Burning Margaret Atwood

I have not met anyone who had any book by Margaret Atwood that was not purchased, obtained, required but for some sort of school course. I have attended a lifetime of house parties, stood in front rooms, and admired the collection of school texts that all post Trudeau Canadians have. Every man jack and dolly has one, two, or ten of the works of the Canadian Left's favorite non-transgendered person whose vision exactly matches their own in the way that Easter Islanders always seemed to carve the same face to celebrate their dysfunctional culture.

Just the other day, I was visiting an old school chum. We went to Waterloo together, and, well we get together on Oktoberfest to eat meat, drink beer, and look at wenches. As we staggered out the door on our drunken way to the flesh pots of Waterloo, we ran an errand to my buddies favorite used book store, to sell some books. (The pregnant wife is redecorating, and a box of books is surplus to establishment)

The used store book guy would not take the four volumes of Margaret Atwood. He said that they never sold, except when school started. The students needed them at school. They then sold them at the end of the year, or sooner, as soon as possible. He could rhyme off the likely lesson plans of the local high schools and the likely weeks of the month when the unread rag stock pulp would reappear, unwanted, at his sales station. He scowled. No, said the bookseller of Guelph, he had never sold anything by Margaret Atwood to anyone just looking for a good read. No. It is not hard to realize that the popularity, the very existence, of Brand X is dependent upon the Red Fringe that lives, over paid and ability challenged, in the intestines of the body politic, the education bureaucracy. The witches, he called them, the witches.

My buddy and I continued on our merry way. We put the unwanted, valueless, four volumes of Margaret Atwood in a five cent plastic grocery bag, along with the wrappers from two ice creme cones (vanilla and caramel), the wrapper from a pack of smokes (Camel dead heads, from under the counter of the redskin supplied, Korean run, no questions asked, variety store). What to do with the worthless writings of Margaret Atwood? Our quest on that night of drunken debauchery would be to listen for the voice of Set, the Snake God, and find out.

#1) Throw them out the window. My buddy is a neighbor in the white privilege suburbs to a Trash worker in the Guelph area. The oppressed village peoples of Guelph (you know who, those darlings of the left who spend your taxes and vote left), are fond of throwing their trash in the ditch. Trash worker said that most of the ditch trash that he and the crew pick up comes from the multi-cultural village peoples communities (that add diversity to an other wise ditch trash free white racist community). Usually it is quite predictable, my buddy said Trash said. Now, our beloved underprivileged throw the usually underprivileged sort of stuff in the ditch: diapers, rotting fruit from the food bank, TV guides, the Toronto Star, condoms (some drippy and used, some drippy, used, and shitty), chocolate treat wrappers, cigarette packs, and half full cans of dog food. But they also throw out new school textbooks, new computers, new shoes, and porn directed at the discerning porn consumer who is sexually aroused by surgically enhanced women (or trans) taking a dump in each others mouth. The explanation, by Trash, that was given to the Garbage workers in a to be nameless Guelph location was that since the underprivileged are given stuff for free (new school texts, new computers, and new shoes) they do not even bother to sell to people who have to buy it; they just pitch it. They pitch it in the ditch. And our four volumes of Margaret Atwood were too used to pass for underprivileged trash. Drats, foiled again. Throwing Margaret Atwood out the window, into the ditch, would not do.

My buddy and I got to talking about high school. I worked one summer just to buy textbooks for high school. So many. So expensive. If only I had known I could have gotten them for free, new, and goofed off that summer, burgled houses for drug money, got whatever wench pregnant (then aborted), vandalized property, and just had a good, healthy non-white, post racial fun time, just like Margaret Atwood of the aristocracy encourage so much with their unaccountable social engineering, promotion of ability challenged left thinkers, and general low witted hijinx that aristocrats on the verge of a proletarian revolution are prone to do.

#2) Burn the books. Like every single white person, I like to burn things that get in the way of my enjoyment of the invisible things in life, which I keep in my invisible knapsack of white privilege. This is why, I am told by those that spend my taxes, why I pay taxes. My buddy had an idea as we drove past one of the conservation areas outside of Rockwood: the one where the white right wing Christian fanatics (which the right wing racist media depicted as Muslims, the scum) used to train for a bloody overthrow of the anti-racist state. Which is ridiculous, of course, because Muslims are always never bad, and the Christians never good. Why do not we just burn the books in there? Lots of stuff gets burnt in there all the time. The woods are thick with the smell of gunpowder. Bit of charred uniforms are stuck on branches. Battle smoke wafts among the trilliums. It is against the rules, but who follows the rules? That is not how to deal with The Man and his rules. I learnt to disrespect authority from the hippies who forced me to buy Margaret Atwood. She would be proud of us as we burnt her worthless writing, four volumes of hated, despised, forced to read, pulp.

But it was raining, and so we continued to Oktoberfest.

My buddy and I continued our adventure to Waterloo. We were going to celebrate our culture, by eating meat, drinking beer, and looking at wenches. I was concerned about all the environmental destruction we were causing by lugging around the dead weight of the worthless writings of Margaret Atwood. I could see ice cap melting amounts of Carbon Dioxide spew out the exhaust pipe. It was horrible. Polar Bears were dying. Al Gore was crying. All that unwanted, unread, unproductive mass, only good for roughage for worms. I was close to tears.

In Waterloo, my buddy and I hooked up with the Subversive Consumer * * *. He was happy (though the Subversive Consumer has a base font of rage). After some 25 cent beer (it is cheaper when you do not pay taxes for services the socialists do not provide) we shared our tale of woe about the useless Margaret Atwood.

It is a sad comment on our racist shit hole of a country that a Prussian Canadian has to get drunk before he feels safe enough to express his culture.

Apparently the Subversive Consumer had a financially traumatic experience with Margaret Atwood back in his high school days. Not only was he forced to purchase two novels (he showed me the journal transactions in his perpetual journal, now on his Blackberry), he never opened them, not once. This was during the time of his life when he was being tormented by the scented breasts of Dorothy, the english teacher. For an entire term he carried the useless mass of two unproductive novels of Margaret Atwood, even as Dorothy would bring her two breasts to school, differently scented by day of the week, variable displays of cleavage determined by wardrobe, and climate controlled nipples. She would favor some students (and not by any sort of system based on ability, but based on height, strength, lack of primate odor, and hair style) with collisions with right or left. Bob, the legend of the high school, even got a black eye during a mid term.

The Subversive Consumer got a full dose of white guilt, even as his own testicles remained unsqueezed. To this day, he remains emotionally traumatized. He is a victim, twice over. Two books, useless; Two breasts, unsqueezed. He is filled with hate. I could see it in his eyes. What would this Prussian Canadian, now with secure access to gasoline enough to drive a PanzerKorps to Kharkov, do? We talked about his Prussian culture. It was as he was being hypnotized by the breasts of Dorothy that he first learnt what a bunch of bad witch burners every single one of his ancestors had been. But witch burning is coming back into the approval radius of Political Correctness. We could burn the works of Margaret Atwood on the same pile of timber as you would use to burn a witch.

#3) Burn Margaret Atwood. Why waste all that good timber to burn a few books, when you could put a real, not long for living, witch on it? Why not put Margaret Atwood on the pyre, too? It would be fun to watch. It would make her carbon footprint smaller. It would be like a fourth trimester abortion, but with fire. We could make money filming it for the pay site. Think of all those other sodomized Canadian consumers, gleeful and full of the automatic killing nature that is, so the fringe leftists keep telling me as they spend my taxes on stuff they do not deliver, should be, constantly is, my whitey nature? When the fringe leftist press gets a few sound bites (Aaaah! Aaaah! crackle crackle) they could use it to justify increases to CBC spending on a remake of the Beachcombers! Think of everybody smiling. Imagine.

Comrades of the Working Class! Every penny spent on the bourgeois Margaret Atwood is a penny not spent on the evil military war machine that is the decadent American capitalist state! Every penny that is spent is a penny not spent on strengthening the forces of a Workers War Machine, that should be overthrowing the decadent aristocrats! Every penny!

Comrades of the Working Class! Your marketing slogan for the month is Every Penny!

Aaaargh!

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this with my left hand.