What, me remember?

O the spectacle worthy of the dead Romans that is the forked tongued progressives making wonder of the glorious dead. For days now they have openly worn plastic poppies upon their plastic souls. Now it is passed, they can shed their fashionable false skin and return true to their false nature. Not the red poppy; the red star. Our Canadian military men are only welcome in our tax spender cities and suburbs one day a year. I ask you, when are the many military men ever welcome in their uniforms on other times of the year? Did you count the multitude in downtown Toronto wearing poppies? Away from the bread and circus state media, I only counted one in twenty. I forgot it was Remembrance Day. In my youth, everybody wore them. It was more like Halloween for all the few wearing those red badges. What?, I said when I was reminded after the sun had set, What, me remember?



The state media has been thick with sad memoirs of soldiers. Their old mans tales serve their purposes. War is bad. Soldiers are rapists. These are not the stories that I heard from my father and his weekend beer drinking buddies. Dad and his mates drank that awful English beer, served warm, dark and peaty. Toby they called it. They drank warm beer, thought an apple as good as a chocolate bar, and favored pickled onions, salmon sandwiches, and smoked oysters for food to celebrate good living. They had good living in Ontario back then, back when the Orangemen ran the place. Those Orangemen, those presbyterians. You could not get beer in Ontario on a Saturday. The cops were Irish. Honest in their application of the law. They shot rapists; they beat wife beaters. They went to church Sunday, and frowned upon serving beer on Saturday. But that was before the reds took over, back when everyone who wanted to work had work; things are worse now. This trading of red for orange has been a bad trade.

Ontario is no longer a Christian place. Do you know anybody who actually goes to church? One in twenty of the people you know at best. Where is this terrifying, witch burning majority the reds call upon when they raise your taxes for services that are not delivered? I know all my neighbors; none are Christian. My neighbors are, variously, homosexuals, Hindu, and humanists. There are no Bibles for three houses around me, north, south, east, and west. But their nonexistent threat motivates the reds (none of whom live in my mixed working class, welfare class, neighborhood). The reds live in the better parts of town. And there are no Christians there; and nobody considers the United Church a Christian church, certainly not Jesus. The Savior would sup with sinners, not abortionists.

The progressives taught us children pagan beliefs in public school. To cut to the quick, if you ascribe to pagan belief, which is the default that fills the void of the stripped of Christ tax payer, there you find other reasons to remember the military dead. It is not an exercise in social engineering, nor group social psychology. No. The dead are to be appeased. When you welcome the dead into your house (something Christians do not do) they are to be pleased and soothed with sights rewarding their valor in battle, their heroic deeds, their daring do. Did you see that on state television? Or did you see old men talk about futility, waste, and war crimes? Believe me, the exhausted story of the sad execution of deserters does not please the dead. Daily you hear from some fat pensioner that the sacrifice of war is not worth it. Tell that to the dead. They want to party. They want beer spilt, food gobbled, and wenches seduced. War is Bad? This is not what they want to hear, if you want them to be appeased. How were the military dead welcomed in your home, you non-Christian, you who consider a man in uniform a criminal, a rapist, a beater of women? Were their feeling hurt? How did you hurt their feelings this year?

Fear the cold. The first snow fell in Ontario on the night before Remembrance Day. Six weeks too early? Five weeks too early? The mature pagan cultures would rush out to appease the angry gods with sacrifice and contrition. Early winter is an ill omen. Have you appeased the gods, you non-Christians? Apparently not. The omens speak of angry, angrier, angriest spirits. Instead you insult them with talk of Global Warming, even as the cold of the presence of the spirits of the military dead drinks the life force of those available for their dining. The military dead are lonely. They were not appeased with the sounds of Christian prayer in homes. Did you say grace on Remembrance day over your feast to celebrate their bravery? I think not. When did you last sing a hymn? If not, then the cold you feel is the close proximity of the dead. They are coming for you.

When I invited the dead into my home on Remembrance Day I offered them warm beer, pickled onions, salmon sandwiches, and smoked oysters. I played John Wayne movies on the VCR. I entertained them as the glorious dead they are. No hint of the progressive idea of all soldiers are rapists, that their sacrifice was futile, that their surviving buddies were victims of sadness at seeing them killed. In my house they felt no need to seek out the living, their old home, their haunts; no need to seek out family to see they are prospering in this racist shithole, pit of oppression. Not in my house, no. What did they find in your house? Did they leave happy? Did they leave angry? Did they find strangers in their homes? Have they left at all? This horrible cold, so early, so hungry for life force, it speaks of lingering, hungry, lonely ghosts. But not in my house. But my neighbors, and those progressives who insult the memories of the dead in thought and word and deed, they will feel the cold until they join it this coming long dark winter.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.