Tag Archives: Satire

BC Culture

The longer I live here, the more I get a handle on what BC is missing. What would make it a far better place to live for hundreds of thousands. This morning I had one of those “By George I’ve got it!” moments while ironically researching the Melbourne region of Australia. We’ll be passing by in December 2017 & January 2018, so if anyone is passing by this blog who has any suggestions, I’d be happy to hear them.

Similarly Cairns, Queensland, where we will be passing Christmas with the down under branch of our clan. Sydney is where Eldest has set up home, so we’ll be going there, too. This time the money is in place, as are the financial facilities, so no cancellations like the planned European Motorcycle trip, something that still rankles with me, but there you go.

Anyway, regarding my little epiphany. Why is Victoria BC such a cultural backwater? In short, Political Correctness, the crass Socialist doctrine that says you can’t say anything that the PC promoters think (?) anyone, anywhere else in the world might find ‘offensive’. This is endemic over here and actively erodes creativity. Having been to a few Victorian stand up shows I find the local brand of ‘approved’ humour absolutely cringeworthy. Indeed, I’ve given up on visiting local comedy clubs because of all the deference to this milksop-making malevolence that populates the front stalls with the incredibly smug and humourless calling out. “Ooh, that’s offensive!” Well actually yes it needs to be. Humour that doesn’t offend, or at least make a spirited attempt to do so, is often so unfunny one needs 500mg of Largactil as a stimulant before each set. I saw this last year when comedian and writer Dylan Moran came to play a tour. Don’t know what he’d done to deserve it, but to the mans credit he did put up a spirited defence against one of the local earnestly dull.

This is where Victoria is. If you don’t ascribe to a particular worldview, you won’t get very far. This is from a community that preaches and practices a very restricted view of ‘tolerance’ you understand. Yes, they paint rainbows on crosswalks and sprinkle pixie dust, but any other opinion outside their own narrow view is actively frowned upon. Indeed, by the time I finish writing this post it may actually illegal to disagree or even blink in the wrong manner when one of the earnestly dull locals is holding forth about how nice the First Nations are and how privileged we are to live cheek by jowl with them. Which is why they must be praised to the skies at every public event, regardless of whether or not any of them are in attendance.

Which ultimately means that the nightlife it a bit, well, moribund. Vapid. Insipid. Duller than dishwater that’s lost all its suds. I’d link to the local stats about death from terminal boredom, but the person tasked with compiling them fell into a coma and hasn’t been heard from since. No wonder there’s been an epidemic of Fentanyl overdoses locally. Indeed, there is even a ‘Death Cafe‘ for those who want to talk about ending it all.

Now don’t get me wrong; Victoria is a nice place to live. At least where we are in the outer suburbs. You just have to go travelling a lot, or face the ennui or le Cafard of living here.

Which is why there are so few modern Canadians who stand out. Because no-one is allowed to. Indeed, most of our real talent has to be exported before it does any real good for itself.

Update: Just picked up the news from The Blocked Dwarf and Grandad over at Head Rambles that the doyenne of the Scriblerus group, Anna Raccoon, the erudite Suzanne Cameron-Blackie is no longer with us. The Grim Reaper finally claimed her last night having won by three falls and two submissions.

Best regards and condolences to Mr G and all those who were closest to her. They broke the mould when she came to pass. Celebrate her memory and cherish all that which she contributed.

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Did I miss anything?

Recently bought myself a copy of Larousse on Cooking, am learning how to make good Yoghurt. Have also been spending time and money upgrading my office with a new, more secure Wi-fi router which goes like wet smelly stuff off a large steel digging implement and a new ultra comfy office chair from which to oversee my affairs and plot world domination. Did mention to Mrs S about getting a White Persian Cat to stroke while hatching my evil plans, but she said we couldn’t because they shed like crazy and we have a ‘no pets’ agreement with our landlord. She also said that we’d need to put it out at night (Who sets their cat on fire? – That’s cruel) or coax it down from the curtains, or clear its collection of sacrificial offerings up every morning. So, no cat. No Bill, no cat and that’s final. Oh yes, and can you clean up after yourself a bit better.

