As Director of Special Projects at the Turpentine Commission, it is my mandate to seek out new sources of sustainable funding. So get out your credit cards and listen to what I am writing.

For the purpose of raising necessary revenue to fund a sustainable telemarketing subsidiary, it has been decided to sell Hunting Licenses. The number of Licenses will be limited to the number of souls lost due to the 9/11 attack.

(Note. The left has made a genre of apology for the death and misery of that awful attack upon American soil; so wiping out, or in this case, selling hunting licenses to American sportsmen to hunt down, say, taxspenders, is of moral relativity to the non-importance of those slain on 9/11.)

Each license will allow the holder to take the life of one taxspender. A certain amount of good taste is expected of the license holder in the manner, speed, and grisly nature of the deed.

Upon the verification of the take by a licensed Forester of Mitchieville, the hunter, and three of his friends will then be exempt from all forms of taxation for the rest of their lives. This is to recognize the fact that it takes four taxpayers to support one taxspender. With the cull, or fourth trimester abortion, if you will, of the taxspender, it is logical to conclude that four taxpayers will go free. That is simple math.

The License fee is twelve dollars and fifty cents. Numbers are limited, so you must act now. Makes a great gift or stocking stuffer.

Send me your money.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom

This is the sort of conversation I have to put up with in the Middle Ages. This is a chat I had with Fenris over dinner a few nights ago:

Fenris said, ‘Yes, but you have to think of it this way: Our real enemy is them. Just because we are currently on the same side does not mean that we cannot contemplate treachery against them. It is just good practice to plan treachery, as the best way to protect yourself from treachery. Talking about some plans that are directed towards treachery is not the same as actually carrying out the plans. Being treacherous, being actually treacherous, is bad. This is the teaching of our ancient gods, as interpreted by our lawgivers. Odin frowns upon treachery, actual treachery.’

Of course, Fenris continued: ‘So, being prepared for it is good, and pious. Being prepared makes Odin smile. And the best way to prepare for treachery, is to study it through forward-thinking, aggressive treachery of our own.’

‘And, the matter at hand is this:,’ said Fenris to me, ‘King Richard has ridden off to York with his army, there to hide from the hordes of steppe horseman under what’s his name, the barbarian general.  Now, we must change sides, betray our loyalty to Richard, and go over to help the invaders, these smelly horsemen who eat too much garlic.’

I disagreed, of course.  When I hear Fenris split hairs over the difference in the quality of evil of treachery made real versus treachery in the planning stage, I just stop listening.  Why bother?  Fenris just used more logical fallacies in justifying whatever treachery he had already planned.  It always escalated.  First the telemarketer, upbeat and contra-Platonic, then Lastly, the more blunt appeal to force.  But before Fenris got around to threatening me to force me to agree to his toilet tissue arguments, he tried bribery.  I wanted that new pair of boots, so I nodded my head and said, ‘Yes, Fenris, I agree with you.  We should betray Richard, and help the horse and garlic barbarians sack York.  We can provide scouts and guides, and lead their army to the walls of the city.  Help them loot it.  Supply them with horse food, so they can pillage more and better.  Yes, it is a good idea Fenris.  Let’s do it.  It will be fun.’

And that is what I have to put up with, living in the Middle Ages.

I, Sargon, wrote this.

Wake up to happy news about company coming for Viking dinner! O happy villager in the village of multi-culturalism, that your culture is being affirmed!

Ask yourself: which burly white guy with the bad haircuts would be if he was in your time? Are you a camp servant, who gets skewered by an arrow in the initial surprise attack? Who do you identify with? Which sweaty suit of armor would you call home? This movie reminds me of my experience in High School in Ontario.

Like alot of activists, I work to better my society. I do volunteer work. I do not talk about it much, because I am humble and modest. I do shifts, on the phone, at a suicide distress center.

(more…)

I face being homeless again. That Obama spending did not make its way down to me. Mind you, the food bank I go to, the director, assistant director, the executive assistant, and the executive secretary all have new office furniture. The assistant director got a new credenza. The director has a new car - a Green something. And we get an extra scoop of white rice and tofu on Japanese night.

I have a job, a survival job, and I take advantage of what I can. Unfortunately, I speak english, am male, heteronormative, and white, so government programs, hiring, and contracts do not apply. I know enough from my last time homeless that I am a racist, rapist, gay bashing, meat eating, carbon spewing tree killer who is stingy with his spare money.

I want a real job. The assistant director of the special needs, visually impaired, and or sexual assault victims transitional library at the food bank has one. He is always talking about it when he gives seminars on racism against special needs persons, or obstacles to the visually impaired in addressing racism, or just shaking us down for our purple privilege tokens in exchange for a bag of smokes, banana flavored condoms, or just to get out the back door before the last Internationale is sung. He talks about it before the food buckets are brought up from the basement kitchen. You have to listen. The doors are locked. They aren’t supposed to be, but when the Health and Safety Committee is controlled by them, you can’t control it. So, he he has a job. I want one.

Our glorious assistant director of whatever brags about how he has turned his life around from a life of crime. He got a university degree in Social Work, specializing in Social Insects, from York, in prison. When he graduated, er, paroled, he got this big bucks job in the socialist social services sector. I do not have the money to get a degree.

How do I get to go to prison? It is not as easy as I thought. All I read about in the paper is how criminals roam the streets on parole, bail, and house arrest. How do I go to prison to get the degree I need to get a high paying government funded, unaccountable job? I have not figured that out yet. What I can do, while I am still poor, with out hope, my back to a wall, and oppressed, is to strike back against oppression.

I hate people who hate. Take the public sector municipal worker who plows the sidewalk, for example. He starts work at 10:00 pm, and drives his new urban sidewalk snowplow, sipping his thermos of vodka.

I hate racists. The public sector worker is white, so his is a racist. So, I hate him. I do not even know him, but I can hate him.

I hate rapists. The public sector worker is a male, so he is a rapist. So, I hate him. I only see the guy in the snowy winter, around 10:45, when he gets to my sidewalk, and he is hated.

I hate gay bashers. I heard the socialist enabled snow plow operator use foul language that exposed fags to hatred. Someone had urinated in his snowplow cab, on his seat, his lunch, and his ‘commute home’ shoes. Nothing justifies gay hurtful talk. So this public sector worker is a gay basher. I hate him.

I hate meat eaters. I saw the public sector snow plow worker eat a fast food hamburger. After his homophobic rant after someone pissed in the cab of his snowplow, all over his lunch, he went out for a burger. People who eat meat are crazed killers, filled with hate. I hate him.

I hate carbon criminals. The snow plow operator is causing global warming everytime he plows the snow. He told me he is working alot of overtime this last three years. All those heavy winters are causing global warming because of this carbon criminal spewing exhaust out of the rectum of his busy snowplow. I hate him.

Obama, the hole in the donut. It takes many taxpayers to support one taxspender. How many telemarketers does it take to match one snow plow socialist job? If he went away, then either my taxes would go down, and I could afford the good things in life, or, if he went away, I could get his job. And, if he went away, the progressives in the struggle against racism, rape, gay bashing, and global warming, would be impressed and be happy and smile. It would be like voting four times in an election. What more could a progressive ask for?

Hope and Change and Inspiration. A few days ago, waiting in line in the snow for my scoop of beans and cabbage at the food bank, I was chatting with a fellow worker, taxed into poverty. He talked about the valiant struggle of the Bolsheviks against fascism. I was inspired. As a member of the working class, inspired by the party of the working class in their struggle to redistribute the capital of the working class into the hands of the non-workers of the workers party, I felt good.

The Molotov Solution. I used my free services at the People’s Municipal Library to research Bolsheviks and their nuanced approach to accommodating diversity. The library is right beside the safe injection site, and you can use the free Library daycare if you have to shoot up. The DVD section is just past the permanent display of the immortal legends of Social Justice, just look for Lenin, Trotsky, Trudeau and Obama. I signed out some movies. That is how I learnt about the Molotov cocktail.

More Molotov Solution. One morning, I burgled a house. I know the owners. He works, and she does yoga. The house was mine from eight till six. I burgled for all the revolutionary supplies I needed. Some bottles (I poured the red wine out of the dusty bottles onto the carpet); a diversity of flammable liquids from the bar-b-que stash; some wax candles, some rags (I tore up some linen pillow cases). As a gesture of solidarity with PETA, I dumped the overfull cat litter box into the washing machine along with whatever underwear I could easily gather, and the two left slippers, his and hers. I cranked it up to hot, the washing machine that is, feeling oneness with the struggle for human rights funding, even as I added their only can of Draino to the happy wash water, to scent the air with amines to greet them upon their return to their fingerprint free, ransacked home. How their eyes would water with joy, like the lost French regiments under mustard gas attack.

