Oh Canaduck, Your Goose Is Cooked

#Canada #minimumWage #Costs #Government Anyone seriously believing in savior politics and promised results are renting their heads out to a delusion…the only true unity is knowledge

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Why Has Society Turned Into A Bunch Of Spastics On Fire

Are You A Citizen? Do You Feel You’re An Artist? Could You Possibly Be A Writer, Of Poo-etry? –
Read this, or Remain A Tool

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1) Well, it’s true you need a shitload of money if you are going to live in Toronto.
2) You also need not mind the aggressive behavior of self-entitled screaming morons who mimic other morons elsewhere in the world protesting this, protesting that – everything except what needs protesting: the protesters, aka whiners.
3) You also have to not mind being assaulted, maybe beaten and robbed, because hey, the cops will do what they can about it: nothing. You’ve been beaten and assaulted… the cops only look after the fact, after the facts: got to keep their jobs, you know.

You also have to not mind that you don’t matter. High taxes, high prices, house prices fit for millionaires, no ability to defend yourself (it is actually against the Law, the law working out to: don’t hurt the criminal, they might charge you), common sense over-ruled by the numbers of multi-ethnicity guaranteeing that catering Liberals and their high-minded, low ethic standard will eclipse actual real life benefits to the most people.
As to #1:
1) Fuck the poor, those lazy bastards. This is governmental reasoning. ‘We work, and slave, and attempt for years to bump up their quality of life, and all they do is complain.’
2) Let us not understand that such attempts are inadequate due to the nature of bureaucracy being slow and behind the times (the necessities which they pretend to address) and thus have a built-in failure: guaranteeing further governmental bureaucracy and consistently disappointed poor.
3) The benefits: politicians. They have a lifelong job of establishing themselves as necessary without ever establishing a system that fixes what they pretend to fix, but instead simply maintain thus ensuring system of nameless victims and a roster of valiant attempts and heraldic icons of authentic politicians. Not only are their pensions mandated but thus so are the problems.
4) $15 an hour? A full time slave working 40 hrs per week might be able to accomplish a hobo’s hideout of an apartment if they pay everything for rent. Houses costing over $1 million, which were under $400k less than a decade ago? – thank you government of the rich for the unregulated rich. Rents equaling a portion of housing values: thank you government… Government bitching about a behind-the times-wage hike? You noticed? You didn’t drink the kool-aid.
5) Result: poo.

As to #2:
1) Protesters are important. More so than you. You are a wrench in their machinery if you question their integrity, sources, and sources of funds while they demand openness from everyone else.
2) If you are not wildly supportive, you are perceived as traitorous and thus open for the many varieties of indignities which they mistakenly term free expression…. unless it is done to them to express a sense of outrage that bellowing belligerents constitute anything more than an insult to intelligence, fact gathering, and a mature understanding.
3) Liberals, i.e. politicians, believe protesters have a valid right to protest. Each confuses this with enshrining the lowest common denominator as a measure of valid and balanced civil disobedience, with the politicians licensing the protesters who make the news which outrages people who complain to the politicians who promise change.[see #3 above for results]
4) Result: poo.

Now imagine this broken system replicating itself throughout everyday life and attitudes engendered by the turd chewing media feeding the herd.
Think of it spreading through academia, university campuses, the arts, music, the practitioners of poetry, grocery clerk geniuses, neuro-linguistically challenged moms {the last three categories being practically inseparable}, spastics on fire who insist they deserve Canada Council and Ontario Arts’ grants for interpretative dance.
Along with venal attempts by the same people to guarantee their jobs by granting money and thus legitimacy to publishing houses of craven wankers too cowardly who with subtlety and nuance establish a tradition of greater and suspect quality by their support for original and independent artists (i.e. schizophrenics without a trade except academia) or as they are known in the vernacular of The League For Flatulents: Tools For Schools.

i.e. Young Werther wishes to become a poet. He/She is told ‘see them? that’s how.’ Werther is your ordinary candidate for the ‘Special Arts.’ She/He imitates and achieves the distinction of being recognized by the Canada Council as One Who Writes Poetry Which No One Else Does Unless We Say So. He/She is thus a Poo-et. This is known as the Ren-And-Stimpy effect, aka The Beavis-And-Butthead College Of Non-Existent Truths: other Poo-ets say so.

As to #3:
You can no longer either walk anywhere or drive with impunity at any time of the day or night. There will always be some Paleolithic non-entity objecting to your existence, as if they owned the streets and the times.
1) Consider that you won’t be assaulted by dignified, mature people who have an understanding of the Golden Rule before its perversion into Piss On You. You will be spit on, kicked, punched, stabbed, shot, etc., by the Liberals’ Golems: those wandering sawdust filled Chuckies who ensure a need for law and order, and thus the politicians to fulfill the details.
2) Should you attempt to defend yourself by disabling the attackers (like political cowards and protesters they come in crowds), the cops can charge you. With what? With being at liberty, having self-respect, deciding to keep your integrity as a person, etc. (p.s. Make sure your taxes are paid up)
3) Result: poo.

This wasn’t written by me. It was dictated by a spirit entity known as ……… (words are inadequate to make such a distinction). I plead innocent as the transcriber in this instance of literary poolitics.

Yours,

Self

 

© Dean J. Baker

poems are posted to share, be shared, and entice those who love the work to owning the books from which they are excerpts – BOOK SALE until December 1, 2017! – $11.99 for print, or less – Ebooks $4.99, or less: https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

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https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/brief-biographical-notes/

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Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic ………………… All Of Fudd’s Children


There was Iron Butt, Dodger Crotchrot, Roderick Sexmaniac, Angry McHardon, Perri Coma, Styp, the Evil Dwarf, and a host of others – as in, a plague of hosts.
Patients in the Waiting Room of Life, as lived by another who was psychopathic.
Each felt themselves the best, more than any others. None would not stop to make fun of another whom they decided threatened their minor empire, like Styp and the girlfriend several other guys would fuck and discard, confident that even confronted with the oh-so-clever sarcasm they would not get punched out.

Which they confused with the one made aware of this as unknowing, or stupid.
Or with Booby Wasu (aka the Evil Dwarf), steal lines from someone, insert it in a song, look guiltily at them while they performed and then go stand by them so they could be told ‘hey that’s my shit’ as they said ‘oh yeh, sorry, will take it out.’ Shameless wankers.
And those who in earlier days had classified the entire lot as losers would come to play the elder statesman and talk about their Great talent when the place shut down temporarily.

Reputation fed on even the most minor conveyance of respect, absent of course of any greater talent in the world, so that there was a whole class of non-entities praising each other then and in later days.

The exceptions had a much keener eye for the fuel of hypocrisy,
and were usually busy getting into print, or being otherwise known elsewhere.
As long as the person pretended not to know who had value and who was merely acting as the city’s buttclench, they were left undisturbed by rumor or innuendo.
Those who had actual connections to greater artists, from friendship or simply introduction, were silently chastised and cursed. No surprise that they would be vilified as they had achieved something without the imprimatur of the crowd of angry villagers.

Well, some of us long for memory’s little death, especially after the continental stupidity of some SOB howling as though his cat was being dipped in hot water.
Howling at the bare moon. Of discovering there was an ass, and they are it.
Cracking up, or being sick with violins; until you’re as ill as they speak of these ghosts and those dead.

Of course this is more exorcism than festival, more pathology than curse, more forgetful patience than celebrated remembrance.
These knobs could steal the stink off shit.

Babies meeting, then turning vicious in their rosy-cheeked and full-pants appreciation of the world. Ignoring the obvious, the cold
superiority that only arises in familiar confrontation of gabble and gobble.

Back and forth, eye on the opening door; never mind the performer, forget the stage and reason.

This is the real, the old soft soap opera without a season.

©Dean Baker

 

 

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