I always burst into tears whenever I go into Toronto. All that suffering. All that underfunding. My tears just flow like juice out of a squeezed lime. It starts somewhere around the 401-427 clover leaf, and really does not end until I am safely at home, with my slippers, my loving, adorable house cat, and my scotch.

I travel to Toronto quite a lot these days. I have business to attend to, money to earn, and taxes, for services I do not receive, not to pay. You cannot really blame me. If you do, I will charge you with racism, or have you fed to Buttons the Kitten * .

At the intersection, I gave the homeless guy washing windows with urine twenty bucks. Perhaps this will be the last handout he gets that will reach out to his heart and let him know that people care about him. I care.

On the street, I gave the panhandler a half pack of smokes. There was a joint in the pack, too. The PCP * was in the smokes, not the splif. I had to reach out in diversity and let this underfunded twin-souled, four pensioned person know that I accepted his drug addiction and embraced his right to chose to live off the taxpayer like a tapeworm.

On Garbage Night. I carefully collect my kitchen waste and sort it. I have the scraps for the raccoons, for the skunks, and for the feral cats. I have my favorite spots to feed them in Toronto, and I visit them with basic survival rations for the homeless raccoons, skunks and feral cats of Toronto. My old neighborhood is going to be diverse places. You know I care.

On Tagging. Instead of reacting with anger and white privilege to Looter-Canadians tagging, I have decided to embrace diversity and tag myself. Why be a lynching white devil when you can be a groovy hippy. I like to copy tags, to show my empathy for multi-culturalism I put blue ones in red zones, and red ones in blue zones. I cross out crowns where I find them, and put them up where they are not. I accept, I tag, I care.

Bedbugs. All across Toronto, they have bedbugs. Why? Because there are not handouts of bug spray for the sit down and let them eat you, let them breed, and spread them on the public transit, type of non-Canadians that vote for progressives. You can spot the racists: they have white privilege: they get rid of their bedbugs, they take responsibility for their life. To raise awareness of this issue, I take my handy black indelible marker and write BEDBUGS on discarded mattresses or furniture. It is the caring thing to do.

Condoms in the park. You can get condoms most anywhere in Toronto. Libraries, Schools, and Drivers Examination offices. It is progressive. If they refuse, you can use a government lawyer to take the government department to court and make some dough to supplement your inadequate welfare entitlements. To raise awareness of healthy sex, you can take your used condoms and distribute them in public parks. It is not like you never see them there. You can dip the tip in shit (you figure out the engineering of that one, pilgrim) to show Bacon-Lettuce-Tomato Canadians that public anal sex is embraced in the community, much as it is celebrated during public parades, on public floats, driving down public streets, all paid for by the tax payer, for the enjoyment of the tax spender.

That third world perfume. Toronto lacks that amine and sulphur perfume so necessary to non-Canadian diversity. Just catch some of the public housing developments in the areas that did not vote for Rob Ford. You can help non-Canadian leftist voters feel accepted by pouring out milk or butter to create that nuanced aroma that your taxes pay for. This works best in the stinking hot weather you have come to associate with Global Warming. The oil from tuna, salmon, or kippers, when saved and ripened with kisses from the sun, makes a fine reminder of the perfection that is non-Canada. I soothe the homesickness, because I care.

Posters. Like most activists, I get a thrill from seeing those illegally posted posters that champion breaking the law so that more activists can get on the gravy train of social spending. It is like sodomizing a homeless person while wearing your Batman outfit. All the sensations are there, but there is a layer of latex between you and the diseased flesh. Refreshing. Stuff like Open Borders, or More Welfare for You in fifty languages, or Beat Whitey. If I have the chance, I put up posters too. What better way to spread the compost of diversity than for you to share your outrage? I care.

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 25th, 2010 at 10:42 am and is filed under Abilityism, Fenris. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.