Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

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

Thursday, 18 October 2018

When We Were Kings

The good life: cigarettes, bedpans and nurses.

My grandad was a poor man that never had any money. Back in those days you could still get a pack of smokes for under a buck, and Grampa had an elaborate machine that allowed him to roll his own and save even more money. He was built like a tall version of Popeye The Sailor - with a skinny body and big, ropey arms and hands that could shred anything softer than hardened steel. He smoked like a stack till two years before his death - at 86. Not bad for a guy that survived chemical gas attacks in WW1, the great depression, and never owned a car until his late 60's. He was almost euthanized in the hospital after his 3rd or 4th stroke - he was in an oxygen tent at the hospital and the nurses caught him trying to light up. They gave him the very hell of it (and he deserved it) and he finally quit when they explained to him how fire and pure oxygen react.

Shape Up And Fly Right You Rapey Retards...

Listen up, boys! Today we are all going to be learnt on sidewalk chivalry and etiquette:

Like any pig worth his salt I am sorely tempted to make a rude joke of all this. I am careful as blazes around women now because you simply can't trust them anymore. If some horse faced bint accuses you of anally raping her 30 years ago in front of a mob of your buddies on a floor of broken glass, she doesn't even need to provide proof to cause you a world of trouble. And it's a real issue; when I am out on Dawg Patrol sometimes I end up with women walking in front of us and some are clearly nervous about it. How the hags and harridans of PoundMeToo would LOVE to take down the famous fearless crime-fighting Captain Sweatpants And His K9 Cohorts! The scandal would shake the country, let me assure you.

I don't speed up, I just stop, let the dawgs smell some rabbit poop while the lady puts a comfortable distance between us. It's gonna have to be good enough ladies, because if I try to pass my dawgs don't know about political correctness and will often smell the crotches of people they want to meet!

So now y'all know how to behave behind women when you're out and about! Except for Quartermain, of course - I had him trained up right as rain. Then some thoughtless hottie raped him and now he's back to being a traumatized pervert again! I have the whole thing on tape:

Poor Quartermain...

Still Here After Weed Wednesday

And nothing has changed. All is well - every sanctimonious left wing turd burglar in the Canukistani mass media are falling over themselves to reassure ignernt, backward social conservatives like me. Folks like me must remind them of the scolds of their youth or something. "Shut up you old prude, you know nothing, we know it all, this stuff is as harmless as booze, so just can it and stop harshing our mellow..."

When I was a kid all the cool kids did it. I dabbled in it and was indifferent; my older brother was in it up to his eyeballs and even dealt a little I think. He may still, I dunno. I admit that when my neighbours occasionally do it I ignore it because they are quiet and discrete and respectful. If all I get from them in the way of trouble is the occasional whiff of pot - I'll count myself lucky and leave it at that.

According to the wife the pot shop over in The Fort had people lined up down the street and around the corner waiting to buy. On a Wednesday. During working hours. This is Alberta where the oil industry used to keep everyone hopping 24/7/365. Kids are back to living with their parents well into their 20's and even 30's because they can't find jobs or descent employment - but they have money for pot I suppose. Go figure.

What galls the crap outta me is the morons that are treating this like some kind of victory for civil rights. The gov't that did this is now openly considering a ban on handguns and assault rifles in Canada. All the liberal shitskins they are importing can't be trusted with pistols, and their kids can't be trusted with black rifles. Who'da thunk it? The mind wobbles. These are the same guys that spent the last 3 decades scolding us all about the evils of tobacco while legislating and taxing the hell out of it.

Statistically speaking I know I have little to fear from pot heads. The chances of me personally getting killed by some high pothead getting behind the wheel or at work are pretty slim. But somebody is going to get it, that's for sure. The injuries and fatalities will just be another statistic the liberals won't talk about or they'll ignore it. And when their fugged up kid takes a gun out and shoots some of his buddies in a drug deal gone bad, they'll blame the gun rather than the kids and the drugs they are fighting over. That's okay, in a sense - it's a simple Darwinian mechanism where unfit organisms remove themselves from the gene pool and that's a good thing over all - if you ignore the collateral damage.

Ultimately, legal weed in Canada is just another tax on the stupid and the degenerate. And the kids.

Wednesday, 17 October 2018

The Retard Time Machine

Some people speculate that when the time machine is invented the first temporal destinations will be stuff like the JFK assassination, the crucifixion of Jesus Christ or something like that. When it's my turn - this is where I am going.

Of course then the stock market would probably crash the next day...

Good Luck With That

In public schools, you will have all the frooty 
colours of the rainbow wanting a piece of your kids.
Home schooling nowadays is pretty much mandatory.

Tuesday, 16 October 2018


I know it's a sin.
But I look at this thing and realize that I could
easily sacrifice tax men, Quartermain, and even
nanny goats to this hand made god.

Good Morning

One day Baloney Bob, Rotten Rod and I all went to the High Run Club and soaked our hearts. We left late at night and when I got up the next morning, I woke up dead with my skin on backwards. (Made a hell of a mess when I went to the washroom, let me tell ya!)

Anyhoo, my wife made me a breakfast like this and I was right as rain and ready for a round of afternoon skeet with the boys. When they showed up, Rod smelled like death and excrement and Bob looked like he'd gone through the ringer a few times. Rod was a slight man and couldn't take the punishment and had barfed all over himself during the night. When Bob woke up, the old lady gave him the very hell of it. When the boys asked me how I made out, I told them that I had gotten bacon and eggs and a kiss on the cheek - and that they could learn something from me if they weren't so damned stupid.

Bob got my arms behind me and Rob beat me up and soon I looked as rough as they did.