Monday Morning Manhunt

My Monday morning manhunt moment began with the disconcerting news that the manhunted is uncaught. Oh, any god but Christ, what is to become of us progressives, diversives, and other gendered? Wail, gnashing of teeth! Actually, the progressives, the diversives, and the other gendered are cheering the Batman Dark Knight figure of Chris Dorner on. Kinda reminds me of the leftist unrest that accompanied our leftist Ontario premier Bob Rae. Remember that, fellow citizens? Why are leftists (like Obama supporter Dorner) cooking off under the rule of their dreamboat leader? Oh well. There is no free speech in this country so public speculation is suppressed. (You might want to think about it, though: as in, a) is it true the lefties rise up under lefty leadership, and, b) is it possible [if (a) is true] to discourage and/or encourage these uprisings [a sub thought of (b) would be is it possible to direct these uprisings as to target and intensity]; and c) the general case of uprisings: what is the trigger, and can they be directed by target and intensity.) Actually, only a hypnotist with an interest in mass hysteria would be doing any sort of research into that. Anyway, there are other items in the mucked up manhunt to manure up my Monday morning.

Morning Manhunt

Saturday morning.  Haven't the forces of justice caught that white-black villain Christopher Dorner yet? And the guns, the guns. The guns made him do it. So, I get up on this glorious Global Warming Saturday, shovel the snow (soon to be ashes from Lake Winnipeg when it boils away) and expect to find the villain has been taken into custody, pending a fair trail, a tearful apology with Oprah, and the support of a tribe of baby mommas. No such luck. Instead, there is support for this latter day Rambo.

Angry Christopher Dorner

Have you had the opportunity to read Christoper Dorner's manifesto, yet?  An angry man, indeed.

I was shocked at the allegations of racism.  I was shocked at the insight into the diversity of hatreds in the progressive state.  Imagine that.

Awareness by the Unaware

Your public library has a diversity of awareness raising seminars and goings on. Inevitably, there is some government funding for whatever awareness group is out pushing brochures, literature, and a community college quality power point presentation. Your question is how can you attach your inner financial lamprey to this money trout that is government funding. A logical and reasonable person would want to know what sort of criteria are used to determine which awareness group gets funding, and which does not. There is no criteria. Just fill in the forms, and the check arrives. Finding the forms, the programs, and the byzantine criteria for filling out the forms is the challenge. As with all things government, having a friend inside helps. I went to the public library, your public library, to attend a government funded awareness seminar on farting.

Feeding Set, the Snake God by Proxy

Eating has a special place in the spiritual realm of followers of Set, the Snake God. Why not add something special to dog treat time and write the name of someone in need of spiritual uplifting through the mystical process of digestion upon a dog treat. Feed your problems to the wolf.

Public Library, Social Disease

I used to think the worst part of getting to the public library was taking public transit.  You know the public transit situation here in Toronto: it is a warm place in winter, air conditioned in summer, and dry all year long: so the insane that roam the streets between welfare check binges make it their place to work through the voices in their head.  After the insane, you have the criminals.  Sure, a person with a diversity of personalities will push you onto the tracks, but at least they have a bad smell and wardrobe that can alert the urban jungle dweller that there is a problem.  The criminals come in packs.  A new crop every spring (only the cold weather seems to thin out their ranks).  A discerning reader of the state media knows they are a problem: every transit rider can tell you of incidents of violence experienced or witnessed.  Yet there are never arrests for such pedestrian crimes.  The bright elite lights of progressive Toronto, when their progressive voters are snuffed out and eulogized by the progressive media, are known personally for public urination, spitting, and cell phone jacking.  The elites weep on their country estates under the watchful gaze of Lenin, Che, and Trudeau.  The working class is relieved: that dirty N-person who pissed on the Bloor line last August has gone to the great hip hop subway station in hell.  Such is transit.  You endure until you get to the library.  Now, it seems, the progressive voter has found their way into the book stacks.

Happy Days in the Basement

In these progressive times, I spend my Happy Days down in the basement.  I spend my free time at hobbies, rather than get into to trouble with free speech. Going out into the world can get you into even more trouble, even death.  Public transit is a third world experience: roving madmen, er, madpersons; open borders socialist social parasites with a consistent liberal voting record; and a diversity of pathogens courtesy of a multicultural selection of cultures that disbelieve in the germ theory of disease.  It is racist to notice, don't you know.  Keep your eyes down, like a Saxon in the presence of your Norman liege.  The over represented N-people need only hallucinate your muttering of the forbidden N-word to the white guilt slurping judge to get a few years shaved from the sentence for cracking your skull and spilling your teeth.  So, to the basement I prefer to go.  And my friends, the people I trust, they do the same thing.  Today is Saturday, and there are many of them doing projects in the basement.  Why get into trouble?