of inciting street violence using a text messanger. The Markham massacre was her work.

Impress me with your eagerness to make your quota early. There are rewards for those who go to work sick. Go and barf on your oppressors. Onward, happy workers, to your rowing bench, to work for the good of the collective.

Stalinism is the rule of the Steel Plant Factory Union Boss. Otherwise, Communism is rule by the Post Office Administration Apparatus. You may be relieved to know that your new existance is under my vision of rule by a Telemarketing Manager.

Pushtwo Quickie, wrote this down while fearing the flashing gilded, steel boot of Fenris Badwulf, Mayor of Mitchieville.

Your Local High School, part 2

Having softened you up with part 1, let us now explore the wolf-eyed Stalin, the merchant of power who is the puppetmaster behind the political activism at Your Local High School. Because political activism is but service to some wolf-eyed creature wearing a fresh sheep's clothing

Stalin said that power comes from the barrel of a gun. And those that seek power (which is a subset of those that understand power), know this. And those that seek power, seek power. Do not assume them to be fools. They know how to lie, and how to clothe themselves as you and I. And those that seek power struggle against each other. And in this struggle, they seek to destroy power, resources that other's powerful, and the attitudes of those that serve power. So, unless you serve Stalin, you do not get a gun. Stalin wants control, and gun control is a rung on his ladder of total world domination. But when Stalin has control, there will be lots of guns again, not just pistols either. Expect belt fed and crew serviced types, and they better be kept clean, with plenty of ammo handy. Stalin is as particular about his firearms as any survivalist that is holed up on the Ruby Ridge.

And this takes us back to Your Local High School. Wolf-eyed Stalin knows full well that any war-machine needs engineers, mathematicians, and scientists. These servants of the state must have ability, are promoted through ability, and encourage ability. As secondary traits, they have loyalty and a work ethic, but that is not as important as ability. Because those with wolf eyes need them. And the wolf eyes sure as hell do not want the other wolf-eyed ones to have these people. Those who seek power seek to destroy power as well. And when you have a High School that does not promote ability, you have an operation controled by a foreign power, seeking to soften up your piece of real estate for conquest. There is no other explaination.

Of course, the corruption and depravity are but means to weaken the enemy and soften him up for conquest. After the victory, the corrupters and the depravement-enablers are made into soap. History is full of examples. Just imagine Canada under Sharia ... who would be first to the stoning pits? The practical taxpayers or the impractical taxspenders? And those that distract you from this reality with poems about vibrating sex toys are just so much useful, talking soap. Look into Stalin's eyes and tell me this is not so.

Now ask yourself, who is the enemy that wants you to trade Imperialism Brand X for Imperialism Brand Y? Can you see the works of an enemy power in Your Local High School? In this weakling country, we have lost our servitude to Imperialism Brand Y, no matter what the marketing people for Brand X say. And then again, does it matter?

to be continued ...

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at both Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.

Success in Canada

When I was managing a telemarketing call center, one of my better salespersons was a woman of color. Not that that mattered, what did matter was that she was a great salesperson, and that she shared with me some insight into Success in Canada.

She thought it was funny, indeed stupid, that people became outraged over abuses of welfare, immigration, and unemployment insurance. In her culture, nobody 'owns' the government, so cheating social programs was not cheating. It was just being smart.

As a smart lady, she had two sets of identity cards. One was collecting welfare for herself and her beloved daughter. The other owned the house where welfare mom was living. So the other enjoyed all the advantages of being a landlord, like expensing improvements. The other also worked in the legal market economy. When I met the smart lady, she was collecting unemployment. (The telemarketing firm I worked for was a little shady: we paid in 'cash', to 'consultants', and never asked for social insurance numbers). So, the smart lady had three revenue streams: welfare, unemployment, and telemarketing. She had been doing this since her daughter was born. She used the daughter as a lever to gain Canadian citizenship.

Now, word of this got out to the staff. One of them, a white male, became angry. But as smart lady put it, he did not 'own' the Canadian government. It was not 'his' money she was enjoying. In her mind, she was doing nothing wrong. Infact, angry white male was a bonehead, because he was not doing the same. Eventually, the white male 'walked the plank' (my cultures term for being fired) and happy profitability descended upon the operation. Sales were being made, so I was happy.

