Archive for the ‘Fenris’ Category

Fenris Badwulf, caring person

Friday, September 21st, 2018

Someone has to be Human Resources Manager for Mitchieville, and that someone is me. I live in an administrative hell: state regulations, corporate rules, and the unspoken norms of behavior that evade the one way justice of the informants and provocateurs of the Human Rights Tribunals. I am the one who wields Occam’s Shovel: if the diversity hire urinates in the paper recycling bin; that is diversity is strength and their reward is a paper hat; if the non-diversity mutters about urine a-slosh, stinking up the office, and making coffee break time a time of nausea and discord, then a paper trail of administrative actions must appear in files and meeting room schedules, sufficient to delude the inquisition that everyone expects to come, efficient enough to allow the workers to keep working, and complicit in appeasement enough to convince the diversity that a paper hat is a Crip culture token of a reparations wide screen TV.

Keep on reading!

Progressive Public Farting

Monday, August 6th, 2018

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.

From the Desk of the Darklord

Wednesday, October 4th, 2017

I am trying to find a picture of whats-his-name, the diversity guy who won the NDP leadership. There are pictures of him everywhere. The progressives really have their tongues up their rectum for this one.

Dark rumors have it that the trans-progressives infiltrated the NDP with members to secure his victory. I have never heard of progs infiltrating anything to shift things around. Never. Go talk to some of your old-core, hard-core Bolshevik friends … they do not know who voted for the guy. Of course not. Trans-progs slithered in and did it. Har har har.

Dark Rumors are that the actual guts of the NDP (you know, the ones who actually work campaigns, make phone calls, place signs) are ghack vomiting over the elevation of this wet dream for white guilt slurpers.

My Ouiji board
tells me that whats-his-name will be the end of the NDP. Do not believe me? Does not anything the trans-progs infiltrate just shrivel up and die? You know it is true.

My Crystal ball tells me that the labor movement … the real one that represents people who work … has had the derelict scab of the leadership of the NDP torn off. The proletariat is leaderless yet again. Hmmm. While the Social Parasite Party gains strength and prepares to absorb the NDP into the arms of the Stalinist beurocracy, the over taxed and over regulated working class is out looking for leadership … a leader. Will it be Peron? Franco? Cromwell? Go figure.

A prediction. Just like whats her name of the Wild Rose bolted for the Alberta conservatives, you can add the migration of this white guilt dream boat to the party of Trudeau. I said it first. Expect some charges of the usual racism and sexism and ismism; and he gets a cabinet post.

I, the Dark Lord, wrote this, from my desk.

Horoscope for the week

Saturday, September 23rd, 2017

Select clients of Sargon the Magnificent, the world’s foremost financial astrologer, can now have instant access to personalized chart interpretation. It is in italics after the general notice. Understand?

Aries: Look to the artistic genius of Sonny Bono for inspiration. You will win the love of the one you love with clever japes and sleight of hand. As for the pesky, take them to the swamp.
Aries in Etobicoke: The shipment from our friend in St.Petersburg should arrive at Toronto airport on Wotan’s Day. Practice your Finnish anecdotes and bon jours for an evening of libation.

Taurus: A special opportunity to make someone smile at Christmas happens while shopping this week, Taurus. Give yourself those shoes you have been lusting for.
Taurus in Don Mills: Brush up your calculus …. some components from a phased array radar system will find their way to the warehouse on Osler with the Tuesday delivery. Check the manual. If it looks good, inform Stavros.

Gemini: Recommend a bad dentist to an enemy. Take advantage of the decline in standards to improve your own. Ultimately, you alone must decide if your shoes are comfortable.
Gemini at TDSB: The new synthetic is available for your enjoyment and profit. I’m sending you five hundred. Let’s do some feedback from the high school kids, too.

Cancer: A delightful feast awaits you, brought at the hands of a stranger. Your secret admirer will make an offer of a secret liaison.
Cancer the electrician: Your name is showing up in the wrong databases. Go back to driving the truck. The ‘57 T-bird is too conspicuous.

Leo: Avoid large fleet actions until after you have personally inspected the lifeboats. A nest of rats is discovered at an embarrassing time.

Leo at Davenport: This laboratory work you are doing is impressive. You are doing a great job! Expect an extra thousand in your packet and a blue privilege token. Thank you from me and the gang!

Virgo: If you are squeemish about the use, or absence, of false teeth during lovemaking, you are better advised to silence, as you could offend a wealthy patron.
Virgo who commutes: That minion I told you about is both incompetent and treacherous. Your soft heart is spreading to your head (and then to your purse). Ghaack. Thrax will be in town Tuesday if you are feeling squeemish for final solutions.

