COVID-19 Pandemic and Racism Endemic Have Fucked the Funny Out of Me

Save me from myself, please! As I descend into a possibly terminal state of Toxic Earnestness



Hello. My Name is David and I’m—earnest.

Thanks, David! booms the twelve-step Greek chorus.

I’m an earnest, virtue-signalling piece of old jute carpet woven by cheerful, appreciative, highly-skilled and adequately-paid native workers in a tropical paradise that hasn’t been invaded by white, oil-industry-beholden kakistocrats.

Yet.

I can’t remember the last time I fulfilled my self-mandated mandate for this blog, viz: make shallow, no-effort fun about stuff no one gives a flying frig about, starting with, and possibly limiting itself to, my personal life.

As I write this, a mouse scurries from underneath the shoe rack and across the multicolored painted floor of the entrance to my apartment. I shout OH!, which is my older-gent version of a schoolgirl shriek, and the mouse, I assume as shocked to see me as I am him, scurries back to its lair, or whatever mission control is called in the mouse plan for human gaslighting and assimilation.

I don’t know if it’s worse to spot him or to realize that he’s probably been scurrying about every day for fourteen years without my spotting. Either way I will soon be camping out on the balcony, eating vegan food cooked over a tea light and seasoned with my tears of self-pity while I encase my body in black electrical tape.

And when I head to the kitchen to bake oatmeal cookies—which is the beginner version of take my book to Glad Day Books, the only remaining gay bookstore in possibly the world, which I am lucky enough to live two streets away from but haven’t approached with my book in two years—I interrupt a pair of cockroaches rehearsing their tight-rope walking act on the edge of the counter.

One of them, Gaston, for they have recently auditioned for Cirque du soleil, sports a handlebar moustache and is riding a unicycle, rather skillfully I have to admit; while his partner, Fifi, navigates the zucchini peelings and garlic skins with heel-to-toe poise and even a sexy sway of her thorax, while brandishing a parasol worthy of anything no longer permissible by Colette.

But enough of this frivolité, this flânnerie! Soon you will judge me shallow, too good-time-Charlie, when in fact I’m at the nadir of the scale that goes from Ooh! lala! at the top to Lacan deconstructs Crime and Punishment at approaching zero.

I’m newly-qualified Mister Suck Out All the Fun, garnished with stale, hard-as-stone glacé cherries. But who will believe me, who drags around a glee-filled menagerie; me, the Doctor Dolittle of diatomaceous earth?

To prove my earnest chops, I just published an eggshell -walking discussion of racism on Medium; a ramped-up but still hedged about with possibly and I suspect, weasel-worded version of the rant on this blog.

Now, please be aware that it’s quite possible no one will ever see it. This is the downside to posting anything on Medium that’s not a Pulitzer Prize-winning piece of investigative journalism from The Atlantic, or a raucous discussion of how Liz Warren is actually Lizard Warmonger, an alien tasked by her overlords to make sure millennials have something to whinge about that’s not just another version of they had to push the button on the microwave themselves. Anything between those two poles is either too good or not good enough.

Damn! And just when I’d settled on a lifetime of mediocrity!

To date, my piece has received one clap. Claps are the currency on Medium and they are not “likes.” Either the person doesn’t realize that you can give up to fifty claps if you like a piece, and can any of you take a hint, or they do realize and their one clap is like when you give a nickel to the server as a tip: just rubbing the poor schmuck’s face in the fact of her indifferent service.

Her indifferent service that is probably the result of her poor pay and working conditions so the chef-owner can drive his Aston Martin from Prospect Park back to his condo on the Upper East Side.

And you dare to give her a nickel? You probably masturbate while reading Mein Kampf under the glow of a Nazi lampshade, you hooligan!