And the fact is, nobody 'owns' Canada. Sure, the taxpayers are not getting value for their money when programs are abused, when activists use manipulation to increase their pay and percs, when the Main Stream Media passes off fiction for facts. But instead of crying wolf, should you not be joining the wolf pack?

The elites that run Canada do not reflect the moral system of those that created the country. The suppression of Vimy-Ridge-Canadian culture is well documented, well funded, and supported by judges, bureaucrats, and the media. Maybe it is time for my fellow Vimy-Ridge-Canadians to realize that they do not 'own' Canada, and that the legislated values of the country are up for grabs. If our ethnic minority wants to gobble at the trough, we better act like the rest of the pigs.

Taxpayer rights fanatics will turn green when I suggest that they abandon their moralistic abilitist system, and instead embrace rape and pillage motivated by greed. Like, who cares? The human beings who actually work the levers and ratchets of administration do not care. The activists who should be looking out for the human qualities of the weak and simple in their care are instead seeking better parking spots, office space, and the hiring of relatives.

Now, I can turn a blind eye to the corruption of others, because my wolf eyes are scanning for richer prizes for myself. A friend works in a trades union. Sure, he is paid well, and he gets great benefits, but he is taxed heavily. But the superior union electrician makes cash on 'side jobs'. He puts in pot lights and switches, usually using material that he has stolen from his employer. So, his tax burden is, well, proportionally quite small. This way, the blue collar guy can obtain the house and horse farm, the swimming pool and the kegs of single malt scotch. This is the underground economy ... and you should be swimming in it.

And all of you should stop bitching about corrupt taxspenders and think of ways to become one yourself. If Albertans really wanted a 'better deal' from Ottawa, their path should lead to the example of the FLQ. Grow up. The Statists have won. The proof of their victory is gun control, legalization of abortion, and gay marriage. Now, comrades, it is time to gather together and make the Statists pay for our votes.

Next year, I want to see a mayor of Toronto handing a cheque to the Orangemen, with a shit eating grin on his face. I want to be lazy and rich. I want it handed to me. My first goal is a proportionate amount of social spending, spent on me and my followers. I will keep the numbers, report the suffering, and discover new outrages that require fresh applications of cash, grants, jobs for loyalists, and media worship.

As I am driven by your 'honest' home, or your 'honest' place of work, I will be getting a blow job from a feminist, a la mode Clinton. I will travel to exotic locations with mistresses and syncophants, while you stay at home and eat beans. I will never travel in rush hour. My gasoline, whiskey, and cigarettes are taxed, but others pay that tax. My housing you will pay for. My children will get free everything. And none of it will be enough. So, sell out and sign up. The Statists are masochists with money, and we should become whores with whips.

Pay attention to this: Think Globally, Act Locally, and Demand Handouts.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at both Mitchieville and DustMyBroom

King Billy

What better way to kick off Caribana than to watch the Orange Day parade in Toronto?

Once upon a time, Toronto was run by the moral system of the Orange lodge. That was back in the fifties, before Global Warming, racism, and inadequate social spending. As a kid, I used to hear about it at the dinner table. You could not buy beer on a Saturday, except in the Legion. I did not know what a door lock was ... I never used them until I met university professors. You could leave your keys in your car, and neighbours would roll up your windows in the rain.

As the influence of the Orange lodge faded, so did the ills of modern society grow. The tipping point was in 1967, when Pierre Elliot Trudeau began an aggressive series of spending initiatives to discover and fight social ills. But the fading power of the Orangemen was not enough to help Trudeau complete his utopian Just Society. Money spent each year was always a few millions short of what was needed to end famine, plague, and racism. There were then, as there is now, just not enough activists, programs, and office space to end evil. Things are so much worse now, even though taxpayers spend so much more.

The parade was lead by a crisp contingent of Toronto Police. The traffic control was impressive, the motorcycles and bicycles moved from intersection to crosswalk, keeping cars back, and the march steady. Orange contingents from all over Ontario were present. The music was upbeat four-four time, marching tunes from times of battle against the tyrants. My father used to hum these tunes when he worked down in his shop. This brought a tear to my eye, as I miss my dad.

