Progressive Public Farting

Nothing delights the senses more than confounding the evil and omnipresent Patriarchy than using conjecture and magical reasoning to construct a plan of action for everyone else other than yourself to follow. Those of us blessed to live in the most important city on Earth, Toronto!; Toronto! – the mathematical point around which the Sun orbits; we who live here and collectively decide how you should live, what you should eat, and who gets whichever pronoun. There are summer festivals where the rich, creamy goodness of good intentions is blended into the dough of diversity, spiced with sex acts, and cooked in the oven that is the perfect climate that is found in Toronto!. The Stupid-Canadians who exist in the cesspool communities surrounding Toronto!, the City of Light, gladly fork over their wealth in the form of confiscated income in gratitude for the guidance, regulations, and tongue lashings they get from our Toronto! resident media. Lucky them; but, their Patriarchy stench is happily absent from the summer festivals. Our Toronto! festivals are safe spaces, don’t you know.

I was on a pilgrimage of discovery. I was filled with desire to listen to their stories, to celebrate their collective individuality, to witness their calls for services, space, and spare money. I found a gaily colored street vendor at a folkfest, and settled in to snack whilst watching the diversity. What did I eat, only a forensic consultant could tell. Whatever it was I ate, it gave me gas. I felt it rumble and churn in my guts. How could food prepared and cooked in Toronto!, City of Light, be in the least impure? Simple onions, cabbage, and pork, served in a vegan food space. Vegan halal. What could be more Toronto!, food wise, than a illegal immigrant food vendor selling foodstuffs imported without inspection, prepared in toilet paper free cultural ways?

Blame the Patriarchy. I am powerless, and without responsibility. I always feel better in my suffering when someone else can be assigned blame. My stretching colon was the fault of the Patriarchy. In no way could food, imported without the oversight of those paid to watch over such things, prepared using pre-bacteria methods in celebration of financial expediency of our economic migrant class, be the cause of the effect. I suffered. But, bolstered by the public sex spectacle that exists as eye candy to the discerning Hyphenated-Canadian, I journeyed further into the festival, and ate more. Nothing evil can happen in a safe space. It says so on the sign.

The Public Transit. The better way, even when hugging the walls to avert being pushed onto the tracks, is the better way. Even in the daily darkest hours, when rush hour makes the down town stations into ovens, with sweat soaked commuters a-gabbling in a diversity of voices as they celebrate finger my bum hole and guess my corresponding personal pronoun, is the better way. In the night, when the rent seekers come out to party, stepping over steaming puddles of vomit, is the better way. On a festival day, it is the better way. Fewer trains, but greater demand on the system, that is the better way. Because our ability challenged elites get around by chauffeured limousines, never by the better way, I get to squeeze into the sardine can with the diversity. After the several cycles of doors closing, doors opening, announcement the doors are closing do not block the doors, diversity blocking the closing doors, the doors closed; the train was off! The Better Way!

With the diversity on Public Transit. Gosh, I felt good! My mind was full of the images of the public sex spectacle I had just witnessed. The People-Canadians copulating with leather and feather clad representatives of a diversity of other People-Canadians! The slurping of white guilt, the overthrow of oppressive hetro-normative norms in a jello tub by Gender-Fluid-Canadians, and the enlightening truths at the Community Safe Sex kiosk that sexually transmitted diseases are caused by whiteness, not sex. Wow. I felt good. I relaxed. I farted.

I farted. I farted ripe and silent. By any god but Christ, it was long, slow, and deep. It was the Patriarchy, made scent. Eyes watered. There was some learned chatter in many languages. People shifted. Someone scratched at the air conditioning vent. This was not Zyklon-B, it was the natural effect of consumption of diversity food and pre-bacteria cultural food handling procedures. I am not responsible for my own actions, nor is anybody who is not privileged. Angry voices in dialects only known to court translators were raised. How dare they be angry at me, the unknown farter. Blame the fart, not the farter. Those aromas reminiscent of sewage back flow danced in their noses! Pfffaw! The negative effects are caused not by my progressive human agency, but by the larger collective of tax payers, traffic law obeyers, and wait in line patiently fascists; which is to say, the universal cause of all problems: white people. Not me. I am merely an agent for change, through which uninspected, undocumented foodstuffs, generously spored up by pre-bacteria food preparation culture, can make a safe space for nose hair singeing stench. An individual, could have been anti-fa or anarchist, in his Toad Power vest, muttered evil in my general direction. His lips were turning as blue as his hair. To make peace, I suggested he take a slurp of my white guilt. It would help clear his tonsils. After all, I dindu nuffin.

The Stench of Patriarchy.
I and the diversity bathed in the stench of patriarchy on the fateful, crowded, sticky hot, sustainable, ride through the subway tunnels of Toronto!. The stench of patriarchy reasserted itself at Summerhill and Lawrence stations. People left the car, perhaps more than should be expected. They were fleeing, seeking breathable air, like criminal economic migrants seek a steady welfare income with access to legal aid and a community of old ladies to rob of cash and a white guilty blind eye to unconsenting unlubricated butt sex with the underage. Me, I felt good in myself. I savored my own rich creamy goodness. I had convinced myself of the universal truth of my virtue signalling, that my public farting on a crowded subway was really someone else to blame. Toronto! is the place where your devious progressive logic intersects magical thinking, and the fruits of your causes are justified by the cherry picked effects. Save it for the subway should be your slogan!

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

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