To further promulgate my earnestness, I should also do a reading from my book on Facebook live. I could do a reading of my Canada Day ode, now that Canada Day is like a distant memory, and to up the stakes I could announce the reading with ten minutes’ notice so no one attends.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m not Head of PR for the Decorative Gourds Panel or the Small Mammalian Pest Board. I probably just missed their frantic, competitive calls while my phone was accidentally set to “airplane mode” for six months.

Or should I go to Home Hardware and buy roach powder and steel wool so the roaches will dry up and be cut to smithereens inside and the mouse will die a similarly agonized, undeserved death when all he was trying to do was live his ordinary mouse life?

Eat random food, scurry, leave droppings, make rustling sounds inside the radiators, terrorize the big mouse who shouts OH. That is the typical mouse day-planner but I can’t just let him be.

And I know what you’re thinking: I cannot possibly fill my jug of altruism from this rusty, dribbling spigot of random wokeness. To gift my circle of influence with the full litre of feces-tainted run-off, I have taken on the education of my fellow white people, who I don’t even really like very much anymore.

In fact, after an eternity of Covid-19 seclusion watching white Americans declaring their freedom to be imbeciles, churning out the coronavirus and infecting all the smart people, plus a month of race riots while the same white Americans run over protestors with their Sherman tanks, I hate white people.

I hate white people.


White people look funny. All of their skin is blue and transparent, like foreskin, except when they “tan,” when it looks like pork cracklings that have been irradiated in a particle accelerator.

They put raisins in the potato salad, their children weigh seven hundred pounds by the time they achieve puberty and they wouldn’t know an opera by Richard Strauss from a pair of stone-washed denim pants that they iron. White people ruin everything they touch, starting with Arctic ice caps and ending up somewhere around dwindling zebra herds.

White people think they own the planet and they decide who’s human, which is white people. They deep fry their hair and put conditioner on the chicken, they say “y’all” in public like it’s a real word, until you want to projectile vomit onto their Pillsbury dinner rolls.

White people make anemic art that’s all about white Jesus. Who wouldn’t want to crucify white Jesus? Gimme some wood and some nails! Look out, white Jesus! King of the White People, you bloodless, welfare-grabbing hippy, you fragile, babbling white-tard! I will cheerfully pound the nails through your delicate white hands while whistling Dixie!

White people can’t see anything but white people so they bulldoze through life, theirs and yours, casting off candy bar wrappers that smother the rain forests; and when that’s accomplished they tunnel right through the Earth to the other side out of nothing more than hunger and boredom. The Earth is in danger of snapping in half and all just so white people can pollute the oceans, then farm fish.

It would hurt white people’s feelings to be honest and rip a fish off a hook, but they’ll hang a black man up on a hook and peel his black skin off, one inch at a time.

White people are liars who celebrate their lies. They tell you their shit smells like hybrid tea roses, so they can smear it over whatever they want you to read from the Book of the Month Club. Their sweat glands have atrophied, because for generations they have had others do their filthy work, and they lie when they profess their innocence.

White people’s hands are soft as newly-butchered veal and exude the sickly-sweet odor of indigenous corpses; their breath puffs out of their mouths in stale, harsh puffs redolent of the rum they traded for slaves.

White men have hairy, disordered scrotums and, hidden somewhere in their beer bellies, tiny dicks for producing brainless white babies they can ignore, and white women’s vaginas are like swollen toothpaste tubes squeezing out blue-eyed, mint-flavored white babies that don’t even deserve to be skewered on a pike-staff. I wouldn’t even offer them as hors d’oeuvres, three white babies on a plate with peanut sauce.

That’s what I think about white people these days.


Maybe it’s the Karens who did it to me. You know, entitled white ladies from the suburbs, the ones that sprang up after the war, exclusively for white people. Black people were specifically excluded. However, the Karens are not satisfied with that full, three-course meal, plus dessert and valet parking, of exclusivity. No. They need to know that the child’s plate with the fish fingers, and the gluten-free options, and the pizza with pineapple and a dipping sauce, that they have first dibs on all of those as well.