I looked for King Billy. Instead of riding a white horse, King Billy came as a little boy, leading a large contingent of youth. The other officers of the lodge followed after, bearing their halberds, chains of office, and the volume of the sacred law. The weather was clear, even though the Global Warming weatherpersons had predicted rain. A Supreme Being must smile upon these Orangemen, to put aside the works of man and clear the sky of rain so that they could march.

As the Orangemen appeared, the beggars grew silent, and retreated to alleys. Before the parade I was approached three times by starving homeless people, looking for money, coffee, and/or tobacco. During the parade, they were gone. Such is the residual power of the Orange Lodge. We can only hope that the happy times of Old Ontario return to us. We should all work to ending white privilege, and replace it with Orange. Toronto should be a city where children do not know what door locks are, where criminals are few and live in fear, and beer is for enjoyment and not escape.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Fenris Badwulf Doesn’t Care Enough

As a valued member of the Canadian writing establishment Fenris Badwulf is without peer. Fenris writes about the issues that Canadians care about; issues like diversity, equality and political correctness. Fenris writes about the plight of homeless raccoon Canadians. Fenris writes about Calgary leather fetishists. Most importantly, Fenris writes about the nutritive value of alternate food sources such as prune mush as your health is so very important to him. With all that he has done for Mitchieville I feel bad being saying that Fenris doesn’t care enough, but I have proof: Fenris Badwulf wasn’t awarded the Order of Canada this week.

Jane Vance Rule has just recived the Order of Canada, our nation’s way of recognizing our finest. Her citation reads:

Ms. Jane Vance Rule has been a powerful force for equality. She broke new ground in Canadian literature as one of the first writers to populate her novels with homosexual as well as heterosexual characters. Her 1964 novel Desert of the Heart, which tells the love story of two women, is considered a masterpiece and was later adapted for film. Her books, described as forthright, complex and imaginative, have been translated into many languages and have earned her literary as well as human rights awards. Generous and caring, she is much loved by other writers and by members of her community.

Let us compare the two writers: Jane is a powerful voice for equality, so is Fenris. Jane’s books are “forthright, complex and imaginative” and so are Fenris’ posts (to say the least). Jane is ‘generous and caring, she is much loved by other writers and by members of her community’. Fenris bought me breakfast once so I know he is generous. Fenris is adored by his fellow bloggers and readers across the Internet. It must be that Fenris does not care enough then.

As Fenris Badwulf does not care enough he will never receive the Order of Canada. Fenris needs your help care to more Mitchieville and you can help Fenris care more by sending him your money. Visa, Mastercard, and Diner’s Club are accepted. Don’t be the one who lets Fenris not care enough Mitchieville. Our operators are standing by.

Working in Darkness

Like most activists, I work in darkness. The absence of light is not a stranger to me. I control events through manipulation of 'facts', shading the truth with the hues of falsehood, and helping myself to wheelbarrows of money around quiting time. Your piggy bank is my cash cow. I use the cups and cutlery from your office kitchen to shovel dirty money into my clutching hands, and never once wipe them clean. I use spit to polish your cereal bowl before I put them away. I let the dog lick the kindergarten plates clean rather than waste money on soap. It is all for the greater good, where my interests are weighted to tip the balance into my bottomless bog of spending initiatives. I care so much about other people, I am so filled with guilt, that it is best that I get the highest paying job, the biggest office, and the most lavish benefits by helping others by doing little but ask for more. I care.

For some years now, I have been 'blackmailing' others to write my posts for me. Call me a villain, call me a good manager of the human soul, call be an exiled extra-terrestrial telemarketer, but call me to give me your money.

One of my more productive minions has taken ill. He tripped over a discarded bowl of fermenting, moldy prune mush. The cracked bowl broke under his homemade sandals, and he fell into the dirty straw that I use to cover the dirt floor in the subterranean pit I use to exemplify a Communist commune. Perhaps it was the poor light, only a stinking candle made by my staff from rancid squeezings. Perhaps he was startled by one of the fat rats that watch the living serfs, hoping they will fall asleep long enough to be nibbled. Perhaps it was murder, an ambitious fellow minion, seeking advancement by means of blunt head trauma. Does it matter? My finger nails are clean.

Poor ikthis is in need of medical care. Bruno and Igor want a warm beer each to hoist ikthis out of the pit. Sonjia wants fifty dollars to hose his stinking, unwashed hide with flea spray. Lady Persephone wants a hundred dollars just for looking so beautiful in her latex ensemble, accessorized with diamonds and rubies. And I want a thousand dollars, because I think that ikthis should be broken up for spare parts, and unless I get the money, now, I will not change my mind. If If I had a conscious, it would be clean.

