Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Monday, 28 February 2022
An Interesting Little Blade…
It’s Been Brewing For A Long Time
If I had to critique my generation and that of my parents, one of them would be that we were never smart enough to see the value in this. If you take a good journeyman, give him a good apprentice - you’ll take a loss on them up front as the new guy learns and the old hand explains things. But you get all that (plus) back when the new guy gets into the swing of things. Plus, you’ll have a back up if something happens to the old hand. It’s like anything - you can spend $2.00 and eventually make $4.00, or spend $4.00 and make $8.00, or spend $8.00 to make $16.00. (Numbers exaggerated to make the point).
Today employers scream that there is no employee loyalty. I don’t mince words when I hear that; the reason they leave is that you don’t treat them well and you aren’t loyal to them. The other thing is that they want new employees “that can hit the ground running”. In plain English what that means is Employers basically want to parachute in an experienced competent individual in - and pay him a noob’s wages while he “proves himself”.
I’ve heard them complain a thousand times about how manpower is always their greatest expense. Welp… if those boomer shitheads had half a brain they’d see it as their most lucrative investment - the way their parents did. That is my major beef with all this multiculti equal opportunity horse shit. All that is, is a POS like Justin Turdo wrapping himself up in layers of fake virtue while he imports boatloads of third world trash to drive the costs of labour down and pad his voter base. We saw that in the trucker revolt - our politicos now hate the working class. Even the NDP who are essentially commies that pose as the party for the working man. Not one of those assholes had the nads to talk to the truckers.
Our job market is so effed right now, that the kid down at Costco that fixes and tweaks the frames for your glasses - has a masters in civil engineering. We’ve invested nothing in our kids and we bitch and complain when we get nothing out of them. Of course…that was all “just business, nothing personal…”.
What goes around comes around, more often than not.
Sunday, 27 February 2022
The New West
Saturday, 26 February 2022
Aces And Assholes
The Ghost Of Kiev is (supposedly) (allegedly) a Ukrainian MiG 29 fighter pilot that eats Russian aircraft for breakfast. He’s (supposedly) shot down six Russian aircraft already.
And the legend grows! It just HAS to be true! 😂👍
Then there’s scholarly work like this. Uncle Bob at Retard School would be proud. Like most of his work, I felt stupider after I read it! That guy should stick to frightening seniors and hypochondriacs with Covid horror stories! HAR HAR HAR!!!
Today on long range dog patrol I burned through about an hour and a half of podcasts on the situation in the Ukraine. Contrary to General Aesop, the situation there is complicated. Vlad is many things, but first and foremost he is a businessman. It’s probably why Trump got along with him so well, and partially explains why the liberals hate him so much. After listening to actual experts vs. chattering skulls, suffice it to say that to understand why Putin did what he did, the ins and outs of the regional petroleum economics, the historical political and even religious frictions…it takes easily an hour and a half for the Cliff Notes version. Putin isn’t a nutter; he has legitimate grievances with the Ukes, and they are not as pure as the driven snow. Economically the Ukes are costing the Russians billions of dollars a year, they pose a viable strategic threat to Russia should a confrontation with NATO get serious, and they are no saints. Nor is Vlad a murderous nutter trying to start WW3.
It’s a fascinating subject to discuss with objective people in a mature dispassionate manner. After listening to people with a grip on the situation… we have no moral or even financial reason to get involved AT ALL. The real issue here is the meaning of NATO. The Ukes are picking some nasty fights with Russia and is not shy about provoking them. Is NATO obligated to intervene in such a scenario?
Do your homework on this one, folks. You’ll be glad you did!
For The High Stakes Pick Up Artist Only
Friday Night Party Animal 🤬
Oh how the mighty have fallen. It used to be every Friday I’d have my nose in a glass and three sheets to the wind. How I mourn the passing of the Good Ol’ Days!
Now I get up in the middle of the night to drain myself. When I get back to bed…and I’ve just fallen asleep… Macey The Dawg has to go. She’s an old geezer too and her back legs are shutting down. She’s developed a method of sliding down the stairs on her bum and it sounds like a drunk tumbling down the stairs. Then she goes to the downstairs crapper, drinks 14 gallons of water…and then barks to be let out!
After she goes out and comes back in, and I’m back in bed… the stupid old bitch barks at Mort and they have a bloody domestic dispute. Beside me, the wife snores and farts.
I am the Nocturnal Lord Of Darkness, Owner Of The Night.
Convenience And Utility Be Damned
Friday, 25 February 2022
Grampa, Tell Me About The Good Ol’ Days…🎶
I am old enough to remember when the teachers had hand-cranked copy machines. Remember those? They used a funny blue ink that smelled like carcinoma and death.
Later, when the first fax machines came out… the corporate management pulled their hair out by the roots because the damn things were being used to crank out rude jokes and productivity and office decorum was being compromised. The secretaries and office admins couldn’t have cared less, and when the really good jokes came in, they’d have to waste even more time making copies for us guys out in the shop. Administrative warfare broke out over it but the management lost dismally. The jokes got posted up on the bulletin boards and in the soul crushing cubicles no matter what they did and unless the jokes were REALLY rude and off colour…they generally had to ignore them. I remember one of the secretaries keeping a huge binder full of fax jokes and putting it in the waiting room for visitors to read while they awaited their appointments. Such were the meme whores and harlots of yesteryear.