No-one tells you all this when you first decide to be an evil genius. Someone has to scour the Piranha tank and the scorpion pit. Or vacuum up the cat hairs. Or rake out the embers from your private volcano and power wash the high powered laser spy splitter after use (It gets really messy and burned on blood is hell to get off the stainless steel). Not to mention pay much higher electricity bills for powering all the various torture instruments that are de rigueur for the socially mobile world domineer. Sorry, I thought I was supposed to do the plotting and planning not spend all my time cleaning. One doesn’t get where I’m not today with having to take care of every single fine detail myself. I’m supposed to have people for that. Speaking of which, frankly me dears you just can’t get the henchmen nowadays. No-one seems to teach the right skills. When I tell a minion to carve a couple of slices off a helpless victim or do the waterboarding properly, the last thing I want to see is one of those blank ‘What do you want me to do that for?’ looks.

To which I have only one response:
I’m busy reading the financials, because it’s where all the real news is.

Apart from that, it’s been a nice few days. The winds have returned, blowing the wildfire smoke away and we can see the Olympic Mountains and the Juan De Fuca clearly once more. All right, the breezes make putting up our sunshade a little problematic and we have to watch it in case it gets blown into a back yard two blocks away but our Deer decimated flowers are making a comeback, bringing a much needed splash of colour to our deck. I can see the Fuchsia once more.

The other good news is that Mrs S has now relented and allowed me to look for a World domination cat. Just so long as it’s not a real one. Heavy sigh. Suppose I’ll have to clean the Piranha tank and muck out the Scorpions myself then. Either that or it’s fish and chips or Mock-Scampi in a basket. Again.

Rain, rain

Blood and sand! That was a hair raising nine hours. The roads of Newfoundland are pockmarked like a pre-vaccination era smallpox survivor. And it was raining. Raining very hard indeed. So hard that the satellite connections were going down like victims of the Black Death. Fortunately we were carrying plenty of cash, so paying for food and gas wasn’t the problem it could so easily have been. Did I mention the aquaplaning? Jeebus, I might as well have been surfing. The wheel was almost kicked out of my hands at even moderate speeds, and led to our journey time being extended by at least an hour and a half.

I don’t normally mind rain, and BC but this time the Atlantic weather really chucked it down. I was only mildly surprised not to hear pained miaowing and yapping as cats and dogs bounced off our little tin box while we alternately drove and skidded most of the way from the finger of Newfie-land down to the Avalon Peninsula.

Apparently the Western side and perhaps all sides of Newfoundland are subject to a phenomenon known as the ‘Wreckhouse winds‘, winds so strong they on one occasion, pushed 22 freight wagons off the rails. Local legend has it that these hurricane plus force gusts have toppled parked vehicles and the occasional locomotive over. Whether the Gods of Wreckhouse were active that day I do not know, but do I know that driving conditions were as difficult as anything I can recall, even over Shap Fell on the M6 on a really bad winter day. Possibly even more so. Our little Subaru normally shrugs off wind and rain like they don’t exist, but that day all bets were off.

Anyway, we made our destination, somewhat belatedly, in one piece and parked up in a sheltered place to recover from our travel tribulations over a bottle of Cabernet and a nice meal. The following day it was almost sunshine all the way. Apparently this is average for this time of year. These Newfies must be made of tough stuff if they can cope with this sort of weather.

Newfoundland is a strange place, hostile, then with a twitch of the veil the sun shines and it’s utterly gorgeous. Rather like the North West of Scotland. And the mossies and no-see-ums are just as fearsome as the notorious Scottish highland midge, an insect so aggressive that when one is captured in a jar it will attempt to beat itself to death. However, two Newfoundland midges were reputed to have got into a fight over a particularly tasty moose and laid waste to half a hectare of trees. However, that is supposedly the stuff of folklore, but having seen the real thing I’m not so sure.

Pass the Benadryl and put in a bulk order for Deet. A Lobster dinner is beckoning. For your amusement, please view the following two videos.

Yes Prime Minister Global Warming etc Part 2 from Aris Motas on Vimeo.

Five Bears and a Moose

Have made it across Ontario , dodging the occasional item of wildlife that’s forgotten their membership of the Tufty club. Bright sunny skies, rocks and trees as we scootled Ottawa bound for a brief rest stop and pause for breath before launching into Quebec.

Well chums, we’ve crossed a lot of Ontario and it’s still full of trees, rocks, lakes and the odd human. As far as the insect life is concerned, there’s been a lot of that too, and those little suckers are hungry. Indeed we’ve woken up on several mornings to find the outside of our hotel room windows plastered with famished looking mossies and no-see-ums crooning softly to be let in to feast on our winsome flesh. It’s also quite eerie to see them clustering in clouds around our wing mirrors at traffic stops attempting to get at us like zombies coming over for a meat feast special.

As the title implies we’ve sighted another five Black bears. A mother and yet another two cubs in a culvert at the side of Highway 11, peacefully munching away. Another likewise indulging it’s appetites. (What is it about ditches and Canadian wildlife?) and a fifth legging it across the highway like all hell was in pursuit, forcing the car in front of us to brake heavily to avoid a radiator full of Ursine panic. A young Bull Moose was spotted in broad daylight. Sorry no pictures, but I haven’t any decent picture processing tools on this laptop. I’ll create a new set of pages when we get home with some of the pictures and observations.

Watched the UK election campaign with interest. Was amazed Corbyn’s Labour party even got in the running. But considering the campaign run by the incumbent and her party’s policies, is it any surprise they missed an open goal? Now the UK has a hung parliament, which fortunately means little bill passing, so if they don’t focus on BREXIT, the Tories are toast. With old school radical labour in the wings coming to trash the economy. Not an edifying prospect.

It’s cost me money of course. On the near Tory defeat the pound took a three cent tumble, so I ‘lost’ about $20,000 on the exchange rate, but markets always panic like stereotypical teenage girls in a slasher movie. When the fuss is over, by the end of the month things will stabilise, and my ‘loss’ will disappear. Put not thy faith in Prices, young Bill. The Bear market isn’t over by a long chalk, and the obese person of gender has yet to start practicing for her aria.

Well, Mrs S and I are currently enjoying the louche charm of Quebec city now, having paused in Ottawa for a quick tootle round the usual sights. Lots of construction going on in the federal capital. We can see where the money is being spent. But honestly I prefer the slightly scruffy, quasi-French charm of Quebec. Paris it ain’t, but at the moment, with all the trees in leaf, it’s a very pretty place.

One last thing; in a business conversation the other day about west coast matters, I was introduced to the amusement of the New Age Bullshit generator and it’s more corporate counterpart, the corporate buzzword generator. Both produce complete and utter woo, but the only problem is that there are far too many room temperature IQ’s who uncritically believe in that sort of thing. And what’s worse is that they have actual political and financial power. Horrified shudder.

Oh well

Catch ya later.

Oh by the way, if you want to ‘cite’ a scientific looking ‘paper’ to generate even more lefty-think nonsense try this bullshit generator which can conjour up all manner of pseudo science. Just one thing; it does look eerily similar to the real thing. Oo-er.

Another day, another hotel

Off onto the land of the rising sun, and I’m not talking Japan here. We’re heading Eastbound and sideways. Scenery is still completely awesome, we raised the tally to nine Black Bears observed in the last four days when we photographed a mother and two cubs studiously ignoring tourists on highway 16 east of Jasper.

Which raises the question; are Ursus Americanus ‘black’ enough? Or will BLM and their cohorts claim that’s one of their sacred ‘ists’, and since I’m not the ‘correct’ skin hue am I on the list of people allowed to refer to these creatures as ‘black’? Having photographed a mother and two cubs; again, can one call the female parent of a bear cub a ‘mother’? I’m told there are people who make the rules in Ontario who have views about that sort of thing. They have a hit list of non-approved words, and ‘mother’ is most definitely on it.

Also a bit gutted because I slept through a magnificent display of the Northern Lights last night. Fortunately I met a like minded geek over breakfast this morning who let me know what tonights peak activity was going to be like. We’re also 100km north and 200km east of our last lodgings, so I’m going to stay up way past my bedtime, camera in hand in ‘movie’ mode to try and capture the sky dancing. Posting of pictures and such may be a bit delayed as I haven’t loaded any photo and video editing software on my new ‘pooter. However, watch this space.

As for the forthcoming UK election; are there people who seriously have a remaining brain cell going to vote for Labour with Corbyn in the driving seat? He’s a wetter re-run of Michael Foot for heavens sake! At least Foot was anti-EU. Corbyn is so keen to play lovable puppy to Juncker and Merkin that he’ll become everyone’s bitch as far as BREXIT is concerned. May is far too authoritarian, but at least she’ll get the UK out of the EU. Corbyn won’t, he’ll fold faster than a black belt in Origami.

Glad to see that Trump fellow is backing out of the Paris accord on Climate Change. He may be bombastic and a little boorish in manner, but isn’t he annoying all the right people? Must buy some more popcorn tomorrow, as I’ve run out and my handy dandy little hot air popcorn maker has remained at home.