I know you all care about ikthis. You say such nice things about his posts that he writes pretending to be me. Now it is time to pay to save his skin from Lord Hades skinning knife. You can help ikthis remain in the land of the living with your money, or you can pay up at the pay site to watch ikthis get turned into two purses, three wallets, and a pair of shoes. Platinum members can read up about how to turn a scrotum into a tobacco pouch. Either way I win. So, is it thumbs up, or thumbs down? You have until the full moon to make your offering.

I, Fenris Badwulf, dictated this to ikthis, who lives in fear at both Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.

The Slave Mentality

Political correctness champions the rights and entitlements of our most vulnerable citizens, taxspenders who are homeless, oppressed, or inconvenienced. Our activists oversee the gathering and distribution of entitlements for such things as competitive salaries for activists, training seminars for activists, and office space allocations in keeping with the heavy burdens of activism.

Before I elaborate at great detail the Slave Mentality so necessary for a healthy recovering victim, first I must explain everything Slave Mentality Canadians need to know about Capitalism.

Theory of Capitalism. Slave Mentality requires that you believe that Capitalism is Bad. Capitalists use big words. They are dumb. Here is all you need to know about Capitalism:

The evil Capitalist buys some resource at, say, ten cents a ton. Then, the Capitalist provides inputs such as labor and machines. These machines have to be purchased, installed, maintained, and operated. The despicable Capitalist also has to survive the risk involved. Capital is required before cash flow, and there may be no cash flow, or not enough to meet his expenses. The Capitalist must also survive the Invisible Hand of the Free Market (sounds like the Invisible Sofa of White Privilege, so it must be bad and untrue) ... his product might not find favor in the market. Everyday the Capitalist lives in fear of failure. Big Deal! Because Capitalists are Bad, and use big words, and are dumb. So, no amount of reason, facts, and stuff can convince anyone with the Slave Mentality of the value of Capitalism.

Now that you have complete understanding of Capitalism, you are ready to be told what to think about other things, because you have the Slave Mentality. Slave Mentality is Good; Capitalism is Bad.

... to be continued

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.

Animal Awareness Week, eh?

Raccoons
I feel so sorry for these cute furry little creatures that I just have to feed them. I cannot stand the sight of them eating garbage, it is so unhealthy. So what I do to protect our environment and spike George Bush’s war machine is to feed the raccoons. I have a metal tool shed, and I made some holes in it that are not easy to see by humans, but easy enough for even the most fat and pregnant raccoon to squeeze in. Inside the tool shed I have set up a feeding station. It has a drip line for fresh water. I also have found that those plastic automatic dog feeders work good too. I have three in there, so the poor oppressed raccoons have a tasty selection of nutritious dog and cat kibble. With three feeding stations, there are fewer fights among the raccoon families that now thrive in the area of my house. It only costs a few bucks a month to buy those fifty pound bags of dog kibble. It is worth it to save the planet.

Infact, the raccoons in my area came out of hibernation early, and are a good six weeks early into rutting season. I do not have a clue why. I blame global warming and George Bush.

Skunks
Most city people have a bad opinion about skunks, but that is racism. Skunks are as cute and cuddly as most any other oppressed ethnic group, maybe more so because they go around at night and like to tag things with stink. You should not judge people by their actions, and skunks are no exception.

I am a big supporter of recycling at any price, so I have gone the Greenpeace earth warriors one better … I feed my table scraps directly to my skunk neighbors. They sure like most anything. This way I bypass the garbage-compost-plants part of the growth cycle. I have designed a skunk feeding house, I call it after my hero, Bob Hunter. It is my way of fighting global warming.


Cockroaches
Certainly the most oppressed of our animal friends, the bisexual cockroach is an important part of the ecosystem of the city. Racist profiling has depressed the diversity of the city cockroach, but activists can fight back by feeding them. I was thrilled to learn that cockroaches are bisexual, non-violent, and celebrate diversity. If only more humans could be like cockroaches. All they eat is paper. So I feed them my specially re-cycled copies of environmental publications. It only takes a few pounds of paper and a few drops of growth and fertility hormones to make a thriving cockroach village. They are so good for the environment … take that in the eye, Donald Rumsfeld.


