Archive for the ‘caring person’ Category

Smoking is fun

Monday, March 10th, 2014

My world view was reinforced with the news that several of the passports used to board the doomed flight that the dead tree media is yapping about were stolen. Nicked, as my dear old dad would say. Scarfed, purloined, taken. Not only stolen, but stolen some many months ago. My world view celebrates the incompetence of the vast state apparatus that squanders our confiscated income. Such breathtaking stupidity. It made me laugh. I laughed like an alligator watching an unattended baby in a canoe float towards my location.

You can share in my joy. You, like me, seek your proper slice of pie in the pie that is the pie of life. Your neighbors are gobbling down pie. You should too. So, instead of feeling prison raped when you get butt probed and pervert prodded when you pass through airport ’security’, why not join in the fun? Any twisted, drooling degenerate can get hired for ’security’. Why not adopt a false identity and have a moonlight job fondling breasts … and get paid to fondle breasts! Now my perversion of choice is not groping women under fluorescent light in a crowded room. Me, I like to smoke cigarettes.

For my personal jihad of financial aggrandizement
I targeted the local school board. If you are mentally capable of out thinking Curly, Larry and Moe, you can get a consultant position with the local Stupid-Canadian run school board. If you think airport ’security’ morons are moronic for waving through people with years old stolen passports, you will find equivalent morons in your school board. I started as a math tutor (check it out: high school math teachers are hired based on deviant gender preferences, tribal ancestry, and diploma mill credentials … so the school board needs tutors to fill the competence gap) and took advantage of my inside position to clone my paying positions. My syphilis brain ravaged supervisor (a vice principal who oscillates between genders) is unaware that three consultants on his/her/its payroll are really the same person, Fenris Badwulf. Maybe it is the names I chose: Dick Gherkin, math tutor; Justin Twot, life coach; and Nick DuMaurier, smoking awareness coordinator.

Teaching professionals in this age of political correctness celebrate a diversity of financially exploitable desires which I, caring person, have sought to satisfy. It started with cosmetics. I have a buddy who does flea markets … he sells this stuff, I said, opening my trunk to reveal a display case of sparkly nail polish, amethyst pendants, and silver nose ornaments. Soon they were hitting me up for notions and sundries. Aspirin lead to Haldol. Bumming a free cigarette lead to buying a kilo of weed. And all I did as a sales gimmick was offer a bong borrowing service, using the school library software to track who had the ‘resource’. I facilitated liaisons with prostitutes for ‘life coaching’, and made double profit by both pimping the whore to the teacher, as well as selling the video of the carnal acts on the pay site. A sociologist would be fascinated by the magnetic attraction of science teachers for latex clad t-girls, except that our modern sociologists are too interested in monkey fellatio fantasies to work at work.

So, I say, why become cynical and fume and plot the violent overthrow of the state? These incompetents exist as parasites upon your confiscated income, sure. Why not turn the negative into a positive? Exploit the diversity of stupid to advance your financial agenda, I say. Infiltrate the bloated bureaucracy of the statists, if only to scarf their good coffee?

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Fenris Badwulf caring person

Thursday, December 20th, 2012

What says caring more than Holiday gift giving? What is a more caring gift than to have a recently retired Baby Boomer committed to an asylum, seizing their assets (that plum of bi-weekly pension checks!), and feeling smug and superior about it all? I am drooling.
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Fenris Badwulf caring person

Monday, December 10th, 2012

Holiday Season is here. The state funded hordes are out in the shopping malls spending the taxpayers money. Have you ever taken handfuls of paper money and thrown it up in the air. Wheee. Wheee. (In Scottish culture, this is known as the Whiskey Dance). I am a caring person. Caring is limitless, bottomless, insatiable, and able to digest anything. You can show you care when you drive, and now, with the Holiday Season of spending unleashed upon us, you can show your caring in the shopping malls. Muahahhahhaha. You can give back to Set, the Snake God for all the great stuff that Set, the Snake God has given to you this year.
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Fenris Badwulf caring person

Thursday, December 6th, 2012

One of the most soothing things you can do in your busy day is go out for a drive. I spark up the tunes and face my anxieties on the road. Rush hour is the best time to do this; especially in Toronto. You get to explore the city, and find inner peace. You want to find driving maneuvers that keep you still while the troubles of the world rush by. I am a caring person, and this is my way to show I care, to show caring. In today’s episode, I am out doing left turns. Rush hour, in the City of Light.
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Personalizing Social Climate Justice

Thursday, November 29th, 2012

Social Climate Justice awareness begins with your first waking breath in the morning. This morning, I rolled over and looked at the sleeping face of my beloved. What a lucky man I am to have this treasure in my life! I give my beloved a gentle kiss on her forehead so as not to awake her, then I slither out of bed.

Social Climate Justice activism begins with fresh ground coffee beans.
These are the expensive beans, grown by serfs and peons, who live close to nature in grass huts, without electricity or running water. As I carefully grind up the beans to the perfect texture, I contemplate all those lucky other people who live without the modern amenities. I wish more people lived in grass huts without access to toilet paper. I am doing all I can to drive more people into such a close relationship with nature.

Social Climate Justice actualization begins with fresh spring water. Why use tap water when you can use spring water taken for free from the food bank? Apparatchiks and comrades of the ruling authorities have access to the good stuff; awareness is the knowledge that the food banks are a source of merchandise for in the loop merchants.

Social Climate Justice awareness is rewarded with the perfect cup of coffee. I pour the coffee into a cup (part of a matching set of mugs made by Chinese slaves under the auspices of the Chinese socialist state) received as a gift last Holiday from the local socialist party. I joined, sent them no money, respond to their emails, and attend meetings where free stuff is handed out; in exchange, I get more free stuff. Now I have Dragon Mugs of porcelain to hold the perfect cup of coffee to take into the bedroom where my beloved is still sleeping.


Social Climate Justice activism is rewarded with croissants, baked in a toaster oven with cheddar cheese.
I took the toaster oven from work when I used to work in the Socialist Social Services. They had ordered one for each staff member, when the office kitchenette only needed one in total. They sat in boxes for months. I took one home after the manager gave us his famous Jack Layton in the whorehouse speech.

Social Climate Justice actualization is rewarded with happiness. My beloved gobbles down her coffee and cheesy croissant, but is distracted by my presence. We soon fall into Global Warming awareness games: my beloved begins to jingle my dingle.

You too can wallow in Social Climate Justice. Justify your actions with leftist gobbledygook. Act in your financial best interests, because your best interests only further Social Climate Justice. Anyone who disagrees is a racist. But even better, who needs to know? Aaaargh.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Fenris Badwulf caring person

Wednesday, September 26th, 2012

Another fat check has arrived from the confiscators of income. I am rubbing my hands in glee. I gloat. I feel like a wolf with a barn full of tasty,tasty, lambs. The confiscators of income have a program, you see. To fulfill their ability challenged requirements: we are to canvass school children about their opinions about World Peace. To qualify for second tier funding, we are to create an action plan. Excellent. We asked our school children, and they said that aggression is impossible when eating ice cream. Indeed, who can get cross or sullen while eating an ice cream cone? Indeed. And what world tyrant is in greatest need of soothing than Adolph Hitler. So was born the Give Ice Cream to Adolph Hitler project. Thank you tax payers!
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Fenris Badwulf, caring person

Saturday, August 18th, 2012

I care about people. I am Fenris Badwulf, and caring is what I do. One of my many responsibilities is to hold down the Human Resources function. Humans are a resource. And this last week, as caring person, I did something that sometimes happens to us Human Resources professionals: first aid. An unfortunate staggered into the Human Resources waiting room. He scratched on the doors, the closed doors, of the four offices there. Luckily, I was sitting in the office of Cumulo Nimbus, the manager of HR, whom I pretend to be * . I put down my scotch, stubbed out my cigar, and went to the door. Someone was having trouble: there in the empty Human Resources department waiting room was a man in distress. His right hand was glued to a toothbrush; the toothbrush was stuck in his mouth. One nostril and one eye was glued shut with some minty smelling, baby blue colored goop. His left hand had all the fingers stuck to each other; stuck into a clump of fingers. The wretch could not speak coherently. Drool had made a stain on his Oxford shirt. His tie was spattered with flecks of baby blue goop. The wretch gurgled and made desperate motions to communicate.