Even more better. A few days after my harvest, I was ready, prepared in ambush for the snow plow driver. Ten o’clock rolled by, and their shift started, now that the streets were safely clear of commuter traffic. I waited in ambush. I idled my time pretending to read Crime and Punishment. I lie to my girl friend that I have read a single page of it. She is a blonde. I waited, then I saw him coming. Swerving drunk. I giggled like a journalist after a conservative. But instead of using my imagination, I used a Molotov cocktail. My aim was good.

The public sector worker was protected by a shield of plexi-glass. But some of the bar-b-que starter got into his cab. His shoe caught on fire. Then the thermos of vodka, it’s cloud of fumes, went whump. His hair, greasy from beer sweat, caught on fire, and he shrieked and he stumbled out into the slush. He rolled in the snow, extingushing his hair.

My second cocktail, I could not use it on him. Nothing hard to break it on close to him. Camping wisdom: Too much snow for a good fire. Besides, he smelt bad. Like burning rubber and cafeteria pork. I pitched number two into the cab of his earth raper snow plow. That set his second thermos of vodka on fire, then his pound of weed smouldered into a mushroom cloud of skunk. In the excitement, he managed to get to his cell phone, but the Rogers help desk was unable to help him.

The third cocktail, and my last, finished him off, the carbon spewing criminal. It was like pictures of the firebombing of Dresden, only he was not a child, but a grown man, who lived off the life forces of six or seven bewitched taxpayers.

I stood there for a while, and nothing happened. His fat stopped sputtering. The smell of french fries, frying fresh from where he kicked them under his seat, faded. There was a blue fog of pot smoke. My eyes watered. And nobody showed up. Not the fire department, the police, or the humane society. Finally, some old lady stuck her head out of her front door a few houses down, and she told me to shut up, she was trying to sleep, and that I was a cock sucker. She slammed the door.

I had to wait a good long while for the police, fire department, and the coroner. Nobody paid any attention to me. The cops sat in their car and looked at video clips of women’s figure skating. The fire department left as soon as they arrived, because the fire was out. The coroner’s office sent work term students, who vomited up their breakfast of tofu and sprouts. They were unused to the smell of cooking meat. Nobody much looked at me. They never asked me if I was a witness, let alone if I was the author, accessory, or responsible adult.

I walked home in the snow. The head wind cleaned me of the smoke of roast socialist, and I made do with a cup of cocoa. I did call the municipal department. I asked if I could have the job of the guy who just got set on fire. They said he still had two years of bankable sick days, and could not be considered dead until two years was up. I was transferred to voice mail, and there was no zero option back to an operator.

Recovery from this recession might require more sacrifice, more sacrifices.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom

Now America begins to dismantle its Empire, just what the groovy hippies wanted. A desire straight from the golden peaches of Jane Fonda’s rack, and dating back to the same time when Barbarella was the defining intellectual moment of hippy Fonda’s life, those of us who consider the N-word to be a bad word, even when N-people use it, are looking over writings and history on the retreat of empire.

When I was in university, foolishly not taking courses towards being an over paid, over pensioned, low-effort, and little results orientated socialist social services sector worker, I took some courses in American history. My prof, a hippy draft dodger from the Vietnam war, whose grim forever exile from the land of his birth (being a wanted man, a deserter, and a Ph.D) was only punctuated by vacations back to his Momma’s house for Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings, and his special birthday; this guy told us about american politics. And he taught me about isolationism.

Now, Pat Buchanan has a great piece out about doing exactly such a thing * . And, for the benefit of any Jackals or Human Rights non-ability people mouthing the words as they read this, I, of course, distance myself from any opinions expressed by any sort of white person, as all white people are racists, rapists, and enablers of the lingering effects of colonialism in Africa. That being said, and my ass being covered, I draw your attention to the words of Pat.

Two things I add to this article.