Street People
People are animals too. Those long suffering people never have anywhere to sleep and nobody ever gives them anything. My heart just bleeds every time I pass the homeless people. Why does not our fascist tyranny do something to help these people? And you just know that teenagers (the evil male heteronormative kind) just like to set them on fire. How many times have I walked past some smouldering corpse on my way to work while some snickering kids were off giggling and taking pictures with their camera phones.

What I do is whip up a batch of Mother Jones' prune elixir. I got the recipe out of the Loompanics catalog. After I have a batch of prune elixir, I put the stuff into Vodka bottles, then leave it around where the oppressed homeless people can find it. It sure puts a smile on their face, and, after eighteen hours, they will have a smiling, happy colon, too. I figure that it will bring them some happiness, and its good for what ails you. Maybe if George Bush had some prunes he would not be so bent on world conquest.

I, Fenris wrote this

Save Juan

This sad story has come to the attention of the Fenris Universal Caring Knowledge Union …

File number 97,288,276 Confidential

Name: Juan Juanison Gender: Male
Sex: Bi-sexual Language: Aztec

Backstory:

Juan came to Sweden in his early twenties, seeking a better life for himself and members of his kin group. After only a few years in Sweden, the brutal oppression and extreme bias forced him to be humiliated and exit the country and seek to re-build his life in Holland. The fascist Swedish government is hunting poor Juan with trumped up charges of welfare fraud, spousal abuse, non payment of child support, and violations of the culturally insensitive restaurant cleanliness act.

Juan came to Holland in his mid twenties, seeking a better life for himself and members of his kin group. After only a few years in Holland, the brutal oppression and extreme bias forced him to be humiliated and exit the country and seek to re-build his life in America. The neo-nazi Dutch government is hunting poor Juan with trumped up charges of drug dealing, assault, non payment of child support, and public urination.

Juan came to America in his late twenties, seeking a better life for himself and members of his kin group. After only a few years in America, the brutal oppression and extreme bias forced him to be humiliated and exit the country and seek to re-build his life in Canada. The war mongering American government is hunting poor Juan with trumped up charges of illegal possession of a firearm, sodomy, welfare fraud, and bestiality.

Juan has a close and loving family:

Sven Tlaloc, age 12
Brunhilda, age 11
Olaf Tezcatlipolka, age 10
Trojan, age 9

Horst Greenfood, age 8
Gretta-Barbarella, age 7
Trudi-Fonda, age 6
Ursula, age 5

Rainbow Peacewarrior, age 4
Mandingo, age 3
Malcom XXX, age 2
Kerry-Hope, age 1


Juan’s experience in Canada
Like most law abiding freedom seekers to this country, Juan came to Canada with a forged visa under an assumed name. Because of racism, he was unable to buy a visa from the Canadian embassy in Washington, even though he sent them a letter from the county jail in San Jose written by his cell mate.

As a freedom fighter for Aztec AIDS awareness and Stop Eating Meat, he was forced to cross the border by bus using the services of the notorious smuggling gang of Grey Coach. The brutal mercenary white chain smoking heteronormative thug ticket agent humiliated poor Juan by demanding money up front for his fare (contrary to the Aztec custom of easy credit for smuggling operations) and then the cruel ex-military sadist bus driver further humiliated helpless Juan by forcing him to clean up the puddle of urine he left on the bus as a blessing from the Earth Mother.

Once safely in Toronto, more correctly know as Sugah-City in the Aztec ebonic dialect, Juan contacted a helpful civil rights activist who was manning the dissent kiosk at the bus station.

Within an hour, Juan was in the loving diverse arms of the Social Services family … he had a welfare check, a big bag of food from the food bank, a place to stay, a drivers license, and pre-registration in a community college as a liberal arts major. That afternoon, Juan went to his ‘front of the line’ health check up, leaving with peace of mind and a pocket full of condoms and Living with AIDS brochures.

Juan spent the next few months getting to know the city and its diverse multi-gendered peoples as he attended English as a second language courses, Living with AIDS courses, and started to learn a new trade - as a Social Worker with a minor in Teaching. All his needs were provided for … plenty of money when ever he needed it as he applied as Juan, John, and Juen in the Downtown, East, and Etobicoke offices of Social Services … plenty of food from the food bank or from restaurants when he told them he could not pay the bill … and health care for his tuberculosis, AIDS, and a knife wound he got when a white supremacist (disguised as an ethnic taxi driver) slashed him in a cultural misunderstanding … demanding cash for the taxi ride when it is Aztec culture to not pay for anything except on the 33rd day of the month of Xepetopec.

Then things got hurtful for poor defenseless and innocent Juan. The evil racist bigoted militant police gang sought out Juan (as opposed to John or Juen) as some sort of so called criminal. This hurt Juan’s feelings and he felt humiliated.

The police took Juan to their secret dungeon at Church and Wellesley, and brutalized Juan, as they do to every single ethnic minority that falls into their clutches. Juan was stripped and beaten with a rubber hose. Then he was made to wear a black leather collar with spikes and forced to crawl around on the floor while making ‘woof woof’ sounds. Juan was made to endure the ordeals of the hot tub and the shower and the sauna, where he engaged in involuntary sex acts, against his will, all the while wearing the humiliating leather collar that signified his inferior status in racist Canadian culture. Oh, how Juan bravely struggled against his burly monolingual assailants.

The next morning Juan was released. The corrupt police (Juan will never forget the smell of their latex rubber uniforms) gave Juan some money to buy his silence, but Juan is a freedom fighter activist earth warrior and went right away to stop injustice. But it was Sunday, and the legal aid office number was just an answering machine.

The situation right now and what you can do about it
Nobody would help Juan. His ESL teacher would not help. His Living with AIDS teacher only gave him a free blood test chit and a brochure. His Social Work 101 instructor hasn’t had office hours that are convenient with Juan’s busy social schedule. His food bank co-ordinator told him to talk to his social worker. His landlord will not talk to Juan about anything but his overdue rent and property damages. His social worker will not talk to Juan until he apologizes for spitting on her. His member of parliament is in Switzerland. Juan is not getting any help from anybody. Who will help Juan?

I want you to help Juan. I want to take this to the courts and guarantee Juans right to citizenship and services in this racist tyranny, and I want Juan to get the education he needs to speak english and get a rewarding career as an activist social worker.

Can I count on your support for one hundred dollars?

Will that be Visa, Mastercard, or American Express?

Bob Hunter and the Scalp Bounty

I have to write another eulogy for Truthspeaker Bob Hunter. You may have noticed his smiling face plastered all over politically correct media across the city of light that is Toronto.

I got a call from the Greenpeace telemarketing Command Post. Thanks to Bob’s death, they are mounting an extra six weeks of Save the Seals from Extinction in 2005 to this years campaign before they go back to selling carpet cleaning and home security systems. All the on going extended media coverage of Bob’s death is priming the telemarketing money pump! Yes!

Let me cast your imagination back to the Dark Ages, when Mike Harris ruled Ontario. It was a few years after his coup d’etat, when his fanatic Christian Brown shirts had seized power unfairly through the ballot box, by lying to people and then doing what he said he would do. Evil incarnate. Evil enough to get elected twice.

Anyway, Mike Harris had upped the scalp bounty on the homeless here in Toronto. It went from the traditional 25 dollars a scalp way up to 500 dollars. And, evil Mike started selling hunting permits to degenerate American hunters, too. You remember that awful fall … Americans roaming the streets of Toronto in Jeeps and Humvees mounted with .50 caliber machine guns, using phosphorus grenades to flush the homeless from their ‘nests’ under bridges and then chopping them down with heavy weapons fire. Sometimes they would just watch the wounded homeless person crawl around in his own intestines before they drew cards to see who would administer the coup d’grace - usually a blow to the head with a ball peen hammer. Then the slow, grisly lifting of the scalp while friends and the hired guides smoked greenhouse gas producing cigarettes and guzzled whiskey made from genetically modified yeast. Of course, they took trophy pictures and laughed.

It did not stop there. Harris enforced the vagrancy acts, and rounded up other so-called degenerates. They were put in the stocks and flogged, or locked in cages that were hanging over the street. I remember the three cages that were suspended over the intersection of Yonge and Dundas, where innocent people who were welfare cheats or were infected with AIDs and had sex without a condom were subject to the humiliation of public ridicule. And then there were the military parades every Monday down University Avenue, when the latest weapons in the bloated inventory of the Ontario WarMachine were put on phalli-centric display. TVO started its Glorify War series.

