Category Archives: Politically incorrect humour

What about Pastafarianism, then?

[thoughts from a bottle of wine, by Sha’Tara]

Well, all that writing and comments on religion, one side being those who ardently support the existence of God, one side being those who equally, ardently do not support the existence of God, was a lot of fun. It would be more fun if all of it wasn’t taken so darn seriously, but this is Earth, so I guess the proper expression here is: deal with it and get over it.

So… I think I have. I can’t be sure, but you will notice that at the very least, I’m thinking and that, again this being Earth, is no small feet… I mean feat. (I must have joined my earthworm at the glass of wine a bit soon, and stayed a bit too long, time will tell.) If that aside doesn’t make sense, either you did not read some of the comments, or, bless you, you had better things to do and then, yes, of course it does not make sense, it will not make sense and probably I can’t explain it either so it could make sense. Shall we move on, then?

Having thus overcome the terrible desire to engage, engage, engage, as if I were the captain of the Enterprise, and use up all my demagoguerite vocabulary on smoke and mirrors, I did some research about alternatives to, you know, Absolutely Certainty, and came up with the following. First, to avoid all errors, let’s start with a link. Links, as we all know, are the 21st Century’s Word of God. Links are The Truth. Without Links, no one is going anywhere and there is no salvation.

https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Pastafarianism

What is Pastafarianism?

It’s the great and almighty atheist religion which teaches how the world was created by the flying spaghetti monster who happened to be drunk which thus explains why bad things happen. Pastafarians follow the church of the flying spaghetti monster and when they go to heaven they will enjoy a beer volcano and a stripper factory (which makes me wonder what’s in it for the ladies but let’s not quibble about small matters, it’s only eternity after all), however in hell the beer is stale and the strippers have VD! In pastafarian terms agnostics are known as spagnostics and all prayers must end with RAmen. September 19th is the national “talk like a pirate” day and the religions founder Bobby Henderson has published a “Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster”.

What attracted me to Pastafarianism – not saying I’m going to join, I don’t own a colander to wear at special functions and a veil or burka (or burqa or burqah) would definitely be frowned upon – were the very words of the Flying Spaghetti Monster Itself, specifically the eight “I’d really rather you didn’t” non-commandments, as brought to us by Its Prophet, Bobby Henderson (No, not that Bobby Henderson, the other one!)

The Sacred Eight I’d Really Rather you Didn’ts:

1)I’d really rather you didn’t act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don’t believe in me, that’s okay. Really, I’m not that vain. Besides, this isn’t about them so don’t change the subject.

2)I’d really rather you didn’t use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don’t require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.

3)I’d really rather you didn’t judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, Okay? Oh, and get this into your thick heads: woman = person. man = person. Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we’re talking about fashion and I’m sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.

4)I’d really rather you didn’t indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is go f*** yourself, unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.

5)I’d really rather you didn’t challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the b******s.

6)I’d really rather you didn’t build multi million-dollar churches/temples/mosques/shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
Ending poverty
Curing diseases
Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable. I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.

7)I’d really rather you didn’t go around telling people I talk to you. You’re not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can’t you take a hint?

8)I’d really rather you didn’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/Las Vegas. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! Honestly, it’s a piece of rubber. If I didn’t want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.

In the words of the flying spaghetti monster himself, (and written by Bobby Henderson, the creator of Pastafarianism)

There you have it. The best news of all is, you don’t have to be Italian to be a pastafarian. Or at least I don’t think so, I’m deducing, à la Sherlock Holmes (Yes, that Sherlock Holmes)

What did you expect, it’s Canada Day here, or so I’m told, and we all take that very, very seriously here, or so I’m told. I might hang out some laundry today. I hope it isn’t mistaken for a foreign flag and someone sends the RCMP to investigate. Nah, this is Canada. What flag? We keep changing our minds about that, and the national anthem also… Not to worry, some day we’ll get it right, or left, or leave it and join a Word Federation or something so that we can have social justice, equality and happiness when meeting a stranger.  I’d like that, even better than Pastafarianism.

 

 

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America: Diversity versus Disparity

Some time back there was a tempest in the social media teapot. It came after his royal pudgy-fingered PG 13 (which at the White House means “Minimum Pussy Grabbing Age 13) President of These United States, declared certain races persona-non-grata in His Kingdom. Such nationalities and races didn’t fit the new profile being advertised as proper for the Kingdom’s expanding white supremacist swamp.