So they pack their fat asses into their Gap jeans and stick a hand-embroidered sign over their tits that reads, “Don’t Bust My Freedom” or “It’s the Chinese Whom Did It,” because the Chinese people are the same as the Chinese government, just like Trump’s imbecility and lack of empathy is every single last American, right?

They appropriate the right not only to celebrate their tacky taste in architecture, thankfully hidden behind a concrete barrier, but their self-imposed idiocy. They reserve the right to catch the virus, and to spread it, and do you know why?

Karen lives close to a hospital, Karen has a car. Karen has someone to help with her kids were she to get sick. Karen has a big house that’s not crowded. Karen lives near a park, in a safe area. Karen has private healthcare. Karen is healthier generally. She eats well. She doesn’t worry about being hungry, she doesn’t go to a food bank.

Black people are the anti-Karens: frontliners in many essential jobs, having on average lower income, on average more likely to be unemployed and therefore with no health care. They do not have choices. Black people cannot make themselves into idiots in a game of one-upmanship. Compared to Karen, their lives are about surviving.

They are what the Karens need to measure themselves against. Karen can flaunt the fact that she has the “right,” that is to say, the choice, to decide her own level of risk. And she can reassure herself that, whatever else happens in her life, she is not black. The planets are in the correct orbits.

And they take their matching children on a walk. If the kids are lucky they’ll get to carry the assault weapon, an absolute necessity in case a mob of two black people walks by, paying no attention to them and singing Amazing Grace.

Don’t rain on Karen’s parade, because her common sense dried up with her ovaries, so now she’s just a tomatillo husk of hard, sour resentment. There isn’t enough shark collagen on the planet to plaster over those worry lines caused by black people existing.

Do you worry that there are women called Karen who aren’t useless wastes of white skin in a Range Rover? Here’s the deal:

  • Karen: if you’re a Karen who doesn’t match the characteristics of Karen, we’re confident you’ll survive.
  • Karen: If you’re a white woman calling someone Karen, look in the mirror.
  • Karen: If you’re a black person calling someone Karen, you will probably help someone, just not Karen.
  • Karen: Fun fact: Men can be Karen!

Male Karens are the guys who want Straight Pride, crave pity as murderous incels, or scorn the idea of gender non-conformity when they hang around locker rooms.

Which makes it all the more puzzling when he sneaks out of the house every Friday night while his wife is at Waxing Academy so he can get pegged by, in his sad but revealing terminology, a “chick-with-a-dick.” The heart wants what it wants, and it shall have….!

I want to go to Medium and see if anyone has commented on my piece about racism. But I so very much want to be the perfect ally that I’m stressed that I got the tone wrong, or that I’m patently virtue signaling. A black person could justifiably take me to task on my white privilege in grandstanding about racism when I haven’t had the experience.

I have had the experience of being called fag, but that is not the equivalent of being murdered in the streets. Though some gay people have been murdered in the streets.

(To be honest, I’m terrified that I will discover, to my permanent disgrace and permanent banishment, that I entered a hypnagogic state and sleep-wrote something salacious about “BBC” just before I face-planted on my keyboard.

(This is not something white guys get to say about black guys, if there was any doubt in your mind while cruising on Grindr. Something to do with, I dunno, reducing black men to a racist-sexual stereotype? Who knew!)

And I’m dreading some emotional exchange with white guys who are livid that I would presume to educate them, a challenge I have yet to really come to grips with, because angry white men already know everything, and never shut the fuck up about it in case they lose the focus for ten seconds.

But surely it’s possible to win hearts and minds with the truth? And if it’s not possible, what are we doing this for?

You see what I mean: I make a perfectly valid point, I sense your sympathetic response, then—I end a sentence with a preposition!

My piece on Medium, maybe even this blog, is like farting in an elevator, then running out. It’s a futile prank, because the elevator’s empty.