Libra: Be discrete in your mistrust of the person packing your parachute. Someone around you is due for a fall from grace.
Libra on Redpath: Have minions capable of handling the barrels of hypergolic fuels in the Friday shipment. No slip ups!

Scorpio: When your serving knave passes the poisoned flagon to the wrong party, be prepared to laugh it off.
Scorpio on vacation: Thank you for the thoughtful Christmas fruitcake. Mom and Dad wolfed it down with that new formula Scotch. Our friends in Tokyo would like five thousand kiloliters of the X-20161112 batch for a taste. Largo will contact you with shipping details.

Sagittarius: Have an open mind to new experiences. This means being covered in icing sugar and licked all over. You will deepen a friendship.
Sagittarius with dog: Just tell people it is ’self talk’. When you mention ‘hearing voices’ it can upset some people. It is their fault, really. They do not understand the lengths to which you will go to express your genius.

Capricorn: You will discover an extension to your powers of telepathy that is triggered (and powered) by music with kettle drums.
Capricorn with chocolate: The reason the time travel chamber is left in a mess is because people are thoughtless and do not think of others. Clean up after yourself (coffee cups, pizza boxes, paper plates) please. Once we get past the anniversary of the Battle of Warsaw, things will slow down.

Aquarius: Music of the French Revolution will put a spring in your step and hope in your heart, Aquarius. Make a proscription list.
Aquarius in the Junction: These are the expected side effects of a transplant of rat testicles. Of course you are interested in different foods. It is normal and natural.

Pisces: A sinkhole will swallow up a vexing problem at a most opportune time. If you can remember what you wrote on the ground at that spot last spring, you can repeat the experience.
Pisces in Orton: Get rich quick on the stock market this week. Look to United States Steel for your pot of gold, you capitalist opportunist. Further details can be had from the ouiji board. Ask for Clem of Cambridge.

Total Victory calls for Total War

Tuesday, September 19th, 2017

Catchy title.

Now that the lunar eclipse is safely in the past, I can resume posting.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Tales of the Tree Chipper

Wednesday, January 4th, 2017

The Cult of Set, the Snake God seeks to manipulate and master the forces of Chance for the purpose of financial advantage of its adherents. The Cult is a secret society, a fraternity of secret combinations which holds loyalty to itself above respect for law or morality.

You awake in the morning.
The weather is bad. Snow. Freezing rain. Darkness.

Holding your morning cup of coffee, you summon thoughts of Victory. Victory coffee! The legions of state and municipal authority! The apparatus – tirelessly working to plow snow, apply salt, and encourage safe practices! Hurrah! Those defeatist thoughts of crumpled cars and spilled wreckage are banished from your mind. You are safe in your home. Your toes are toasty in your fuzzy tartan slippers. Today is a stay at home day for you. Work from home on your under capitalized home business; tomorrow it is back to your temporary, part time job working for Shitty Ego Crushers and Company. You are safe, and your family is safe from this ill-omened icy driving weather.

(more…)

The Perfection that is the Progressive Future

Wednesday, February 3rd, 2016

In the morning, before school started, all the students would sing California is the perfect place for people. Our hero, Brit, used to be one of those students. He now listens to the students singing as he waits by the side of the road, waiting for a car to pass. Brit is a dancer, there are three of them in the mountain village of Che. To show how happy they are, the mountain village of Che (which has a breathtaking view of the valley) have their village dancers do tribal dancing. Brit was chosen by the school shaman at an early age to be a dancer; Brit was also identified as trans-gendered (at age five, again by the school shaman) and was put in the education and health care stream for such people. Lucky Brit! Such is the progressive future in California. And in the future, better place that it is, the gendered pronoun thing did not quite catch on. Brit is still called a He, even if he has state health care double d boobs on his slim frame, still has his penis and testicles, and underfunding and law suits means no hormones, but he does get sex trade worker training.

WARNING! Are you offended? Do not press to continue.

(more…)

Maybe it is time

Thursday, March 12th, 2015

Coming into the brotherhood that is the cult of Set, the Snake God, is mutually beneficial.

You have tried the little experiment. A bowl, some coins, a childs figurine of a crocodile or alligator. Yes? From the excited emails and phone calls I have received, you report success. Ah, success. A twenty dollar bill lying on the street for you to use, to spend! Nice.

But what of those who used something other than a bowl, or put bills into the bowl and not coins, or put a monkey on top, rather than a crocodile or alligator?

They report … strange events. Unexpected demands on their cash flow: A wife calling from the county lock up on charges of distracted driving. The price of coffee has risen at your favorite coffee shop. Gangbangers have taken to public urination outside the local shopping mall.