That, of course, wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened in the Kingdom but that was before social media so all can be excused for not being aware of it. After all America, and much of the rest of the planet, emerged from the Dark Ages to populate Facebook and imitators, spewing and spawning its collective BS as if it were the most precious substance in the universe. Who cares what happened in the Dark Ages before 2005?

Having got that out of the way, let’s get a bit more serious before the wine runs out.

During that tempest, the old cant that America was founded on diversity was brought out of retirement, dusted off and vigorously waved about to counter the Trumper King’s signing of the new Magna Carta handing out more power and money to his nobility and racist supporters alike.

The problem here isn’t what the Trumper King was doing. After all a King has absolute power and His Royal Self was demonstrating that fact, never to be forgotten.

The problem is the subsequent claim to said Kingdom being founded on diversity. Key word: founded.

A nation is never founded on ideals, that being the mission statement. Ideals are fine on a piece of paper protected by inch-thick glass but not beyond. Beyond it just means trouble.

Think of it like being comfortably ensconced in your favourite pew some Sunday morning while working out your moves for the golf course in the afternoon and suddenly, out of the blue (literally speaking) Jesus appears, nudges the preacher gently out of the way and takes over the pulpit. General consternation and cries of “No! No, no, no! That’s not how it works. Whoa! You can’t be here, you’re supposed to be in heaven where you can’t cause trouble. You’re outta here, buddy! Somebody, shut the sound system down, throw him out!”

That’s the problem with idols such as divinities and belief systems and constitutions. They’re only good as long as they support the status quo and if they don’t, then they remain securely under glass or on stained glass. You can’t drag them out into the open and use them. That’s not allowed, not without properly authorized “interpreters.”

The idea that America is founded on diversity is false. America is entirely founded on disparity. For those who don’t have a dictionary of synonyms, diversity is not a synonym for disparity. You can take my word for that.

Certainly it cannot be disputed that America’s social landscape consists of much diversity. The history is there and descendants of diverse nationalities or races are the people who make up the population of America. But to go from “consists of” to “founded upon” is a leap off the proverbial cliff. It is totally misleading.

What controls and shapes America is not the diversity of the many races, or minorities representative of such races, but the disparity that exists between its social strata. That is what it is founded upon.

If we want to put a label on America’s foundation, disparity, we can safely call it greed. Greed of gargantuan and unapologetic proportions. Greed that is currently eating the nation alive.

Oh yes, before Jesus was unceremoniously dragged from the pulpit and ejected out the door on his face, he did manage to say this, “And I repeat again, the love of money is the root of all evil!” Then he mumbled under his breath as he picked himself up and brushed the small stones from his tunic, “I’ll be back!” and vanished.

There’s no Beer in Heaven – Time to get Serious

[off the cuff by   ~Sha’Tara]
It’s time to get serious.  As most know by now, I was once a very religious person.  So religious, in fact, I became religious twice.  In politics that would be called going from a liberal stance to a conservative one, or is it vice-versa?  Doesn’t matter.  What matters is, I need to confess the real reason I left religion.  Starting at the start, we do religion because we want to go to Heaven, just like we go to work because we want a paycheck.  Pretty basic.

All was well until one day, thanks to radio, I heard a song so devastating, I never recovered – I even went to an upholstery repair shop, they couldn’t help me.  (Oh, aren’t I punny!)

Here’s that infamous song by Frankie Yankovic

In Heaven there is no beer

That’s why we drink it here
And when we’re gone from here
All our friends will be drinking all that beer

The moment I heard that song, I was convicted of its utter truth.  I knew then, and still do, that people who sing these songs never lie because they are the ones the corporations use to sing commercial ditties for them, and we all know, based on their success rating that commercials absolutely NEVER LIE.  So there I was, halfway through my Heineken and my heart didn’t just sink, it plummetted.  No beer in Heaven.  They still hold to prohibition there.  Of course I was in the Christian camp so slipping on a hijab I snuck in the Islamic side to see if Allah was more open than Jehovah on drinking.  No luck, except that Allah was willing to provide a number of nubile virgins for his chosen heroes (they call themselves martyrs but all fundamentally religious people believe they are being constantly persecuted so that doesn’t mean a whole lot).  Obviously virgins, particularly of the female kind, wasn’t what I was looking for, so I excused myself, said I was just browsing, and made a rapid exit – you might understand why.  But back to my side of the fence.