But I, at least, will have a bloody good white-guy laugh about it.

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I Have Been Recalcitrant, Thank You, and Yourself?

In the twenty-first century, truth is a personalized experience.


Maxime Bernier and Greta Thunberg: The floorshow on Planet Titanic?

This is how it works: The title gives a tantalizing glimpse of the theme; the subtitle teases, or elaborates, or sells the title out by explaining it for you. Simple, right? Here’s a current example.

Title: “Triggered
Subtitle: “How the Left Thrives on Hate and Wants to Silence Us.

A winner, isn’t it? And it’s his first book, too, the first he’s written and possibly even the first he’s read. So never think it’s too late for you, Murgatroyd McGraw.

Donald Frankenforehead Trump II, like many people, had a book inside him, but with most people that’s where it remains. Donald’s book was so deep inside him no ray of sunlight had ever penetrated its embryonic cloth covers, and now—Blessèd Judy, Mother of Liza—he’s filled his lungs to capacity, spread his knees, and, grunting and groaning with monumental effort, squatting like an Olympic weight-lifter ready for the clean-and-jerk, squeezed it out. Look, here comes the sequel—ker-PLOP!

Triggered signals that we’re a bunch of bored dads stuck watching “The Nutcracker” instead of the Game and missing target practice at the old folks’ home. And we’re about to endure the dance of the leftie snowflakes, that corps de ballet of over-sensitive types who get traumatized when we use good, old-fashioned traditional language, like nigger and faggot and kike and cripple, and deploy traditional attitudes like “I don’t care what you think you are, I’m not calling you SHE,” or “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Elton John!” or “Whites suffer racism, too.”

Them SJW’s are probably crying like lefty babies as they run off to their safe spaces, eh? Gee, are they triggered?

The subtitle with its explanation is supposed to encourage you but its very honesty poses a problem. From just the title, I might have thought Triggered was written by a super-sensitive individual who, because of his ability to feel the vibes, spent his days in a virtual torture chamber of empathy.

Except that it’s written by one of the Trump Frankenforehead children who was cooked up in a vat of virgin’s blood by a Dementor, so I was pretty sure that I had absolutely no interest in the book.

But from having seen the subtitle I know I have absolutely no interest in the book (although in fact without even reading it, even before it came ker-plopping out of Don, I had already read it a hundred times). So, thanks for the head’s up. If you are an angry white supremacist, or an assembly-line Frankenforehead son of Trump, looking to have crossover success and sell more books, take note.

That subtitle is formulaic and the formula goes: Throw out the most obnoxious, outrageously biased statement you can contrive, and present it as your premise (though it is not intended to be a verifiable statement of fact and its offensiveness is its gleeful goal); because as far as you’re concerned it’s true, and truth in the 21st century is a personalized, bespoke kind of thing.

Old-fashioned truth was dull and inefficient and did not necessarily reflect your beliefs. It was like those eastern bloc Polski Fiats everyone drove in Warsaw in 1979, or Henry Ford’s Model T, which he offered in any color you wanted as long as it was black.

Truth was one-size-fits-all. You had to cram yourself into, more often than not, an ill-fitting truth that didn’t suit you. And it was someone else’s truth, from years, maybe even centuries, ago! Crummy old hand-me-downs!

But now we have petite and plus-size, little white lies and great big whoppers. Now we have truth in all the flavors you would ever want: peppermint bullshit, cherry bullshit, tangerine bullshit and Bullshit Classic. And any color, as long as it’s beige.

Altogether, now: You’ll never go wrong with beige, my dear!

The Left, so this subtitle says, “thrives” on hate. Important point. Not just likes. Thrives on. Hate is our fuel, our multi-vitamin and our powdered whey protein drink. Hate is our Kryptonite, the fatal substance we must nonetheless ingest to power our hateful lefty energy.