This work is like that of being a chef.
You have ingredients. They are added in sequence, using the right containers. A corning ware casserole dish is not the same as a bowl. A monkey is not the same as a crocodile. Ten dollar bills are not coins.

You do not have to be a rocket scientist to realize that substitutions do not work with Set, the Snake God. And, the effectiveness of your communications with Set, the Snake God can be improved. Maybe you want a bag of money, more than just a twenty on the sidewalk. A gym bag full of money. For you. To use, to spend! Yes.

You ask yourself, how do I improve my bowl/coins/crocodile recipe? Good question. You ask yourself, what happens when I try the bowl/coins/monkey recipe?

All your questions can be answered. But let me ask you a question: If you are hungry for more, what is Set, the Snake God hungry for?

Make a drawing of what you want in your present life. Do it on a large piece of paper. Upon the drawing, place figurines of things you want, people you want in your life, and things that reflect your desired station. A toy car will do for your dream car. Two cows will represent prosperity. Use your imagination.

Indeed, Set, the Snake God eats people. Someone is falling into a wood chipper as you read this. The open elevator shaft, the transformer explosion, the train that hits the station wagon … The list is long. You may serve Set, the Snake God as an entree. We all do, in the end. Better to be a waiter, even better to be a chef. Like all appetite driven creatures, Set, the Snake God has likes and dislikes. Roast beef dinner is better than cold turnip mush. Indeed. So, when you help Set, the Snake God to another helping of mashed potatoes, Set, the Snake God will help you to a bag of money.

Experiment with your diorama.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Maybe it is time

Wednesday, March 11th, 2015

Coming into the brotherhood that is the cult of Set, the Snake God, is mutually beneficial.

You can try this at home:

If you want money to come into your life, put some coins into a bowl. Cover the bowl with a saucer. Upon the saucer, place one of those kids plastic toys that look like a crocodile or alligator.

When you are satisfied, I can supply you with a prayer scroll (to be burnt to ashes, so be prepared) and simple instructions to boost your return.

There are, or course, other things you can do at home.

Let me know if you are interested, and I will tell you more.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

From the desk of the Darklord

Friday, March 6th, 2015

You cannot have a disintegration chamber without an electrical distribution system. Maybe you have been watching too many Hollywood movies. Disintegration chambers are heavy, and are placed on top of a concrete pad. So we are looking at a ground floor location, or in the basement. The apparatus needs shielding: cheap drywall and some metal studs will not do the job. Soundproofing, some easy clean up wall coatings (tile is nice, for that East German look), and sensible doors.

You need dependable minions to design, install, operate, and maintain your disintegration chamber. This means dealing with a Union contractor. The non-Union construction sector is incapable of doing new built installation for disintegration chambers. To get the concrete in the ground, the plumbing in the floor, and the wires in the wall, means working with organized labor. Union workers are predictable: they are motivated by money, entertained by schadenfreude, and great consumers of liquor, weed, and whores. No need to waste the good stuff on these crude primates, which is even better.

Toronto Hydro is the largest utility in North America. When you need those thousands of amperes to spark up your disintegration chamber, look to the helpful people at Toronto Hydro. You can even get your peak demand load for free with some back channel networking. A case of beer, or the attentions of a specialty prostitute, when given to the right person, can get you an un metered hookup.

The Problem of World Hunger

Wednesday, February 18th, 2015

I burst into tears when I read about World Hunger. Nobody on Earth should be hungry. That is my core issue. When the world is fed, then all other problems will be solved. But it is not easy to forget the other creatures here that we share the Green Earth of Gaia with. They are hungry too.

I remember the first time I thought outside of the box and solved the problem of world hunger. I was in high school; I fed the parts of my lunch that I did not want to eat to a flock of seagulls. I was on a field trip to Toronto. Those poor seagulls. They reminded me of that book character, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. They appreciated the lunch supplied by the school board.

From then on, every time I came to Toronto, I found excuses to feed the sea gulls. When I went to University, I started to feed squirrels and ducks.

Actually, the University I went to had a bear in an enclosure in the big park that I walked through from home to campus. They do not have one now, but they did then. One weekend, I had had an argument with my, then girlfriend, when I had a good idea: I would take one of the shoes she had thrown at me and fill it with hamburger and give it to the bear. It worked! The bear snacked down on that! The shoe was shredded, as only a bear can do while chewing a shoe. I had taken a negative and turned it into a positive.

Instead of donating the ex-girlfriends wardrobe to some capitalist front clothing donation bin, I found different, cheap, easily available foods to stuff into items of clothing. Mister Squirrel likes peanuts stuffed into a pair of mittens. Raccoons like leftovers stuffed into gloves, socks, or shoes. Skunks like turned refrigerator foodstuffs.