Firstly, Pat is running on the assumption that a retreat from the imperial frontiers is a clean process. He describes the retreat from the East as a crisp exit of now unwanted soldiery from countries now adult and capable of self-defense, both with men and economy. I am not going to go anywhere near the seamy subjects of foreign, non-white people holding vengeful thoughts, territorial ambitions, or non-socialist views of economy. Only white people are bad, so any discussion about, say, Japanese ambitions in Taiwan or Korea or Manchuria, are best kept to the secure confines of your secret society, where no activist can inform on you for profit and promotion. Likewise speculation about Chinese designs on, say, African acreage, Siberia, or the rice of their ancient colony of Viet Nam. Speculation absent from the main stream media, of course. Speculation absent from the mind of the mindless non-ability lock-step and goosestep of diversity, uttered by those mis pronouncers of words who mean to spend my money on the workless, the shiftless, and the life-time liberal voter. Well, the thoughts are out there. I wish Pat, already damned as a white man, could damn himself a little more and dirty up his policy with these considerations.

Secondly, Pat is assuming that the retreat process will be voluntary. And it was a voluntary process, up to now. But now with an aggressive borrowing frenzy on the part of Employment Equity president Obama, the time is coming when foreign powers will be able to use their economic clout to dictate to the Yanks what to do. It maybe the Marines being pulled out of Japan, but they might be leaving their weapons behind. The Marines can come home in t-shirt and sandals … and Pat did not discuss that. I wish he had. Maybe all this American style democracy out there is a manifestation of American style tank divisions. Does the Prussian heart still beat in the Prussian breast? Is the tribe that produced Louis Faidherbe * still capable of producing same?

Who knows? And if you ask one of our perfumed activists, they neither know nor care. They think retreats are clean and voluntary. Maybe they are right, because speculation about them being left is not allowed. One nice thing about dirty and forced retreats, which you can read about in history, is the lynching of leaders whose lack of luck or ability lead to dirty and forced retreats. That too is absent from Pat’s article. One of the advantages of a lack of freedom of speech, I guess. You get to watch history repeat itself, rather than just read about it. Does the Tea Party movement have a tricolor to wave at the tumbrels rolling by?

xpd Mitchieville, Dustmybroom

Everyone at work is talking about the Toyota recall. Now I work with working class people, people who work. They pay the way for socialist social services sector taxpayer enablers. It takes quite a few of us to keep one of them in salary, pension, bankable sick days, junkets to Cuba, and canary yellow photo copy paper. So here we are, before the sun has risen, talking about Toyota, while those for whom we work, the taxspenders and their many lefthanded path enablers, are sleeping.

Not too many of us have cars, these days.  It is a survival job, for recent graduates of university, for thrown out factory workers, for surplus secretaries.  Such is life in the era of Hope and Change.  And this morning, a Saturday morning for eager surviving workers of the working class, out of bed on a cold Global Warming winter day, the talk is about the Toyota recall.

Gee, isn’t the paper going on and on about this? questioned one.  Not that the mainstream media has a stake in running down Toyota.  Given their out of step worship of the prophet Obama, somehow, slagging the competition of the car company that competes with Government motors is, somehow, possible.  Maybe it is true, maybe it ain’t.

Even if you do not believe that the mainstream media is biased, partisan, and a den of Bolsheviks, maybe some people do.  Toyota is an interesting company.  One of the largest in Japan.  I am sure a lot of people are directly employed by that company.  Good jobs, benefits, pensions, all that good stuff that industry brings.  And the people who derive their employment from the spin off effects. You know the argument, but these people are Japanese. And Toyota is a bit bigger to them, then say, Government motors is to the Yanks.

Now, you may not think the media is bashing Toyota, but, I suspect, other people do. People at Toyota, people who work around Toyota, people who care about the Japanese economy. A bad hit on Toyota will be felt more there, than a bad hit here. And do you not think there will be repercussions? Maybe Obama has added another large, big, enemy to his big empty tent. Maybe they will just go after the mainstream media. Who knows? You might want to dump your shares in the mainstream media.

Who will Obama piss off next?

There comes a time in your reading of history that you choke on a ghastly realization of the heights at which you live compared to many and varied, grim and grisly other systems that have existed in the past.  Where to start?  People lived in fear and constant organized violence, with high lights of famine and epidemic.   War was seasonal, personal, and, if you were a man, the leading cause of death, after childhood.  If you were a man, you slept with your weapons.  If you were competent, and lucky, you would live to grow grey hair.  No man lived long enough to have grey hair that was not a thrice veteran of organized group conflict, with three to seven confirmed kills, usually recorded as rune inscriptions on weapons.  If you were a fat man with grey hair, you were what we would now call a Biker chieftain.