Conservatives cancel your mom’s cancer medicines and fire your kids’ teachers. They fill the parks with homeless and kick the mentally ill onto the streets and legislate women’s bodies, and all of it for love—but progressives? We dare to raise the minimum wage!

Hate? Personally, you gotta know I’m counting to ten until someone, quite justifiably I might add, screams “Hitler!”

Conservatives don’t hold back. They stand up for what they value, and what they value is not caring for people but balancing budgets. Your mom will be dead, your unschooled kids fucktard stupid, but the deficit will be zero, the enterprise, free. Criminals will rot in hell. You won’t have to endure the tragic dress sense or the stench of the unhoused, and your fucktard stupid kids? Naturals as the new generation of conservatives!

Wants to Silence Us. “Us,” as in “Us and Them.” Donald Junior “knows” your country is being overwhelmed by illegal immigrants, your culture and values derided by elites and homosexuals, your wages stolen, taxed to pay for abortions and government programs for criminals and Muslims, your schools overrun by Marxists. Isn’t it awesome that the President’s son understands and is talking directly to you? Almost like he’s your buddy!

This book can be seen and purchased on Amazon, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. It has its own dedicated web site. The publicist has made sure Don Junior appears on talk shows with millions of viewers. The New York Times wrote a snippy piece about it, but hey, that’s publicity. In fact, nearly every quality newspaper on the planet has given it a snippy review which is really publicity. This book is a bestseller.

So… this silencing thing? Trickier, apparently, than we thought.

Conservatives troll and shut down every progressive conversation with well-placed shouts of “PC!” “Snowflake!” “Social Justice Warrior!” “White Racist!” and mock anyone who wants to treat more people with more respect—but they’re silenced?

Only in my dreams.


I once Got an invitation to write a guest article for an Evangelical Christian blog. The owner was a minister, a more than adequate writer and a progressive guy, surprisingly outspoken in his support for social justice. I knew this because he would say things in his posts like, “Jesus wouldn’t have gotten mad at all those refugees from Central America in the caravan. He would have been loving to them, because they’re poor and displaced and feeling sad right now. That’s the Christian message, yo!”

This is in contrast to his followers, who would respond, “These brown scumbags are just actors and serial killers and drug cartels funded by George Soros, and they’re gonna take away our guns and bring in their extended brown families and live offa welfare and steal our jobs! America is under attack! Resist the World Government! White people are dying out! Build The Wall Now!!”

The blog owner challenged me to provide the authentic voice and viewpoint of a gay man vis-à-vis Evangelical Christianity, which his main audience would probably not otherwise experience, seeing as they all live in white-only gated communities with matching front doors and identical window treatments, and have sharpshooters with assault rifles stationed around the perimeter of the moat who have been instructed to shoot to kill at the very moment they sense waspish humor or catch a whiff of Maria Callas singing “Vissi d’arte.”

I knew that most readers of his blog would shut down if they knew I was a Canadian gay male atheist. I decided I would ease them into my narrative using humor and various other shallow distractions to win them over. I’d mellow them into complacency, and manipulate them with my aw, shucks Canadian diffidence. Then I’d slap them hard in the face with my true identity as the Socialist Queen of Darkness and drop them down the well.  

They would understand in a Damascus flash that gay guys and atheists and Canadians were actual humans with thoughts and feelings just like them, not abstractions cooked up by evil leftists for the sole purpose of vexing their limited brains with the evidence that some people, frankly, just don’t give a shit about Jesus, at least, not their version.

“How wrong I’ve been! This Canadian homosexual atheist liberal has finally convinced me that we’re all made in God’s image and deserving of respect. I’m gonna call up all the homeless shelters in Des Moines and see if my gay son is still alive, then invite him, a trannie, and maybe even a Democrat, to dinner! Y’all!”

It made sense at the time.