After the shock, and a very satisfactory emtying of my Heineken beer, little knowing it wasn’t bottled in Holland, but at the beer plant in town,  I began to think about this.  So I’m in Heaven. Let’s just say I spent the day looking after a kindergarten bunch of rowdies and I want to retire to my “mansion” (everybody has to have a mansion in Heaven, that’s the rule, it’s in the law book – it’s for the higher tax bracket but I’m not supposed to know that), pop open the fridge and draw out a first class beer.  It’s Heaven after all, would I be sold after market crap?  But according to this song I just heard, no such luck.  It doesn’t help that I can hear the groaning and moaning along with the odd girlish cries of protest coming from the other side of the partition where the Muslim boys are going at it full bore.  In fact, it makes my blood boil, or would, if Iwas already there.  But I’m thinking here. That cheapskate Jehovah.  Here’s Allah providing seventy virgins, count them, that’s right: seventy for each one of his hero-boys to rape and pillage, and I can’t even have one lousy beer?  I mean you believe in the guy.  You serve him all your life, which can be reasonably long if he doesn’t decide to have you burned alive at the stake at nineteen as he did for Joan…

There are lots of reasons to leave one’s religion.  You’ve been fondled after Sunday school by the assistant pastor, and later on, raped by the main pastor.  That’s one reason.  You’ve been passed over for a promotion to choir leader.  The church bus left without you that day the church team was playing a rival team and they won.  You can’t become a “real” pastor ’cause you’re a girl and girls are designed by God to serve their men masters.  If you don’t believe that just ask a judge, specifically you could ask Judge Roy Moore – he’s the expert on this at the moment.  Just don’t get too close, his hands are still quite active when he’s not holding a gun in the right hand and a bible in the left.  You might be unpleasantly surprised where those fingers land.

But this song, that was the very last straw.  What’s wrong with God, anyway?  Isn’t it enough he feels women’s lives should be made hell, physically, morally, socially, financially and in any other “ally” possible?  Now he’s going to deny me my one consolation at the end of the day?  I’m committing apostasy, over beer (I said to myself).
Over beer? You ask somewhat shocked.  You bet.  So that was it.  It’s my understanding that Hell has an ample and unrestricted supply of beer.  OK, it’s raccoon piss, i.e., Canadian and American beer, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I’ll close this with the old truism on life.  In life, there are only two things to worry about: either you’re healthy, or you’re sick. If you’re healthy, nothing to worry about.  If you’re sick, there are two things to worry about: either you’re going to live or you’re going to die.  If you’re going to live, nothing to worry about.  If you’re going to die, there are two things to worry about: either you’re going to Heaven or you’re going to Hell.  If you’re going to Heaven, nothing to worry about (well, except the beer thing of course) and if you’re going to Hell you’ll be so busy entertaining and being entertained, you won’t have time to worry.

Political Correctness in Sports

One cannot always be “serious” – there has to be room for humour, even in the volunteer trenches, and here’s a good example of such humour.  Just got this in an email from a friend who spends time in the same trenches.

I think all sports fans will get a kick out of this letter written to the Chicago Tribune…. 

if it really was. ….

Here is an e-mail sent to Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune after an article he published concerning a name change for the Washington Redskins.

Dear Mr. Page: I agree with our Native American population. I am highly insulted by the racially charged name of the Washington Redskins. One might
argue that to name a professional football team after Native Americans would exalt them as fine warriors, but nay, nay. We must be careful not to offend, and in the spirit of political correctness and courtesy, we must move forward

Let’s ditch the Kansas City Chiefs, the Atlanta Braves and the Cleveland Indians. If your shorts are in a wad because of the reference the name Redskins makes to skin color, then we need to get rid of the Cleveland Browns.

The Carolina Panthers obviously were named to keep the memory of militant Blacks from the 60s alive. Gone. It’s offensive to us white folk.

The New York Yankees offend the Southern population. Do you see a team named for the Confederacy? No! There is no room for any reference to that tragic war that cost this country so many young men’s lives.

I am also offended by the blatant references to the Catholic religion among our sports team names. Totally inappropriate to have the New Orleans Saints, the Los Angeles Angels or the San Diego Padres.

Then there are the team names that glorify criminals who raped and pillaged. We are talking about the horrible Oakland Raiders, the Minnesota Vikings, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Pittsburgh Pirates!

Now, let us address those teams that clearly send the wrong message to our children. The San Diego Chargers promote irresponsible fighting or even spending habits. Wrong message to our children.

The New York Giants and the San Francisco Giants promote obesity, a growing childhood epidemic. Wrong message to our children.

The Cincinnati Reds promote downers/barbiturates. Wrong message to our  children.

