Stand up, get up. Stand up for your rights

Woman sues Nature because she cannot produce sperm

Windsor reaction mixed to decision allowing girls to try out for boy's teams

Celeste Quesnell, 26, today received the backing of the Ontario Human Rights Tribunal in her lawsuit against Nature because she, Quesnell, cannot produce sperm.

"It's clearly discriminatory," Quesnell says. "It shouldn't matter that I was born a girl. I want to produce sperm so I can impregnate my partner, Lisa, and I'm clearly being denied my human rights based upon my gender."

Ontario Human Rights Tribunal spokesperson, Roslyn Fareech, says, "Nature's gender bias has been allowed to continue unchecked for several thousand years. When is enough enough? When is the madness going to stop?"

Nature, or any spokespersons associated with Nature, has not come forward with a statement, as yet.

Speaking for the Ontario College of Surgeons, Morag Lawson, wrote in a recent editorial about the case: "Women cannot produce sperm. It's a medical fact. It's a fact of nature. The sanity of anyone trying to impose a change in nature through litigation must seriously be questioned."

"This whole nightmare has caused me unbearable stress," Quesnell says. "It's left me feeling like half a human being -- as though I'm not worthy of love; that my rights don't matter. I merely want to father my own child. Is that so wrong?"

Quesnell's lawyer, Martha Nogad, says, "So far, Nature hasn't even come forward with a defense or a statement, or anything. This should be a slam dunk. We're very confident of a positive outcome."

Time to Facialize Facebook

Report: Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg Doesn’t Believe In Privacy

I've never had any illusions about privacy on the Internet. People who have Facebook accounts and scream about privacy violations are like vegetarians in a steakhouse complaining about the menu.

Fuck them.

My approach to the Internet and its requests for information about me has been consistent all along: Every form, survey, or sign-up I've ever encountered, I've filled with absolute bullshit.

To gain access to more pages online of The Washington Post, I was asked for an email address and to provide some personal info. I entered a disposable Yahoo! email address, then proceeded to list myself as an 80 year old woman who lives in New York who was a professional Frisbee champ earning $500,000 per year.

And my approach to my Facebook account has been no different. If someone else is going to own what I post, then its incumbent on me to give them utter shit -- utterly worthless, useless, valueless shit.

Here's what Mark Zuckerberg owns from me:

Activities:
collecting chisels
auto repair
tree surgery
responding to online advertising

Interests:
ONLINE PRIVACY
MYSPACE
Aluminum siding
pornography
Chinese literature
Australian buffalo wrestling
tin foil
shrubbery
foliage
people who wear wooden barrels
volcanic ash
head lice
pomade
glue made from wasp honey

Favorite Music:
Shinhali tribal polkas

Favorite Movies:
All of the pre-motion picture hand-drawn films by Edgar Wallace Hammond

Favorite Books:
The Quotidian by Shirley Mansfield
16 Uses for Frozen Dead Squirrels by Crome "Mountainman" Woodbine
My Life: The Autobiography of an Aborted Fetus by Gwen Light

About Me:
Onyx prospector
satellite dish painter
heavy, heavy gambler
insatiable reader of online advertising

I would encourage everyone who has a Facebook account to take a second to understand just what they're handing over to Herr Zuckerberg for free from which he's deriving endless riches. Then I'd encourage these same people to change their Facebook settings/info to unmarketable gibberish.

If someone enjoys enriching Zuck, I wouldn't want to hinder that fun.

But for anyone who's even a little bothered by Zuck's attitude toward their privacy, I say -- fuck with him.

Canada's purse-lipped, prudish, persnickety insistence on adhering to "political correctness" at all times

Inquisitive American writer writes:

I know that was satire, but the Canadian obsession with a word I hate -- p.c., or better, p.c.ishness -- fascinates me. It's not as though Canada has a Nazi past and must guard against the slightest verbal or visual infraction. What IS the reason for that? You must have an idea. Is Canada more racist than I suppose? I mean, I know Quebec has a severe case of Frencholitis, but other than that, I'm mystified...

Grouchy Canadian writer replies:

The Canadian obsession with political correctness, I think, derives from a fear of prejudice seeping into our society.

Sorry to break the news to my fellow Canadians but prejudice is everywhere.

I also think it comes from an arrogant, doe-eyed naïveté about how the world works. Our elites know of the proles only through their sociology texts and newspaper accounts, or possibly they have some distant, struggling relative who lives near proles and reports on their desperate state of being.

And these arrogant, helium-sucking assholes believe they can change the world by buying it a Coke and by setting up Human Rights Tribunals -- we've had them since the 60s -- where the most easily offended among us can bring anyone or any organization up on charges of not being nice.

I wouldn't be surprised if, one day, calling someone "Canadian" is tagged as derogatory and discriminatory, and we're left having to utter a person's ancestry of origin going back 29 generations in order to be PC: "Yes, it was a Cherokee-Iraqi-Swedish-Pakistani-Mandarin-Australian, officer, who over-paid for his coffee. Jeez, I'd sure like to get this thirty-nine cents back to him!"

The emblem on Canada's flag shouldn't be a maple leaf, it should be a marshmallow.

Citizen sensitivity training mandated after an outbreak of "gay"

After a recent outbreak of "gay" in the small Canadian township of Craughtch Bend -- using the word "gay" in a derogatory manner, that is: "You're gay!" "That's gay!" "Don't be gay!" "What're you? Gay?" -- the Town Council mandated that all citizens of the area take and pass sensitivity training.

Now, before a citizen receives any town services, such as driver's license renewal, garbage pick-up, even shopping at the local supermarket, Craughtch Bendians must prove they've taken and passed this sensitivity training course.

"It's more than just the deplorable use of the word 'gay'," says Craughtch Bend's mayor Richard Feelwant. "The town rapist has been berated a number of times in recent weeks. And Father Fister, our defrocked priest has been called several vile names, too. We're a community and there is no place here for such vilification and prejudice."

Men playing cards at the local fire hall weren't as convinced. "I think we got bigger fish to fry than worrying about who is saying what," says Miller Indigo, a firefighter for the last 19 years.

The course will cost each citizen $213, which can be claimed on next year's income tax. Persons under the age of 16 are exempt.

The town rapist -- who declined to be identified for fear of reprisals -- had this to say, "I think this idea of sensitivity training is very good. I was among the first to take and pass the course. Being a convicted sex offender, the town paid for my course, provided a stipend while I was studying and presented me with a gift when it was learned I'd passed the exit exam."

He grew emotional, and after a moment continued: "People have to learn that you just can't go around calling a person a 'rapist' -- even if they've raped. It's very hurtful. I think this course will open a lot of people's eyes about how difficult it is being known for breaking the law. My lawyer is in the process of filing a motion with the Human Rights Tribunal to have criminals covered by the Canadians With Disabilities Act -- because having a criminal record is just like having polio or diabetes! And we don't go around calling cripples and diabetics rapists, now do we?"

A member of the Human Rights Tribunal exploratory commission -- who could not be identified -- said that criminals being designated as being disabled appears to be gaining traction.

To this point, only Craughtch Bend's criminal element has, so far, taken the sensitivity training -- paid for by the township.

"You mean guys working for 'AssSmashers.fuk' aren't going to treat me with dignity?"

I really couldn't care less how others earn their living, so long as they don't do it by robbing my house.

I'm equally disinterested in how people amuse themselves behind closed doors. You've got people who are 18 or older who consent to beating each other over the head with gilded dildoes while listening to the collected works of Tony Orlando, I really couldn't give a shit.

So, if people believe their calling is in porn -- by all means, have at it!

I recently read an article about actresses who'd left the porn industry, and had nothing but wretched horror stories to tell of their experiences there.

Not that I found that terribly surprising.

What took me aback was the fact that these former actresses -- no men were interviewed, I guess -- had some weird, warped idea that working for sites called Meatmyass.com and Boobzilla would be pleasant, rewarding experiences.

The tales they told were awful, to be sure, but what the hell did they expect?

Some spoke of their idea that porn was glamorous.

Really?

Like Linda Lovelace being forced to have sex with a dog?

Or, one of those heart-warming gang bangs, facials or A.T.M.s?

Or, glamorous like Jenna Jameson who, after each scene, looks like she'd just stepped off a 22 hour flight to Australia?

I'm no prude, and I'm sure no judge of how others should spend their time. But I do question the judgment, intelligence and rationality of people who go into an industry notorious for destroying lives and come away disillusioned because they weren't treated like Julia Roberts on the set of Loadmymouth.com.