I wrote a great piece drawing on concepts of Zen Buddhism, poking gentle fun at my Canadian identity, and making a huge effort to come across as a bridge builder who was skeptical but non-threatening, even kind of adorable. I decided the title would be “Pivot Chords,” a metaphor from music that is about making a shift from one key—so, viewpoint—to another with finesse.

I wrote and edited and edited some more and wrote some more and submitted. Finally I got the email saying I could check the published post. My title was now the subtitle and a new title, in bold letters at the very top of the page, read:

This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Sermon
on Grace and Compassion
is the Best I’ve Heard in Awhile

In nearly two years the article has collected just six likes, about thirty-five shares and two comments, from a user base of nearly four thousand readers.

We live in a time when people have to be deceived before they’ll drive down the street that houses all those liberals they hate. They have to be jumped, hooded and thrown in the van before they’ll even let you suggest that a bunch of desperate mothers, fathers and children, a bedraggled, tired, poor, huddled mass of wretched refuse from whatever teeming shore isn’t just a bunch of actors paid by the Antichrist who’ve come to overthrow the most powerful nation on earth.

Note I didn’t say “greatest.”


How are you, by the way, at this spiffing start to a new decade? I’m here, a scary clown popping out of his scary clown-box, to tell you that making Ukraine’s aid money contingent on its digging up dirt on the President’s political enemy is wrong, but not impeachable.

Grabbing her by the pussy is not impeachable, it’s—I dunno, first base? Are you getting this down? Soliciting charitable donations then using them to buy sex with hookers or self-portraits or election campaigns? Nope. Not impeachableYou wanna know what’s impeachable? Hint: Think Bill Clinton.

That’s right. Blowjobs are impeachable.

There’s more. Whatever the President of the United States does is OK, as long as he truly believes that his re-election is in the best interests of the nation. The POTUS can do anything he wants, at least, according to Vladimir Putin.

Sorry, did I say Putin? I meant Alan Dershowitz! But he didn’t get there first. Trump himself told us so. I can do anything I want. And, excuse me, bleeding hearts, he would hardly lie about something so important!

Twenty-twenty finds me in the position of a little boy wearing Buster Brown shoes and itchy wool shorts, topped with a crisp white shirt and a pre-tied bow tie, all clashing plaids and male camel toe and sausage thighs, ready to get pushed into the mud puddle by the freckle-faced bully, the rapscallion of a little boy with that everyone likes. What a little devil he is! He’ll go places!

It’s the face plant in the mud puddle, you see, the soiled perfection, that fosters one’s appreciation for all the nice new things, gifts (for you would never buy them for yourself) that may well not survive the day intact.

Not to worry. Start from the point of innocence; erase from your mind the script that has you in the final act looking like a refugee from PornHub’s “fetish” category, mud-wrestling barely-legal teens department, and put your trust in that pristine pinafore. Meanwhile, I struggle to answer my own question. I am :

Recalcitrant

recalcitrant \rih-KAL-suh-trunt\ adjective. 1 : obstinately defiant of authority or restraint. 2 a : difficult to manage or operate. b : not responsive to treatment. c : resistant.

I have been recalcitrant on Twitter towards the People’s Party of Canada (PPC), whose guiding light is one of those au courant racists, a Québecois who masks his authoritarian lust for pure laine behind the pieties of secularism and patrimonie, Maxime Bernier.


Why did Maxime Bernier cross the road?
To get to the — Oh, my God! OH MY GOD THAT EIGHTEEN WHEELER JUST RAN THE RED LIGHT!!


If populism is the soft cock of Canadian politics, Maxime has his dry, white lips clamped around it so tightly he may pass out from lack of oxygen. Allez-y! That’s the spirit, buddy! You’ll never get it up, but it’s undeniably entertaining when you try.

The PPC tweets that the housing crisis is the result of immigration (that’s non-white immigration) run riot.

(Compare the Toronto version, “the Chinese are buying all the condos,” which is approaching the status of a standard friendly greeting on the local streets:

“Hey, Fred! The Chinese are buying all the condos!”
“Fine, thanks, and how’s the wife and kids?”
)

Because no rabbit hole presents itself but that I instantly picture myself burrowing down it, I tweet back that the housing crisis is caused not by immigration but by, oddly enough, a lack of housing, which could be solved by requiring developers to build affordable units in their cheap, flimsy luxury buildings, for example.

They tweet back that I lack imagination, that a trillion immigrants could appear at the borders and progressives like me would still want to throw money at the problem.

I tweet back that it’s equally [un]likely the white people could breed a trillion offspring and the housing crisis would still exist without a trillion living units, which, [sigh], could easily be built at no expense to the public and entail no tax increases except on units which owners don’t actually occupy (a tax which Vancouver has already implemented with success, and which Toronto City Council is considering).


What did Maxime Bernier say to the white immigrant?
“I’m color-blind!”
What did Maxime Bernier say to the non-white immigrant?
“Housing crisse de Tabernac!”


What is it like, I wonder, being inside Maxime Bernier’s head? It ain’t the Midway at the Canadian National Exhibition, that’s for sure. No one’s lining up for the ride, “I hope I pass the height test! The “Bernier” does a full loop the loop and my friend Sandy told me she threw up her pink popcorn twice! It’s gonna be awesome!”

Bernier burns through Canadian values like a maniac training a flame thrower at a grove of maples. A typical arrogant loser and blustering, entitled white male, he projects sour resentment and outrage at the thought of benefits or income distribution or social justice. He’s a card-carrying denizen of the joyless, shadowy, victimized world of put-upon conservatism.

What does Bernier worry about? Not the plight of refugees, our international commitments or corporate taxes. He worries about—yes!— our deficit, even though our financial health, thanks for asking, is absolutely great. (US debt to GDP ratio: 4.6%.  Canadian debt to GDP ratio: 0.39%). 

He is, or pretends to be, in thrall to the idea that deficits are wrong, even if roads are pock-marked and bridges are falling down, and health care and public transport are so underfunded they barely work. Pull up your socks and tighten your belt!

The idea that, just like with your personal finances, you would look at your income, calculate the costs of a big-ticket item, work out the payments and decide to run a temporary deficit to invest in something that will create value and save money, this idea is supposed to be anathema to us. Deficits bad.

And it’s not up for debate. You might as well debate whether it’s OK to put dog food mixed with arsenic in the off-leash area in Allen Gardens. Of course it’s not! What kind of sick individual would run a deficit?

Five minutes’ research would tell you that deficits have no meaning except as expressed as a percentage of your Gross Domestic Product, your “income.” You’d discover that Keynesian economics advocates government spending when the economy needs stimulus. It’s considered a very uncontroversial good thing and it’s been standard issue for decades.

Conservatives can build whole fantasy scenarios on a false premise, because people are intellectually lazy.

Well, put the Chevy up on concrete blocks and bang my missus in a trailer, is that a fact?


What does Maxime Bernier’s breakfast cereal say?
 Crap, Wacko Populist!


Maxime Bernier throws nasty shade at Greta Thunberg, doomsaying sixteen-year-old climate activist. They make a synergistic pair. She’s the title, he’s the subtitle. He hates her youth, her daring, her plans to save the future and her being right. She’s grumpy, mouthy and, yes, recalcitrant. She gets under his skin.

He’s prissy, quasi-intellectual French, his affect tighter than a Parisian’s pursed lips; she’s the spooky love-child of Anne of Green Gables and Ingmar Bergman. You can tell Bernier’s just itching to send her to bed without supper, then drive across town and spank his mistress.

Maxime and Greta! They were made to be a comedy duo, the Laurel and Hardy of the apocalypse, the featured floor show on Planet Titanic.

From slapstick to sleaze: Bernier, promoted to Foreign Affairs Minister in 2007 by Conservative PM Stephen Harper, has to tender his resignation after he leaves a classified dossier lying around his girlfriend’s place. For five months.