Late in the fall, Mike Harris had escalated his campaign of terror and intimidation against everything diverse and multi-gendered. When Quebec asked politely that Ontario stop profiling drivers with Quebec license plates, what did Mike Harris do? He deployed a few brigades of artillery and shelled border villages, that is what. Quebec appealed to the United Nations after that, but Mike Harris took the UN delegate and cut off his hands and tongue. It took the heroic efforts of the wise leader of the peace loving people of North Korea to put an end to the massive arms shipments flowing into Ontario from the planet destroying Americans. Only after the biosphere loving democratically elected East German leader cut off Ontario’s supply of hops, did the beast Mike Harris stop lobbing Intermediate Range missiles armed with Mustard Gas into Quebec schools, day care centers, and cultural events.

But the scalp bounty still lead to the death of thousands of homeless people every fall, every hunting season in cities, towns, villages, and hamlets across Ontario. The main stream media was firmly in the fascist grip of the ruling robber gang. No one dared offer a single word of criticism of Mike Harris, so afraid were the people of the Ontario Secret Provincial Police (the dreaded OSPP) and the midnight knock that meant a one way trip to Secret Police Headquarters at the intersection of Bloor and Hitler Avenue for a torture session with electric shock, the brain wipe, the butt probe, or the deadly non-vegetarian high cholesterol, low fiber food laced with meat products, additives, and unspeakable preservatives forced upon the doomed inmates by chain smoking white male monogamous heterosexuals. It was a race against time as madman Harris directed his legions of evil scientists to develop new and unthinkable secret weapons in his crazed campaign to destroy diversity and the planet.

One man stood forward: Bob Hunter.

Bob Hunter wrote a book about the horrors: The Ontario Scalp Bounty and Mike Harris’ War on the Homeless. Bob Hunter gave lectures. Bob Hunter sent forth telemarketers to call people to raise their awareness. Bob Hunter sent out mass mailings to let you know The Truth.

In only six short years, six years that the homeless stood on the brink of extinction, Bob Hunter stopped the Scalp Bounty!

In the last year of the scalp bounty, the unhuman Mike Harris had opened the Scalp Hunt to crossbows and black powder weapons. The carnage was unspeakable as buckskinned Americans whooped and yee-hawed across the province, tracking the underprivileged as they scurried from their social services sanctuary, clutching their welfare check or food bank supplies. The nights were worse, as whiskey saturated scalpers clanking in their authentic medieval plate mail holding onto grisly trophies of human hair danced in the streets to bonfires that glorified war and heteronormative relationships.

Finally, Bob Hunter had had enough. From his office at the one magazine that still dared to contemplate criticism of the evil Harris gang, he put down the manuscript of the book he was writing. He loaded up his pipe with organically grown indigenous native peoples approved tobacco. He pushed aside the list of phone numbers of likely supporters. Out on the street, an oppressed member of some ethnic minority was earning a sub-standard and humiliating existence selling tobacco pouches made from the scrotums of homeless people. This was too much for Bob. Selling books and getting paid to give lectures and getting ten percent of gross revenues from a telemarketing campaign was not going to stop this outrage of outrages. Bob Hunter sucked on his pipe and was given over to eager atheist prayer to any god but the God of the Christians.

That afternoon, Bob Hunter climbed up to the top of a flagpole and vowed to keep chewing chewing gum until the madness stopped!

Then the clouds parted! The matriarchal lesbian diverse deity Gaia appeared to the assembled people in Queens Park. The prisoners in cages hung over the street looked up into the rainbow colored light! The innocent purse snatchers and pimps and drug dealers looked up from the stocks where they were tied up into the loving diverse poly gendered glow. Homosexual, Bisexual, and transgendered angels danced in the heavens, loving each other in diverse ways, with lips, tongue, and fist. It was a fairytale ending to six years of terror, and yet another fairytale experience to the existence that was Bob Hunters fairytale life. Over 500,000 people saw this. Mike Harris fled from office only two years later. But the Scalp Bounty was no more! The homeless were saved! They could breed and raise families in peace, with welfare and food banks and social services! Hurrah!

Thank you, Bob Hunter. I, Fenris, love you.