Today of course, we can send rude jokes so toxic, that people are traumatized by them - right over the phone. Every day snowflakes of every description have to be rushed to their safe places for cookies and milk after seeing something too funny to bear. And that in itself triggers even more hilarity. The sociologists get this one exactly backwards: they think the high speed/low drag memery drives the high rates of mental stress and nervous breakdowns. In point of fact, because of the mainstreaming of trannies, faggotry, feminism and Marxists, political correctness … the good humoured stubfart lives in a target rich environment so dense that only digital technologies can help him process it.
And so it goes. Even in something like humour…the relationship between predator and prey holds, and the pendulum swings, first favouring one, then the other. Where does this end? The road to hell may be paved with good intentions…but the opportunities for a good laugh along the way almost makes the trip worthwhile.
Welp…yawn… it’s 2:30 am as I write this. Macey has had had her drink out of the toilet, she’s gone out to squirt, she had a quick fight with Mort… and now she’s tucked in at the foot of the bed. I hope you all had a great sleep last night, and as for me… I think I might roll out a little later in the morn.
Have yourselves a great Saturday and thanks for stopping in.
The Conservative Case For Defending The Ukraine
About 100 years ago the NRO started becoming irrelevant as the so-called ‘cuckservatives’ took over. They’d run preposterous articles like “The Conservative Case For Gay Marriage” or “The Conservative Case For Censorship” or “The Conservative Case For Critical Race Theory”. It started sounding like a liberal shit rag and I tooned out. No doubt “The Conservative Case For Liberating The Ukraine” is coming soon!
Seriously, about The Ukraine? I like Ukrainians. I like the Russians too. I don’t understand Vlad… and I sure as hell don’t understand (or trust) our leaders here. Ordinarily I am hawkish about these things…but this one can only go the same way all the others have. As long as leftists have a say in military matters, America will lose, as will their allies, and a lot of good people will die for nothing. Leftists don’t have the stomach to kill the people that need to be killed, they don’t have the will or strength of character to plan something like that and see it through, or make the sacrifices required to finish it.
I did, however, see one GOOD and valid point for a proposed liberation of the Ukraine:
Lord help me. Now you can see why I am so helplessly addicted to Blab. Sob! Welp…ol’ Turdo La Doo has committed Canada’s full support to Joe, and condemned Vlad… so I better get ready! I’ve gotta strop my bayonet and put it on my .303, put on my puttees and find my tin hat!
I’m ready to go when you are, Mr. Prime Minister!
Maybe we can catch a lift Over There with General Aesop? 😎👍
The rest a you civilians - have a great Friday. We should be back by the end of next week.
Long Term Memory Loss
You Ain’t Gonna Make It To That Pistol, Sunshine…
People watch too many Bruce Willis movies. Oh - wait a minute - he’s retired pretty much. Are there any tough guys in Hollywood anymore? Or are they all pretty little noglettes and nine irons now? HAR HAR HAR!
Your pistol is not your primary weapon; it is your alternative weapon. If you take the philosophy above at longer ranges you might get away with it. At close range it will get you killed. What blithering nonsense; if you are using your pistol it’s because your rifle is jammed or inoperable. If you’re to dumb to hang on to your rifle, you’re to dumb for a pistol too.
Let There Be Light
Thursday, 24 February 2022
Smell-O-Gram: The Ol’ Farm Truck
Some emails from our little church out in the country that the wife sent my way. It makes me think hard to see this. Not wanting to crap on anybody or judge anyone… but this really makes me scratch my head.
I have been slowly drifting out of the prepper circles. There is a mindset there among them that if the SHTF… they’re going to hunker down in fortified bolt holes in the country and small towns, and basically turn their backs on civilization and not lift a finger to stop it or get involved. A contemptible few talk about raiding for what they need. A lot of them purport to be Christians.
An elderly couple in the Ukraine is prepping to save others. I won’t say anymore; suffice it to say… I have some of my own thinking to do.
I see this same principle at work with black powder gun geezers too: for us guys shooting patched round ball out of our front-stuffers, the rule of bum is that you sight your smoke pole at 13 yards, and you’ll be on the pie plate out to100…which is kinda the accepted limit for traditional muzzle loaders shooting round lead ball.
The hell of the
shit house zero battlefield zero is that it encourages sloth and complacency. Shooting an iron sighted muzzle loader at 100 yards can be a difficult proposition for a noob that’s never done it before. 350 yards for your average M4 is getting out there too. It’s one thing to do this and know it is ballistically valid… and another thing to actually do it. Shooting the M4 accurately at 350 yards is a lot different than 36 yards. It goes without saying that if you change loads, barrel lengths or guns.
Take the time and do it right. Zero your rifle at 200 (for most conventional sporter guns) and check it at all the other ranges too.
Wednesday, 23 February 2022
Canadian Trucker Revolt Post Mortem
Everybody is squealing like a stuck piglet because Turdo La Doo has just assumed (or tried to assume) Emergency Powers Of Govt meant to address times of extreme strife or internal turmoil in order to turn the trucker revolt. “Oh, the horror!!!! Turdo is a tyrant!!! Turdo is a tyrant!!!”
My questions is... Whaddya expect?
Not trying to be a dink or smarmy here. But when the trucker revolt forced provincial premiers to take the decision to lift the ridiculous covid mandates away from our idiot prime minister... it was all over. The truckers should have packed up and gone home. They told the gubbimint they were coming and why, they showed up on schedule and made their point, they did it peacefully and they won when the provinces committed to droping the mandates. To stick around afterward and prolong the dispute was to undermine their own credibility and wave the red cape at an enraged bull. Consider if they had gone home in an orderly fashion:
- Turdo would have been stuck with the loss and the shit on his face. The massive honking as the truckst pulled out and away would have made for superlative optics and an excellent fine flip of the finger at a fwench POS posing as a prime minister.
- For all intents and purposes the issue would have been finished and we ourselves would have closure
- The loss would have been unforgiveable; Justin's own people would have had to be the ones to get rid of him and even that would have not saved them.
- We'd all be on the same page in realizing our gov't was illegitimate, that it ruled without the consent of the Canadian people, and we'd have bought time to think about how to deal with that.
On Safari With WL Emery
Ughhh… Those Russians….
When I think of Russians, I think of screen doors on submarines, Ladas, Uposcrabblenik, vodka and koobasaw. The difference between them and the Ukrainians is merely conversational. But… those guys are making better jet and rocket engines than the US is. The guys at DARPA and Lockheed Martin’s skunkworks - are taking tranks and antidepressants. Apparently they can’t sleep at night worrying about the Chinese. While they are focused on the cutting edge of science and technology and weaponizing it… America is focused on making robots that dance and do parkour…
The times, they are a-changin’…
Racist Math And Pizza Equality
It’s a trope - the hapless father trying to help his child with his math homework. Sending your kids to school now is like sending them to abusive daycares. It really is boggling, the crap we take off our public educators. What parent in their right mind sends their kids to schools where they’ll be exposed to drugs, premarital sex, bullying, homosexuality, Marxism and all the other trappings of a toxic broken home? And that’s just the teachers.
First, there was common core math… and people didn’t even blink. Then it was critical race theory and Marxism, now it’s woke math.
There’s all kinds of young folks that hate boomers on general principles and joke about smothering the elderly ones to death with a pillow in vengeance for all the trauma of their childhoods. Welp… our kids may come after us with the pillows… but their kids are going to come after them with machetes.
Can’t remember where I read it… Du Toit? Years and years ago?
The story goes that some kippered old bint in London spied a .22 round lying in the street. Her panties got in a wad and she called the police…and they gobbled in hysterical panic. The brave bobbies were dispatched and evacuated city blocks… and the bomb squad went in and carefully picked up the dangerous munition and safely disposed of it.
I’d pry those ones out of the treads with a leatherman and see if they still worked…
Tuesday, 22 February 2022
The Class Retard: Polls
So I guess Vlad got up this morning and saved the Ukraine by rolling in with regiments of peacekeepers… and Joe Biden is sitting in a puddle of his own urine wondering how it happened. Looks like the Ukraine’s gonna be pacified by the Russians before Joe’s Rainbow of militarized companies of wonder women, vibrants, and queers could do it.
I’d like to congratulate the Ukrainians on their good fortune and wish them well!😉👍 HAR HAR HAR!!
Here in Canada, Turdo La Doo is high giving himself for breaking the trucker protests and getting those filthy working slobs the hell out of Ottawa so that our esteemed leaders can finally get some sleep. Word on the back channels is that those horrible awful people are talking about a general strike now. Even president Imadinnerjacket in Iran is calling Turdo a tyrant and making rude jokes about him now.
Given the state of world mental retardation, maybe we should recognize talent and give credit where credit is due? Let’s try a poll! I dunno if this’ll work…but let’s give it a go!
If the poll gizmo doesn’t work - cast your vote in the comments! If it DOES work… I’ll have a good start on how to hack the next election! As the new Chairman of Canada I’d torture and jail the minor liberals and kill the big ones. Then I’d annex pretty much all of flyover country in the US. I’d take Montana, Texas and Alaska for sure and occupy them with peacekeepers - to keep the peace, dontchya know. Of course that’d mean that all the vibrants and perverts would have to go into internMINT camps…
I'd vote for Aesop on that second one - he’s promising free helicopter rides for guys like me! 😊👍
Sorry to waste your time guys but it’s Monday… and I got nothin. I hope the polls work! Have yourselves a great Monday and keep your corners square!
When’s The Best Time To Go?
The other day an acquaintance was talking about how one of his close friends passed away at a time of life that was far too young. My dad had the same experience with a couple of his friends, one passing in his early 60s. It bummed him right out too; he took the deaths really hard.
By contrast, my wife’s grandfather didn’t pass until he was into his 90s. He was the last of his generation in our family circle at the time, and all his friends and family in his age cohort were long gone. He was very lonely and unhappy.
My father in law was obsessive about his health. He dieted and worked out and he was the first of our parents to pass on. (Parkinson’s got him).
Not trying to make light about all this, or be a dink… but maybe … cashing out younger is better than going later? It’s super hard on friends and family to die before your time, no bones about it. But what about you personally?
I can’t escape the feeling that maybe we look at life and death completely wrong - the same way scientists used to think the earth was the centre of the universe and all the planets and stars circled around it? If you start drawing parallels between life and death and grief, it could be said that death is a point and grief is a field around it; the closer you are to it, the more it hurts. The death is a singularity with an event horizon we can’t see beyond. Anything is possible beyond it.
The human animal is not equipped to perceive it’s universe correctly. We can only expand our perception of it by increasingly complex machines that don’t even measure and quantify things directly half the time; They will measure values of some property and use the data to infer information about others. The same way we can watch the birth of a calf or a kitten and infer the existence of God.
There are times that I think far too high above my pay grade. I’ll take the days that I have but I won’t count them. Even my simple little life has been a hell of a ride…and I will be thankful for it.
Monday, 21 February 2022
Minute At The Movies With Filthie And Quartermain
Quartermain and I will be doing a formal critique outside the theatre this time round. In the meantime enjoy the trailer and join us there after you’ve had a chance to see it for yourself.
The Filthie Fashion Fascinista: Chit Kickers
I Gotta Stop Hangin Out At Blab
Sunday, 20 February 2022
Epilogue: O Canada, Oh Shit
The boys finally showed up four days later. Rob’s pickup, followed by a big glossy Mercedes SUV pulled into the meadow. By that time, left to stew in my own juices... suffice it to say I was hopping mad about my stolen merchandise. 2 men piled out. They announced their presence by hollering and calling my name. Suzy barked up a storm and went out to see them, and was overjoyed to find Billy. I racked the slide on my 45, put the safety on and tucked it under my jacket. Billy had sinned against me. In this business, people who steal from you HAVE to be dealt with. If you let them get away with it today, they’d eventually try and kill you tomorrow. The betrayal in it was what broke my heart. I’d known Billy since he was a kid. I loved his dad as my own. I pushed down the cold fury, and fought to control myself. Emotions can kill you at times like this. I pasted a friendly smile on my face as I poked my head out the door and hollered for them to c’mon on in.
“You guys look like shit,” I said when they’d taken off their boots and sat themselves down. Billy had bags under his eyes and looked like he was ready to fall over. Rob Bennet hadn’t shaved in days. He had a comical plastic Deputy badge pinned to his vest. The plastic Star looked like it had come from a cowboys and indians play set. Both men were strapped. “That’s exactly where Rob got it,” Billy explained. “Assuming we don’t get shot in the next couple days, we are going to have to get real badges made, and uniforms, and service letterhead for paperwork, new logos for the squad cars, etc. etc. ad nauseum. Our law enforcement is something we need to burn to the ground, and rebuild from the ground up. Just like everything else, really. There’s a half a million things that have to be done when you tear apart your country’s institutions, and then try and put them together so that they’ll work for everyone. For now, we have to be creative just to get by. When’s the last time you took a bath, Deputy Bennet? You smell like Deputy Festus…”
Rob piped up. “That could eat all your time by itself. But the country is falling apart, and everyone is losing their minds and we have our hands full just trying to keep the ordinarily law abiding people from killing each other - never mind the regular criminal element.” The men were running on fumes, sleeping in the squad cars and grabbing cat naps whenever possible. Apparently the county Reeve and the councillors were having non-stop emergency meetings and slept at their offices too. Their jobs were now essential and critical, and not just a profitable ceremonial grift. They had their own difficult internal meetings, and raucous ones on Zoom with the surrounding townships when the internet worked. The provincial govt was wondering what to do with itself after being told to FOAD by half the municipalities, and the feds hid and looked scarce, not wanting to show their faces at all in the current political climate.
I set out mugs of coffee while Jimmy ranted and blew off steam. Awhile later Rob had crossed his arms, and was snoring softly with his chin on his chest. I sat there, making the right noises as Billy talked, seemingly all ears as I sipped my coffee. Very slowly, under the table, I carefully eased my 45 out and levelled it at Billy. He continued to prattle, unaware of his impending demise. Perhaps it was better that way? He was bitching about idiot politicians and their ridiculous demands on the new police department. I was wondering how I was going to dig two graves with one arm. I didn’t want to do this, but business was business. The safety came off almost without a sound under the table. Business was business, I told myself harshly. It HAD to be done. What about the vehicles, a tiny voice inside my head asked. I’d figure it out! For fuck sakes, I raged at myself - just do it! I began my trigger squeeze… and stopped.
“Billy? Could I interrupt for a second? When the girls came out - they said you’d had to impound my merchandise and shipments…? I didn’t want to say anything… but… hell’s bells guys. I took a friggin blood bath on that. I gotta ask… what am I gonna do now?” I wanted Jimmy in the right frame of mind before I sent him to hell.
“Good grief, Jimmy! I nearly forgot! The friggin guns! Of course, we are gonna pay for them! I’m so sorry, I’m so far behind, I think I’m in front! Rob! Wake up, you buggardly slacker! Stay with us, here! I nearly forgot why we came out here!” Rob blearily got to his feet. “Gah! Me too… hang on Jim… I forgot it in the truck. It’s a good thing God put my balls in a bag or I’d forget them too…! I’ll be right back, guys…”
I was flustered. Carefully I let the hammer down on the pistol and slid it back into my jacket. “Those MAC-10s are great for show, Jimmy. The sight of them makes people really think twice about starting something with the folks that have them. Did you hear? We had some fuggin indians off the rez pop in on a council meeting last week - with a duffel full of guns. They were drunk or higher than kites, but they still could have done some real damage. But Ol’ Willy the security guard nearly cut one in half and put 5 in the chest of the other! He just hosed them with the little sub gun and they were done like dinner! And then he was out of ammo! Those little guns chew through their ammo way too fast…”
“Put them on semi auto, you putz,” I said. My mind was in turmoil. I thought these guys were going to hose me on my business dealings.
“Wait. What? Those things fire on semi auto? How?” I got up, went over to my desk and hauled mine out. I paused… and deliberately pulled the 45 pistol out, and firmly set it on the desk. This wasn’t business. These were my friends, maybe even my family. They weren’t businessmen, some of ‘em weren’t even cops… and everyone was in over their heads. I cleared the sub machine gun and took it over to Billy and showed him the three position selector safety.
“Well I’ll be gawddamed,” Billy marvelled, “Hey Rob! C’mere! You gotta see this!” Rob came over, threw a heavy sack on the table. “There’s your fee, Jim.” Then he and Billy played with the sub gun while I dismally regarded the sack. “What’s this, you clowns? Pennies? Nickels and dimes? I’d shoot you, but your generosity overwhelms me…” Maybe there was enough in there for a sack of dog kibble, I thought. It is what it is. “What’d you mutts do? Knock off a bubblegum machine?”
“How about krugerrands, maple leafs, and gold eagles, dipshit?” Jimmy replied. I reached out and peered into the sack.
“Good heavens, Mr. Bennet.” I gasped. “There has to be over a half million dollars here…”. In gold… I’d never seen that much in one place. “What was it Rob? $615k and change American as of yesterdays spot price…? Who knows? With the Canadian dollar collapsing and gold prices going through the roof, who knows what it is today? Be happy, Jimmy - you’re a wealthy man, provided you don’t get stupid…” Rob smirked. “Don’t count it here, Jimmy - and for gawdsakes don’t flash it around…” he said, doing a horrible imitation of me. They both hooted in laughter, impressed with Rob’s wit.
After they settled, Billy says, “Are you going to tell him, or am I?” I looked at the two comedians. I knew it! It was too good to be true! There’s always a catch with good fortune. Always! “Don’t just sit there you cretins! Out with it! What aren’t you telling me!?”
“Welll…Jimmy, don’t get mad…” I was livid already. “Out with it! Speak up, you fuggin-“ Rob found his courage first. “We sold your pot shipment to the First Nations for cost plus 5 percent!” I started to recalculate…that was going to put a dent in my small windfall. “They had a town hall, Jimmy,” Rob gobbled in dismay, “They made pot illegal again within county limits. And after Willy shot those two chugs, the ones on the rez were getting bent outta shape about it, so we made the deal to kinda pacify ‘em..”
“Where’s my gun?” I asked myself, in a dazed rage. “Billy? Cost plus five?”I went on as if I were talking to an idiot (which I was), “Do you even know what my costs are? And what the margins are on weed?”
Rob threw the keys to the Benz on the table. “What’s a slightly used G Class worth? $120k U.S.? Tell you what, Jim, figure it out, and then we’ll work something out. But the Benz will cover some of it..” I did the face/palm thing. “Fuck it,” I sighed. This was business in New Canada. Suzy had her head in my lap, and I’d been absently petting her. She’d started to drool, and she soaked my lap. I looked like I’d pished myself.
“Where did you guys get the gold,” I asked, not really wanting to know. “Darren Greene at the bank helped us with that,” Rob said grimly. “He sends his regards.” Now it made sense. “Let me guess,” I said, “that’s his Benz? How is Mr. Greene these days!”
“Don’t ask” Billy replied. “This is the part where we all live happily ever after. You don’t want to spoil that, do ya Jim?”
I was alright, I suppose. In any deal, you always left a little money on the table. Or at least, I did. A crumb or a bone will do, it’s a gesture of good will to your client, and an invitation to do business again. I’ve seen great deals blown by millionaires fighting over nickels and dimes, and I wondered about that. Maybe they got to be millionaires by starting wars over pocket change? I was no millionaire; so whadda I know? I confiscated Suzy on top of the money and the Benz and called everything square.
But after all that, the boys read me the riot act. Long story short…I was done. Finished, retired. The township and county were hellbent in establishing and maintaining some kind of order. All crime, even petty crime - was drawing heavy punishments as examples were made. My options were either to get out of town, or run increasingly dire risks on my future, or hunker down until some kind of sanity was restored. On impulse I bought the parcel of land I was hiding out on. The sea can got insulated and some minor upgrades. The rustic life and quiet appealed to me and it was a great place for me to heal while my country tried to do the same. For a guy without a family, it made an excellent place to retire. I could live in my version of prosperity and opulence. On some level I knew I’d made a good deal - by my reckoning.
I suppose part of that was figuring out what exactly prosperity is? Is it driving around in a posh Mercedes? Or living in a sea can out in the woods without indoor plumbing? And what was that prosperity worth? What cost, what sacrifices? A lot of folks can’t answer questions like that - but I can, now.
Then I started thinking about that. Everything always makes perfect sense to the human animal, even when you’re trapped in an artificially inflated and warped bubble of stupidity like we had been for the last little while. It all made perfect sense for Turdo La Doo to essentially destroy his country’s prosperity with a fake pandemic. Each step was more ridiculous than the last, with obvious, painful consequences… but our leaders just kept going, trapped in a game nobody but them wanted to play. What was it the wanks used to say? ‘Play stupid games, win stupid prizes?’ I wonder what was going through the man’s head now? He hadn’t been seen in weeks. If he ever turned up he was liable to get shot. There is no doubt in my mind that he fully deserved it. But… I had started playing the Fools Game too. When a legitimate career became too hard… I got into underground economies, black markets, and I partnered up with criminals that made Turdo look like a saint. The argument could be made that I was even worse than Justin was: I knew exactly what I was doing. I killed people in the course of my career, and it made the same perfect sense that Turdo’s power grabs did. They were trying to kill me, and I’m sure that killing me made perfect sense to them. I nearly killed two men today who essentially were the best friends you could ask for, one was almost a brother. It made perfect sense for Officer Friendly to snap my fingers and break my collar bone. It made perfect sense for Darren Greene to use his bank to impoverish others and enrich himself. His victimization of people was no different than mine. Unlike him, or Turdo, I had a chance now to get out of the fool’s game and live in prosperity. The only thing that made sense in the Fool’s Game was not to play, or get the hell out when the getting is good.
I came back to myself with a start. I’d flopped down in my easy chair to take a break and ended up wool gathering instead. Suzy had her head in my lap, a fatally chewed tennis ball in her mouth. Her eyes were closed as I absently petted her. My pants were covered in mucous and drool. I had gotten slimed again. I gently shook the dog’s head. “Wanna play ball and go for a quick walk, Suze?” Outside the fall sunshine and glorious coloured leaves beckoned.
Humans may not be able to play the Fool’s Game, but dogs could, and the could win every single time too. I pray my country can in time too.
GAH. Good lord, that sucked! And that ending… I don’t think that could be any lamer if I broke its legs with a sledge hammer! And - I’m sorry guys, but… no refunds! It’s all inspired by the idea of the Fool’s Game. To win, you have to realize you’re playing - and then you have to get out! To do that, you have to be able to pull your head out of your ass. Then you have to convince the other other human ostriches in the game to do the same. I can barely handle the first part. I look at our kids, and they can’t afford to buy homes and start families anymore. Their govt is flooding the country with human trash from the third world to replace them, and the kids have to support the “new Canadian families” that are replacing them. On top of that, they have to support the pish retirement of their elders. And the endless govt grifters at the trough. The welfare bums. It all adds up. And of course, It’s more important for our gubbimint to be vibrant and diverse and politically correct than it is to be successful and look after their people and customers. Doing that is racist. Disagreeing with them is racist. We are trapped in what the NRx guys call a purity spiral. We must all now be more devout and holy than the Pope - or we’ll be cancelled and ‘unpersoned’. When your “pope” is a moronic child like Justin Turdo, and your “clergy” is clogged with morons just like him… things can only end one way. I feel sorry for Justin, actually. He’s been pressed into a position to bear loads he was never fit to carry - put there by men that aren’t fit to shine shoes or clean spittoons in a cat house.
That karmic wheel goes round and round, and we delight when we see guys like Justin get crushed when the stuff they sent around comes around to squash them like bugs. But… we can get focused on that, and not see when that wheel comes bearing down on us. Yes, maybe I speak from experience on that one. Maybe it would be a good day to put something good on the wheel and send it round?
Sorry again about that stinker of a short story. As always, thanks for dropping in, and have yourselves a great Sunday.
Saturday, 19 February 2022
In the movies the hero bravely holds his silence when the bad guys torture him. I’d like to say I was like Rambo, stoically taking my lumps and punishment, holding my silence while the bad guys grit their teeth in rage and did their worst. But I try to forget my afternoon with Officer Friendly. I was ready to sing after he broke my two of my fingers. When he snapped my collar bone, I sang like a canary. I’ve actually heard morons say that torture doesn’t work. Let me tell you that it does, and has worked for thousands of years. You know what? I don’t want to talk about it. I swore if I ever saw that man again, I’d kill him or die trying when the odds were a bit more even. Torture leaves scars that don’t heal.