As you are reading this, a difficult and challenging winter has descended upon our Outdoor-Canadians.

You can share your bounty, your privilege with them. If you are in Toronto, you can go down to the waterfront, where the sea gulls live. Throw them the contents of your kitchen green bin. When you have turned meats, you can put them in an old pair of gloves, or sock, or toque, and feed them to some ground dwelling rotten meat eater. Teach our fellow travelers on the Spaceship Earth that the Hand of Man is a handout, a handshake of friendship; and not an angry fist, raised in violence. Raccoons and skunks should see your mittens or socks and think happy thoughts of food, not bad scary thoughts of fear and flight.

My eyes are wet with tears and I cannot write any more.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Diary of Irresponsible Government

Sunday, February 8th, 2015

The driving experience in Toronto is a snapshot into the inner state of the great progressive experiment that is being heaved onto our heads by our irresponsible leaders. My observations are personal anecdotes, and completely distant from the standards of journalism and Global Warming science.

Being crafty, I live only a twenty minute drive from my place of work. I never have to take the major highways (401, DVP, 427, …) on my morning commute to work, nor on my afternoon return home. Ha ha, I have it easy! Not so. Since starting this commute, some six months ago, I count the number of driving infractions I see.

In Toronto, it is rare for a driver to signal lane changes or turns. From experience I watch their wheels to second guess where the progressive driver wishes to go. Every day for the last six months I have counted at least one failure to signal. Big deal you say. Indeed. Just drive on the defensive.

At night, the number of my fellow drivers who drive without headlights, without running lights, runs to one every two to three days. On one special occasion, there were two head lightless drivers. Big deal you say. Toronto is filled with street lights. Who needs head lights? For that matter, drivers in the progressive urban setting like to drive with their high beams on. This happens, oh, at least twice a week. And every day there are those with a headlight, signal, or tail light just not working.

In the early morning, before sunrise, the streets of Toronto have their share of joggers and cyclists. Even in winter. Joggers like to run on the road, with their backs to traffic, and wearing trendy black sports gear. This is the standard, not the exception. People walking dogs, though, they use the sidewalk. I have yet to see a cyclist who uses hand signals to indicate turns. The majority of cyclists will run stop signs and red traffic lights. They do not even slow down to give the illusion that they are aware of the peril they place themselves and others in. When the sun rises, the jogger and cyclist behavior is the same.

The Danforth is notorious for drivers driving backwards down the street.

Let us park. Anywhere. One may complain about the choked streets, sluggish commutes, and inexplicable delays. The Toronto driver is a scofflaw who thinks nothing of standing, stopping, or parking in Do Not Park zones. Delivery trucks will stop to deliver in dedicated right turn lanes … just check out St.Clair West any old day. Toronto has no parking during rush hour zones. Usually filled with parked cars. You can count them. I do. At least one a day; the record is seven.

Who cares? I know I don’t. I assume my fellow Toronto drivers are scofflaws. I expect them to turn left on red lights, barrel through stop signs, and open their doors in traffic. Let the other drivers, cell phone distracted, to plow into them. Let Darwin do his job, I say. Let the night joggers in black get plowed under by some darkened car. Let the cyclists get crunched by a door, squished by a left signal, right turn combination driver, or just crushed by a cell phone chatterer. I drive with caution, I drive slow, and I drive undistracted. You do the same. But what of all that money, that confiscated income, taken by the state to provide services? Is there not a constabulary responsible for enforcing the Highway Traffic Act? Some sort of impediment to the left turn on red light tribe, a watch dog to deter distracted drivers, an enforcer of parking laws? In my youth, the dominant white male patriarchy frequently pulled over wayward white devils for missing signal lights, rolling stops, and mid intersection parking. Today, are they asleep? Or just too busy with diversity seminars, and too wise to mess with the victims of the legacy of racism for fear of facing some hissing, spitting progressive white guilt slurper?

These transgressions occur daily, frequently, and across a short time frame. Do the math. If this is only a one hour slice of a narrow reality, then what is going on in the greater Toronto? The Toronto driver is a scofflaw, the roads are a death trap for the unwary, and the constabulary are career wisely avoiding confrontation in preference for the warmer classroom of bullshit meetings. Of course, I could complain to The Authorities. Sure. I could collect license plate numbers, makes and models. Sure. That would work. Do you think it would work? Do you think it would work to modify human behavior, make the streets safer, and generally bring about the rainbow utopia where unicorns roam free. My money is on silence. I will drive slow and cautious. Let Darwin do his job. Darwin works, and he is free. Traveller, be warned.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.