That’s all for the present. Having a splendid time and am going up a glacier some time in the next day or so. Play nice now.

The Sound of Music

Oh dear, to find inspiration for this one I had to bowdlerise “How do you solve a problem like Maria” from ‘The Sound of Music’. The depths to which I sink… (Video of the original here)

However, for those of you not familiar with the movie (Thank your lucky stars), let me conjure up a picture. Six Diplomats in black suits, two American, two Chinese and two Japanese are gloomily watching screens in a situation room. On the screens are images of Kim Jong-Un and missiles being made ready.

Cue Sound of Music song intro as the first American Diplomat speaks;
“They launch rockets, play with nukes, and the nation is quite broke
The second American Diplomat says;
They threaten countries all the time and look as if it’s all a joke
The first Japanese Diplomat says;
Yet underneath the bluster there’s the ghost of A-bomb smoke
The first American speaks
Do we bomb or don’t we, there’s the challenge”

The Japanese Diplomat chimes in;
“There’s money for the military, while most North Koreans starve
Even China is hacked off with them, this country that’s a half
I hate to have to say it, but I very firmly feel North Korea’s not an asset to the region”

The first Chinese Diplomat begins to speak;
“I’d like to say a word in their behalf
North Korea makes me laugh”

The Chinese Diplomat sings;
“How do you solve a problem like Korea?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?
How do you find the word that means Korea?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o’-the wisp! A clown!”

“Many a thing you know you’d like to tell them
Many a thing they ought to understand
But how do you make them stay and listen to all you say
How do you keep a wave upon the sand?”

The other diplomats join in;
“Oh, how do you solve a problem like Korea?
How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?
When we hear them talk it’s confusing, out of focus and bemusing
And we never know exactly where we are”

The American Diplomat sings;
“Unpredictable as the weather, they’re as flighty as a feather
Kim’s an Eejit! He’s an arsehead! Goes too far!”

“He’d out pester any pest, drive a hornet from its nest
He’s a real live fan of circled firing squads
He’s a nutter! He is wild! He’s a riddle! He’s a child!
He’s a headache! He’s a moron! Thinks he’s God!”

The other Diplomats join in the chorus;
“How do you solve a problem like Korea?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?
How do you find the word that means Korea?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o’-the wisp! A clown!”

“Many a thing you know you’d like to tell them
Many a thing they ought to understand
But how do you make them stay and listen to all you say
How do you keep a wave upon the sand?”

“Oh, how do you solve a problem like Korea?
How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?”

Boom-boom.

I’ll get me coat. Have a good Friday.

Syria

With huge apologies to the great Dean Friedman and his 1978 hit song ‘Lydia’.

Syria keeps nerve agent in their armament and we complain.
Well, hardly never. And then jokingly they say
Boy, it’s been so long since we saw you, we nearly bombed them all to death. We nearly left them all for dead. Nearly left them all for dead.

Syria, Syria, how come we don’t understand?
We can offer them nothing at all. this is more than we had planned.
Syria, Syria we are trying to command, at least until Korea comes,
Then, we must be off again.

Syria, you know we always talk about making conscious decisions, about running all your lives. Well, maybe we’re just fooling ourselves. It’s a role we like to play.
Because more often than not we’re backed into a corner. We’re sorry we bombed you. Do you feel like some company? Refugees need a place to stay.

Syria, Syria, how come we don’t understand?
We can offer them nothing at all. this is more than we had planned.
Syria, Syria we are trying to command, at least until Korea comes,
Then, we must be off again.

We mess with a country who thinks we’re all dumb. well, maybe we are. no, that wouldn’t surprise anyone. we suspect that much is true.
But, Syria, if you only knew how much we love you. did you know that we love you? it’s the best that we can do.

Syria, Syria, how come we don’t understand?
We can offer them nothing at all. this is more than we had planned.
Syria, Syria we are trying to command, at least until Korea comes,
Then, we must be off again.
We must be off again.

Free Kekistan!

There is a nation of the oppressed out there in Interwebland. A nation of people who have suffered horribly under the boot heel of a harsh totalitarian regime. A nation of peaceful Meme and Typo farmers whose only ‘crime’ is to claim their universal right of self determination and worship their green skinned God, Kek and his prophet, Pepe. A people struggling to be free from the cruel larping of hatemongers.

Bizarre? Certainly. But these are a people whose oppression must be recognised and removed. Article 1 of the UN charter demands this.

My friends (either of you) this is an appeal for your help. A cri de coeur on behalf of dispossessed ethnic Kekistanis, kept down for centuries by the identitarian Normies of Cuckistan. Forbidden to laugh openly in the street for fear of being physically beaten by black and brown clad masked hatemongers. Watching their memes stripped away year after year by a harsh left wing Cuckistani regime who sadistically tread precious, carefully nurtured crops underfoot. Humourless heretics who worship the false gods of Justin Trudeau, Jeremy Corbyn and Hilary Clinton have done this. Why? Because they hate the Kekistani flag and cultural identity for being way cooler than anything the Normies of Cuckistan can create. Because Cuckistanis, by their very definition, are incapable of Cool.

Now, despite suffering horrible casualties in the 2016 Meme war, the oppressed Kekistani diaspora are rising up against the identitarian brutality, declaring a merciless meme Jihad against the source of their hardship. This blog says the vile Cuckistanis must be overthrown and driven out, back into the foul swamplands of identity politics from whence they came. Why? “Because it’s 2017, dummy.”

Thus we implore you to take up the cry to liberate Kekistan. Join the meme Jihad against the wickedness of the Cuckistani Normies. Sign the petition. All hail to the great Kek. Shadilay to you my green friends.

Oh dear

The latest border creep of what constitutes ‘racism’ has just crossed the boundary into the kitchen. Specifically the rather strange claim that drinking milk is now ‘Racist’. Which greatly upsets me. Especially as the white stuff figures largely in so many of my favourite savoury or dessert recipes. Will a new crime of ‘Hate Cooking’ be created making it illegal to prepare things that are deemed ‘Too white’? What of whipping cream? Will that have to be withdrawn from sale because the act of flagellating milk derivative into lovely stiff, creamy peaks becomes the equivalent of statuesque blondes strutting around in swastika encrusted basques and black stockings thwacking people with riding crops? God yes, Helga, take me home I’m ready. Gosh. What an interesting thought.

milk-is-only-for-racist-nazisWhich raises a question. Is milk now so racist even Nazi’s hate it? Fortunately I can answer this question with a definitive “Yes” and have been able to obtain historical photographic proof. My God, this is political dynamite!

Also in the event Marine Le Pen wins the French Presidential election does that mean I will no longer be able to source the delights of Roquefort, Brie or Camembert? Friends, (I know I used to have some) possibly, well, maybe not so many; this is terrible. That nice Mr Trudeau will have to outlaw ‘hate’ dairy products that are deemed too ‘white’. Oh, hold on a minute, I’ve just read the year dates on some of the cited articles. 1997, 2004, 2016, and now 2017. Good gravy! Is there no end to this awful prejudice? When will this madness end! What will happen to the economy of Wisconsin? Is no-one safe?

the-french-resistanceFortunately my fiends, (either of you) there is hope. From Europe comes a brave group of heroic figures, skilled in the art of converting racist milk and cream into lovely, non racist blue cheeses. Meet Michelle, Rene and Yvette, specialist resistance cheese makers who can rid us all of the terrible racist curse of milk drinking.

Oh shit. That’s another of the sacred ‘ists’ isn’t it? The really naughty one prefixed with S-E-X. Oh dear. I’m in real trouble now.

White Supremacy

I have a few pertinent questions to ask about this business of ‘white supremacy’ that some parties are always shrieking about.

Can a Snowman on top of a hill (Or woman, let’s not be sexist here) be called a ‘White Supremacist’?

Or is ‘White supremacy’ managing to clear the front drive before the next six inches covers it once more?

What do we do to ‘end’ white supremacy? Do we take up snow shovels and dig our way out, or do we simply hunker down in front of a blazing log fire with a nice hot cup of tea and wait for the thaw?

I ask simply because I’ve just spent an hour clearing snow and you can’t tell where I started shovelling. And the sky is still full with another day of the white stuff forecast. Bloody hell. Time to put the kettle on.

Oh yes, and where are all these ‘anti-racists’ when you need a helping hand with a shovel? Oh sorry, I forgot, protestalots don’t do manual work.

Update: One our neighbours is definitely determined to prove his supremacy over the white stuff. He’s got a mini snowplough on the front of his All Terrain Vehicle and has been trolling up and down the street below for the last two hours since 5am. Thanks for feeding my insomnia, neighbour. The irony is that at 8:30am there is already a covering of snow over his handiwork.

When daylight hits I’ll be getting out the snow shovel, but won’t be keeping anyone awake but myself.