Now, there were women, livestock, wild critters, plants, and other assorted reptiles, amphibians, algae, bugs, and rocks.  Each celebrated in the few arson singed manuscripts we have surviving from the few fortress monasteries.  But it is about Biker chieftains that I wish to write.

Considering human history as a whole, our time of right now, is but a very short blip, and whose high standard of living for so many members and classes, is also noteworthy.   Being prosperous is a sure draw for looting barbarians, though.  Our cities have no walls. And where you have looting barbarians, you have Biker chieftains.

Right now, is the progressives finest hour.  I admire their relentlessness.  Another 1.8 trillion in borrowing.  So what?  This is not Nero ruining the Equestrian order by debasing the coinage.  We do not have not have walled cities so, I guess, the model does not apply. But I think it does.  Am I exposing the progressives to hatred by comparing them to Nero?  And if I suggest that the Equestrian order will do unto the progressives that was done unto Nero, well I might get a lawfare mailing.

Right now, the strength of the leftist coalition has been turned into a macabre weakness.  The ghastly Obama is also strongly associated with the main stream media.  When he goes, so do they.  Teachers unions can be sent to the disintegration chamber, with a voucher driven alternative in place.  I could go on and on about the activist dominoes lined up to fall.  But the leftist coalition has done its job well, of peeing in the coffee pot of capitalism.  Their shortly to be experienced absence, en masse, like the Huguenots of Paris, will not clean the piss out of the pot.  And when you have capitalism having a hiccup, or in this case, hepatitis brought on by a diversity of standards of personal cleanliness, you have a reduction in the standard of living of your grey headed, fat men.  Biker chieftains do not like an economy that does not work.  Biker chieftains do not like hepatitis in their Swiss Chalet chicken.

Biker chieftains have many different personalities, much as there are twelve basic signs of the Zodiac.  Some are tall, some are short, whatever.  And, back in the past, before gunpowder raised the standard of living, there would be times when a lot of Biker chieftains would suffer from disaster, famine, war, or tempest.  What did Biker chieftains do when the going got tough?  When your money is being taken for perfumed and powdered luxuries by some soft central despot?  Hmmm, rebellion.  Uprising.  Sabotage.  Subterfuge. Not advertised nor heralded, for these are serious men, with things, like their stuff, to lose.

I look up from my history book and wonder if my smarter and better, non-ability aristocrat rulers, can read, or have read, or are capable of higher human thought, what is written in many ways, in many tongues, is also written in blood and bone fragments.  Did they not read that when the Roman Empire falls, it is replaced by the Dark Ages?  I guess not.  Empires fall, and are followed by darkness.  Why trigger a fall?  And where you have darkness, you have Biker Chieftains.  When there is darkness, you who are not Biker chieftains, will live longer and better when you are in their good graces.  You who are not useful in the winter, might find yourself outside the walls of the walled cities for your last night.  You who are not useful in the harvest might find yourself impaled, as an offering to Gaia’s daughter Ceres.  Being useful is a survival skill in most about all the rest of human history, but not for our aristocrats and their not useful, does not work, vision of economy.  And they know better, or should, and have now opened Pandora’s box.

Biker chieftains, old and new, everywhere in the past, and quite a few around you in the present.  I see them on the street, parking in parking lots at the mall, and shopping in the hardware store.  Remember the Duke of Normandy?  He dumped arsenic into the river that supplied a town he had under siege.  The Duke of Normandy did not like having a contraction to his standard of living.  A few wagon loads of arsenic, straight into the river; not enough to kill the fish, at first.  He was careful, having done this before.  Then a few days later, the townsfolk, some of them, anyway, start with loose bowels and fever.  When the fish in the river start to die, then it is too late for the town; they have taken in the lethal dose of that slow poison.  The crafty Duke did not have to spend a silver penny on a single cross bow bolt to bring the townsfolk down to the grave.  Biker chieftains are practical.  And the left is going to bring them back into power.