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The Daily Beggar

Monday, July 18th, 2011

Toronto is crawling with beggars. Now they roam the side streets just off the main drags: if you are sitting on your porch a block to the north of Danforth (on Strathmore, say), there will be beggars, walking down the street asking you for smokes, money for food, and spitting when they get neither. Fat beggars sit in chairs outside of coffee shops, smoking premium smokes and asking for money. Rasta beggars stand in front of chicken joints. And whores offer up their bodies along the Danforth.

Begging is a great way to get me to give up smoking. It is a filthy habit, but just makes you a target for the eight AM beggar, his eyes red from … anger over the vestiges of Colonialism in Africa … to hit you up for a smoke. Maybe if I do not smoke they won’t beg from me.

Begging is a great way to illustrate the failure of social spending. All these parasites are begging because they do not get enough money, right? After some decades of spending, the problem is worse, not better. More spending will make it worse.

It is not that homelessness is a crime
, it is that criminals tend to be homeless. And for the Jack the Ripper culture out there (all white people are serial killers, don’t you know) it is only a matter of time for the one or two (who really is every whitie) to discover the rich harvest you can take in for enjoyment quick, or slow if you have a van, dungeon, and queer village bondage gear. Would the police notice if Jack the Ripper was harvesting the homeless, given that the leftist media is always attacking the cops, and you cannot squeeze much more attack out of always?

Nobody cares. If they did, the leftist media would talk about it. Everybody I talk to, shop owners, shop workers, commuters, neighbors who avoid the porch, do care and do talk. But they are right white wing extremists, except for the 100 percent who are not, as everybody I talk to is not white. Maybe I live in a Potemkin village where the darkies are paid agents of white privilege. Maybe not.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

The Environmentalist in the Window seat

Friday, May 27th, 2011

You can take the VIA train to London at least three times a day. There is the Northern route, which runs through Guelph; and the Southern, which runs by way of Oakville. The Southern route is more agreeable, the view is better; even the stark industrial waste of inner and outer Toronto is crowded out by growing things.

The best seat for viewing is, of course, the Window seat. The Aisle seat, not so good. I like to look at the scenery go by, so I try to get a Window seat. This last time I took the train from Toronto to London, I was not so lucky. The train was crowded; it was a Friday; and the students were heading back to home for mom to do their laundry, or to the arms of their lovers of the gender of thier choice. It was seven in the morning on Friday, and, I must admit, I did not realize that university was now a Friday optional sort of experience. Better to prepare our whatever criteria they use to select university types for the struggles of a public sector job than to have to get up early on Friday to catch the train, I suppose. I took a seat beside a fellow who was staring out the window at the industrial movie set that is the train level of Union station. He was a watcher, I assumed.

When we pulled out of Union station proper,
he took out a laptop, opened it, and gave me a dirty look for looking out his window. There was a Greenpeace sticker on his ‘puter. He powered it up. I realized that looking out the window was not on the agenda of this Environmentalist sitting in the window seat. I carry a book for such occasions. If you were on the train that morning, that spring morning when Gaia’s great green earth was erupting with joy and life, I was the guy reading ‘Hypnosis: Practice and Application’, chapter 5: Securing Hypnotic Control. Pretty dry stuff. I would much rather look at the flowering shrubs. In places, the trilliums are in bloom, vast swathes of them; and there are abandoned gravel roads which are being consumed by the relentless carpet of dandelions. Each year, the abandoned detrius of civilization sinks deeper into the sod; the cars rust, and the plants consume. But the environmentalist wanted to look at his laptop; and he did not want me to turn my neck and pollute his space with my receptive eyes drinking in the hidden secrets of the plant kingdom reclaiming civilization for trees, shrubs, and herbivorious mammals.