This is why I've never applied to work on Punch_me_in_the_bag_and_stomp_on_my_foot.com. The name sort of tells you what you're in for.

But that's just me. What the hell do I know?

No one stands between Commander Allwrecker and his pipe

Spoken in the voice of Graham Chapman:

I say, no one comes between me and my pipe: not the waiter, nor the manager, nor the owner, nor the justice of the peace, nor the notary public, nor the magistrate, nor the head of the Elks Club, nor an alderman, nor the head of the Chamber of Commerce, nor the president of the Kinsmen Club, nor the wife if the head of... the Rotary Club, nor the bank manager, nor the priest, nor the rabbi, nor the mullah, nor the chief of police, nor the police commissioner, nor fire chief, nor the head of the public works department, nor the head custodian at the art gallery, nor the mayor, nor the mayor's wife, nor the mayor's mother . . .

They should've just let me smoke my pipe.

There's only one place left for Oprah to go: The Church of Oprah

Oprah Winfrey's had her own massively successful daytime talk show for twenty five years. She's got her own magazine, and will soon have a nighttime show on her own television network.

She's yet to have her likeness appear on a stamp or a coin or the side of a mountain, but she's gotten more exposure than Jesus Christ.

What is there left for her to conquer?

Having set herself up as a guru to the bovine millions who've abdicated citizenship for consumership, there really is only one place left for Oprah to go: open a string of churches in her name.

The Church of Oprah Winfrey.

The headquarters of C.O.W. would have to be the size of small city. Oprah would preside over congregations like Joel Osteen -- and he's a man man. And South'ren, at that.

Although there are growing suspicions inflatable sex dolls purchased in industrial quantities make up the majority of Osteen's audience -- at least in the hard-to-see further reaches of Covenant Stadium -- no one doubts that Winfrey will pack them in to C.O.W.

The Oprah-centric theology preached by Winfrey is popular, already, among many church-going women, but it's the promise of giveaways that will have worshippers waiting in line for entry, as they do right now for her daytime program.

Rumors are floating that Winfrey will give away a piece of the original cross, a palm-print in clay from the late Michael Jackson's late monkey/companion, Bubbles, along with Target gift cards.

That might not sound like church to traditionalists, but if there's one thing Winfrey has shown it's her ability to turn a very healthy buck while bucking the system.

C.O.W. promises to be a cash-cow, no one questions that, but it may also pay off in other ways -- possibly, in Winfrey finally receiving that long-deserved Nobel Peace Prize.

If there was a Nobel Prize for Television, not only would Winfrey have won that already, it would have her likeness on the statue.

Oprah: America's Cult by Paul A. Toth

Kitty Kelley, quasi-journalist, turns flashlight on Oprah, and it's not the dirt that keeps me blinking. Rather, it's the undeniable power of our first-name pal, who created the perfect American cult: cheery; appealing to the Lane Bryant crowd; and offering so many failed cures and remedies that I'm surprised a snake charmer doesn't open the show. In other words, Oprah is the P.T. Barnum (no relation) of our times. Barnum once said that "we've got something for everyone." So does Oprah. Despite the plethora of failed diets and the psychological catastrophe known as Dr. Phil, Oprah plugs away. And she plugs. And plugs. And plugs. If put in the typing hands of Kakfa, Oprah would turn into a three-pronged plug.

This site makes an excellent point: "Oprah, being the doyenne of making or breaking books, was thought to be immune from an unauthorized biography because…well, she is the doyenne of making or breaking books." That a woman with no literary credentials whatsoever sets the reading agenda for most Americans comes as no surprise; the major publishers can always take over with an equal lack of credentials should a crisis literally erupt. However, the same site notes that Kelley was blacklisted by "Larry King, Charlie Rose, David Letterman and Barbara Walters..." Charlie Rose? But I thought he took ISI (Integrity Stimulating Hormones)?

ABC News quotes a "Penn State professor" as saying, "She started the down-and-dirty exploitative show, the trailer trash, the unwashed parading of dysfunction. Donahue tried to compete but he couldn't do it as well or as badly. He was too smart." But Oprah was smart enough to pull back when others took over the trailer trash, leaving her almost total control over the subtle exploitation of dysfunction. Who can forget "tough guy" James Frey (one letter shy of the truth: fey) weeping before the pope of publishing and, in exchange, winning a second chance to write a second novel, except this one wouldn't be labeled a memoir. What did it matter? Oprah fuel continued propelling him into the dying hell of American "literature."

Meanwhile, Kelley's biography reveals that Oprah takes her own advice: "I really like me, I really do... When you mention great actresses, you’ll have to say my name.... I know people really really love me, love me, love me." Apparently, she also exhibits clear signs of psychosis, speaking of herself in the third person and proclaiming, "Oprah does not walk... Oprah does not do stairs." Oprah's mantra is obviously...Oprah.

Why walk or "do the stairs" when magic diets sell themselves even before Oprah gives them the boost? And how can you feel bad about your own life when, over here, in the corner, the Incredible Incestuous Daughter proclaims how she continued having sex with dad long after puberty? And why waste time selecting a book that appeals to you when Oprah and staff will happily perform the work, increasing their power within IQ-depleted Publishers' Row? In fact, why think at all? To think is an inconvenience in a nation of convenience, a morbidly-obese economic culture that produces P.T. Barnums and Oprahs like so many widgets.

Bureaucrats at the mercy of bureaucrats -- political cannibalism occurring in Ottawa

Much as the idea of our parliamentarians working in the dark, with no heat or air conditioning, appeals to me, I do recognize that there is obvious historical value in maintaining the Parliament buildings in Ottawa.

So, the Public Works braintrust estimates it'll take $1.18 billion.

Aside from the heartburn-inducing price tag, there is luckily the amusing soft inside to this story -- that the bureaucrats in Ottawa are, and have been, at the mercy of fellow bureaucrats.

"Auditor General Sheila Fraser said her office has been sounding warnings that repairs to the Parliament Buildings are not moving quickly enough, but she said work has been slow because there are too many agencies involved."
. . .
"'I think by addressing the question of who is actually managing the project and how it's being done we're getting to the core issues for some of the delays over the years,' she said."
. . .
"Public Works handles the work but needs Treasury Board approval for money. The House of Commons and the Senate have a say, however, in when work is done so that it doesn't disrupt sessions of Parliament or work in offices."

For the quality of the work and leadership coming out of that hovel, I say those bureaucrats and politicians should work in a cave.

Obvious answers to the funding come to mind: siphoning off the politicians' pensions, scaling back the perks. Let them survive on their bribes and patronage!

They'll just have to understand that the Canadian people have other, more pressing priorities, and like everyone else, the parliamentarians will have to make do with less. It's just a fact of Canadian life these days.

Part II of this blog by Paul A. Toth

Another gap between Canadians and Americans exposed: Americans have developed tolerance to excruciating levels of noise. For example, no hammering or sawing would interrupt Congress, but then again, they're sawing logs, and the only pause occurs when they're speaking to no one but themselves.

American institutions rarely fall into major disrepair. The utter failure of those institutions matters not, so long as the institutions stand tall...and inert. Thus, Washington, D.C.'s many monuments -- it's monumentally monumental -- surround and are surrounded by a city-wide ghetto. But the White House is nothing if not white, no matter the color of its occupant. It gleams like a white Cadillac, the kind "welfare mothers" once supposedly drove. Of course, that was a myth. However, welfare cases in Congress being chauffeured about town in limousines, as if anyone knows who they are, is definitely not a myth.

To these eyes and ears, the Canadian Parliament seems more concerned with getting its work done than the shell in which they conduct business, even if they're as nuts as their American counterparts. Certainly, they would not subject themselves to the therapy session I once attended while enduring a Spinal Tap 11 on a scale of 1-to-10 anxiety attack as the building was literally torn to pieces. But in a land in which children are allowed to scream at will as if trying to collapse the universe, to the satisfaction of their apparently-deaf parents, it's no surprise that Americans not only endure infrastructural improvements but enjoy the noise those improvements create.

White noise, black noise, Muzac, ballads, and if nothing else then cacophony all serve to bludgeon the senses and minds of Americans. And that's the way they like it.

Who will fight America's wrong-headed wars of the future?

ITWire came out with some startling news:

On Tuesday, April, 20, 2010 . . . retired military leaders, along with U.S. Senator Richard Lugar (Rep.-Indiana) and U.S. Department of Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack, released new findings on the dramatic increase of obesity among young adults age 17 to 24 years and its negative consequences towards U.S. national security.