The Milwaukee Brewers. Well, that goes without saying. Wrong message to our children.

So, there you go. We need to support any legislation that comes out to rectify this travesty, because the government will likely become involved with this issue, as they should. Just the kind of thing the do-nothing Congress loves.

As a diehard Oregon State fan, my wife and I, with all of this in mind, suggest it might also make some sense to change the name of the Oregon State women’s athletic teams to something other than “the Beavers.” (especially when they play Southern California.
Do we really want the Trojans sticking it to the Beavers???)

I always love your articles and I generally agree with them. As for the Redskins name, I would suggest they change the name to the “Foreskins” to better represent their community, paying tribute to the dickheads in Congress.

Touching Base

Hello to all, and to all a hello!

Some of you may have noticed less comments from me, and less posts… well there are a couple of simple explanations.  The most obvious, which I can make public without fear of being investigated is that I’m suddenly very busy in the other real world, working on jobs, ones that actually pay, can you believe it?  So that means long hours in Daylight Saving Time pretending I’m enjoying myself as Spring very reluctantly begins to show his face and the snow line hems are rising up the side of those hills that surround this area.

The second reason (which of course I can’t make public, or tell anyone for fear of serious reprisals by the powers that be) is that I’ve become aware that I am a Russian agent, and that means I’ve awakened to my pre-birth training in some Siberian camp where I was indoctrinated in the doctrine of Putinism and trained in demagoguery (Heck I couldn’t even spell that!)  So now I have to spend time reviewing.

I don’t know yet what they’re going to ask me to do, but I have to be ready.  This is serious business and the competition is truly  fierce.  According to mainstream media, just about everybody (in North American at least) is now a Russian Agent, or claiming to be one because the scuttlebutt is that all awakened agents get free credit cards with very high spending limits, and as Jon Rappoport says, when the cards are maxed, the Russians pay the balance.  So you see, I’m motivated.

Of course, I didn’t write the above paragraph, didn’t post it on this blog and if you receive it, it’s your own fault for downloading it.  And by the way, that’s not me in those CCTV shots and in that video dancing with a bear.  It’s a look alike trained by my enemies to make my Russian masters disown me and refuse to give me my free credit cards.  Dirty pool but what can you expect with so much rampant corruption?  That bear isn’t even real: it’s a Sasquatch in a bear suit.

Sorry, the dishes need washing, tomorrow’s lunch needs putting together (or thinking about) and… and… something else…

 

 

The Case of the Crucifixion Report

(Disclaimer:  Ready for some satirically historical or historically hysterical, anecdotes?  I do hope you remembered to leave your sensitivities on the “Welcome” mat at the door as they would be somewhat of an impediment in this reading room.)

(breaking news by Sha’Tara-for immediate release)  

The following, as you may remember from your second year of Bible college history, is but a synopsis of what actually happened following the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.  As you all know, a report was filed by Pilate and sent to Rome to be entered in the legal archives on Iron Mountain.  The report, however, never got to Rome and this raised some questions. Was there even a report?

After a great deal of trouble on my part, some bribing of priests and assorted officials, I finally got to the truth of the report’s disappearance.  Having already spent a great deal of time and money learning about this event, I thought it behooved me to fill you in on a few missing details.  I think you really want to know what actually happened, not just to the report itself, but to the changes wrought upon our history as a result of its loss.

The following document is certified true by the local “born again” member of parliament, the Catholic priest, academia and the local chapter of global main stream media.  It also passed muster on Facebook, going viral with over 956 thousand “Likes” and counting, so you know it can’t be false.

According to the revealed documents, it was well known to all that Pilate and Herod (the two “principals” involved in the controversial event known as The Crucifixion) were not only enemies, but cheapskates.  Pilate actually invented Romanomics by privatizing all Roman shipping within his area of control.  In this case, Publishus Bullshitus, the corporate owner of all mainstream media in Palestine, Persia and twenty-six and a half Greek islands linked by a Central Economic Union and the Trans-Greece Trade Agreement or TGTA, authorized a third page editorial in the Jerusalem Times that addresses this very issue: Pilate’s official report on the crucifixion of Jesus intended for the Roman Curia. (They called these jurists “the Curia” because they were insatiably curious, no other reason to go look under rocks here, so let’s move on.)

