Archive for the ‘The Squire of Erin’ Category

What Does This Remind You Of?

Sunday, March 7th, 2010

two-dogs

Maybe the title should read, “WHO does this remind you of?”

Hint: A blogger. A Mitchievillian commenter. From the southern USA.

When you figure out the answer, you will poo brix.

They Could Have Worded That Better

Wednesday, November 11th, 2009

back-door

This reminds me of the Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear  slogan I use to see on t-shirts a few decades back. Except I understood the Liquor in the front t-shirt, but I have no idea whatsoever what this Transylvanian Backdoor thing is all about.

The Squire of Erin

Friday, June 22nd, 2007

Oh, what horrible perils lie in lurk in the languid fields of Erin Township!

Across the county line at Ballinafad begins the No Police Zone. Beyond this line there are no Charter of Rights recognized! Here, the brutal heteronormatives rule with primitive primate parliamentary protocol. Aaargh!

Just this very night I witnessed crimes against The Highway Garbage Act. Oh, how I gag at the memory of Pop cans flung upon the highways like so much garbage. The candy wrappers were so many that my vision screen, er windshield, was smeared with chocolaty wrappers, both silver and gold.

I soon learnt not to drive with my lights off. Many were the honks and shaking fists on the Highway 24. Then, like them, I turned on my lights. They stopped honking. I sped off into the south, towards Toronto, burning wreckage in my wake. A parade of horrors in rear view mirror, madness!

The yokels would shoot at me when I had shot at them. The brutes!

Anyway, my ride is here and I have to go.

I, FB wrote this ….

I was lucky, and they were not, so much. Actually not much at all. Those worthy were shipped to be dissected for spare parts. Lucky them. I will fill out your donor card for you, because I care.

The Squire of Erin

Monday, November 6th, 2006

In my relentless quest for your hard earned capital, I infiltrated a typical heteronormative plantation operation just outside of Erin, Ontario. Armed with opinion and pre-conceived judgements, I now bring you the Truth, as I see it, from the dark heartland of heteronormative Harperiteism.

The work day begins early at the Ironheart Broccoli plantation, located on the sixth line and twenty-second sideroad in Erin Township. Here, illegal immigrant laborers are forced to sleep in locked concrete pits, with only rags and dirty straw for bedding. They are never paid wages, instead, they eat from buckets of slop. The lucky ones get to fight each other for the amusement of the plantation owner’s teenage son and his high school friends. The owner of this typical Canadian farm is called Bob. Bob is the Squire of Erin. Bob is a typical Conservative voter.

Bob is excited by the new waterboarding management technique. Let him explain in his own words, ‘if’n them lazy ones get ‘ornery, why, ah just cuts off their nuts. Buts ah lose a few days production when that happens. They go off their feed sometimes too, after being de-nutted. So this waterboarding might be just the trick I need’. Just like Republicans everywhere, Bob the Broccoli Baron embraces torture, not just for enemies, but for slaves too. Castration is not doing its job in farmland Ontario.

Elsewhere on the lavish farm property, Bob’s son, Bob Junior, is lowering a slave into a pit half filled with sewage. The slave was thirteen seconds too slow bringing Bob Junior a cup of cocoa. The final straw was that the cocoa was half a degree Fahrenheit too hot. Now the slave’s civil rights are being violated, slow and deep. Their screams, muffled cries for help in Ebonic, go unheard as Bob Junior works the winch, as the unfortunate splashes in the fermenting feces. Supposedly, the sewage dunked slave is searching for a lost coffee mug, a lost coffee mug that is somewhere in the bubbling mess of e.coli and ammonia.

Mrs Bob is making apple pie with the help of three house servants. Like all Conservative Voters, she smokes cigars inside her house … she does not care about the health effects of third hand smoke, or the links between smoking and Global Warming. She uses the hot tip of the cigar to burn the buttocks of her house servants, to cure ‘laziness’. If they complain or get sick, well, the slaves go to the doctor … right? Well, across rural Ontario the local health clinic also doubles as a wholesale bootleg human organ wearhouse. Illegal immigrants look forward to a short brutal life of torture, ending in disection.

And then there is cousin Bob. Cousin Bob is Bob’s cousin. He hangs around the farm, drinking whiskey and shooting guns. Cousin Bob collects belt-fed automatic silenced weapons (#) which are not covered by the gun registry. He buys them mail order, because of the good deal on frequent flyer points. He wears the same coveralls over his two hundred and eighty pounds of good loving and smells of gunpowder and tuna. He has unsafe sex with any slave who makes eye contact with him. Not a pretty sight. Cousin Bob does not celebrate gay marriage. If you mention it more than once, he will shoot you in the foot.

But there is a light in the tunnel of darkness for the slaves, forced to live in concrete pits, forced to eat cold mush, forced to have sex with Cousin Bob. That ray of hope is the Liberal Party of Canada. The Liberal Party has a brochures kiosk located in the Public Library of Erin. Here, slaves visiting the Library can read up about their rights and entitlements as Canadians. Here they can read that being dipped in sewage, or being castrated, or forced sex for food, is normally not allowed. They can discover a world of forgivable loans, susidized journalism schools, and poetry that shares feelings. No more do they have to fight off a Shih-Tzu pack for a few crumbs of Tofu. Let us put a stop to heteronormative terror. The Human Rights Brochure Kiosk is nearly empty. I need your money to buy more brochures … brochures of hope! Please, send me your money.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

The Squire of Erin

Sunday, October 1st, 2006

As many of you know, the Badwulf family has a rich tradition of service to the poor and underfortunate. So it is with a heavy heart that I write to tell you of unfair dealings, underhanded methods, and sharp practices of a man, a heteronormative white male meanie, who is the business rival of the Badwulf Broccoli plantation, located in Erin Ontario. This man who tramples on our multicultural diversity merely by exisiting is the Squire of Erin.

The Badwulf Broccoli Plantation has been managed with every consideration to Global Warming, multicultural diversity, and respect for The Telemarketers Code of Ethics.

Global Warming. Certainly, activists agree that extensive use of illegal immigrant labor is far less harmful to the environment than all these machines that the despicable Squire of Erin uses. While my broccoli fields are filled with happy peasants, digging, planting, weeding, harvesting, and manuring, the evil Squire has smelly tractors and trucks that use gasoline and contribute to Global Warming. Where is the love of Mother Nature, I ask? These machines make loud noises that scare wildlife. The Hillsburg ground hog will, I fear, become an endangered species under the genocidal assaults of such noisy devices. And what of the glacier in Cedar Valley? Once it stretched in majestic glory from the heights of Hillsburg to the sandy banks of the Credit river. Now, Global Warming caused by the carbon dioxide spewed from my business rivals machines have caused it to dissappear. It is only a memory, now. Few people even know it existed. How soon before the scenic mill ponds of Hillsburg and Erin boil away? Yes, the Squire of Erin is an enviro-criminal. I do not know how anyone could buy his underpriced agricultural produce with a clean mind knowing the heavy environmental price.

Multicultural Diversity. For many years now, Badwulf Broccoli has employed illegal immigrants in an environment that reflects their own cultural background uncontaminated with racist Canadian concepts. Workers live in authentic thatch kraals which they build from the freely available straw and dung from my cousin Thorgrim Badwulf’s thoroughbred horse farm. They make these in keeping with their own cultural beliefs: by hand and without any tools. My workers speak their own languages; I strongly discourage any learning of English or exposure to contaminating Canadian culture. As a final barrier between their superior ethnic traditions and the surrounding inferor Canadian monoculture of hate, I have surrounded the plantation with a high fence topped with razor wire. Inside is a third world paradise, without the telephone, television, radio, or newspaper. Outside is the racist shithole that is Canada. Inside the workers live in accordance with Mother Nature: rising at dawn, working in the fields until dusk, gathering for a wholesome robust diet of lima bean mush and bran porridge (with prunes on days sacred to their tribal gods). Evil capitalism is unknown inside the fence: there is no money here, no temptations of consumer goods, no unhealthy meat, and no corruption caused by a varied diet. My workers prefer to be paid in privilege tokens, a quaint Spartan tradition, which they exchange for blaat (a fermented mush) or ghurk (ritual sex with a temple transvestite prostitute). This is far superior to anything that racist Canadian culture can offer.

The Telemarketers Code of Ethics. Certainly, the one aspect of Canadian culture that is worth sharing with our immigrant population is the Telemarketers Code of Ethics. It embodies the essence of rich creamy goodness that is to be found in socialism. And my unsavory rival, The Squire of Erin, dares to besmirch the entire Telemarketing profession by spreading lies and slanders about the quality of the broccoli, radishes, and other roots and foodstuffs produced at my Green friendly plantation. There is no evidence that the crushed asbestos sands and gravels used as a soil supplement has any detrimental effect on any of Nature’s creatures. The use of untreated sewage as fertilizer is celebrated in third world countries and is a superior method of recycling. Likewise, the Aztec fire ants, clouds of hornets, and scorpion hives that now fill the happy fields of waving broccoli, radishes, and lima beans. My rival kills these insect gentlefolk with chemicals, which no telemarketer would do.

The Badwulf Broccoli Plantation is a slice of socialist heaven. Although Badwulf produce may cost a little more, I believe that you should buy it because of the dream it represents. The Squire of Erin symbolizes a future of boiling lakes, heteronormative sexual practices, and extinction of rare species like the ground hog, the urban skunk, and the Toronto cockroach. I fear for the future of non-Western civilization. Please, boycott my rival and save the planet from tractors and make the Earth safe for socialism.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

Cross posted at Dust My Broom, a place that celebrates Broccoli