If this is true, who will fight America's wrong-headed wars of the future?

Because American foreign policy is predicated on irresponsible foreign adventures that often turn into quagmires -- all taking place in hot, inhospitable regions -- these bulging waistlines are dangerously shrinking the ranks of the expendable.

Isn't there a way to make a fat kid useful in combat? Tell him Pizza Hut is on the other side of the hill you're trying to take? Or, that the enemy ran off with their cache of Twinkies?

Sure, Taco Bell and 7/Eleven, among many other fast food and junk food purveyors are doing their part to make their products available to their consumers, even overseas in war zones, but is it enough?

A few ideas on how make use of a chunkier, though less robust, fighting force:

• Use golf carts more often for ground patrols


• Rolling suitcases filled with gear, rather than heavy backpacks


• More frequent rest breaks during fire fights


• More sensitivity to food allergies


• Less yelling from commanding officers (embarrassment and stress leads to anxious over consumption of comfort foods)


• More conflicts on US soil so that soldiers can go home after a day's fighting


• Give Dockers the contract for making US military uniforms -- no one knows fat people like Dockers!


• Heavier reliance on drone attacks, and other forms of battle that allow combatants to sit

Since avoiding war isn't in the cards, the braintrust at the Defense Department had better figure how to conduct more fat-friendly missions. Otherwise, the ranks will be keeling over from the heat and exertion before those brave generals can even get them into harm's way.

Missionreadiness.org. Sign up today!

Not getting the service you deserve? You need the Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit

Today's world makes people feel like they're nothing but a number.

No matter where you go -- to buy airline tickets, carpet shampooers, or simply renting a car -- customer service appears, more and more, to be a lost art-form.

That's why you need the Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit!

Inspired by the true life crusader for prompt, no-line-waiting, "get outta my face cunt" service, Conservative MP Helena Guergis, the "Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit" is your life-line to getting what you want, when you want it.

For instance . . .

No seating in your favorite cafe? All the tables are occupied by people with laptops and schoolwork, and not a single one of them takes notice that you need a place to sit?

No problem!

The Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit instructs you on which table to overturn first and how to instantly identify the weakest person in the crowd so you can berate them.

Don't allow the airport to be "terminal" for you anymore.

Not getting the service you demand? The Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit tells you the Top 5 ways to utilize the word "cunt" and "motherfucker" to optimize your consumer experience.

And few people realize that "customer service" exists even between spouses. Yes, it does!

Do you have a spouse who was the only Conservative MP in his district not to be re-elected? Tired of his drunk driving and drug possession? Sick of those costly lawyers bills?

The Conservative MP Helena Guergis kit gives you the inside track to whipping that jackass back into shape.

The kit comes with a sex-withholding schedule that's guaranteed to have him whimpering on all fours. There's a strategy for calling up your old flames and setting jealous traps. There's even help in getting into your mother-in-law's head so she becomes the husband-watching-hound, not you!

Get more out of life the Helena Guergis way!

Had they been Canadian . . .

Unfortunately, for many notorious North American criminals, they grew up and committed their crimes in the Land of the Brave, rather than north, in the Land of the Unreal.

How would their lives have been different?

Inside the Hotdog Factory has made its time-travel device available to freelance reporter, Miles Blank, for him to go back in time, and then forward in a different string of reality.

The Blank Report looks at where these notorious, infamous people would be today -- or, what would have become of them -- had they faced Canadian justice for their crimes:

Ted Bundy: After serving four years of a life sentence, Bundy was given parole. With his Parole Board of Canada grants, pension and some loans, he completed law school, changed his name and became a college law professor.

Five years after his release, he applied for and was granted a pardon from the Parole Board of Canada.

Although offered tenure at numerous Canadian institutions, Bundy remained on the move, never staying in any single location for more than a couple of years. This was viewed by the Parole Board of Canada as his "attempt to share his great knowledge and personal charm as widely and commendably as possible."

No one made the connection between Bundy's travels and the trail of raped, murdered and mutilated college-aged young women turning up across the country.

John Wayne Gacey: After serving three years of a life sentence, he was granted parole. Using his Parole Board of Canada pension, and the collection of sweaters knitted for him by the judge who presided over his trial, Gacey reentered society and became a successful realtor.

He applied for and received a pardon from the Parole Board of Canada, and then applied for and received a grant to attend rodeo clown college in Alberta.

Much like Ted Bundy, Gacey traveled widely and lived in many communities in the great, expansive country of Canada. The Parole Board of Canada viewed this as Gacey's attempt at reacquainting himself with the people he'd wrong with his crimes (never once considering that the people he'd actually wronged with his crimes were dead and six feet under the ground, or living with memories of those lost loved ones).

Aileen Wuornos: After serving three months house arrest, Wuornos took her Parole Board of Canada pension and gift cards sent to her by the judge who'd presided over her case, and moved to British Columbia. There, she became a high school gym teacher.

She did little traveling and was known to keep pretty much to herself.

Wuornos did, however, organize an annual Thelma & Louise Film Festival & Feminist Forum at which films about abusive men coming to violent ends were shown over the course of Victoria Day Weekend, and discussed at length in the forums.

The Parole Board of Canada silently applauded Wuornos for finding her niche, and getting in touch with her artistic side.

Charles Manson: After serving three weeks of house arrest for car theft (having never murdered anyone, he wasn't tried for murder), Charles Manson was released into society in 1970.

He attempted a series of unsuccessful car thefts that left his doting parole officer tsking tsking, "Oh Charles, what am I going to do with you, you rapscallion?"

He served a few more stints of house arrest, and once received a moderately acerbic tongue-lashing from a judge -- on Mr. Manson's 16th offense -- but later received a knitted sweater in the post from the justice as a way of apology.

In 1979, Manson became a guitar teacher in Saskatchewan. One afternoon, while shoplifting a set of guitar strings, he sassed the wrong store owner and died of a single punch to the face.

Manson's killer was charged with 8th degree accidental, unintentional murder. He was sentenced to three weeks' house arrest -- suspended.

Charles Manson was part of the 1 percent of criminals in Canada who apply for but do not receive a pardon from the Parole Board of Canada.

Tim McVeigh: After being found guilty by a jury, but having the verdict overturned by the judge, McVeigh attended teachers' college and became a high school shop teacher in Toronto, Ontario.

Because the outcome of his trial went his way, McVeigh never again had a gripe with the government.

The Boston Strangler: He was found not guilty of his crimes by reason of insanity.

A few years after he was remanded to The Pierre Trudeau Psychiatric Hospital for the Socially Challenged, a paperwork mix-up established Albert DeSalvo as a counselor in the hospital, rather than a patient. He went on to become one of Canada's highest paid public servants.

When the bureaucratic mistake was uncovered, all concerned believed it would hurt DeSalvo's confidence and belief in himself if his privileges as head psychiatrist were taken away, so he remained chief of staff at PTPHSC.

Although he allowed his duties to lighten over the years, DeSalvo remained active.

In 2009, Prime Minister Stephen Harper appointed Albert DeSalvo to the Canadian Senate for his work in the area of population control.

In 2010, after Michaëlle Jean stepped down as Governor General of Canada, Albert DeSalvo took the post when a special provision was made for him that he need not be fluent in -- or have any knowledge of -- the French language.

In June 14, 2012, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the start of his infamous crime spree, DeSalvo broke into the Ottawa, Ontario apartment of a single, middle-aged woman, and raped and murdered her.

Due to his advanced age, his importance to Canada, not only was Albert DeSalvo not prosecuted upon his capture for the crime, but June 14 was declared "Albert DeSalvo Day" by Prime Minister Stephen Harper.

The Price of Pardons

Karla Homolka will soon be eligible for a pardon.

* * *

It's a hell of a price for Canadian society to pay in order for the guilt-ridden do-gooders among us to assuage their heavy, sweltering collective conscience by tolerating this travesty of a pardon system in Canada.

I mean, the world is so rough, so harsh, so uncompromising on those who aren't born with the privilege of attending Upper Canada College, or having their year in Europe before taking their scholarships and degrees and foundation financed chairs; ensconced by their trust funds and tenure; enjoying summers on the lake.

And all the weighty, weighty responsibility that comes with such privilege.

For the proles reared amid the gray dungeon walls of tenements, eating hamburgers fried in lard on slices of Wonder Bread, what recourse is there? As their drunken father and prostitute mother argue loudly and profanely right in front of the children with no regard for propriety, or with any semblance of dignity.

For those who chew with their mouths open and say "ain't" and "irregardless."

Who'll grow up to drink beer.

For whom the highest aspiration imaginable would be working through a technical college, learning a trade, possibly horticulture, and by the grace of the Dominion of Canada, attain a position tending a gentleman's estate.

But, who would more likely impregnate the high school harlot he calls his girlfriend -- that, the first in a whole litter of proles -- and end up working in some dark, Dickensian factory of dread and despair.

So, who could begrudge such a wretched creature if he steals a few pennies for a bottle of stout, or is caught crossing the crosswalk against the light on his way home after the midnight shift?

Who, really, could hold it against the bent and stooped brute if, in a fit class-crystallized angst, he stole a gentleman's motorcar, or manhandled one of his drinking partners at the hotel, or skipped out on the cheque at a lunchcounter?

What mean-spirited, embracer of unfairness could hold this against him?

I mean, the pathetic pilgarlic is barely more man than beast, boiling alive in an inner cauldron of envy and lust and inarticulate rage against a world that uses him in such base and numbered and dehumanizing ways.

So, if that man sets fire to his tenement, who could blame him?

If that tortured, simple soul had his way with his neighbor's wife while in the fog of drunkenness, who could hold it against him?

If he struck his villainous landlord across the face, and sent the blackguard crashing down a flight of stairs, killing the money-grubber, who -- who in the name of the British Empire and its eternal devotion to fair play -- could blame the man?

Who?

O, some arrogant, avaricious conservative might! Those who've traded their bowlers for golf shirts and their canes for putters. Those rotten, soulless bastards who exploit the righteous, ignorant, hopeless workingman's sweat for their own selfish gain. Who are too smart to toil in factories, or on the grounds of gentlemen's estates. The Fortune 500 Philistine!

But luckily, praise the crown of Queen Elizabeth II, that we have enlightened, manicured humanists among us -- soft as boiled chickens, with souls like polished pebbles -- whose hearts are veritable volcanoes of compassion, erupting with the rich, dark blood of love for the proles!

These enlightened, jelly-spined benefactors of the proles! Although they only really know of the proles from lectures and grainy photographs in their sociology textbooks, or through anecdotes of aged, seasoned humanists who might have spent a missionary season among rough-handed workmen, millers, smiths and tanners. Still, they love the proles, and hold them up as contemporary noble savages.

These dew-eyed benefactors, who peer upon the idea of the pitiful prole felon -- the harshly judged "murderer," the much maligned "molester," the misunderstood wife abuser, the introverted arsonist -- as St. Francis of Assisi would look upon a garden grub.

* * *

The arrogance of Canadian elites cannot be exaggerated.

Since their rarefied lives, and those of their families, never come within a hectare or even a furlong of those who rape, steal, murder and molest, it is ever so easy for them to pardon miscreants whom they only know from files, textbooks and pedantic appraisals of progress.

After all, what is a murderer but one whose mischief got a little bit away from him.

I can hear one of the humanist harrumphers intone in his haughty, faux British accent, "So, you'd prefer that all offenders be locked up forever and that society throw away the key?"

If you murder, yes. If you're a child molester, most certainly! If you commit rape, of course. If you exhibit habitually reckless behavior -- i.e. repeat, unrepentant drunk driver -- and you cause bodily harm or death to another citizen, you're goddamned right.

But the dew-eyed St. Francises of Canada banded together decades ago and granted upon themselves the duties of deities: they would pronounce judgments to rehabilitate "offenders." They would impose sentences that would alter the bold behavior of roustabouts.

Hence, Canada now has a judicial system that sees itself more as a personality spa to the violent, the depraved, the incorrigible, the malevolent, the criminal. So we hear of sentences to murderers and pederasts, rapists, wife abusers, arsonists and child pornographers that range from one harvest season in a penitentiary, to house arrest.

Because everyone knows, the most important people in society are those who do not respect its laws! That's Canadian Law 101.

What's Canadian Law 404? Abracadabra, presto disappear-o: do your time for your crime and after five years there's no more crime.

It's almost like William Blake wrote that.

As if the weak-kneed, misguided, do-gooder-poisoned judicial system wasn't already completely defanged, castrated, disarmed and virtually moot, the St. Francis of Assisis, whose maple leaf pillowcased pillows are drenched with unending tears for the misunderstood embezzler, the put-upon drug dealer, the frowned-upon child abuser, the vilified bank robber -- they give us the pardon system.

"Well," the harrumpher intones, "there's a process involved! A pardon's not a sure-thing by any stretch! No, no, the doctrine of fair play cuts both ways, you know. Not everyone who applies for a pardon gets one!"

That is true. Only 99 percent of pardon applicants are granted their pardons.

The deities of Upper Canada College would take every miscreant's sins -- though they be as scarlet -- and make them as white as snow.

Congratulations child molester James Graham, you're pardoned! You and 99 percent of post-prison criminals who apply! Be free! Fly! High may you soar!

Who will soon be on deck to have their sins washed away and blessed by the hand of Canada's judicial deities upon their head?

Karla Homolka!

Gosh, it's not everyday you see a 22 year old serial killer outsmart seasoned investigators and Crown attorneys! Fair play to her getting that "deal with the devil." Isn't there a way to go back in time and have the Ontario Human Rights Tribunal declare it illegal for anyone to speak of Karla's 12 year prison sentence as a "deal with the devil"?

Surely there is a sandaled, pony-tailed physicist wiping tears of compassion from his eyes at this very moment working on the problem.

I suppose the crass and worldly -- and distinctly nonspiritual -- conservative would begrudge Karla her pardon. Some small individual. Someone vengeful person who is utterly without compassion. Someone certainly devoid of inner light, and with absolutely no connection to the Great Spirit that gave us the Code of Hammurabi, the Magna Carta and Barbara Hall.

If -- if by some wretched twist of unforeseen fate, Karla Homolka's pardon is considered for even a micro-second, give it to her. St. Francis of Assisi, show yourself for who you are! Give Karla her fucking pardon!

And then add her name to the short list of candidates for Canada's Governor General.

Because that's where common sense has gone in Canada -- it has disappeared as though it never existed.

"Justice," Richard Pryor once scoffed while talking about his time in prison for tax evasion. "Yeah, it's 'just us,' all right."

And as Lenny Bruce lamented, "The halls of justice. That's where you'll find it -- the justice is in the halls."

Once the criminals of the world learn how lenient Canada is on crime -- throwing in the Happy Meal option of a pardon into the laughing gas mess of Canadian Judas-Prudence -- we will become the Howard Johnson hotel to this planet's most heinous souls.

In fact, I bet it won't be long before the Vatican relocates here, relieved and happy to finally find a haven for its priestly pedophocracy.

Note: I do not support Stephen Harper or have any affiliation or affection or time for the Conservative Party of Canada.

C.O.P.S. -- The guiltiest of guilty TV pleasures

While watching C.O.P.S. a friend said to me: "Have you heard my C.O.P.S. rant?"

No, I hadn't.

"That's the best show on TV," he said. "You know why? It shows the real America. I've suggested before it should be shown to immigrants. They can then be asked, 'Sure you want to move here? Because that's going to be your neighborhood!'"

Also, my friend said, "What I want to know is why so many people go on car chases with cops when they have some lame warrant on a ticket? You know damn well if those cameras weren't rolling, they would be getting their asses beaten with a night stick!"

There are quite a number amazing things that occur in any episode of C.O.P.S..

As a writer, I love hearing the convoluted, ever-changing stories told by the captured perps. The most classic was probably the one guy in whose pants pocket the cops found some drugs, and the guy -- without missing a beat -- said they weren't his pants.

What is also amazing, is just how stone-stupid and self-sabotaging the criminals are. Obviously, the vast majority of them are on drugs. They speed with suspended licenses; they do everything possible to alert police or observers that they're up to no good. They just serve themselves up on a platter.

The most puzzling part of the entire program -- and I've been watching since it first came on the air -- is how police react to someone they believe is telling them a lie.

A cop will chase some dirtbag at 120 mph through swamps and garbage dumps. Then they'll engage in foot pursuit through quicksand, the scuzziest drainage ditches, through the scummiest allies and trailer parks, wherever. And the cops will find every sort of contraband on the crooks. Through it all, the cops treat it like they're just doing their job.

Then comes the hackneyed interrogation: "Why'd you run?" the cop asks.

"I don't know," the perp will mumble, "I got scared seeing everybody running at me!"

To which the cop comes back, his voice filled with emotion -- with genuine hurt -- "Don't lie to me, man! After all we've been through!"

I've never understood it. The cops hit the street knowing people are capable of killing their own children, trafficking drugs, stealing anything that's not nailed down, who'll smoke gerbil turds dipped in Drano . . . but somehow, the fact that criminals will also lie escaped these cops' education.

I think the sole reason why drugs haven't been legalized in America is because C.O.P.S. would go off the air. Without drugs, the show wouldn't exist -- most of its audience would find something else to do, and its myriad, unsuspecting guest stars would suddenly be inaccessible.

After all of these years on TV, I genuinely believe that C.O.P.S. has that much pull. That show chooses who'll be the next president, next head of hte UN.

C.O.P.S. is more powerful than the Bilderberg Group.

Could the country that gave us The Lawrence Welk Show really bomb the shit out of Laos and Cambodia?

I can't believe that any country that could produce The Lawrence Welk Show could bomb Laos!

Actually I can.

Growing up, "Lawrence Welk" meant one thing -- schmaltzy, terrible music.

While out running errands with my dad, if a car pulled up next to us a at stop light with music playing loud, no matter what it was, my dad would say, "At least it's not Lawrence Welk."

Of course, I wasn't lucky enough for that to be my only experience with Lawrence Welk.

As if Sundays weren't interminable enough, starting off with church at 10:30 in the morning.

Jeeezus, it almost seemed like a joke: the service one week nearly an exact replica of the last, as though the challenge was to sit through mass and then tick-off a questionnaire about what small details were different.

Zombifying music? Right, this week's came from page 242 of Execrable Hymns Written for Modern Liturgy by Damned Souls Who Hated Music Vol. III.

The sermon? It was probably the same illiterate meanderings as any other week, but who really knew? Who could stay awake through its entirety to determine whether it was verbatim from the week before?

All rounded out by the tomb odor of ancient candles burning, along with morning breath and piercing old-lady perfume.

Then the afternoon spent at my ultra-Catholic relatives' house, where my brother and I couldn't play catch in the backyard because the ball might go over the fence, into a neighbor's yard. The simple expediency of hopping the fence was verboten there, for some reason.

Running around was discouraged because we were in our Sunday clothes.

I'll never forget there being a perfectly serviceable -- seemingly untouched -- basketball hoop set up at the end of the cement pad leading into my relation's backyard. It was apparently there only for show because any attempt to shoot a few baskets was nixed by an everpresent voice in the screened kitchen window saying, "No . . . no, no.

In essence, my brother, cousin Marion, and myself were supposed to stand still in the yard -- after the perpetual banishment It's a beautiful day outside! Go out and play! from the house where I just wanted to watch TV -- like the transfigured Christ, Moses and Elijah, until dinner time.

Mental tedium was traded in for a jousting tournament with my gag reflex at dinner.

I'll admit, I was a picky eater as kid, trusting my eye like a bushman, unwilling to approach anything that didn't at least look good. My gosh, there are poison berries in the wild that look a thousand times more inviting than some of my family's cooking!

Overdone pork chops. Boiled steak. Science project casseroles. Fried something or other.

All of which I could grudgingly choke down, but there remained one insurmountable obstacle that stood between me and dessert: my grandmother's Jell-O salad.

Such a thing must have been conceived by the culinary contingent in the same malignant institution where the church music had been created.

Who could have dreamt up a concoction like that, with its petrified bits of shredded cabbage and carrots floating motionless in shit gleaned from horses hooves?

Again, before even tasting it, the stuff offended the eye. It was the color of pus; that flat, repellent green that every creature in nature knows to avoid.

There was no not eating it. Grandma doled it out to each of us and if she detected through dinner anyone neglecting the Jell-O salad, she would utter the offender's name with a martyr trill in her voice that we were all sure Gawd himself paid attention to -- ready to jot down that name as belonging to a person going to hell. Even the adults weren't immune. There were times I'd heard my dad's name or my uncle's name in that trilling, Why are you stabbing your mother in the heart? voice.

Somehow, I'd get through dinner; ingesting enough of the inedibles to get a "pass" to dessert.

Which, in some moments of horror, entailed more Jell-O artisanship by my grandmother. This time the stuff would be the color of urine, filled with bits of peaches. Or else there might be pie that would meet all visible specifications of enjoyment, but turned out to be a Trojan Horse filled with the guerrilla killers of all desserts: raisins.

All of this was prelude, anyhow, to the evening's entertainment.

We'd gather in the cold basement before an enormous console television that none of the kids was allowed to touch -- as though one wrong move with the dial might send its inner workings into nuclear meltdown. It was a TV, I'm sure, was constitutionally incapable of showing Three's Company or Happy Days or anything other than nature programs and detective shows.

And that prized, untouchable TV would be tuned to The Lawrence Welk Show.

Even as a kid, the show was surreal in its saccharine, phony goodness; its bizarre otherness. Everyone's grinning teeth looked like polished bones. And the corny costumes and sceneries used for each song were almost sinister in their ridiculousness.

I was a child of TV. I was willing to give the benefit of the doubt to anything that it showed to me: PBS yoga and water-color painting, incomprehensible educational programming I saw when I was home sick, soap operas, and even the bitterest thing to a kids' television palette: dramas.

The Lawrence Welk Show surpassed everything in awfulness.

Just when I'd wonder if we were all watching the terrible show as some kind of joke, my grandmother would tell Marion and her older brother to get up and dance.

Again, my mind was flashing joke . . . joke . . . joke . . . This can't be really happening!

But by gawd, my cousins would get up and not only dance, but dance in step with the dolts prancing around on the TV screen. Witnessing this gave me a sense of breathless horror and simple shock, not unlike that which was experienced by the characters in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. When had that terrible knowledge been thrust upon my cousines? It was almost as though . . . they practiced -- it was too awful to contemplate.

If I read tomorrow that The Lawrence Welk Show was the product of the infamous MK/ULTRA program, I'd believe it.

Until my mid-20s, Sundays were the bane of the week. To some extent, they still are, of course. But as a kid, Sundays were bamboo under the fingernails, Ajax sprayed into the eyes, the malevolent, crotch-bound grounder. Even Mark Twain despised Sundays.

Lawrence Welk is on right now on PBS. Of course I'm watching it.

Although I eat my own irresistible BBQ'd hamburger and eye-watering vinegar coleslaw, no amount of beer or food can banish the phantom taste of pus-green Jell-O salad from my throat.

Frisbee: A practitioner's manual and definitive treatise by Dr. Stancil E.D. Johnson

The front cover, alone, tells the story of the fascinating, free-spirited life of the Frisbee aficionado.

Frisbee is for the bell-bottomed, soldier-booted, business-shoed, sandaled, sneakered and the flip-flopped. It's for everyone!



The fun begins with mastering the basic catch, just like this brave serviceman fighting Communism in Vietnam. After a day of bayoneting Cong, it's time to cut loose!



Even ladies can get in on the act -- under the watchful, lecherous eye of a man, of course! Here's a young beauty trying it out at a well-attended Frisbee jamboree.



Just like people in America, there are all kinds of different Frisbees.



Frisbees -- or "discs" -- can be carried about in an attractive sachel-like carrying sack, so the fun is always near at hand!



Make sure you're Disc Bag is properly stocked with only the essentials. You never know when you may have to repair a Frisbee or perform brain surgery or a Cesarean section on a bystander.



Even philosophers enjoy discoursing about the teleological and eschatological potentialities of the Frisbee.



And the eggheads in the meteorological department like to get in on the fun, too! Frisbees are affected by weather.



Once all the stuffy talk is finished, it's time to get down to the business of having fun with the Frisbee, as these young people are at this well-attended Frisbee "happening."



Once in the park, wearing his gym socks and sport shorts, you'd be surprised who's a closet-Frisbee-expert! Check out this pedantic catch!



. . . and this exuberant throw.

Hey buddy! With an arm like that, you should be lobbing hand grenades in Khe Sanh!



After a weekend of peyote and mead, Frisbee can be fun for the entire commune!



At the end of the day, it must be remembered that this is the only known existing photograph of Harvey J. Kukuk.



So, the next time some uptight square says to you, "Why don't you stop that silly Frisbeeing and get a job?" you say to him, "Stop cramping my style, man, I'm just going with the flow!"

If the pardon system in Canada works, then Canada is broken

From: Whetam
To: Gominder
Subject: What the fuck?

I wrote this blog yesterday after reading an article in the Montreal Gazette praising Canada's pardon system after a convicted child molester was the latest recipient of one of these dubious pardons.

What blows me away more is the reaction to my blog -- how Canadians embrace such a fucked up system.

I think there is a documentary to be made about Canada. What is the disconnect between ordinary Canadians and the retarded fuckheads who make our laws, preside over our courts, and basically rape us at every turn with taxes, regulations and bullshit?

Sure, Canadians are passive, but Canadians are also pretty bright. Or, so I once thought. I hadn't even heard of our glorious pardon system until I heard of this fucking child molester receiving one. It's just unbelievable.

From: Gominder
To: Whetam
Subject: RE: What the fuck?

I can't even talk about this pardon, I got so fuckin' upset last week when I saw the article that I actually had to shut the tv off!

Can you imagine the victims of this pedophile being made to relive and be loaded with the knowledge that this asshole has in essence the same rights as them. Fuck that!

This Graham idiot can travel, apply for jobs and tell everyone that asks that he has no criminal record.

Your article sums it up best when you claim that the minority will always rule in this country, no matter how small or pathetic the cause.

From: Whetam
To: Gominder
Subject: RE: RE: What the fuck?

The bizarre, retarded pseudo lawyers who inhabit the Canadian section of Reddit are like a band if cannibals -- they're only satisfied feasting on the flesh of crime victims.

This pardon struck me as an affront to what I used to think Canada stood for.

Now I know what Canada stands for -- the stupidest kid in the class; the nose-picking shit-for-brains who stares at the traffic light after it's turned green, wondering what to do next; the shyster who doesn't tip attentive waitstaff in a restaurant.

Canada embraces simpletons, wastrels, shitheads, thieves, pederasts, deviants of every stripe -- the more deviant the better.

The Canadian flag should be fashioned into a dunce cap and set up this country on a globe of the world. And that dunce-capped globe should be on permanent display at the House of Commons.

House of Commons. House of the Lowest Common Denominator. It's not Parliament, it's Pensionment.

Canada stands for people who get rid of their gum by sticking it to the underside of a desk.

Canada is an outrage to the mind, a blight against the brain. Our leaders are scoundrels, knaves, lay-abouts, cheats, crooks, incompetents.

The leadership of this country may be a shower of wankers, but the citizenry that cannot bother its ass to ask for better is the even more torrential shower of wankers.

Canada no longer makes a gawddamned bit of fucking sense to me.

"Pardon system works" -- Really?

There's an article in today's Montreal Gazette, in which the author believes the Canadian pardon system works.

It doesn't. Really, it doesn't.

The article touches upon the "recent pardon of Graham James, a convicted child molester."

Got that? A convicted child molester is not only released from prison, but has received a pardon. What does this mean: "The only thing a pardon does is allow someone legitimately to say they do not have a criminal conviction."

The article goes on: "Being able to say 'I have no criminal convictions' is important. Many jobs require a clean record and holding down a job is a significant step toward full rehabilitation."

What bangs out at me are two things:

First, pedophiles cannot be cured. That's not my opinion, that's a medical/psychiatric fact. Pedophiles are incurable.

Second, what sort of jobs require a clean criminal record? Maybe, working in a school, for instance. Or, being a coach.

Here's another paragraph that I interpret in a way that's entirely contrary to the author's view: "Since 1970, more than 400,000 Canadians have received pardons. Of those, less than one in 20 has had a pardon revoked, indicating that the vast majority remain crime-free in the community. The pardon system works."

Less than 20 pardons -- of more than 400,000 -- have been revoked since 1970. The author uses this stat to proclaim that the system works. He has much too much faith in our lethargic, myopic, cover-their-asses bureaucrats.

---

Update

It was pointed out to me that I misread the line about how many criminals in 400,000 have their pardons revoked. I have struck out my erroneous restating of that line. Yes, I got that wrong. Even though I misquoted that line, I continue to stand by my opinion that the pardon system in Canada is a farce and should be abolished.

---

Pedophiles are incurable -- this cannot be overstated. No pedophile, no matter how contrite, should ever receive a pardon. Child molestation is a variety of crime where "mistake" or simple "bad judgment" never come into play. At the heart of pedophilia is premeditation. It's a disease of the soul that manifests in criminal damage to children.

Since the timid, lame, dysfunctional Canadian justice system hinges entirely on rehabilitating offenders, once locked up, no pedophile should ever again be released.

Because they cannot be rehabilitated.

But, then, this is Canada where the minority rules -- and apparently there is no minority too abhorrent to have some amount of sway. Even the molester minority, apparently.

What's more frightening? That child molester Graham James has received a pardon, or that there are actually people in this country who think that's a good thing?

Who says that life isn't a meritocracy?

Chelsea Handler clearly got to where she's at by her tenacity, wit and literary prowess. Who'd say otherwise?

Well, and she may have fucked Tiger Woods.

Tiger Woods: Desecration for Dollars

It's the new, pensive, mature, worldly, contrite Tiger Woods.

It's the Tiger Woods who allowed Nike to figuratively exhume his dead father for a television commercial for a company that sells over-priced sneakers made in sweatshops by Chinese children who work 14 hours a day rather than going to school -- the ghoulish, fatherly voice-over gently, though firmly chiding Tiger for his wrongs.

So, now that he's finished disgracing his living family, Tiger now shifts gears to shit upon his deceased family.

It was done in the name of earning a buck, so I guess that makes it all right.

Maybe for the next "new Tiger ad", Tiger Woods will be draped with an American flag while carrying a dead soldier across a battle field. That'd make a good American Express commercial. Or, better yet, Bawlz energy drink.

* * *

I hope that, one day, after Tiger Woods has lived a long, fulfilling life, that he dies a non-violent death. And once dead, I hope that he is taxidermied; posed holding his golf club as he does after making a great drive.

And I hope that Tiger Woods' taxidermied corpse passes from collector, to junkman, to novelty shit shop, and that he ultimately ends up standing in the corner of a tavern in Possum's Pouch, Missouri, standing next to a jukebox that plays nothing but Slim Whitman and Boxcar Willie.

And I hope that the name Tiger Woods is long forgotten by then, and that people hang their jean jackets with the sleeves cut off on his golf club, and tweak Tiger's nose after making a good throw in a game of drunken darts.

Most of all, I hope the roguish taxidermist replaces Tiger's eyes with Nike golf balls with the Swooshes facing outward.

* * *

See the grave-robbing grub in action:

Pardy Pooper: Man with asparagus allergy ridiculed by comedian seeks justice

As noted lesbian, Lorna Pardy, takes a comedian before the B.C. Human Rights Tribunal for casting jokes and insults upon her for being gay, an Ontario man is readying launch similar action.

Following what he called a "humiliating, traumatizing, demoralizing" evening at a local comedy club, London, Ontario resident, Wince Wipplestan, claims one of the comedians performing that night learned he, Wipplestan, was allergic to asparagus, and thus ridiculed him mercilessly about it.

"I have a number of food allergies," says a visibly shaken Wipplestan, "but for some reason people always latch onto the asparagus allergy as being so strange."

"He's used to people asking questions about his allergies," Wipplestan's sister, Wendigo, comments. "He's always been patient and open about it. But then this Giacometti character just nailed Wince to the wall about it!"

Vincent Giacometti is a professional comedian who has toured the country for a decade. Although it's not known at this time how he learned of Wipplestan's particular food allergy, what is abundantly clear is that, in the minds of many witnesses, he "crossed the line."

Some of the details of the verbal altercation are still in dispute, but everyone agrees that Giacometti was doing a "bit" about people with food allergies, and asked the audience to shout out the strangest they'd ever heard.

"And this lady screams 'asparagus'," Giacometti says. "That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. So, I started riffing on it. I don't even remember what I said. It was spontaneous."

What seemed like a joke at the time has now turned into a legal issue. Mr. Wipplestan has taken his case to the Ontario Human Rights Tribunal seeking redress against Mr. Giacometti.

"No amount of money can restore my dignity," says an emotional Wipplestan.

As his case waits to be heard, a group of Wipplestan supporters and groups representing persons with food allergies have banded together demanding allergy-safe comedy clubs.

"Jokes are supposed to make people laugh!" says Raith Banwell, leader of the London chapter of the Food Allergy Alliance For All Canadians (FAAFAC). "Nobody goes to a club hoping to have their soul turned into toilet paper and used by some insensitive comedian right there on the stage!"

FAAFAC is just one group demanding that all comedians performing in the greater London area sign a "Dignity Declaration," promising they will not tell jokes that degrade or mock any individual or group.

Nut Allergy Suffers of Ontario (NASO) leader, Angela DeConstruito, says this protest already appears to be an uphill battle. "We've had reports that comedians are, in fact, not signing the Declaration of Dignity, but instead are choosing to exacerbate the problem by ridiculing the Wipplestan case. We don't think this is very constructive."

"What it may come down to," says Raith Banwell, "is a group of brave allergy sufferers taking over a comedy club and each consuming the food they're allergic to. The tragic results will be on the heads of every comedian who mocks our Declaration of Dignity. This fight is now bigger than Wince Wipplestan!"

New form of air travel terrorism: guerrilla existentialism

From MSNBC.com: LONDON - Two women were arrested at a British airport on suspicion of trying to smuggle a dead relative onto a flight bound for Germany, police said on Tuesday.

The 91-year-old deceased man was pushed in a wheelchair through Liverpool's John Lennon airport wearing sunglasses before check-in staff became suspicious and he was prevented from boarding the plane.

It appears these two women were another breed of terrorist: existential guerrillas.

According to their group's Web site, the idea was to smuggle a dead person onto the plane and then reveal the presence of the corpse midway through the flight -- reminding everyone on board of their own mortality.

Transportation experts in North America are already talking about this latest incident possibly leading to an outright ban of corpses in the cabin of all flights.

"First they take away our liquids and gels," groused one rattled air-traveler hearing about the near-boarding-of-a-corpse, "what next? No more dead people? Where does it end?"

"Good thing I didn't book that trip to northern California wine country with my dead grandparents," said another aggravated bystander.

Safety officials, however, have long questioned corpses' even being on commercial flights.

"The airlines have long fought for the rights of corpses," says Dean Tankwell of the Transportation Safety Administration in the United States, "so long as a ticket is purchased for them. The dead don't complain about being 'bumped,' they never have lost luggage, and rarely cause any trouble during a flight."

Until this incident, corpses on air planes has been an open secret, on par with people smuggling their own booze on board.

"So long as nobody made a fuss about the dead person they'd brought on board," says an airline employee who asked not to be identified, "we looked the other way. But if I understand correctly, this new terror cell planned to tell other passengers there was a dead body on board. That could have been catastrophic."

There's a long tradition in western culture that all reminders of death be discouraged and hidden from sight in polite society. After all, how can people think about shopping or tuning into Dancing With the Stars with the thought of their own inevitable demise hanging over their heads?

Security officials who took the guerrilla existentialists into custody said little about what happens next with them.

One investigator who asked not to be identified said, "If these ladies want to be existential -- we'll give them something to be existential about!"

And the Dick Cheney Award for Corporate Malevolence Goes to . . .

. . . Massey Energy Co.'s CEO, U.S. Chamber of Commerce board member, Don Blankenship.

The Dick Cheney Award for Corporate Malevolence proves there is never an inappropriate time to give an award.

CEO Don Blankenship has certainly earned this one.

He runs one of the most dangerous mines in the United States, has wracked up "over 3,000 violations by the Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA), 638 since 2009" and more than $2.2 million in fines.

Interviewed this evening by ABC Evenings News anchor, Diane Sawyer, Blankenship was in classic soulless, opaque form, betraying not a twitch of feeling for the 25 miners who lost their lives as a result of his greed and corruption.

Proving he may have a future in politics, Blankenship was quick to point out that 42,000 people die each year on the nation's highways, while making no attempt to sound as though he cared a wit about the families of the dead miners.

In fact, it's been conjectured that Blankenship retained the services of Tiger Woods' personal hypnotist before the interview with Diane Sawyer, and in all likelihood believed he was talking to his barber during the on camera chat.

The first quarter of 2010 is barely behind us, and there is so much corporate malfeasance and treachery yet to occur, but we at the Dick Cheney Awards office believe we have found the sure winner for this year's dishonor in Don Blankenship, who truly lived up to the first syllable of his surname today on national television.

But don't take our word for it: Deadly Record: Massey’s Mine In Montcoal Has Been Cited For Over 3,000 Violations, Over $2.2 Million In Fines.

The Very Definition of "Self-Fulfilling Prophecy"

If the crazy fits, wear it.

From Time.com: "Terre'Blanche did once take matters into his own hands (in 2001, he was jailed for six years for assaulting a black gas attendant in his hometown), he was more a vainglorious blowhard than a serious threat to South Africa's fragile racial make-up. For one thing, he had no meaningful plan to run a government. Instead, the bearded, khaki-clad Afrikaner preferred to give theatrical voice to white racism, prizing spectacle and provocation over substance."

World bids adieu to a scumbag's scumbag: South African white supremacist leader Eugene Terreblanche

The man known throughout South African for his distinctive two-hands-in-the-air (like he jus' don' care) stance, white supremacist, Eugene Terreblanche, died today.

It was rumored that Eddie Murphy had taken Terreblanche's trademark pose and incorporated it into his Saturday Night Live characters Gumby and Buckwheat. Who could forget Murphy coming onstage dressed in the green foam rubber Gumby suit, thrusting his hands heavenward and proclaiming, "I'm Gumby, dammit!"

So, too, did Terreblanche make his presence known on the crowded scene of South African racism in the early 1970s.

According to the BBC Web site: "Mr Terreblanche, who campaigned for a separate white homeland, came to prominence in the early 1980s."

It's unfortunate that his racism took up so much of his time that he neglected getting any semblance of an education. Had Terreblanche been exposed to even a few days of school in his youth, he would have learned there was a separate white homeland. It's called England.

But Terreblanche never let ignorance slow his pursuit of hatred, intolerance and simple contrary-ass-backwardness.

As his obituary by BBC New states: "Terreblanche's thunderous voice and magnificent style of delivery -- alternating between roar and husky whisper, with gestures to match -- helped to disguise the complete meaninglessness of what he was saying.

"His oratory would sweep from the plight of white farmers, to ancient Greek philosophy, to the state of the Soviet Union, without any apparent logic."

It's thought that Mr. Terreblanche began his lifelong foray into racism when, at the age of 15, he was rejected as tambourine player for a black South African Sly & the Family Stone cover band.

He apparently never recovered from the blow.

But he channeled his considerable hatred into a life of paid hatred and hatred for hire, earning a living as a professional white supremacist.

Now, a lifetime of carefully cultivated racism has come to an end without the dignity of being part of racially motivated violence.

Reports from the region have it that Terreblanche was killed "after a payment dispute with two workers, aged 21 and 15, who have been arrested in connection with his murder.

"'He was hacked to death while he was taking a nap,' a family friend in the town of Ventersdorp was quoted as telling Reuters news agency."

Weary from a day of racist activities, he sought some untroubled repose, only to be murdered, allegedly, in the name of greed.

But Mr. Terreblanche will be remembered -- and more than for simply having a name that translates into English "White ground." He will be remembered for his snowy beard, confused, unfocused eyes and for bringing just a little more ugliness to an already wretchedly ugly country.

As Rush Limbaugh was heard to sob today on an all-white golf course: "They don't make haters like Terreblanche anymore!"

Dick Cheney's reaction was said to be more muted. Simply: "There are no words."

Justice on the Court

As the NCAA Final Four gets underway, league officials have announced a crucial change to the game, which coaches and players alike have long sought:

Courtside attorneys to argue against unfair calls.

For too long, college basketball has languished under the totalitarian fist of referees. Lacking physical stature and expressing themselves only with their shrill whistles, referees have controlled the game with autocratic impunity.

When bad calls were made, what redress have players or coaches had? None.

But starting in the 2010/11 season, players and coaches will finally have legal representation on the court.

Each team will be allowed as many attorneys as they can afford, which may affect the economics of coaches' salaries. Team lawyers will each be allowed two investigators and will have the opportunity to file briefs on the part of their clients at any point during a game.

When a brief challenging a call is filed, the game will be suspended and an emergency court convened off-court to hear arguments, review evidence and render a judgment on the call. Off-court judges will have the authority to overrule referees.

The Referee Union For Collegiate Athletics is up in arms over this development, but their strenuous efforts to oppose this rules change were simply too little, too late in the face of the overwhelming outcry by coachs, players and fans for on-the-court justice.

Television networks have voiced concerns that courtside justice will, in all likelihood, cause games to last in excess of 12 hours, but NCAA officials were unmoved by network appeals, citing the popularity of television court personalities, such as Judge Judy and Judge Roy Brown, who are rumored to be in negotiations with the NCAA to make guest appearances on disputed calls.

The arrogance of "just look away!" The contradiction of active-ignoring on the Internet

My primary source for news on the Internet is Reddit.com.

I won't do an infomercial for Reddit, but suffice it to say that it's a handy place to find out what's going on just about everywhere.

When Anne Coulter recently came to Canada for some speaking engagements, the front page of Reddit.com lit up with links to news stories about her appearances, and also to numerous personal rants by Redditors, mostly vilifying her for the uncountable ridiculous, indefensible, hateful, insane things she's written and said over the years.

Reddit.com allows users to comment on stories, and the number of comments on anything relating to Coulter ran into the hundreds.

Among the comments was a contingent of people saying, "Ignore Coulter and she'll go away," or otherwise chiding the original poster of the article and other commenters, saying, "Don't give her the attention she seeks."

I suppose on some rudimentary, schoolyard level, there is a certain simple logic to this.

What struck me about it was the undercurrent of arrogance in people believing that by simply turning their backs on Anne Coulter, she would somehow vanish into the air.

As a quick side note, there were a number of comments and stories saying that Anne Coulter should not have been allowed to speak in Canada at all. I think that's ridiculous. Canadians, particularly Canadian students, have every right in the world to see, firsthand, what crazy looks and sounds like. There is no better example of contemporary crazy than Anne Coulter.

Sure, she's vacant. And sure she's factually, provable wrong on just about everything she says and writes. There is also ample proof online that Anne is quite liberal in one respect: her willingness to plagiarize. Her books have been dissected by readers who show, line by line, what she stole from other writers.

Wrong and weak-minded as she is, if some university wants to invite her to speak; if some crusty rightwing Christian organization wants to pay -- I can only guess -- her fee to appear, then let them.

So, there were the people of Reddit screeching about Coulter, "Ignore her and she'll go away!" Some, more subtle Redditors, simply posted a comment saying "Ignore, ignore, ignore." I guess it never dawned on the Ignoregentsia that they were, in fact, contradicting their own point by posting at all.

That said, it strikes me, personally, as weak and stupid to be an active ignorer. I mean, there are plenty of things I genuinely ignore because I genuinely don't care about them: reality shows, mainstream TV news, network television in general, sports, contemporary music, political punditry, advances in Brazilian basket weaving, religion (except for the scandals), celebrity-watching, etc.

I ignore these things on a daily -- hourly, really -- basis, and know many other people who do, to varying degrees, as well.

Strangely enough, though I ignore these areas of media, they still exist! My ignoring them hasn't snuffed them out. How can this be?

I hear the balcony heckler shouting, If you ignore these things, then how do you know they still exist? Well, I can't help overhearing conversations around the office, around cafes, via friends and family, on the radio.

Ignoring the things I have no interest in doesn't make them go away. Lucky for me, I don't care. I ignore these things because they hold no interest for me. I couldn't care less what becomes of them. But if I were an active ignorer, I might be sorely disappointed.

Like I imagine the active ignorers of Anne Coulter must grit their teeth whenever someone has the gall to post an article about an appearances in Canada being canceled, or yet another one of her sneering, snide remarks: "Canada should try having free speech! It's fun!"

Fuck you, Anne.

But what actually grated me more than Coulter's execrable commentary, and maniacally-grinning-unfunny-sarcasm, were the screeching choruses on Reddit demanding that everone ignore her!

That strikes me as coming from the "perception is reality" crowd; people who believe "out of sight, out of mind;" people who believe "if I close my eyes, nobody can see me."

That way of living doesn't work. Alcoholics Anonymous has been in business for more than 70 because -- shock! -- ignoring problem doesn't make it go away.

I won't buy one of Anne Coulter's books. I wouldn't pay a dime or waste a moment of my time going somewhere to hear her speak. Her remarks are sufficiently vicious, delusional and shocking to the prevailing morality that she'll be in the news as long as there is a lowest common denominator.

You don't want to be part of that lowest common denominator? Cool. But don't tell me I can't gaze through the peephole once in a while to see what's going on.

Because if you make your "ignore list" long enough, there's always going to be something that'll have you running to stick your head under the quilt.

Anne Coulter, and her coterie of haters are nothing more than bullies. You don't facedown a bully by running away. You take them head on. Why? Because they're cowards at their core, and it was with just this sort of rotter in mind that the old expression was coined, "Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves."

I'm all for doling out that rope.

Youth is Not a Credential

Barring being victim of a post-natal abortion by one of the diabolical triumvirate of Accident, Murder or Disease, all human beings experience youth.

Youth is a great time.

I remember the days when the waist of my jeans was 30 inches. When I galloped basketball courts for hours, finishing off the afternoon of fun (it was never exercise back then) with a Super Big Gulp and giant chocolate chip cookie from 7/Eleven. There was an evening when I was in my early 20s when I finished a day of work at a part-time job, went home, consumed a large pizza, drank six beers and then went outside and jogged five miles.

The person who coined the subversively brilliant phrase, "Youth is wasted on the young," must've had me in mind.

One other thing about my youth -- I had an insatiable curiosity for what came before me. I always wanted to hang out with the older guys in the neighborhood so I could hear how things were before I around. No self-respecting older guy would have any of the young punks around him, but I still managed to gather snippets of neighborhood lore.

There was Philip, down the street, at least 10 years older than I was, who was said to have let his girlfriend watch him take a piss.

There was dullard, Steven, at least 13 year older than me, who was said to have freaked out one day at school when he was 11 or 12 and actually killed a kid who was teasing him.

There was Peter who had climbed onto the roof of the Peerless Ice Cream Parlor, jumped down over the sign, nearly landing on an old lady walking by on the sidewalk.

More than that, I'd caught word around the neighborhood about a rock concert that had occurred before I was born called Woodstock. It was said to have last three days. A friend's older brother had seen the movie. I couldn't imagine him sitting in the theater for three solid days. Having little idea what a rock concert even entailed when I was six or seven years old, I took it upon myself to learn more about this Woodstock.

. . . and Charles Starkweather, Lenny Bruce, Jim Morrison, Lester Bangs, Bob Dylan, Marilyn Chambers (who was said to have appeared in a Dove soap ad mere weeks or months before a porn movie she starred in hit theaters), and John Belushi, Bill Murray, Evel Knievel, Jimi Hendrix (who was said to have played his guitar with his teeth on occasion), Iggy Pop, and on and on.

Even as a young kid, I always had the sense of things having gone before me. It's as though my back was against a wall marked 1971 (the year I was born), and I could only face forward toward the future. But I sensed an open doorway next to me, and I was fascinated to peak around its edge and see what had gone on pre-1971.

Not everybody feels this way.

I once worked with a very kindly, intelligent woman who'd been born in 1980, who had no interest whatsoever in anything that occurred in the world before that year. I jokingly teased her that, in fact, the world had not existed pre-1980, and that history before that time was merely a mass illusion. Even my own memories of times before 1980 were counterfeit.

Interacting with people a decade or more younger than myself, I find that that attitude isn't as isolated as I once thought.

With the solidification of youth culture, and even "tween" culture, more and more young people -- who still have the new-car smell on their pubic hair -- actually believe they are in their prime.

All youth believe themselves invincible. That's a law of nature. But an alarming number appear to believe the soil of the earth was turned on the day of their birth and only then did meaningful life begin.

When I lived in Ireland, one of my best friends was 90 year old Molly Kelly, who had grown up in County Kildare with my grandfather. Countless Saturday afternoons I sat in her parlor, listening, rapt, to stories about life in the Irish countryside. Far from being a Celtic Little House on the Prairie, dear Molly -- who poured me four-finger scotches and insisted on cooking me dinner -- told stories about the banshee, about farmers disturbing fairy rings and living to regret it, about black dogs following people home and bad luck befalling the household ever afterward; about the three knocks that came in the middle of the night at homes where people lay dying.

Whether hearing about Fatty Arbuckle, Jonestown, the Crucifixion, Pope Joan, Miller McGrath, Popa Doc, Martin Bormann or Wayne & Schuster, I wanted to know more of what happened in the world before I was around.

Whether it was Fatima, Auschwitz, Woodstock, Coral Castle, Magnetic Hill, the Bermuda Triangle, Flanders Fields, Martello Tower, Mulligan's on Poolbeg Street . . . I wanted to know about it.

Life on earth did not begin when I began.

And though every generation believes itself to be The Generation -- it ain't.

Some outdo others in banality and triviality, but otherwise, every generation believes it invented drinking, reinvented childbirth and is somehow the wunderkind that's finally going to get things right.

But they don't.