According to the editorial which glowingly endorses Pilate’s privatization schemes, the report was duly written up, scrolled up as per custom, sealed in an earthen jar, also as per custom, then handed over to a Carthaginian trader who sailed a trireme loaded with sweet potatoes.  The ship’s manifest says it was destined for Bari which, as you all know, or Googled you cheaters, is on the east coast of the Roman peninsula – a peninsula that would not become Italian for quite a few years hence – and basically across from Rome, which is on the west coast of same said peninsula.

Once duly received by port officials, the scroll would be taken across the peninsula to Rome by official horseback mail, not to be confused with the rider who also wore mail in the distant, seldom successful hope of thwarting terrorist arrows.  So unlike today, remember that terrorists were everywhere in those days.

The trireme, and this is also on record, was named “The Unsinkable” and until that trip had earned its name by reputation on many occasions.  The editorial, praising the fact that it cost Pilate about a third of normal government fees to ship privately, since the owners of private shipping exclusively used slave labour for rowers, mentions that “The Unsinkable” never made it to its destination.  As usual terrorists are blamed for this in the MSM (Main Stream Media) press editorials, but it is well known that non-official sources from a host of social media and the hated “Esseneleaks” sources mention a storm of massive proportions sweeping across the Mediterranean sea at that time, with waves over a hundred elbows in height.

These social media sources lumped in with some New Age predictions, go on at length about “climate change,” earthquakes and suddenly erupting volcanoes that will toss the entire Mediterranean sea into the “Great Ocean” then close the entry at Gibraltar; and finally a total global cooling due to the darkening of the skies.  A Western mage named Alexus Jonesephus declares, “It’s the end of the world as we’ve known it folks! It’s become prey to demonic forces gathering in the Sahara desert for an invasion of the northern continent!  When the sirocco begins to blow they will fly across the Atlas mountains and over the dry bed of the Mediterranean.  Now look here at my drawing:  when you look in the faces of those Saharans, you can see the demonic in them: they are black!  This is it!   This is it!  These are not conspiracy theories, people, it’s happening, right now!  Just look at my drawings, read my lips, buy my scrolls!”

More alt-right conservative sources attribute the storm to Jesus who knew, of course, that the report falsely accused him of sedition.

Jesus, having painfully raised himself from the dead over a period of two and a half days,and blown open the cave that held his body captive, stunning the guards with a Tazer which Mary Magdalene “the mad” and his mom “Mary the virgin” had secreted under his burial shroud, was by then re-installed in his office in his heavenly high-rise, two floors below that of his Father, with whom he wasn’t on speaking terms at the moment due to the fact that the old fart had left him to die on that cross, considering it a double-cross on the part of the old man who worried that Jesus would depose him with the help of his Earthian legions.  (I hope you weren’t trying to hold your breath while reading that sentence.  I could, of course, have broken it up but I thought it funny to watch some of you turn blue as you tried to read it to the end without stopping.)

At the moment however, Jesus was busy plotting the overthrow of the Roman Empire by designing a new religion that would simply take it over from within, then turn everybody on everybody else in an endless wave of bloodshed purportedly intended to defeat the terrorists.  “There WILL always be terrorists; there MUST always be terrorists!” He’d thundered, pointing at his major-domo, since it was dinner time and there was nobody else to thunder at.

Back in the office, then.  “Sedition?” he thundered (it is the prerogative of all top echelon male deities to thunder) at his cowering scribes,  “I’ll show them some truly god-damned sedition!”  Then he drove his fist, which had lost much sensitivity due to an incurable infection from a rusty nail, through the oak desk. He looked as his shaking scribes and laughed uproariously: “Don’t you hate it when that happens?  Get me a new desk, and this time I want an abacus with it.  And bring me a tall busty blonde Nordic slave girl in some gauzy outfit, no chains.  And teach her to work the thing.  I need some entertainment and some bang for my Drachma.

“Damn Chinese think they can calculate faster than us, do they? I’ll show them.  I’ll teach them to refuse to believe in me.  I’ll invade them with my religion, that’s what I’ll do, and I’ll corrupt them completely by bringing Roman depravity right into their temples and hovels. I’ll have my disciples show them how to use opium illegally.  Such a sweet deal: we all know that if you deny an Earthian anything he’ll want it ten times to a hundred times more.  They’ll go soft, stop growing their own food and starve.  Oh yes, they’ll understand what we mean when we say, “We come, we see, you die!”

God, (I should have used the expletive “Christ” that’s to become so common on earth, since I mean me, not the old fart in the penthouse) I feel so much better already.  I’m ready for my game of squash, where the hell is Rufix the Red?  Red!?  If he’s late one more time, I’m having him branded.  No, I’ll have him sent to hell as a gift to my bro and instruct Sate to chain him to a gridiron over a very slow flame.”

The rest, as they say, is history, and that ain’t over until the fat lady sings, they also say, however incorrectly political, or is that politically incorrect, the line now is.  I don’t make these things up, I just report the facts,  just the facts, ma’am.

As you can readily see by my short article on this rather well-worn piece of pre-Romanesque history, things were a lot different in those days.

Follow me for more truth or not, at:  https//www.thewholetruthornot-yourchoice.ca

I Live in a Banana Republic that Isn’t

   [Off the cuff, and It’s time to say it,  by Sha’Tara]

What is Canada?  Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a democracy, it’s a constitutional monarchy.  Some will argue that it is both, as if it could ever be both.  “Is this salt, or sugar?”  “It’s both.”  Oh, sure, that makes total sense.  They have to be the same, after all they’re both white.    

Canada: this is where I live. Geographically it’s the 2nd largest country in the world, about half the size of Russia and a bit larger than the USA, with China after that.   Population however is a mere 36 million.  Compare to the US @ 320 million, Russia @ 143.5 million and China @just under 1.4 billion.  Size isn’t everything.

But Canada isn’t into population size.  She’s not into motherhood.  To put it one way, she’s the bastard daughter of the divorced  queen of England and king of France. 

After the reconciliation, as she entered into her swinging years she saw opportunity and became America’s busty blonde bitch.

Washington’s her lover and her pimp is Wall Street.  Uncle Sam brokered the deal and it’s a tight one.

Wally:  “Let’s have a closer look at those natural resources, hey girlie?  Spread ‘em.”   And “spread ‘em” she does, with gusto.  As a “country” Canada is a total whore.  Whatever her lover does, she imitates.  Whatever her pimp orders, she does.  But like all whores, her dirty deeds are done mostly behind closed doors and no one’s the wiser.  Lamestream media isn’t much interested.  Just another prostitute and if she misbehaves, what do you expect?  She’s a whore. That, at least, is the cover story.

While the rest of the world carried on over the US presidential campaign and ordinary people all over had relevant things to say, or fears to express, nary a word from the whore.  Why should she care?  She’s been “protected” under every US presidencies, her wardrobe filled with furs, feathers and leathers, her “rights” guaranteed along with his rights, her “wrongs” in accord with his wrongs.  Imagine being the consort of “the biggest guy in the room.”  Donald Trump, Ronald Reagan or McDonald, what difference can it make?  Whatever they want, she gives.

Canada: the greatest pretend nation in the world; a cartoon character without a mind of her own. 

The EU or the US want her to sign some international trade treaty that everybody else abhors, sure, where do I put my “x” guys?  (Glossy lipsticked smile.) 

Wally Street says, you’re being too lavish with the servants, girlie, I need you to tighten up there.  “Oh, sure, of course Wally, I understand.”  (Clap hands)

“No more of those frills like labour unions understand?  Cut back on welfare, medicare and payouts to natives or whomever.  Can’t you find some more effective way to cut pensioners off?  Let them be homeless, won’t affect us.   I need to come up with more dough for Wally, he’s getting antsy and I can’t have that. 

Isn’t there any untapped natural areas we can get oil, gas, potash, lumber, copper, gold, steel, uranium, whatever from?  National parks?  Yeah, anyone look into national parks for resources lately?  No?  Whaddaya mean, no?  Get on with it.  Wally promised me a new gold bracelet if I get him more oil.”

“Wally says I need more security on the farm, so let’s get that up and running, now!  And no more protestors and demonstrators, Washy hates them.  Warn ‘em and if they continue, jail them.  In fact, jail ‘em all.  Put ‘em to work to pay for their keep, just like Washy does, I don’t care, I just don’t want trouble, OK?  And for God’s sake, no more damned refugees.  What am I supposed to do with ‘em? (Stomps foot and pouts.)

Canada.  This is where I live.  You don’t hear much about it because there’s an understanding.  Lamestream media knows that living with the mob means representing its interests.  You don’t talk about the mobsters’ girls. Those who make that mistake don’t just get fired, they end up at the end of the pier in cement boots.   

Why did I write this?  It’s a heads up, you see.  Canada is probably one of the last “safe” places to live in, in today’s world.  Or so it seems, but the reality, well, think of it as Anschluss when Nazi Germany annexed Austria in 1938.  Remember, most Austrians were jubilant, as most Canadians are these days when Washy and Wally invade another country.  Official education doesn’t wipe out ignorance.