I was shocked to see the state media uproar over a hockey announcer being offered an honorary degree at Canada's token military university, RMC *. I was astounded to learn that some of the faculty at RMC were offended, fat bastard socialist style, at such a controversial figure as a television commentator would be given a degree. Faculty at a military college? Activists? Fat bastard socialists?
A long time ago, when I was flirting with the idea of post-graduate work in History, I was told that any sort of affiliation with a military university was a death sentence to a career in academia. Being white, male, straight, Christian, or non socialist merely gave you some variant on leprosy, gout, syphilis, gangrene, or scrofula. I had this on good authority, from three separate sources. Do I have to name them? One was an N-person poet of some real skill who was put on the fast escalator to department head and report reader; another was a darkly cynical classicist whose two faced public devotion to socialist thought was contrasted with his personal system of free enterprise somewhere to the right of Ayn Rand (whose well read books he kept hidden; whereas his Bolshevik primers were purchased worn and read looking from the used book store, and placed on his shelves to be admired by socialist tenure granters, otherwise to gather dust), the last was a middle ranking mathematician (the top rank ones did not mingle with undergraduates such as myself). This intellectual anilingus * (denouncing Cherry) may be a good, a standard career builder in socialist academia, but those complaining faculty are already dead in the water, given the misfortune of where they currently work. They are already dead, bloated maggoty corpses. Their career is that of a Japanese Sergeant on Guadalcanal. Fertilizer and food for the bugs. The consciousness raising going on here is not the association of competitive sports with violence, rape, vegetarian hatred, or under funding of fat bastard socialist bum boys pensions; but the extent to which these cuckolding socialist parasites have infiltrated everywhere where results do not matter.
I feel like a Jesuit in the first year of Mary Tudor's reign contemplating reversing Calvinism. The chainsaw and the log splitter have not been invented. Is there enough wood to cleanse out the contagion? How did fat bastard socialists arrive tapeworm fashion at a place as dry of white guilt as a school devoted to the arts of death, oppression, and tobacco appreciation as a Canadian War Machine college? If they are there, they must be everywhere. Seeing one cockroach means there are ten to a hundred more hidden in the walls. If they have spread beyond the intellectual confines of the sticky bathhouse of socialist thought, where else are they? Fetch me wood.
Let me extend the gloomy picture. Fat bastard socialism, with its taste for white guilt, can usually be identified by lack of ability, subversion of resources, and group ape think. As such, they can be targeted by means legitimate (vote conservative, cut taxes, put up a lawn sign during elections) or illegitimate (poison, evening garotte expeditions in tax spender country, or sabotage). But just how many activists are there? I have surrounded my house with rose beds, all of them Activist Occupied. The garden supply center will ask questions when I buy more than four bags of lime at a time, per shopping trip per day, per week, per growing season. Aside from futility, what of the gloomy question of how the state is rotten, and not just the useless parts of it that nobody will miss if the useless are forced into a non denominational worship center and burnt alive. The military? There are fat bastard socialist faculty at a military school? Oh Ignatius Loyola, there are bunglers and dullards and crack pates in actually important posts. The ten thumbed socialists are let lose among the gunpowder industry. Socialists always smoke dope, to stick it to the man. Ka-boom results, inevitably. Socialists, the most legendary of incompetents, are not to be allowed around anything important (like the economy, which they have deflated like a queers pecker after a lunch time visit to a bath house), anything heavy, or anything dangerous (like gunpowder management).
I know the Marines are not incompetent, but the War Machine is bigger than the chiseled visage of the elite assault troops. What of those who hand out blankets? Stare at radar screens? Remove staples from forms, rearrange and reassemble, and restaple? How has employment equity, dumbed down standards, and poly gender, condoms available in the human resources department office sex changed the effectiveness of important, non-useless institutions? Will the roads get plowed this winter? The aircraft controller, has he/she/it been hired on the basis of anything but ability? Does the radar actually work? Or has some IQ 80 diversity hire put the label 'A' wire under the label 'B' screw? We already know that having hands dripping with poo is not an impediment to a career in handling your food. Shoveling snow is proof of Global Warming. What are these twits going to do around thermobaric devices, hypergolic fuel systems, or my especial favorite, rocket mortar phosgene gas delivery systems? I shudder. Fetch me wood, Ignatius.
On a personal level, I embrace diversity and tolerate voices I disagree with. I keep activists in a safe place: dressed in rubber bondage gear, tied up in the basement. It started as a sideline: they paid me to abuse them. Rubber wears well, and cleans easily. Fat people look good in tight black rubber. They have freedom of speech: they can say anything they want, even when they are in the sensory deprivation tanks. My native German speaking staff can clean boots, polish leather harnesses, and curse with a Prussian accent; but my basement is full. Is my basement not big enough? What do you do with your clumsy fat bastard socialists? Do I let out my useless activists who work in useless economic sectors and replace them with useless activists from useful economic sectors? I can mind wipe * the ones I release. But, if I leave more than one a week per bus terminal, VIA rail station, or museum coffee shop, per month, varying by season, the Toronto Star might notice and demand an increase in social spending. I will empty out my basement; take a van load down to Occupy Hogtown, when it gets dark. When it comes to handling people who celebrate third trimester abortion, I know Ignatius Loyola, Calvin, and Luther will form a consensus and assist me in spirit.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.