Archive for the ‘Joy of Homelessness’ Category

The Vocation of Drudgery

Monday, January 16th, 2017

The vocation of drudgery begins on the morning commute on public transit. Only people who work and transit in Toronto are so blessed. The unwashed, dung encrusted Scum-Canadians who crawl out their worm existences beyond the bright light of spirit that is Toronto can but gurgle out their one hope in life: to move to Toronto, there to complete their social duty as taxpayer and Liberal voter.

The morning commute. It begins.

The guy beside you. He squirms. Does he have bedbugs? The city is doing its best. They must be. Their friends in the media never report on bedbugs.

He is squirming again. That guy. Squirming like bedbugs are crawling over his scrotum. Does he know he has bedbugs? You never scratch yourself there in public. He does not want anyone to know. He looked around to see if anyone on the crowded subway car could see him try to scratch off the bedbugs crawling on his scrotum. There is a social stigma associated with bedbugs. There is a social stigma associated with rubbing your genitals in public, too. But bedbugs do not have a float in the parade, now do they? The dominant racist patriarchy does not like bedbugs.

Stop squirming! You close your eyes. Eye contact is bad on public transit. Eye contact is rape. It is 2017. It is cold on the subway. The subway driver forgot to turn on the heat. Maybe he has bedbugs. Maybe he has bedbugs, bad. He sits for hours in a seat. Many people with bedbugs sit close to him. They like to crawl, bedbugs. It is their culture.

The squirming again.
The skin crawling bedbugs, they like warmth. It is warmer in the crack of the ass. Bedbugs do not need air to breathe. Not like people. No air in the squirming mans ass crack, but it is warm. No heat in the subway, yet. Cold keeps them from crawling too far. The driver sure know his bedbugs. He squirms too. And he can scratch his privates in his private drivers booth.

The squirming guy! Stop squirming. You open your eyes, only looking down, at shoes, boots, and sandals. Who wears sandals in winter? Do not look up! Look down. There is a black speck on the foot of the person wearing sandals in winter. Is that a bedbug? Small bedbugs are tiny. They crawl slow; slower in the cold.

It is your stop. Stand up, do not look. No eye contact. Go to work.

The Vocation of Drudgery.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Conrad cares, too

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

What is really important is caring about people. I know people who care. The Mayor cares, of course. But, we all have friends here at Mitchieville. Living or Dead, anybody named Conrad is a solid guy. One whose word is as good as his bond. A British Gentlemen with whom I do volunteer work.

My good friend, Conrad helps too. He is a very rich businessman, but he still cares. The lefties make fun of him, but if they only knew how he cared too, well, they would feel bad.

Anyway, we had a call the other night a few weeks back. Poor guy, he had lost everything. First his job, then his wife, his car, everything he valued in life. Well, not exactly that. He had been turned down for this promotion at work and was looking forward to losing his house, car, wife and Beatles disc collection. Well, actually, he needed the raise to cover his credit cards. This was a few weeks down the line, in the future. It had not yet happened, but this was enough, the worry, the self-doubt, the emotional pain, to make him want to be kill himself.

I met up with him at a bar, after we had talked a bit of the phone. A few drinks always helps. Conrad was able to call in on his cell. He has been out of the country for a bit, but he can still help out at the call in suicide center thanks to call forwarding thanks to the scientists, engineers, and employees of AT&T. So there I was, with beer and cell phone with this suicidal guy. I got some white rum into him. I even paid for it out of expenses.

Why kill yourself? I leaned forward and kinda whispered in that loud way you do in bars. How would you feel if I told you that there was a simple solution that would give you everything you wanted, deserved … I put emphasis on that word ‘deserved’, then reflected it with a similar word, ‘entitled’, you can get everything you are entitled too. You do not have to kill yourself.

The suicide looked at me like I was some jackass telemarketer selling him a bucket of steaming dog turd. I made eye contact and said, Like, suicide is a crime. If you botch the job, and you probably will, being as you are inexperienced at suicide, you will go to prison. Sorry, mate. I shrugged my shoulders, desperately seeking some way to stop this man from hurting himself. Conrad added his two cents: ‘If you are going to go to prison, you might as well get paid, get paid well for that time you serve.’

Of course, that is always an opening for Conrad to talk about his insurance experience. Sure, you can put a policy out on anyone. Just make the beneficiary someone who is not the killer. Like your dog, or house cat. Happens all the time. And because it is your dog, your housecat, you are the trustee of the money. Conrad went on and on, and the depressed guy became less and less suicidal, even if he still was unhinged. I whispered a prayer to Set, the Snake God. This man had been brought back from the brink of suicide.

Prison is not so bad, said Conrad. The food is actually quite good, and you get to hang around all day, goofing off, reading, getting a free university education. And when you get out, which will be soon, you will have more money than your job could have given you. Those sub humans who thwarted your just desire for a better paying job, well, they do not deserve to breathe air around you. They are unworthy. Spill their guts.

Octuple Indemnity. Apparently, the more grisly the murder, the more money the life insurance pays out. Conrad knows his insurance. Why use a gun? Use an axe, or a hammer. Only a crazed person would do such a thing. And being crazy will get you out of prison. Besides, first degree murder is the hardest to get a conviction on. Just write ‘I am here for revenge’ on the bathroom mirror at work. The prosecutor will throw his hands up in defeat. They best thing that will stick might be littering. Having a conviction like that is a career killer for any prosecutor. Just look at all the other cold blooded murderers that get out, all the time, get away with it, all the time. Now, it is your turn.

The suicide was a greenie, so I played up the Global Warming science of it all. Guns have a big carbon foot print. A ball peen hammer, is much smaller. Like the difference between a Marine’s combat boot, and an Apache moccasin. And you won’t be playing into the hands of the gun lobby when you take a camp hatchet into work and split some skulls. Look at Conan, he became King, or governor, or whatever. I showed him some youtube videos of medieval warfare. Just pointers. It was reassuring, even if he was drunk, and I could see the suicide drain out of him, even as I poured more white rum into him. Suicide is bad.

We ended the evening with distraction. We watched segments from different versions of the movie Treasure Island, which went well with the rum he was drinking. Anything to stop him from feeling bad about himself and wanting to hurt himself.

Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum.

I, Fenris Badwulf, I care.

from * February 16 of 2010

Sarah Jessica Parker – Why The Long Face?

Monday, October 26th, 2009


I’ll be honest though, her hair has never looked so sparkling and pretty. Must be all the oats she’s been eating.

**Thanks to Sober in a Nightclub for the pic

People That Make Out With Animals

Friday, October 23rd, 2009


I suppose of all the pictures I’ve posted this week of People That Make Out With Animals, this one has to be the most disgusting. Although, it seems Kelli Carpenter has finally come to her senses and gotten rid of the heifer in the giant blue tarpaulin on the right that you see. Yup, Kelli and her barnyard lover have broken up. And that made me think – why do bad things always happen to good people?

Hopefully Kelli can one day recover and find someone equally as dumpy, annoying, and shrill as that drippy yard mule Rosie O’Donnell. And hopefully Rosie will one day recover and get hit by a bus. Yes, I know the last sentence was a little offside, but believe me when I say I don’t wish that on any bus.

The Joy of Homelessness, part 10

Thursday, October 1st, 2009

One of the important aspects of the rehabilitation of the homeless is expanding their embrace of the non-Canadian multi-cultural tofu stew that is diversity…


Helping Fenris

Wednesday, January 7th, 2009

The last I heard of Fenris Badwulf, he was wandering the streets of London, Ontario. A broken man, down on his luck, without food or shelter, suffering from tuberculosis. His batch of white privilege had been eaten up and placed in the political correctness buffet (??). Every now and then Fenris puts a post up on Mitchieville, but when I try to track the IP#, it just comes up as unknown.

Although I can’t help Fenris financially (the office of The Mayor strictly forbids any monies changing hands between The Mayor and whomever), and although I can’t offer him shelter at The Manor (I’m in the middle of renovating), I can offer him some advice on how and where to get a decent meal and possibly a few dollars to help him help himself.


The Joys of Homelessness, part 9

Saturday, January 3rd, 2009

With only 363 days left until next years new years day, it is time to celebrate diversity and embrace any culture but Canadian by drawing attention to those wonderful new years resolutions that we should be supporting for ourselves and others. Now that I am homeless and have lots of money for booze, dope, whores, and smokes, I have decided to take up smoking.


Sayonara, Toronto

Sunday, December 28th, 2008

Being homeless in Toronto has lost its’ joy, and I am no longer joyeuse. Unlike my peers, the taxspenders who keep so many socialist social service workers in their heated offices, I have decided to leave Toronto for more hospitable climes.


Die Santa, Die

Tuesday, December 23rd, 2008

I used to like Christmas. Back before we had a Christless Christmas, it was better. I had a house, a car, a job, and clothes that did not smell of flea repellent then. Things have gotten worse for me, for I am homeless and have galloping tuberculosis. I hate Christmas, now. And being a victim, I can embrace divesity and empower myself and express my outrage over racism, sexism, and the lingering effects of colonialism in Africa by killing Santa. And I, as victim, am not responsible for my actions. So when I park a slug in Santa’s knee, his right knee first, then his left, it won’t be me pulling the trigger. It will be you, the taxpayer. Die Santa, die.


The joys of homelessness, part 8

Tuesday, December 16th, 2008

No, I did not get to sleep in the shelter last night. Instead, I had a job opportunity, gathering work experience. I got to sleep in the kitchen of the restauraunt owned by the socialist social services worker who suggested that I sleep in the kitchen, rather than my nice rack by the radiator in the shelter. They had a corporate function to cater, and my work experience was needed


The Joy of Homelessness, part 7

Friday, December 5th, 2008

Another thing I like about being homeless is all the helpful things that the socialist social workers do to help you not be homeless.  While supporting the north american automobile industry is not one of them, stepping you through the endless cycle of job experience, resume, and job opportunity is.  Now, keeping tens of workers employed in high paying jobs is the outcome of buying a north american car, keeping the homeless in the endless cycle of job experience, resume, and job opportunity which keeps socialist social workers in the endless cycle of payday, payday, payday.


The Joy of Homelessness, part 6

Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008

Not every story happens in one post. So that martinet Mayor can eat German sausage because I am violating his ‘Guidebook to Style’ crap. Anyway, here it is: