Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Sunday, 23 September 2018


The spring sunshine was glorious. Nowhere in the world is spring more miraculous than it is in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. Some days are so warm that you can run around in shirtsleeves with bright sunshine and a foot a snow on the ground. As for me - I was wrapped up in a light blanket and parked in my wheel chair 'round back of the police station by the dumpster. It was there that I held court and lorded over my avian subjects that came to beg and pick through the garbage looking for a snack. Pickins were mighty slim these days. My favourite was a raven I named Cyrus. Or I would have named him that, if I could speak. The strokes had shut down half my body and I was pretty much done. But I was happy enough. I was now a mascot of sorts of the newly formed Northwest Interim Canadian Police.

"Top a the mornin' to ya, you old fart!" 

Great. Helen was by with my lunch - a bowl of vegetable mush which was about the only thing I was allowed to eat these days.. I mumbled a greeting at Helen as she placed my mush on the picnic table beside me, and went in to say hi to the boys. When she was gone, Bucyrus flew down and landed on the table and made some inquiring tinkling noises deep in his throat. With my good hand I hauled out my cane and pushed the bowl of mush toward him. Cyrus was essentially a flying trash can that would eat anything. If I died that wretched little flea bag would be picking at my corpse the second I kicked off. The thought made me smirk.

"I saw that!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin as Police Chief Bob Wallace regarded me sternly from the doorway Helen had just used. My hearing wasn't worth sh...spit these days. I mumbled at Bob and almost died of embarrassment as drool ran down my chin. The doctor said I would probably be able to control that and maybe even walk a bit better if I worked at it. I had a bib, and it shamed me to have to use it. Bless his heart, Bob pretended not to notice.

"Jesus, Glen - ya gotta eat. You're starting to look frail." I mumbled and tried not to drool. "Glen. I want you alive and well when you stand trial again in a fair and honest court, where you will be tried by fair and honest people. Me and these kids in this police station have risked our careers and lives to get you there. The least you can do is look after yourself long enough so they can see that it was worth it." 

He was right of course. My trial went to hell pretty much the same day the country did. Several totally independent and unrelated but similar events happened that day and through that week as the nation destroyed itself. A bomb had gone off during a parliamentary session that killed half the nation's elected representatives. Race and civic riots broke out in several major cities with burning, looting and lynchings. Our leaders demanded protection but the people of the law enforcement and military turned in their uniforms and walked off the job - taking their guns with them. Then the net went down, and a couple weeks later the power went out. In the middle of winter. The lunacy of political correctness, multiculturalism, feminism and progressivism died in flames and snow in the ensuing months - along with at least a third of the country's citizens. Winter took care of another third. In our town, Bob became Chief of Police when half his officers quit and went home to guard and protect their families. Martial Law went into effect. I probably would have starved but the kids took care of me as some sort of civic mission. They were deadly serious about me facing trial. People being what they are, Bob would be facing trial right after me. Desperate times required desperate measures and Bob's hair went totally grey that year. He didn't look that great himself.

But things were better now. The trucks and trains were going again in dribs and drabs. We had electrical power on Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays for about 3 hours each day. We had enough to eat. It was expected we would have full power again by midsummer, and our town would end martial law, elect some leaders and re-establish the courts and schools and all the other crap the civilised white man insists on. There was hope and optimism in the air again. It was going to be a planned civic holiday, celebration election all rolled into one. People had something to look forward to again and talked about it in the streets.

"Mornin' Boys!" Doug Haskell joined us and parked his keester on the picnic table. "How ya doin', Cyrus?"  Doug threw some bread crumbs in front of the bird. "I come bearing gifts, O Mighty Bucyrus... even though you were probably the one that shat on the windshield of my squad car...". Doug was on of God's gifts to us, and was always upbeat and in high spirits regardless of circumstances. "Well, that is one shitbird bribed - now for the other two!" And with that, he produced three big, high end cigars.

"Doug - forget it. You're not giving Filthie a cigar! For gawdsakes, he's had three strokes already!"  Ignoring his boss, Doug puffed one alight - and passed it over to me. I took it gratefully and sighed in contentment. Bob called us a-holes and stomped off in disgust. 

When he was gone, Doug turned to me and began to speak. "This trial that's coming up, Filthie - it's not going to be another sham. You killed 11 guys. In Canada, self defense is not a right, you only have...err...had the right to use reasonable force to defend yourself and that is a wide open legal grey zone that has gotten guys like you hung in the past. The Crown will go for at least Manslaughter One."

"Fortunately you can't speak for yourself anymore - and even better, I will be representing you as your lawyer. I am going to hand my resignation in to Bob this afternoon so that I can take your case." Doug droned on from there about how I was not to talk to anyone about the case - or write or pantomime about it either. Because of my disabilities I couldn't rat out the people that saved me that day either or they would be on trial up there with me. I guess Doug was a big shot lawyer back before The Troubles or something - but I wasn't worried. I no longer cared. I was more worried about Bob losing a good constable to defend the likes of me. But the kids had priorities that superseded those of a couple old farts pushed past their limits. The kids were putting the world back together right, by the look of it - and me getting a fair trial was a big part of it for them.

The tides of history advance and recede, empires and civilizations rise and fall, but for this one, for now - things looked mighty fine.

Saturday, 22 September 2018


My trial by my peers had been an unmitigated shit show, of course. I expected it. Not that I cared, of course - I would not be judged by this sanctimonious gaggle of old hormonal women, and a jury full of vibrants and virtue-signalling social justice warriors. For whatever reason, my Maker had chosen my trial to be a propaganda event and a morality play for politically correct rubes that could not be trusted by our rulers to think for themselves. My role is that of The Devil. The Racist. He Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken. That guy that is Literally Worse Than Hitler. I knew I was to be sacrificed to their gods. Didn't matter, I'd just die for mine and to hell with them all. You can do stuff like that when you are old and cranky like me.

The Gong Show was entertaining at times.

"How many migrants did you kill, Mr. Filthie?" The prosecutor asks. I looked at this woman who would be pretty and attractive were it not for he severely pulled back hair, the power suit, and the bitchy demeanour. I always responded with the truth as I perceived it: "At least two, Miss. Judging from the amount of ammo I had after the fight, if I was doing my job right - and I probably was - I'd estimate anywhere between 6 and a dozen more. I assume The Crown at least did a body count at the scene of the crime afterward?" And of course - that would set off the jury, the press, and the growing crowd of spectators that were showing up for the trial sessions. The howler monkeys would hoot at the moon, the harridan judge would bang her gavel and screech for order while the peanut gallery would be shouting and cursing - and I would smirk and chuckle as I presided over the mayhem of it all.

They did their best of course. When I stated the truth of facts that spoke against me, I was allowed to run: "The defence has submitted that you are suffering from a mild form of PTSD, Mr. Filthie, and should not be allowed to represent yourself to this court. You are aware of the hazards of that, by the way? Do you agree with that assessment?" And of course that was hogwash. I got gooned with a rock thrown by some coloured monkey during the attack - and as a result I cannot remember killing any of them after the first two. That was all there was to it. I had the head injury complete with stitches  and Barney Rubble-like lump on my noggin to show for it.

If my statement might look as if it might pose a viable defence, I was shut down on technicalities and told to be silent. When asked why I started shooting, I explained that after the driver's side window had shattered, and the migrant that broke through it had cut my brother's throat, I moved to defend myself - and that would result in a shout of "Objection! The defence is trying to complicate the narrative of events....blah blah blah!" Whatever. I knew the fix was in. The only regret I had in all this was Officer Bob. He sat in the peanut gallery and watched with an expression on his face that made it look like he had swallowed a turd. He showed up alone for the first few sessions, then, as the case became more public... some of the others at the police station started showing up too. At times they looked murderous too. Bob had taken great personal risks to see that I got my gun back after my first stint in the can and must have felt betrayed when I mass murdered a lot of vibrant and diverse citizens with it a day after I got out. Who'da thunk it?


The ignorant stinking masses love their theatre. Nobody can forget sound bites and video clips of OJ Simpson's low speed police chase. Or JFK's brains being blown out between his ears. Or the Twin Towers coming down. Mine was the latest and greatest, provided by our good friends at Google Earth and the mass media. When I left the world Google Earth had enveloped the globe with low res pics of every city every street, every house... even in most towns and some rural areas. With a click of the mouse you could drop down to street level and read the numbers on your own house - or anyone else, for that matter.

Nowadays Google Earth was world wide CCTV. Big Brother was home in a way that would have driven George Orwell back to 1984. The clip ran constantly in my trial. I'm told it ran most nights on the cable news networks as talking heads referred to it. Now I have that fuggin thing branded into my psyche too - much to my chagrin.

You've seen it all too in live streaming video: the red 2027 truck slows down as a mob of vibrants take up positions in it's path and spread across the highway. Another group closes off any retreat and they start milling around the truck. The mob starts cautiously at first, but picks up steam. They start kicking and spitting on the truck and banging on the windows and hooting at the occupants. Soon the clubs and pipes come out and they start smashing at the windows, working themselves into a fury that inspires mobs to tear their victims apart. A window breaks on the driver's side, and a Somolian immigrant with an unpronounceable name starts trying to crawl into the cab - and the shots start. The first migrant dies with one shot to the pan. The passenger side window - already a crazed patchwork of crack lines - blows out and the migrant trying to smash it goes down with half his face blown away. The satellite imagery is remorseless with its detail.

The shooter comes out of the cab and even a blind man would recognize him as the defendant in this trial. Migrants are now either in full retreat or in full attack. A rock flies and clips the shooter on the side of the head with a glancing blow. He starts to run on auto pilot and keeps shooting in a pattern familiar to any squaddie or law man: two shots to the chest, one in the head. Two shots to the chest, one in the head. Mag dump, and resume: two shots to the chest, one in the head. Two shots to the chest, one in the head. The migrants begin to mill about as the shooting continues. A few attempts to rush the shooter abort and break, only to reform. Another rock hits the shooter - and down he goes, out for the count. A big white dog leaps out of the truck, and attacks one of the assailants. Another ends the dog with a lead pipe to the head. I usually stop watching before that happens. At hat point it looks like curtains for the old geezer that is Literally Worse Than Hitler.

Before the migrants can set upon him a jacked up 4x4 enters the frame - and although there is no sound with the video, you can well imagine the thumping and thudding as the mob tumbles under the large all terrain tires and are mowed down under the heavy steel bush bars. A small group of men tumble out of the cab and start shooting with rifles. A couple in the back do the same as they scramble to the fallen geezer. One hoists the unconscious old fart up on the shoulder while the other provides covering fire. They then fell back to the truck like pros - but the migrants were done at that point. The truck turned and drove down into the ditch striking a few more, crossed the median and headed back west. It turned off on a heavily treed forestry road  - and was lost. Attempts to regain the fleeing video came to naught. There were still, miraculously, some places on the globe that the big tech companies could not reach. I barely heard the power suited career attorney when she asked me why I turned myself in. I just shrugged and said 'Filthies don't run from the law - even when it's crooked'.

And of course, with that, the howler monkeys once more bayed at the moon for my blood, the sports in the peanut gallery laughed and cursed, and the harridan on the bench banged on her desk with her gavel for order. For me, I was lost in thoughts of Mort, my brother, and my mother who was probably at home having to watch all this. My big day was tomorrow when I would supposedly be able to present my side of the story. It didn't matter of course, the fix was in and at this point, I still didn't know what I was going to say.


And so... here I am. If there were crickets, you would be able to hear them chirping in that courtroom. I had a captive audience. Most were malevolent and resentful. After months of theatre and speculation, of talk show experts and vacuous media bubbleheads informing their audience about my crimes, my family history, my ancestry, and my probable spiritual destination - the court had finally, graciously given me the opportunity to speak in my own defence in public. I turned to the pink haired she-twink posing as the judge at my trial, and privately marvelled at the lunacy of it all. She had a few tats on her neck and a face full of cosmetic fishing tackle. I was going to be judged by a sexually disturbed clown? Looking contemptuously down on me from her perch, she asked me to get on with it.

And of course, I vapour locked. As a younger man I'd faced assemblies like this time and time again, trying to do technical sales presentations on precision bolting, torqueing and piping tools. They were often sporting events where the customer's engineers tried to showcase their intelligence and signal their fellows by asking questions designed to stump the salesmen. Often I did that with my competition in the same room, eager to heckle and highlight any deficiencies in my presentation or even manufacture them if they could. I enjoyed the duels of wit and humour and did well in that role - but here? I just wanted it to end.

"I'd just like to say up front, Your Honour, that as far as I am concerned I am not being tried by this court. I am being tried by my Maker, who for whatever reason, decided to test me on that day on the highway," I said. "Ultimately I will be tried in His court again, and I will accept my punishment there just as I do here. And so will you -" aaaaaand of course - the prosecution chick shrieked "Objection! Your Honour-"

"Sustained!" the judge barked, "Mr. Filthie, you will NOT bring your 'faith' into this court or I will find you in contempt!" She looked perplexed as I almost interrupted her, "My apologies Your Honour, I withdraw the remark. May I continue with my defense? Could we please roll the video of that incident again as part of my defense?" After some more scolding, my request was graciously granted. The hormonal old hag sternly reminded me of the dire hazards of trifling with the court. 

Up on the big screen, the iconic bird's eye view began to roll again. The truck approached and slowed and finally stopped in front of the migrant mob - all typical of invaders flooding into the country. I watched like everyone else, and waited for some kind of inspiration as to what to say. Nothing came. Up on the screen I watched, mesmerised, as the migrants began to fall as the shooting started. 100 light years away, a woman was scolding me to either make my case or wrap my presentation up. I barely heard it, as Mort charged out into the fray and was clubbed down - again. More shots. Rocks hurled. Suddenly I was there all over again as smelly, savage men hooted and shouted for my blood in languages I would never understand. Their intent, of course, spoke for itself.

Pulling my poop into a group, I gave my head a shake to clear it of the echoes that never seemed to stop. Turning back to face the jury, I said "I have one message for you all assembled here today: I am not the only one on trial here." Back up on the screen, Mort was now dead, and my rescuers had slammed into the mob of savages with a cold, silent fury that had been years... decades... in the making. I turned to my judge, stared that clown right in the eye and said, "You are not the only one taking names and remembering faces"

A ludicrous long pause as the vibrant and diverse audience let that sing in … and again, the court dissolved into an uproar. The blonde prosecutor chick was screaming 'Objection!!!' The vibrant and diverse jury went bananas. The she-twink up on the bench banged her gavel and howled for order. At the back of the courtroom Officer Bob and some of his constables regarded our antics with grim expressions on their faces. They were dressed in their classic RCMP red and white show uniforms for some reason, I noted. Probably for the cameras; they'd look great as they dragged off a racist to prison - a criminal Obviously Worse Than Hitler. It would be a field day for the media, no doubt. My presentation was dismissed and cut short.

An hour later after everyone had finished chimping out and virtue signalling, they had control of themselves. I was hauled back in to take my place. When everything was calm, the court went through it's motions and finally, the flink on the bench was ready. "Have you anything to say before this court passes judgment, Mr. Filthie?" I just sighed - and rose to my feet. The judge looked at me warily as I looked back at the Officer Bob and his Mounties in their dress reds. "Yes, Your Honour, I do."

I waited until the murmers and grumbling from the crowd abated and then..."Your Honour: what did the blind man say as he walked past the fish factory?" I almost felt sorry for the clown as she gawped, unprepared for the outlandish question. Before the crowd could start again, I hurried on, "Good day ladies, good day! HAR HAR HAR!" Her Honour looked apoplectic as she banged for order. Over the mayhem I shouted to the blonde prosecutor, "Didjya hear the one about the blonde and the jigsaw puzzle-" but I couldn't finish - I had a small oriental bailiff trying to grab my arm. I spun and threw her at the prosecutor with all my might and smirked as they tumbled like ten pins. I shouted at the jury! "This is a classic! A paki, a nigger, and a chinaman walk into this bar-"

The taser lit me up like a Christmas Holiday Tree as the bailiffs took me down. Again with a taser. And again. It was a scrum more painful than anything I had ever endured in my life. When you get old pain just seems to hurt more. My face and arm started to tingle. Again with the taser. And again. I gawped and choked as I tried to breathe but nothing came. A curious sense of detachment fell over me as my moral and intellectual superiors struggled tried to subdue me even though I was already down for the count. Again with the taser, but I could barely feel it. Half of my body had gone numb and reality began to fade around the edges. Again with the taser. Then the bailiffs dog piled on me. They weighed down on me, as heavy as army tanks. Consciousness was starting to slip away. But amidst the mayhem, off to the side, I saw my wife. She wore the elegant green skirt, with the thin leather belt and stylish matching sweater that she sometimes wore to work when we were kids. The shouting and scuffling faded to a comfortable warble and was finally gone. We were in her kitchen with the sun pouring through the window.

Somewhere, light years away I thought I heard gun shots - but my wife turned my face toward hers and gave me a kiss. The world of struggle and pain was gone. "Are you going to go say hello to your daughter, Handsome?" she asked. My daughter was in the living room of our tiny apartment, sitting on a battered stool, playing video games as her cats sprawled beside their queen. All I could think was how that kid was so beautiful, and I lost my shit. "Oh Spud - I am so sorry... you went to school, you changed and I didn't understand and I wasn't there. I couldn't help, I wanted to! But.. I couldn't! It was too late, and I..." She was in her mid teens again - beautiful, smart, with a world that promised to fall at her feet. All was well with the world.

"Jeez Dad! It's okay! Take a pill or something! Wanna play MarioKart?"

Finally. I was home.

Thursday, 20 September 2018

AAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHGHG!!! Quartermain...!!!!!

Arts n' crafts here at Uncle Bob's Institute For The
Mentally Retarded
are cancelled!!!

When We Were Kings

I learned that my mother was a meat head when I was about 5 or 6. Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon and the rest of the missions had the boys golfing, driving moon-dune buggies, and having food fights in space. Mom tut-tut-tutted about all the waste - that money could have been spent better here on earth, dontchya know! For social programs!

I told her she was an idiot and got slapped ... but it was worth it.  :)

How's That Diet Goin', Filthie?

Booger off! Don't touch these - they are both for me!!!
Get your own...!

Wednesday, 19 September 2018

Such Is The Price Of Perspective

Kitty Porn


The Blog-O-Meter is probably redlining right now
from all the law enforcement expecting to see something else.
That's alright - if they wanna get stupid about it, I will
just have my buddy in the post below take them out for a....
"fishing trip"...