Sigh. Hypnosis theory is pretty dry stuff, especially when you cannot rest you eyes and look, say, at a rabbit breaking cover from what used to be a Brickworks built in 1910 (now a crumbling ruin). Chapter 6: Ethics for Hypnotists could not really hold my attention. I am not taking a course, so I do not have to worry about jumping through some hoop for a test given by some non ability knob gobbler of a instructor. Instead I just swooped ahead to Chapter 7: Experimental Methods. I could not really much tell where we were on the train ride because I was not allowed to look out the window. I think it was around Aldershot. Before or after, I am not sure. I just resigned myself to waiting until next time to see how Gaia was doing.

There are five senses, of course. The Environmentalist in the Window seat seemed totally consumed by his laptop. His skin was flushed slightly. His eyes a little bit glazed. I felt good knowing that he was so enthralled with his laptop, even as I was denied my plebian pleasure of admiring nature. As long as the tax spender comes out ahead, that is what is important. Every other outcome is racism. I am sure the four tax payers who celebrate a life of tax paying to support this single tax spender feel the same way. No one has every asked them; they never voted on this ; and the media never asks those sorts of questions. So, I read.

Sometimes, when I read, I read quietly, out loud. In a soft monotone. Sometimes I do not actually read what is written in the book, but something inspired by what I have read, or what is around me. I did not want to impose on the conscious mind of my Greenpeace sticker’d laptop mesmerized Window seat travelling companion. Heck no. Only his subconscious mind could hear what I said. He was not paying conscious attention to his sense of hearing, I guess. My babbling (my soft monotonous post hypnotic suggestions I was practicing) would not impose on his conscious thought. Instead, they would add to his tranquility, much as an ice cube can cool the tongue on a hot summer day, or placing your tongue on the cool copper at the back of an electrical panel. Tranquility is important in a world under attack from Corporations.

We live in a progressive time. Things are better, but we are closer to extinction and total annihilation. Take deodorant for example. My travelling companion stank of deodorant. But it is important to celebrate choice. Maybe he just liked the reassuring feel of deodorant; so similar to that of slopping lighter fluid onto your skin when you are wearing a polyester T-shirt. It feels good. Maybe your Grandfather would not approve, but maybe he is wrong, like he is about most things progressive. Question authority. If Grandpa says it is bad and do not do it; you should do it. Just do it. Just do it now. I do not remember what I said in that soft monotone on the train ride where I was not allowed to look out at nature, but I sort of remember what I was thinking. I thought that it was good to set an example for progressive causes. To set an example. To be a torch, where there is darkness.

Learning to relax is important. I know that looking at the trees and shrubs and grass go by on the train relaxes me. Some people can be so relaxed that they sleep walk around their houses. I do not have a house, but my environmentalist window seat sitter would probably have one; his career path is into the socialist social services sector, and they own property. Me (and three others) we just pay for it. I hope he can relax enough to enjoy it. Be so relaxed that he can walk around his house. Be so relaxed he can drive his car. Be so relaxed. Be so relaxed he can drive his car inside a movie, where he is a special effects stunt man. Be so relaxed that he can drive right into a bridge abuttment and have them change scenes to the shot of him, as hero, saving the environment from the evil white man. I know at least four people in the theatre of life that will cheer when that happens.

I got off the train at London.
I lost track of my travelling companion, the one with the laptop who sat in the window seat and never once looked at nature; who scowled at me when I did. He seemed obsessed about something when he got off the train. He skin was a little flushed. I watched him drive out of the parking lot; he did not even look to the right when he pulled into traffic, he only looked left. Luckily the guy coming from the right was able to brake in time. My travelling companion was in a hurry, I guess. Something on his mind. I guess. Some subconscious program, a fast Do Loop, taking him to his bright tax payer funded destiny. A coolness in the heat, a torch in the darkness, a relaxing drive as a stuntman in the fantasy movie that is the progressive world. Lucky him. I will never see him again; but you might; maybe on the News. I will see the plants grow along the Toronto-London rail corridor; and if you are on the train with a scruffy guy with a dragon ring, maybe you should look at them too.

Meet the new boss…

Wednesday, October 17th, 2007

The people have spoken and Fenris Badwulf is now the new Mayor of Mitchieville (soon to be renamed Fenrisville). Realizing way too late that I was backing the wrong horse I will now do what public servants do best – kiss ass.

Fenris Badwulf is a man of the people. His prune mush has nourished the less fortunate souls of Mitchieville (soon to be renamed Fenrisville). His devotion to Set, The Snake God, has provided a spiritual example for us all. He provides shelter and canned salmon to our homeless raccoon Canadians. Fenris cares. Most importantly of all:

Fenris Badwulf is mighty!

This post is offered as my tribute to the greatness that is Fenris Badwulf. All hail Fenrisville!

Minister of Munitions – A Victims Perspective

Wednesday, September 26th, 2007

A disturbing trend is emerging on the pages of Mitchieville. Over the past two weeks Lisa Foggy of *BITCH* and her boot-lick dmorris have made hurtful references to my sexual orientation ( here and here ). I want to be clear so that these allegations made by the supporters of *BITCH* can be refuted by the supporters of the Campaign to Re-Elect Mayor Mitch: my name is Reg, I am the Minister of Munitions, and I am not gay.

Yes, it is true that my Executive Assistant Carl Woodcock is an attractive man. But “Hot Carl”, as he is affectionately referred to at City Hall, is as straight as any man I have ever known. It is also true that my able subordinates Andrew Savage and Dan Sullivan share an apartment but what is wrong with that? There are plenty of men out there who live with other men so that they can save up money for week long vacations in San Francisco and South Beach, Miami. Who among us doesn’t want to visit these places?

Before any allegations of sex discrimination at the Munitions Ministry can be laid, I want to note that we have a new intern on our Communication staff. I trust that all of Mitchieville will join me in welcoming Jezzika to the Munitions Ministry. Jezzika is here for the semester from London where she has been integral part of the progressive student relations program at the university there. Please join Carl, Dan, Andrew and I this Thursday night at Big Al’s for cocktails as we welcome Jezzika to Mitchieville.

What bothers me the most about this campaign of slander is the effect these allegations of homosexuality have on the important men who work in the Raw Materials Production Division for the Munitions Ministry – our miners. Every morning these men plunge into hot dark holes where they pound away the hours in groups of four our five until they pull out at the end of the day dirty, sweaty, and drained of all their energy. These rough and tumble rouges need to be confident that their minister has their back and that he is not distracted by the back door shenanigans of *BITCH* during the 2007 Mitchieville Election.

I hope that this message of tolerance and respect reaches the organizers of *BITCH* so that I can be free from this harassment and better do my job as Minister of Munitions. It is time for *BITCH* to take their homophobia out of the closet and expose themselves for all of Mitchieville to see, especially dmorris.

The Mayor’s victory on Election Day is a common goal we should all get behind and I for one will bend over backwards to see that he wins. Soon the election campaign will climax and The Mayor’s joy will be spread all over Mitchieville. I speak for everyone at the Munitions Ministry when I say we all look forward to when that day comes.

Sincerely yours,

Reginald ‘Reg’ Reginaldson
Minister of Munitions
Mitchieville

Fenris Badwulf, caring person, part 2

Saturday, August 25th, 2007

It is not often that I get to help my friends out, using the powers and resources of my elected office, but when these opportunities occur, I just have to seize them. After all, what builds a Global Village better than a spider’s web of mutual obligation and grey-area morality?

My friend Rug (not his real name, if I used his real name you might recognize it, and some nosy meddling do-gooder might just start being nosy and meddling around which would interfere with my non-good agenda of total world domination) was, at the time, a middle level bureaucrat, in a tenured government position. When Rug came to me he was upset that his advancement from middle-class government bureaucrat to upper-middle-class government bureaucrat was not going to happen.

