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

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.

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…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 …

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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.

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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:

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Homelessness took a turn for joy these last few days that I have not been writing. The actual meaning of the word joy I mean here is the same as the French military slang ‘joyeuse’, which was applied to those units of the French Foreign Legion that disarmed their officers, killed their sergeants, and went on a spree described by the German Infantry Corps commander who restored order to that hilly, wooded region of the trans-Alsace, as terrible. It was a joy to the world moment.

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Thank you for all those nice people that asked after my situation when I did not post for yesterday. No, I am not dead. And if you say that I am allegedly sick with tuberculosis, galloping tuberculosis, I will have you charged with a hate crime. If you have attachable assets, please do. Being sick and contagious is nothing to be ashamed of. And for those of you that care beyond that portion of your taxes that support me and my Tuberculosis-Canadian village peoples, I thank you. I am fine, homeless, without hope, and stripped of dignity. Even having nothing to look forward to but to spend your money, I have a few things that can bring a smile to my pasty white face, with its sheen of sweat, and dribble of bacillus rich drool coming from my lips. Indeed, even I can smile …

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