Sargon of Akkad. We need more like this.
Archive for the ‘inside Mitchieville’ Category
Ah, other people’s money. This is the money of a bad person. Only bad people actually have money. Only the good people of the statist stripe can actually hand out other peoples money and make demands for more confiscated income. Right, er, Left? Anyway, those of us celebrating the Black Market end up with stacks of cash like this. No sales tax here.
The Toronto Transit riding experience is second to none. It is like a taste of Diversity. So, stick your tongue out there. This fine specimen is making a statement about acceptance of deviant sexual practices. You better not look, you better not cry, otherwise it is to the Human Rights Gestapo you go. The Gestapo never rides the subway, never much moves amongst the plantation creatures they have raised up. They do collect pay checks to supervise departments filled with minions. Go Figure. Oh, and take a few more dollars out of your pay check to subsidize this darling too. He needs housing, health care, and an arts degree. Everybody wants to be subsidized.
Like who wears a wetsuit into the bubble bath? And shoes, too. Maybe sex fetishists. Why not head on down to this place in Toronto and do some citizen journalist research. They have a video. There is no mention of Jack Layton anywhere. Why is that? This would be a good question for an intrepid explorer. And check out the diversity. This place better be diverse.
I do not know what this is. Well, actually, it is a molecular model of mustard gas. Two chlorine atoms on the end, with sulphur in the middle. Given our celebration of the stupid in our edum’cation system, I seriously suspect that the edum’cat’ed only know that mustard gas is bad. Like guns, only bad people have it. Yup. Mind you, for those with intellect and drive, they can teach themselves about stuff.
Good Morning Hyphenated-Canada! The Mayor is on vacation, a much needed rest. What with all the public transit being out of action (due to ‘repairs’) I am sure he is not off to downtown Toronto to visit the illegitimate children of his that reside there. Not much going on in downtown Toronto, aside from car struck cyclists being robbed by passers by. No mention of the race of the thief, nor the driver of the car … which means they ain’t white. Ho hum. No crime here. When are we going to get a white conservative MPP to rob a cyclist? Just make it up.
I like waking up into a society that punishes those that do not like it. My smile is fixed. Pedophilia and polygamy are on the activist check list. Trans actresses are beginning to muscle out real women (those disgusting normals) in the acting realm. Way to go feminists! Just put on your burqua potato bag.
Even Captain Capitalism has embraced accelerationism. You know, the reforms you seek will only come after decline and collapse, so accelerate the decline. Nice to see the Captain join the bandwagon. When in Toronto (the City of Light!) he can join the cabal of Set, the Snake God and join our turn left turns during rush hour club.
Thanks to the tireless efforts of the bureaucrats of the Mitchieville Public Library, Mitchieville is proud to spend other peoples’ money on a diversity of public spectacles towards the purpose of Pride Awareness. What the heck is Pride Awareness? Good question. For me, career civil servant and political partisan, it means diverting money into slush funds, re-election campaigns, staff debaucheries (whiskey, dope, and whores), and property investments. First Nations Chiefs are studying my methods. Yup. But for you, the wallet raped victims of the confiscators of income, it means some sort of public festival with a vague allusion to them Queers. And I, Fenris Badwulf, Minister of Re-Education in Mitchieville have given clear direction to William C. Monkey, Chief Financial Officer of Mitchieville, to spend one dollar of every hundred received on transvestite displays, gluten free condoms, and discount whores for the discerning lot lizard connoisseur. Bread and Circuses await you in Mitchieville during Pride Week …
You have asked yourself this question many times, I know. The Mayor is someone who stands up for his people, as this picture shows. Here the Mayor is shown addressing the Hoodie scourge, those Hoodies who have been bringing crime and disease into our Mitchieville. Time to take out the trash
Fenris Badwulf has an open desk policy. This is what the upper right hand desk drawer contains. You can form your own opinions about him. You can learn a lot about (right handed) people from what they keep in their upper right hand desk drawer. This picture does not show the shotgun that can ‘clear the room’, nor the trap door switch. Ha ha ha.
You gotta cry for the storm victims of that big American city. I was sitting around the map table, in the map room, of the survivalist community where I live, work, and play. Imagine, with only five days warning all those poor people managed to get in the way of preparations was nothing but empty hopes that the layer cake of the state would look after them: food, clothing, and diapers. One of my community mentioned that, in Toronto, you could get a winter coat for a dollar at a certain chain of used clothing stores if you asked. The helping hand you are looking for is at the end of your wrist, eh what? Not much more I can say: we live in a country without freedom of speech. Fo’shizzle’dizzle blood.
Living in a bunker complex is fun. I left my invisible knapsack of white privilege on the surface. When the time comes, I will pick it up again. I can saddle up with the four horsemen and go riding into the city of light and hand out the contents to all the Tapeworm-Canadians. I will smile. Social Justice feels good.
Does this picture offend you? It sure offends me. The suppression of the Protestant Shame Culture is summed up in this picture. And some other stuff, too. I liked Protestant Shame Culture: remember when it was shameful to collect unemployment insurance? Get a job, you bum. Ha ha ha. Remember when you judged people on an individual basis, not as groups? I wonder what replaced the Protestant Shame Culture. We can judge people as groups now. Too many N-people in prison means racism, not a whole bunch of criminals that happen to be N-people. Too many men in positions of power, too many white people with jobs. Don’t forget to dumb down standards so stupid people won’t feel stupid. Blah blah blah. I miss Protestant Shame Culture.
Good luck with that, asking people not to spit that is. I had the misfortune of traveling to Toronto, the city of light. I was the only white person on the subway car. The N-people were blocking the doors. Well, only three of the four doors; and only seven of the ten N-people. It is a cute cultural trait. The other tribes were behaving in accordance to their stereotypes. I sure hope that disease is no longer spread by spitting. What about coughing with your mouth open, or wiping your snot on the hand rails? I guess that law was repealed by the socialists. Besides, we have universal health care.
Getting back to the tragic victims of hurricane Sandy … I think what we need is more government funding for disaster awareness. People need to be taught that the things they need to do to get government assistance in a disaster. Ha ha ha. The Great Dying is coming. Those who are prepared will survive.
I am busy.
Inside Mitchieville features the Kitchen, that place where our nourishment is prepared, families are nurtured, and the second most popular place to engage in sex, according to a survey. People just do not talk about all the sex they have in the kitchen. It certainly explains the arrangement of foodstuffs in the cupboards, though.
For every time you have sex in the bedroom, people are having sex in the kitchen at least half. Edible lubricants are easily found in the kitchen, and it does explain the sticky, yes The Sticky. Everyone knows what I am talking about, but nobody talks about it. That is what the survey found out. Some people will say I am crazy, but they need aversion therapy*. Should I dress as a doctor, or a nurse?
There are sexual connotations to clothes we wear for work, or hobbies, apparently. Some people like to dress up for sex. I cannot show those sorts of pictures here on a family oriented site like Mitchieville. If you want to see twisted perverts you can head downtown Toronto, to the whores quarter at the foot of Yonge street. At one time in our society we would just ignore each others kitchen sexual activities. Times have changed. Now people are joining re-enactment societies, like the Kornilov battalion * forming in Ottawa. Messing with peoples kitchen sexuality leads to problems? No problem here.
I have a girlfriend whom I left. It was sad, but I had the foresight to keep her heart. I keep it in the basement, which is also a pantry. We never had sex in the basement, which has a kitchen (beside the pantry), but down there where food is prepared and human life is nurtured is where I keep her heart. The survey reflected this as well: We keep amulets and tokens of past loves and future hopes in our kitchens. And, this is interesting, the location and access to our kitchens speaks about out hopes, fears, and dreams. People who work to bring about their dreams in the basement are effective, the survey says. I am going to take out my girlfriends heart and put it on a shrine of jams and jellies.
Your kitchen sexual orientation is your business, at least it was before. I am coming out of the pantry, myself: I am a kitchen sexual. Wash your hands before you eat, and always wash the vegetables. From surveillance video available at the Supreme Central Library of Mitchieville it is readily apparent that kitchen sex is common and satisfying. You can increase your sex life by a third by initiating sex in the kitchen, apparently. The latex clothing comes later: to protect your skin from scratches and bites, and to give something you cannot grip, if lubricated. Frustration and fun, you can find them both, along with dinner, in your kitchen. Science is amazing!
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.