You can laugh and giggle, you perfumed and men in manly make-up activists.  I do not care.  I am watching, not directing.  You, you are acting.  Your dark warnings that a vote for Bob Stanfield was a vote for having Margaret Atwood burned alive on the stage at Stratford, contain a sliver of prophecy.  So, primp up your costume, your spiffy tights and doublet.  You have made so much of these Biker chieftains, with their wife beating, niece fondling, witch burning ways, that now your evoking of their name has worked: and now they come onto the stage.  Now, I, Fenris Badwulf, am going to clap, and clap, and clap.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom

Sargon, the staff astrologer here at Mitchieville, is off at some Remote Viewing * seminar right now.   He left his notes behind, along with the textbook.  Being a lover of wisdom, and wishing to embrace a diversity of whatever it is other cultures have to have, even if it is Germanic * Paganism, I have taken the initiative and skimmed through his notes, text, and mixed up those tarot cards he keeps wrapped up in purple silk in that wooden box that my normally loyal and cute house cat, Mister Whiskers always attacks me whenever I try to open it.  I have duped the cat with catnip and that scratching swamp demon of a cat, Mister Whiskers, is now trapped in the kitchen.  And I have made a useful discovery:

Simply enough, by looking a well-constructed image, and, then consciously recalling the dream-language symbolism of the symbols in the image, you can unleash powerful forces for your own success.  Now, the adepts keep this all hush-hush.  They do not want you to know, unless you give them money.  But, I care.  I care about you and your well being, you happiness, your material comforts, and I want you to have everything you desire.  No questions asked.  So, from my quick sneak-peak of Sargon’s Remote Viewing notes, I can conjure up an experiment that will not only convince you that you should send me your money, but you will also have lots more money.  It is a win-win situation.

I have found a suitable image for my purposes.  Put aside for a moment your prejudices against the invisible knapsack of white privilege, and instead look upon this image as being visible, and not invisible…

Firstly, note the cross in the upper left hand corner.  The cross represents the balance of forces, the expansion of Jupiter in balance with the contraction of Saturn.  This is the universe where it wants to be, which is to say the perfected infinite.  The cross is black, a color evocative of the fifteenth tarot trump.  Now, Sargon notes here that the curved shape of part of the cross is evocative of the Moon.  There are eight curves, which, Sargon notes, makes this a symbol of the Moon in three dimensions.  The Moon is an opposing principle to that illustrated by the fifteenth tarot trump.  Hence, this cross in the upper left hand corner symbolizes the harmony of opposites, the infinite, manifested through the principles of Saturn and the Moon.  Merely by looking upon it, and recalling these facts, will evoke them in your life.  Which is good.

The central figure is an eagle, which is also seen in the Major Arcana Trumps 10, 14, 21, and 0.  Those are all fortunate trumps, except maybe for 21, but with 10, 14, and 0 against it, on the benefic side of the scales of karma, that big eagle is a powerful image for evoking good stuff in your life.   The fact it is black is good too, that means it partakes of the Saturnine property of manifestation.  Whatever happens, whatever mischief you conjure out of the invisible realms (one of the same places where the invisible knapsack of white privilege goes when you both have neither use for it nor the ability to see it) will become a tangible reality, and quick, thanks to Saturn.

Style features upon the eagle are the rather impressive crown.  A golden crown.  The tarot is full of golden crowns, so this is a correspondence to one of them.  Which is good, unless it is trump 15, or 16.  That would be bad.  And this should be discussed, because if the correspondence is to 15, or 16, you will bring down either a hostile angelic host (15), or some form of cataclysm (16).  We don’t want that to happen to us, now do we.

Fifteen or sixteen or neither. Sargon’s notes help here.  He writes that the crowned figure is indeed a correspondence to trump 16, however, it represents the intelligence, power, and agency that effects the destruction illustrated by that trump.  So, this creature is the lightning that strikes the tower, which is good.  There must be some people around you that could use an accelerated trip along the path of enlightenment, and could use a bit of excitement in their life, something that gives them first hand experience of the strong right arm of Strength and Justice.

Sargon had a bunch of other stuff written down, but I did not bother to read it.  What he wrote about the music is interesting, though, so I will include it.  Music, by definition, evokes trump 5.  And trump 5 is the one you use to tell the difference between good and false prophets. How can you go wrong when you listen to a sensible tune in four-four time?

So, give me one minute and twenty seven seconds of your time.  Listen to the music and look and the images, the shapes, the colors, and recall to yourself the meanings of them.  Other meanings, correspondences, will make themselves aware to you.  And, you will have unleashed the power of the Prussian War Machine on the Astral Plane upon those who displease you.

If you think about it, the Prussians were not so bad.  They were forced to be the best war machine in Europe.  The sight of the Prussian Army showing up was bad news for various and sundry despots.  It was a day of doom for many an Austrian chocolate monopolist, Polish beer baron, perfumed French snob, or Danish dice cheater, when the King of Prussia showed up with the latest weapons, an army made up of Prussians, with Prussian corporals, led by Prussian generals.  Unleash the power of your inner Prussian.

I love cats. And my efficient assistant, Sonjia DeSade, loves cats too, even if their cute little kitten claws put little cute marks in the latex catsuits that she likes to wear. And what happy memories I have of going to our publicly funded, politically unaccountable, and activist staffed animal shelter. Like most animal shelters, political beliefs and intimate relationships with socialist figureheads are more important hiring criteria than ability, inclination, or education. Keeping this in mind, Sonjia and I put on our Che Guevara t-shirts, draped kaffiyehs around our necks, and scented ourselves in patchouli.

His name is Buttons the Kitten, and he is a fast growing tabby cat.  The activist who was running the shelter that day,  Rasta-Richard, gave us excellent service even though he was suffering from the munchies and his eyes were blood-shot.  He assured us that Buttons was a tabby kitten, recently neutered, with all his shots.  The only concern was that Buttons was rather fond of eating house plants, unattended dope, computer cords (mouse cords; USB cables), leather shoes, leather gloves, and coats (particularly around the zipper ends), and was not litter trained.  A perfect kitten.   Sonjia and I love our cute little kitty Buttons the Kitten.  He has put on a lot of weight since we got him (which Rasta-Richard assured us on the phone when we called is normal for the tabby breed), and he has taken to waiting for the postal worker on his daily rounds.  He lurks in the shrubs (he so loves the snow!) and will flex his tiny cute kitten claws and slash his tawny tail while waiting for the postie to walk by.

Our postie, a slim fellow with a limp, never showed up Thursday.  Friday the postal inspector showed up, wondering where he had gone.  They found his hat and some torn, bloody rags in a patch of catnip I have in a copse just off my long driveway.  If only Buttons the Kitten could talk, maybe he was the last one to see his friend and knows what happened to him, his friend, the postie.  I would have shown Buttons the Kitten to the nice postal inspector, but he was sleeping inside on the steam radiator, sleeping off a big meal (based on the huge, swollen belly that Buttons had), even though he hasn’t touched his kitten kibble since the last morning we saw the postie.  The police, who just left, suspect foul play.  I know Buttons will miss his friend.  Personally, I suspect white right wing extremists, as only people who vote for Stephen Harper are criminals.  It is too bad there are bad men, specifically white heteronormative males with too much money that they don’t want to share as taxes with the unemployable, the illiterate, the degenerate, and the criminal.  I hope that Buttons is safe when he goes out to play today.

I took the cat bell off Buttons so that the evil white man cannot hear him if he is playing in the bushes beside the remote bicycle path.  My cute kitten Buttons likes to play outside, but not all the time.  Today, he is sluggish.  He gets like that for a few days, then he gets interested in the outsides again.  It is always a happy time when I let Buttons out to play.  He rushes out, like a lion after a gazelle.

Sonjia and I are very happy with our new friend from the animal kingdom, Buttons the Kitten.  Thanks to the activist at the animal shelter, whose admiration for Lenin along with a tongue stud and a gift for fellatio got him his job.  If that organization hired on ability, I might never have gotten Buttons the Kitten.

I cannot wait for the next federal election. Buttons will have a diversity of campaign workers to make new friends with, as they take the long walk down my driveway,  past catnip copse.

The strong and deterimined onset of winter has got everyone at work miserable.  They suffer.  The north wind, Boreas , hates their guts and is having a good time, watching the people being tortured by cold and snow.   As a devotee of Set, the Snake God, I can empathize with their spiritual anguish, as they suffer from slush, poor urban gas milage, and wardrobe failure. 

Many of my co-workers who are suffering under the lash of Boreas, are also going mad.  These people are Global Warming cultists.  In their religion, it was the hot south wind, Notus who was supposed to be hanging around right now.  Both are brothers, Boreas and Notus, but who sent Boreas?  This has upset the sanity of many Global Warming cultists, and you do not have to be anyone special to observe this around you, at work, at college, or on your commute to work. 

Driving people insane is not an unknown attribute of our diversity of deities that we, as Hyphenated-Canadians, have access to.  I was curious as to which pagan god I should offer up sacrifice to, so that I could stay away from any psychotic mass-killings that a crazed person, like the foamy-mouthed ones at work, were likely to dish up for future crime bloggers.

A little research shows that the last god to drive someone mad was the God of the Christians.  When the philosopher Nietzsche proposed a proof of the non-existance of God, God drove Nietzsche mad.  In this case, He used syphilis.  Now, there are a few other cases (*) , but they were long ago, so they do not count.  Apparently Nietzsche neglected to include the property that God can co-exist with both immovable objects and irresistable forces.  If you include this as a premise in Nietzsche’s proof, it falls apart.  You can speculate upon the motives of God, but that could get you off His Christmas list.

A little motivation.  Any good detective will tell you that motive is an important motivator, most of the time.  The timing of this planet wide blizzard was perfect, if you reverse engineer who gains most.   Obviously, God loves these people, and is giving them a clear sign at the most opportune, at their most psychologically vulnerable moment.  Global Warming cultists look pretty dumb when they are in a snow bound continent, especially as this started to happen during their big cult festival at Copenhagen.  Just dumb.   God just wants them to rethink their position, before something even worse happens to them.  Like go insane.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom

I am very upset over the illness of Rush Limbaugh.  His health can influence the politics of the worlds most powerful state, which is only a Roman Empire’s length from where I live.  And politics can influence the stock market, an unexpected influence for which certain of my future planned investment decisions (which I made with the friendly help of my Bank of Palermo Investment Strategist) would suffer in a negative fashion.  This no-win situation is bad management accounting.  So, I care.

I was talking to a co-worker at work today.  He said that he was so caring of loving of human life that he would sign whatever paperwork he had to do to give Rush Limbaugh his heart.  The beating heart out of his chest he would give, so as to keep the hated right wing from fragmenting and thus growing like the fresh neck stump of the dreaded Hydra, which would re-grow two snapping, venom dripping heads.  My co-worker is not a rightist, but a leftist, so this is a heartwarming example of human compassion.

Alas, this generous act of what is best in us as humans, could not happen because of the oppressive,  statist, collectivist bureaucracy.   Even my leftist co-worker, who is the sort of co-worker who takes two week cruises to the Caribbean where the male passengers wear drag, realized this.   His plan and my tactical investments were but a crater, like when a Lancaster comes down with a full load of gas and bombs just past where the runway grass ends.  Something had to be done to get Rush Limbaugh safe and accessible access to a new heart! 

A compromise solution, I suggested.  How about we give Rush Limbaugh someone elses heart? ’ What a great idea,’  my leftist co-worker, the ugly, bitter, drag queen with a day job, said.  We put together a short list of the sort of person we would look for.  Our candidate would have to have the right blood group, and that other science stuff, for an optimal solution.  Neither I, nor my leftist co-worker, whose show name is Vanessa, would know how to identify, prepare, extract, and transport, a fresh beating replacement heart for Rush Limbaugh.  We would need an additional member in our conspiracy.  Idealism aside, this will cost money.  Mercenaries are expensive to rent for a weekend,  so some investment capital is called for.  Airfare  for someone with a styrofoam cooler with a heart in it, on ice, would cost a heap of dough, alone.

Alas, I made him aware that he lacked sufficient funds to overcome the paperwork to make his wish come true.  But, after a phone call to my helpful Investment Strategist from the Bank of Palermo, I was amazed to discover that a Life Insurance Policy could be worked into an investment solution.  With a simple rub of the bottle of the genie of capitalism, we could make money for ourselves, more than enough to keep Vanessa in coquetteries for a year of lavender scented debauchery, and me for financing a Rightist coup d’etat  in London, Ontario. 

It was a caring, loving moment, and Vanessa wanted to cry as she looked over the vacation catalogue that depicted her future lifestyle of Caligulian decadence.  I too have plans, lists of names, places to see, and some to raze to the ground.  My dreams would come true, faster.  Truly, our obedience to the orders and directives of the Cult of Set, the Snake God will have rewarded us with bushels of money. 

Hmmm, but there are so many beating hearts out there that want to beat somewhere else, I said.  Why just stick this caper with just Rush Limbaugh?  Indeed, why just.  You can look at the human population as a Venn diagram, with one circle representing Recipients, represented by a dollar sign, and another circle representing Donors, represented by the  Ace of Spades.  Our job was to create a sustainable resource of Donors, provided in a timely, medically acceptable, fashion, for discerning Recipients, of quality and resources. 

I care.  I have co-workers who care. Vanessa cares.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom