Chairman Trudeau, His Liberal Stooges, The Media, Contempt For Voters, or The General state of Being in The Great Ignoranus Of The Present

The General state of Being in The Great Ignoranus Of The Present

I used to think Politicians would lie, and then get caught out by the media usually. It was expected that they would then shame-facedly correct what they’d refer to as an error – another spoiled child lie – and resort to honesty for the next brief term before another one of them got caught out in something else.

Now it seems the better the liar the more likely a strong belief and fanaticism, generated by the media shills. True enough, but what does it say about the sheeple?

That a nation of violent sheep in Canada, and the USA, vote perversely for whomever seems the greater degenerate? for whomever lies the most? IF so, where’s the outrage?
I think it’s drummed into a bland seemingly unaffected offal by the media. Not all of them of course – the media conglomerates are cunning enough to know that they must allow some to bellow about the Emperor’s clothes, or they’d risk the whole cloth of being termed biased, bent and broken as a matter of everyday reporting.
And it seems to have worked – as long as they don’t report that brokenness as an occurrence the sheeple on the whole do not resist: their minds stay asleep.
Don’t want to interfere with sports, you know.

Imagine things are if you were a child. Cops will help. Priests and rabbis will offer aid and suggestions. Politicians will help the country become greater and thus benefit the voters, of any party. And they will all openly talk about what they think. After all, we’re not Russia.
That’s exactly how far gone we are. How distant a hallucination that is, even given the leavening of adult cynicism.
Individual cops may help. Same goes for the priests and rabbis. No politician is expected to tell the truth, nor disclose anything with any honesty.

Every politician is controlled by the greater Politburo of the Party Führer.

And what has the media done? That great impartial beast privy to political and other secrets due to their close work amongst politicians and their associates, and other officials of Government?
By taking sides reflecting their own personal biases they have gradually acclimated the public to lies and distortions – a landslide of accumulated bullshit – so that it would take a Herculean effort to begin to clean out the proverbial stables.

In Canada, Ontario specifically, there once was the poltroon known as Dalton who would be caught lying all the time.
No new taxes he’d say. Result – more new taxes on new taxes.
No shame. He’d do it again. He was called out repeatedly by the media, then told bigger lies. Result? Re-election. In fact instead of no shame, there was the gleam of a perverse pride in the fact that he continued. And his party – Liberals – were all supportive, even while their decisions led to bigger errors and loss of money.
Did he add to the continuing deficit? You bet. Was he charged with negligence, corruption, deceit? Hell, no. He skated off. Was hired by Harvard tools.

This allowed the next liar to be elected.

You see anything unusual?

People do object, but The People have lost any intelligence they might have had whereby they’d truly achieve a result reflecting their objection. Instead they act like the comedic versions of a third-world populace governed by the least intelligent amongst them.

That’s taken awhile. Enabling the lowest common denominator to be what regulates government, media, and thus our lives in a general and larger sense.

Look at culture for that. It’s utterly moronic. The greater sense is that everyone either admires or hates certain cultural effects, whether in music, or literature. It is also what allows celebritards to speak out about their political views, which of course the new media welcomes.

Yeh, I want to know what an unlearned superficial ignoramus ‘thinks’ about the unlearned superficial ignoranuses running for office. Not.

And who makes that socially acceptable? The media – which is paid by ad revenue, audience participation in regards to ads, and likely some backroom payola.
Well, nobody’s offering to stop George Soros’ buying results through paying off groups which instigate events, and thus influence perceptions.
The media’s neutral stance is reflective of their own guilt when reporting such things.

Everything cultural which could stand effectively is co-opted by being turned into something ‘iconic’ by the media, rather than a perspective of effective learning being instilled through a greater sense of respect for genuine art and artists.
Who’s talking about Orwell’s 1984 as if its fearful reality was not only imminent, but present? If it’s mentioned it’s as though it’s separate and apart from reality. Iconic. Couldn’t stand to have it taken as an actuality – would have to do something about it.

And the impulse to do so is smothered by the candy of inundating crap pervading the atmosphere of culture, and media: they’ve become inseparable. Remind you of anything? We’ve been Kremlinized, made ‘useful idiots’ (Stalin, who next to Mao, is the greatest mass murderer, would love it – it’s become ingrained, and welcome… poison).

Back to that child’s view where we can open our eyes without having to constantly deal with the facts that liars and thieves do not operate openly and with impunity, as they do now and are welcomed. So we might as a public whole have and deserve the resulting self-respect.

Where if Trudeau is shown to lie, he is called on that to answer fully. Same goes for his sheep liars.
Where T-Rump is told off for being an offensive shitwit. Where the Hatfield Clinton is jailed.

Unfortunately due to the now acceptable policy of denial, and delaying debate, with the attitude of those in charge that the public are retards, this needs to be constant.
And any authority seen to be compliant with the Liars needs to be called out, repeatedly.

Given that the general brainwashing is so pervasive, the focus would have to be on whatever enters your field of vision, whatever affects you daily in matters particular to yourself, and those around you.

Consider all that’s biased as symptomatic, in light of a better world desired and necessary, and balanced more toward actual learning, better ways and means, and greater growth, both inner and outer.

Next: What are your politicians’ qualifications for bankrupting you? And, considering they work for you – you pay the taxes that pay them – are you nuts?

© Dean J. Baker

You – yeh, you – be very ashamed if you do not 0wn Tormenting The Monkey 218 pages of fun, diatribe, informed opinion, and discussion.

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Presidential Candidates – T-Rump, and I’ll Get You, My Pretty

Both candidates are symptoms, not solutions

Usually you would think the words ‘presidential’ and ‘candidate’ were significant, meaningful, as they’re meant to not only designate those running for election, but represent those with the qualities necessary to enter the process of attempting to gain the Presidential office.

Not this time.

The woman is gathering all sorts of celebrity endorsements to once again confirm that outside their performances such celebrities are mostly stupid. You know, morons – life-forms without a clue as to reality and its designations.
Never mind that she’s a proven and un-clever liar. Or that she’s profits from her political connections (quick, how do we make millions out of you working for the Government? I know, create a Charity! The public are morons, they’ll have to investigate, and by the time they do we’ll have muddled it all, and win the sympathy vote).
She’s a swamp of accusations, the accurate and true number yet to be determined. This alone ought to disqualify her.    

The guy talks like a collegiate, average, low normal knob. Someone with a gift for making money – apparently – yet who sounds like discipline to him is what he expects from his dominatrix, not what he applies to himself. Speech therapy is obviously a challenge when it comes to public presentations.

A reporter with special needs is mocked by T-Rump who waves his hands in the air and makes mush mouth sounds. What a genius. What dignity. The idea that he might be on his best behavior given that he’s running for election makes it scary. The fact that he probably was being himself shows a sophomoric sense of humor without a delineating and expansive sense of satire that is not so mean and dull. Maybe he could apply it to himself.


And his Butt Buddy, Ann Coulter, states that he was merely “doing a standard retard.” She’ll be back at it soon, after she gets her face fixed. T-Rump bent down to pick something up, and she broke her nose.
Hopefully this is a phase. She’s proven clever, intelligent and proactive in her books – but for now she’s another millionaire indulging wanton disregard for anything other than her own beliefs.
Gone the way of Michael Moore.

Imagine other countries looking at the two candidates. Minus any caricaturing. The clownish, cartoon aspect of the bland evil of their special psychopathology is a fearful thing if they are truly representative.

Political discourse these days amounts to a Three Stooges’ pie fight.

The dignity of the potential President is compromised by the fact that anyone could expect at any time another eye gouging, chuckleheaded thrombotic spastic dance from either one with each deluded enough to believe they are succeeding in showing themselves as people of a solid core character, rather than the slinky aspects of a superficial snakes-and-ladders game with the country’s destiny on offer.

In the pre-election run-up, neither one qualifies as better than anything. In fact, they both look to be best suited for the category of the Victorian regard for children who were neither to be seen nor heard.
And in real terms: Those Who Do Not Belong In Office.. Unless They Are Handing Out Mints.

Somewhere in another version of reality we have candidates who we respect, who leave no doubt as to the depth of their character, rather than the spread of their personal machinations. Candidates whom we’d like to know.

Somewhere isn’t here.

Both candidates are symptoms, not solutions.


© Dean J. Baker

You – yeh, you – be very ashamed if you do not 0wn Tormenting The Monkey, 218 pages of fun, diatribe, informed opinion, and discussion.

Links to My Print and Ebooks











Review of DARK EARTH by Dean J. Baker

Posted by Craig Hickman in Book Reviews, poetry

“I keep walking, making calls which few recognize, eventually sure that one day when I have passed that way, suddenly a porch light will shine in the evening and another timelessness reign.”

Dark Earth, Dean J. Baker

Been reading Dean J. Baker’s latest offering of poems of late, Dark Earth. Of course Dean is an author, composer, and performer who was born in Toronto, Canada, to a Ukrainian/Polish father and an Irish/Scottish mother. Attended the University of Guelph, and later won book awards from them, along with several unsolicited Ontario Arts Council awards, best poems published in a year in literary journals, and The T.S. Eliot Society of Miami’s Calendar Poet award. He has several other works out: Baker’s Bad Boys, Silence Louder Than A Train, The Mythologies Of Love, and The Lost Neighborhood each of which can also be found on his page.

What struck me intensely about Dean’s poetry is this sense of earthiness and despair tinged with a dark humor that I so love. An ongoing walk through these dark times is an underlying expectation, an almost uncanny movement toward hope; yet, not hope itself, rather it’s a sort of orientation to the future or forward looking gaze that can almost see between barbed wired clouds on the darkest horizon something strange almost shining through only to be sealed off immediately by the Reality Police who trap us in this bleak corner of the universe. Now by this I don’t mean that Dean is some kind of blipping optimist, no he’s a pessimist or realist like most of us. No that would make things a little to easy and rosy, and Dean is more of a bleak and transgressive churning below the muddy waters. He lives down where the alligators and moccasins move in those black ponds, waiting, harboring nothing but deadly thoughts. Dean’s world is to poetry what David Goodis in Street of No Return is to noir. In that bleak book the main character loses the girl, kills the villain, returns to skid row with a bottle under his arm for the boys in the cold wet sunless streets, where life is nothing but this hollow gesture, a desperateness toward the last dark weave of things: where losers sit in some dark alley passing the bottle around, and nothing could touch them nothing at all.

But then again what does touch us is Dean’s poetry, and it touches us hard and quick like some dark message out of hell; but this is no metaphysical charade – it is our hell, our lives in this god forsaken universe where the thought of salvation isn’t some dream of transcendence, but is rather a movement toward another order of indifference, another and hopeful purgatory across some bleak landscape beyond the lies and deceit of this one.

Do you not see how
they drive:
to meet the grinning, opened mouth.

In Dean’s Widows he challenges our sense of propriety, brings us two death’s: the death of child, and the death of something else. Even the use of the plural – Widows, as if one may suspect some murderous collusion amongst “black widows”; or, rather the natural order of some dip into Shakespeare’s widowed “witches” from Macbeth; or, more likely just three old mean women out of some southern gothic world who, as the interlocutor tells us – as if it were some dark and sinister story, to be hushed up in polite society – a memory of another child: “the unlovely child you always knew too much about”. And, the interlocutor continues with a double refrain, one that tells us these dark widows are “carrying themselves” and “carrying themselves / with taunts of Spring”. The interlocutor will not say what cannot be said, what it is that these widows have done, or what secrets they hold to their black hearts. But he knows, and for him there is a bittersweet revenge in knowing that what they are moving toward as “they drive” is a meeting with that “grinning, opened mouth” – a death at once comical and grotesque that will undo these murderous widows and their secrets in ways beyond telling.

This is the key to Dean’s art, the subtle narration of certain moments that are never revealed in the full natural disclosure of facts, but are rather revealed more subtly in the voicing of certain affective relations between memory and mind in this ongoing inquisition with the sordidness of our unlived lives. It’s as if in each poem we are seeing slices of a pain, a snapshot of horrors, a visitation of certain indelible blood-lettings that continue to keep the wound of life open to the world. For isn’t that truly all that remains? How many of your memories are of joy? Oh I don’t mean the picture memories you can snap out, I mean the affective memories that stick in the crawl of your thick mind like a bad taste in the mouth. How many?

Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, incriminations and elisions: “It is you, who have ruined / your life, / with the comparisons … elegies outworn: / embarrassing”. And, even the muse is a fickle mistress a tormentor “the muse still torments me every now and then”, and yet she’s a comical waif as well:

She thinks a psychiatrist / may do the trick: forgetting / she had a hand in the mess.

What I admire is Dean’s pulling out all the stops, no sublime romanticist here; no, instead he’s taken notes from the underbelly of those masters of the macabre and grotesque. All those little oddball peculiarities of the absurd, bizarre, macabre, depraved, degenerate, perverse that are the hallmark of the best of that dark haunting literature, both humorous and earthy, grotesque – can be found here. As Philip Thomson tells us of the grotesque in literature and visual culture: he calls it ‘the unresolved clash of incompatibles in work and response’ and, he continues, ‘it is significant that this clash is paralleled by the ambivalent nature of the abnormal as present in the grotesque’. I like to go back to Baudelaire who perfected this mode after his careful perusal and translations of that master, Edgar Allen Poe. For Baudelaire it was to know that one was dammed in this life from the beginning; but it wasn’t a religious knowledge, no it was a secular knowing that this world, not some future abode of despair already harbored enough hate and crime to fill ten thousands hells. Maybe this is why even Sartre would seek in Baudelaire a brother of that darker existential pain that is existence with others, and go on to see “hell is other people”.

One of my favorites of this mode from Dean’s work, and the last one I’ll quote (I want you to cherish a first reading of the rest for yourself) is “Queen St. East”

The jaw slacks, with the weight
of the body’s loss,
to an inexorable acknowledgement

The brain is unfettered
in its jug; spilling over
with the nostalgia of alcohol

Flat on their backs, near Moss
Park, curled fetus-like, the
inhabitants whirl in a static frenzy of

Enfeeblement, any amusement here
sublingual: the posthumous twitching
of cynics en masse

That, my friends, in one succinct movement is the Grotesque Sublime: “the posthumous twitching / of cynics en masse”. It is also the dark knowing of a grotesque humor named “Dean J. Baker”. Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems… instead of Emerson’s “Whim” above Dean’s lintel we might assume “Melancholy” resides here… that dark brooding that laughs below, and rises through the bones to jerk you awake from your too lazy sleep of existence.

Please visit Dean J. Baker’s site:
and his poetry can be found: and

1. Edwards, Justin; Graulund, Rune (2013-05-29). Grotesque (The New Critical Idiom) (p. 3). Taylor and Francis. Kindle Edition.

now posting here –

Dark Earth, is available here –> and

from review quotes of Dark Earth: “Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, incriminations and elisions.. He’s the kind of poet that gets under your skin and stays there like a song in some dark noir alley that sings to you of love and death suckled on good old home grown truth.”