You would never guess that this girls name is Erika. She works as a librarian at the Supreme Central Library of Mitchieville. I caught up with her when she was having a break outside in the wonderful Global Warming weather we are having in Ontario right now. She loves her job in the library. She was a ghost writer for Ph.D papers before she came to us here in Mitchieville. Apparently, the market for ghost writers in academia is drying up now that most universities hire tutors, mentors, and life skills coaches for our diversity Ph.D candidates. Erika is studying chemistry out of personal interest, and is active in the Peenemunde club at the Library. If you are interested in Hypergolic fuels, come to the library and participate, learn, and explore. Welcome, Erika!
Another red head, but from a different bottle. Can you ever be really sure this day. Only Set, the Snake God knows for sure, let us face it. I never even think to ask, I only accept things at face, er, hair color, value. But you must ask yourself: does that affect the color of the hair on the voodoo doll you are using of your girlfriend? Answer: use some of her own dyed hair on the voodoo doll. Be a doll and if you have access to their bathroom, you have access to their heart.
Milk awareness month begins as soon as the incompetent bureaucrats in Ottawa, Toronto, and whatever rats nest they call home; sends us the check. If you are one of those politically correct types with a lactose intolerance issue, come into Doctor Rasputin’s clinic for some stem cell therapy to clear up that little problem. The good doctor uses cat stem cells: they like milk. Maybe you should too. Having a lactose intolerance makes you vulnerable to genetically keyed weapons that are being developed, or so we hear. You want to be a winner in the Age of Latex. No need to be tied up with repression.
Cannot wait to get that new family of secret weapons out of the bunker and into action? Centralized governments are no match for those adapted weapons you looted off a crashed UFO? You have your minons decked out in spiffy minon outfits, a cross between Sons of Anarchy and, uh, Mormon Missionary? Indeed, time to unleash the face melting weapons, the attack ants, and the rabies dispenser in the restaurant hand dryer. And lose the blondes; red heads make better attack cadre. Crimson sky is the code word to unleash Total War upon those that violate Property Rights. The cookies are nearly done. Have a toasty fresh plate by your computer console in the bunker when you toggle off the Weapons of Madness.
Die, Main Stream Media, Die.
I should have put this up on the Valentines Day post, but it got left behind for the Valentines Day aftermath post. What does the picture say to you? Does it have a story? Sure it does: the cat ate the canary, and this is a metaphor for love. I think. Unless the two hearts represent the tarot card two of hearts. In fact there is a pair of twos, and a pair of twos. the gloves and the decorations. Go ask a Kabbalist.
In the aftermath of Valentines Day, you have to ask yourself what strange pagan gods are moving in to replace Christianity. Who cares? The unobservant white guilt slurpers are too aroused over the smiting of their perceived Christian rivals have their eyes stuck shut with wad. I wonder what the followers of Wotan think about abortion? I wonder. I will find out, I guess. In the aftermath of Valentines Day, babies and abortions are sure to follow, as ax fells tree.
What did you really do for Valentines Day? A little rough sex, some bruises, and then that volcanic release? Pictures now up on your twitter account? Some videos? We can talk about this stuff now, we are sexually liberated. Unless you are not. Quite a few of the sexual subspecies are not embraced. Child molesters, for one. They have a lobby, by the way. Associated with the left. Is this a good political strategy? Is there a safe word in rough sex that could be applied, like a metaphor, to politics? When is enough glugging of the white guilt enough? The lash hurts, but it should neither sting nor leave a permanent mark. Then again, watching the leftists torn apart limb from limb might be amusing. Mmmmm.
Redistribution of wealth. Did you get robbed on Valentines Day? I do not mean taxes. You get robbed by taxes every time you conduct a non black market transaction. Those taxes go to support policy and administration that is incapable and incompetent enough to not solve the crime problem, shown here. So you get robbed twice. At least with prison anal rape they only ejaculate once per rapist.
My hero, Maximinus Thrax. You should read up about him, or watch the video * . The first of the soldier emperors in the transition of the Roman Republic to Roman Empire. Actually he was more a creature of the Empire, the transition from the Senate lead Empire to the Soldier lead Empire. Makes you really appreciate the world’s smartest man, Obama, darling of the perfumed and painted lipped media aristocracy. If you have a bit of time and can explore the chaotic time after the ‘five good emperors’ you can really see that history never repeats itself unless the lefties say so. Economic depression is not a famine, nor are foreign barbarians barbarians. No solider presidents for the U S of A. Heck no.
What says I love you on Valentine’s Day more than a gift of roses, red roses? Perhaps tied at the bottom with six feet of black sash cord, to show you care? The red roses indicate love, the rope shows your unflinching devotion. The struggle of love is sweet, the coy turning of eyes, the subtle gestures, the secrets in your heart. Here a tart wears the heraldry of the day of love. The red, the hearts, the biteable lips slick with flavored gloss. Do sign the card A Secret Admirer, to add some spice of mystery. Or use a pseudonym, like Jack. The women in your life can doll themselves up on that special day of love. They have painted lips, and scented skin. Bind yourself to them, bind your love for each other together. O, how romantic.
Valentines Day has to be inclusive, which means including things not really related to Valentines Day. These two are waiting for Story Time with Grandpa. Normally (what with normal being racist, sexist, and what not), Story Time with Grandpa would not be a part of Valentines Day. You could stretch things to include the twins here, but it would be a stretch. The day is associated with love, not specialty sex with specialty hookers. But after the progressives shoe horned sex into love, could everything non not be far behind? Bend over and take another seven inches of white guilt. As for the two sweet meats here waiting for their blue privilege tokens, some advice: do not let them tie you up. They will drain and sell your blood.
Love has that element of devotion, which the feminists of flawed judgement consider bad. Sure, dress a woman in a potato sack, drown her in a car, or just murder them in the womb is OK, but devotion is not. A picture tells a thousand words, but there are ten thousand words worth of picture missing from this frame. This wench, are her hands tied, or does she wear gloves and hold a riding crop? Which officer in the hierarchy of Set, the Snake God is she holding the key for? Are the secrets of the universe written in braille on her vagina? Is that really love, or progressive spill?
This picture speaks of love of country, manifested as that romantic love of women for the men going off to fight. Men have always fought for women, for protection, for conquest. These are soldiers of the White Army, long vanquished, but their spirits are coming back from the dead. Are they back for love, or revenge, or to avenge the ones they loved?
Be cynical, Valentines Day is over. Swept away as so much fluff, till the next year. Will this years Valentine be next years? Ask your astrologer, and cast a love spell. Pucker your lips and hope for that eternal love even in an age of kindness that goes away. As you face the one you currently love, both of you lie to each other about eternity. The soul quests for such affection: the soul mate; the lying state, led by deviants, child minds, and crack pates, preaches the spiritless temporary to the spiritual infinite. The Age changes from Pisces to Aquarius. Mithras, who rules such things, readies his broom
Shoes. They connect us to the earth, Mother Earth. Where would we be without shoes? Probably the place the environmentalists are taking us: the muddy middle ages. Me, I would rather appreciate shoes for the messages they communicate about the personality of the wearer. Spank me if I am wrong.
I cannot really tell what sort of boots this tart is wearing. They lace up to the top. That means, what? that this girl pays attention to detail, appreciates order, and can work with others. Probably a math major in Combinatorics and Optimization. The gloves, belt, and boots are all black leather: they coordinate, which gets us back to Linear Algebra. Just run your eyes over those painted lips; and the scented skin, from soap, shower wash, and perfume. Mmmmm. This evokes a sense of peace and desire, like a bee for a flower, a fawn for some grass, or a wolf for a lamb. I wonder if this girl in the woods has a little red riding hood. What else is missing? Maybe a riding crop.
Did footwear cause this accident? Was it an underprivileged youth out in a hurry to attend a job interview? An activist out to perform volunteer work to help the underprivileged youth of their community? Maybe a queer progressive, with size 12 stiletto pumps. Maybe some neighbor put WD 40 on their squeeky brakes. Somebody cares.
Taking care of your boots shows responsibility. Someone is keeping these boots polished up with that black Kiwi polish. With spikes like that, they are probably difficult to walk in. Standing would be OK, but walking to Tim Hortons for coffee, perhaps not. You could drive, though. Nice driving gloves. But would wailing on the dash board with that riding crop be like using a cell phone while driving? Something to keep in mind. Distractions, distractions.
After the shoes, comes the socks. Your choice of socks reflects on the personality you espouse with your shoes. Do you not think so? Not as much of a statement as the music you listen to, of course. What can you hear in the background, here? Use your imagination. You know this girl paints her lips and scents her skin. Just let your mind touch her soul, with a caress. She must be the pretty sister of Ronald McDonald: same hair, same taste in bold, stripey socks. Maybe when the courts order that burger chain to have a bisexual spokesperson then Ronald can wear spikes like his tart sister.