The dossier contains top-secret information about Canada’s plans in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. The petite amie, Julie Couillard, cavorts with Hell’s Angels and organized crime and people with job descriptions like drug enforcer, and was almost certainly lobbying Bernier on behalf of a realtor, Kevlar, Inc., to procure a lucrative government contract.

On a prurient note, the former model is also extremely well provided for in the boobs department and is not shy about showing us, which cannot have anything to do with her revelation that Bernier is worried people think he’s gay.

We find out all of this when she publishes her tell-all memoir, entitled, and stop me if you’ve heard this one, “My Story.” This is a new level of dedication to bringing the federal government into disrepute.

Maxime must lack any sense of irony. He runs for office in the 2019 federal election promising to close down the supply management system, so hated by Trump, that ensures Canadian dairy farmers can get a fair price for their products.

His riding of Beauce, Québec, consists mainly of—dairy farmers. And he loses his seat, the only seat the PPC held. This is a new definition of fucktard stupid.


Why does Maxime Bernier hate Gay Pride and Dairy Farmers?
One’s too much homo, the other too little!


Bernier derides Greta Thunberg as “mentally unstable” and denies the overwhelming evidence about our climate emergency. He takes Greta very seriously. Everyone else understands that we support Greta Thunberg because she’s sweet and has no clout and anyway she’s just a teenaged girl.

Everyone, even corporations, even governments, supports Greta Thunberg, because she’s photogenic and does no harm, especially to the gas-guzzling agenda of big oil. You can pat Greta on the head, say “Isn’t she adorable! It’s great to see commitment from young people!” and feel fine because she’s not a threat to anything or anyone. She has no power.

It’s like giving a Girl Scout her knot-tying badge or her “most likeable gal-pal” certificate. She’s a protest march by Disney, where the cute kids pack up their signs and go home when daddy thinks that’s enough shenanigans for one day. Time for beddy-bye, Little Missy Hooligan!

Greta Thunberg is who you pay attention to so that there’s no room left for coverage of or sympathy towards First Nations people setting up roadblocks to halt the progress of a pipeline desecrating their sacred land, the land that was never conceded and still belongs to them.

Sacred land? How quaint! Riots about pipelines? Please, I’m eating dinner! Let’s see the cute little girl again! She’s the future, she’s dessert!


How many Quebecois dairy farmers does it take to change a light bulb?
Just one. He grips the light bulb with both hands while Maxime Bernier spins him around on his dick!


We want to consume Greta, because she’s a tasty, frothy cream puff of news. The First Nations people are indigestible: ornery, angry, outraged, not nice. They’re not our friends and they’ve experienced first-hand how we treat children.

We call out the Mounties for them. (The Mounties sent an internal memo: “Use as much violence as you want.” I’m not making this up.) The protestors cover their faces, they throw rocks; they don’t hold out their hands in forgiveness, and we don’t pat them on the head. Guns, tear gas. They’re dangerous because they insist on their power and their absolute right to be where they are.


Why is Maxime Bernier jealous of Greta Thunberg?
She travels the world on a yacht, but all his ships sink!


The PPC accuses me of not wanting a conversation. And they’re right. I don’t. I want them to line up and bend over so I can shove a People’s Party of Canada lawn sign up their wazoos, pointy end first—to approximately the same place where Donald Frankenforehead’s book resided— then burn the lot of them at the stake.

This seems like such a simple, intuitive demand.

And since the remaining members of the PPC would fit into an old-style Volkswagen, I could take care of it in an afternoon and still finish in time to flash some skin on Chaturbate for a couple of hours.

I call my room

This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Ass
is the Best You’ve Seen

On A Senior Citizen in Awhile.  

Nothing is wasted when you’re a writer. Nothing

Now, pour the little lady a glass of Chardonnay and get yourself impeached.

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