Now, conveniently, I happened to have in my desk a copy of Rug’s promotion orders, so I knew that his fears were for naught. But as I listened to Rug describe his important job responsibilites in the Landfill Inspectorate of the Federal Government, I realized that it would be better for everyone involved, especially myself, that Rug and I develop a team approach to this problem. I agreed with myself not to tell Rug that his promotion was a done thing, and Rug agreed to allow me to continue my dumping of asbestos construction waste into road construction fill. It was a win-win situation. Rug was getting what he wanted, and I would get what I wanted. Situational ethics at its finest!

The only fly in the vegetarian omelet was two people, which I shall call Xenon-57, and Aztec-443. Rug shared his feelings with me that Xenon-57 and Aztec-443 were opposing his seniority based advancement. Xenon-57 was the desk-jockey using sneaky, underhanded tactics, and Aztec-443 was the employment equity candidate who had all the advantages of being under-represented, lacking ability, and having a criminal record for fraud. Rug could only offer ability, education, military service, competence, loyalty, and a work ethic, which is but a pair of twos in the on-line poker game of politically correct career advancement.

Xenon-57 was dealt with first. An anonymous gift of a weekend of feasting and frolic at The Pleasure Center, Toronto’s foremost whorehouse, soon found its way into Xenon-57’s grubby paws. Like a Bonobo going to his aunt’s tree, he was off to Toronto like a shot. There he was drugged, shaved, and woke up in one of the personality readjustment pods of the Morbid Obesity Clinic of Kensington. The picture here is that of the beautiful Leslie, administrator of this facility. Here, looking rather emo, she is using her boot to push the head of some fatty into a vat of the house specialty, cold dishwater soup. Xenon-57 quickly changed his attitude towards whatever Leslie wanted him to change his attitude about, using traditional eastern medicine * . After that, a few hypnotic suggestions were implanted * , then a cleansing mind wipe * . Five pounds thinner, and prone to nightmares, Xenon-57 returned to work the next Monday.

The file on Aztec-443 that I showed Rug showed that his religious beliefs embraced a life after death, and the utility of suffering to burn off bad karma. He also had a rare blood type, which made him a high value organ donor. Rug and I agreed that, for the greatest good for the greatest number (Rug and I being two, and Aztec-443 being only one, which is less than two) that Aztec-443 should be recycled. I showed Rug the file of little girl who needed a liver transplant. We both cried with happiness: there would be three people helped with a little co-operation from Aztec-443.

Taking advantage of the Pride festival in Toronto (and Maximinus Thrax automotive skills), we disabled the seatbelt and door release mechanisms in Aztec-443 ’s car. He screamed and pounded on the windshield of his car from the moment we started to hitch it to a tow truck, to the moment we arrived at the abandoned pickle factory I use in Scarborough as a telemarketing call center. After a short ceremony, Aztec-443 was duct taped to a wheel chair and made to walk the plank, a ritual celebrating my Wrecker heritage * . Rug and I both laughed as Aztec-443 made his final AAAAaaaaahhh before he landed gently on the broken concrete five stories below with a squooshy sound like a watermelon being hit by a baseball bat. The assembled telemarketers learnt a good lesson too.

A waiting team from soon had Aztec-443 recycled into steaming fresh transplantable organs. A few weeks later Rug and I cashed the life insurance policy I had thoughfully placed. Over a bottle of Glencoe single malt whiskey, we agreed to donate a hundred dollars each to the Liberal party. Because, we care.

Perhaps, in your busy moments between now and the next election for Mayor of Mitchieville, you will pause to reflect on how I, Fenris Badwulf, have taken a leadership role in helping people. Perhaps I could help you become happier or achieve your goals. Everyone has their price. Would you be Rug, Aztec-443, or Xenon-57 in the weeks to come? Perhaps you just wish that nosy meddling do-gooders would mind their own business and stop using soup out of a can? With your votes and my dystopian vision, we can fill the world with laughter, your laughter. You want what you deserve. Let me help someone else to give it to you.

I, Fenris Badwulf, other-sacrificing devotee of Set, The Snake God, tireless servant of You, The People of Mitchieville, dictated this to my hard-working minion ikthis, who crawls in my presence.