After I finished spilling my guts I was just shocked. They sent me over to the town hospital and the doctors looked me over. They weren’t happy with my head injuries and I got shackled to a bed so they could keep me under observation overnight. I had thought once Friendly was done with me, I’d get a bullet behind the ear. But They posted a guard on my room… and at some point Billy showed up. I managed to say hi before falling into an exhausted sleep. They’d coked me up on pain killers, and I slept like the dead knowing Billy was near. The two men were background noise as they talked late into the night. At some point, Billy left, and then came back, and the two men talked some more.
The next morning, well before dawn, I was rousted from an unrestful dreamless sleep. “Up and at ‘em, Jim! We got places to go and people to see! Get your clothes on!” I blearily tried to comply, but my arm was out of commission and I was still woozy from the pain killers. I didn’t notice my guard as I was struggling with my garments; he was shrugging out of his uniform and into his civvies. Once he had his jeans and shirt on, he made my bed. Then he slowly and carefully folded his policeman’s uniform and set it in a neat pile on the end of the bed. Carefully, he placed his hat on the clothes. Then he stood and regarded the pile, his face dark. At length, he pulled the pistol out of its holster and jammed it inside a jacket pocket. “Helluva resignation notice, eh?” He asked. I said it looked good to me.
The clothes I had were not my own; looking back, they were probably Billy’s. We managed to put them on me with a minimum of pain. A set of bright orange prisoners coveralls appeared and were folded neatly and placed beside the uniform. We paused to look at them one last time. “I’m Jimmy,” I said, realizing we hadn’t been properly introduced. “Brent. How about we get out of here, Jimmy? We’ll shake hands when that wing heals up…” And so… we just walked out. In the parking lot we walked right past a cruiser and got into a jacked up F250. Brent helped me clamber up and in, and I almost passed out when he accidentally put some pressure on my arm. When I was in, he walked round and got in behind the wheel. “Where are we going, Brent?” I asked. He told me to wait and see.
We were out past the town limits by the time dawn broke. We drove about an hour out of town, by my reckoning we were about 8 miles down a rural road off the highway when Brent turned into a field and followed the path into some woods. The trail through the trees led to an open clearing with a few outbuildings, and a couple sea cans and sheds. “Welcome home, Jimmy!” Brent said.
We struggled out of the truck and up to one of the rusty sea cans. Brent banged on the door: three sharp knocks, a pause, and two more. A voice called from inside, “Come on in!!!”
And in we went.
“Ya made it!!! Good to see ya, guys!” I marveled at the interior of the sea can - a big cast iron brass trimmed wood stove quietly popped and crackled in the corner. Low wattage but bright LEDs lit up the interior. A bed, a desk, a table and stove. A chesterfield and easy chair, a wash stand with a basin and big blue 5 gallon water jug. A microwave. All… clean as a whistle! Rob Bennet smirked rudely, “I wish we could give you a super villain hideout in the bottom of an extinct volcano, Jimmy… but this’ll have to do. For now, anyways. I said nothing and wobbled over to the chesterfield and flopped down on the side closest to the wood stove. “Thanks for everything fellas,” I said “I surely appreciate it all …but do you mind? I could sure go for a quick cat nap. It’s been a shoddy couple of days…” Billy walked by and threw a blanket over me. “Lights out, ya old fart! We’ll wake you up when it’s time to get down to business!” The men started talking and in no time their voices softened and combined into a distant murmur that my mind had no interest in following. I woke up a couple hours later and the guys gave me a galvanized bucket to take a leak in, and instead of going back to the couch they insisted I take the bed. I didn’t argue. I slept again, long, deep, and restful. I only woke up to pee, and once Billy made me eat a piece of toast and drink some water, and I zonked right out again afterward. I guess I had some batteries that really needed charging.
I finally woke up feeling something like a white man. The last effects of the drugs had worn off, I was sore everywhere, and I looked around for some Tylenol. Everyone was gone and I’d been left alone. The floor was cold and I spied some crocs parked neatly by the bed and put them on. Then I stoked the wood stove... even simple things required some forethought now that my arm was out of commission. But soon the fire was up and going, and I closed the door on the stove and wondered what to do with myself. I went over to the desk and woke the computer up. The clock on it said I'd been up and down for about 3 days since... everything. I pushed the memories away. There was an envelope on the desk with my name on it and I opened it. In rather utilitarian cursive, the author had written
Good morning sleepyhead!
Stay where you are for now! DON'T go anywhere, DON'T leave the meadow. We haven't forgotten you and will be by with news and supplies ASAP. Make yourself at home, eat, and REST.
DON'T do anything stupid!
PS. Sorry for everything, Jim. Talk soon.
Hmpfpfpfffff. After the last couple days... it all sounded good to me. Ordinarily I'd be champing at the bit to get up and go and get back into life... but now? I was just tired. So tired. Even my head was tired. I walked down to the end of the sea can and went outdoors. A blast of frigid air hit me like a sledge hammer. Fall was upon us, and a rime of frost covered everything. It was morning, and the silence and the stillness was almost complete. There must have been a slough or lake nearby - I could hear the ducks chuckling and the sleepy honks of the first geese to wake up for the day. They'll be heading south en masse soon... if they weren't already. I stood savouring the morn until the cold drove me back inside.
As I walked to the back of the sea can toward the accomodations and the warm stove, I was shocked to discover I was ravenous. Fortunately I was well provisioned. Opening the low wattage fridge, I came out with some eggs and found some bread. A can of beans... and I was ready to rip! I found pots and pans, and stuffed myself with eggs and toast. Sure enough I found a coffee perker and a great big Econ-O-Bucket of Folgers. I drank the coffee as I did the dishes and then put my jacket on and went back outside again to walk and explore. I found a fire pit with some adirondack chairs round it. The sun was up now... and things were warming up. I helped myself to one of the chairs and was soon asleep again!
Fortunately I awoke just in time for lunch. I had a banana and a sliced up tomato with salt and pepper. No one had come back for me and there was nothing to do... so I decided to make an inventory of my supplies and provisions. A couple of cartons of Player's cigarettes turned up and I whooped in delight. I got another pot of coffee going, and lit the cigarette from a taper in the stove. Everything was here, and in abundance. I eventually found the lighters, and the tooth paste and tooth brushes and other nicknames for daily life. Cartons and boxes lined both walls, all neatly labelled and ready to rip. Soon it was supper time... and still no one came. It didn't bother me one bit. Not after what I had gone through. Amongst the plunder I found a book about ancient greek mythology and gods. I was good to go.
I spent another three days like that. During the day I turned the stove way down, and then filled the firebox and opened her up at night. I cooked unhealthy breakfasts and nibbled during the day to keep me going. I parked my keester in the adirondacks after breakfast, smoked, and read about how Zeus, king of all the gods, seduced and porked anything that moved, and killed anything that opposed him. I smoked but sparingly. I didn't know what the supply chains were going to do or the logistics of procuring replacement supplies, or even what own situation was, exactly. Waste not, want not, I suppose.
On the fourth day I was taking my ease in the outhouse when I heard a vehicle coming down the trail. I cracked the door and recognized Brent's big Ford truck. Two women and a dog got out walked over to the sea can and knocked. On getting no answer they opened the door and went in. I sighed and leaned back and finished my business and decided to go in and introduce myself.
"Oh THERE you are! Hi Jimmy!!!" I greeted Carol - Billy’s wife. I guiltily realized we hadn’t spoken in years. The other lady turned out to be Chloe. The dog barked and hooted excitedly and jammed her snout square into my crotch and inhaled noisily. "That is Suzy the Floozy - always throwing herself at the men!' I pried the dog's face out of my crotch and petted her, talking baby talk as I did so. She was just your average lovely happy farm dog. I introduced myself to Chloe and got another pot of coffee going. The ladies couldn't stay, but agreed to hang around long enough for one cup.
"Things are pretty crazy in town, Jimmy. We came out to check on you - and Billy wants to beg a favor. Can you please look after Suzy for us for the next little while? With things so uncertain right now... she is in the way and we worry about her and can’t spend enough time with her…” I looked down at the dog with her head in my lap as I absently petted her. How can you say no?
In town, everything was unravelling. Our constabulary had retaken the police station and arrested Officer Friendly and another constable. They were disarmed, cuffed, and driven back to K Division in Edmonton and dropped off in shipping and receiving - along with a message for the Mounties to shove those two up their collective backsides. Three other counties had done the same and were talking about alternate policing with the Alberta Sherriff's Dept. The big cities out west were in open revolt, calling for Turdo's resignation; western provinces were demanding equal representation and had issued ultimatums. The prime minister had gone into hiding - again. The banks closed. The internet was up and down. The preppers had a shortwave radio network up and rumors and rumors of rumors raced around the country. Riots erupted and this time there were no riot police to protect the perps and abuse the innocent. Some much-needed lynchings took place in the cities and politicos were arrested or run out of their homes. Everywhere, everyone shouted for law and order, and no one listened. Turdo ordered the military to intervene and in the western provinces the forces formally refused. The back channels filled up with chatter about UN intervention. The natives in one of the northern areas went on a crime spree in town, raping, robbing and burning. When the festivities resumed on the second night, they were decimated by angry white citizens defending their town and race wars were in the offing. People of colour struggled to form their own alliances, publicly bellowing threats and mayhem as they did so.
"Chloe - we've gotta run. Let's unload the truck and get Jimmy set up. I told the boys we'd be back by noon." With burning shame I watched the girls offloaded without my help. I felt awful because some of it was really heavy too. A box and an ammo can came off last. Chloe opened the box and passed over my 45 that used to be in my truck. I could only shoot from my left side... but it made me feel better having it. "But - wait! There's more!" Chloe said. She passed over an off brand, but neatly made copy of the Ingram MAC-10 submachine pistol … and my blood ran cold.
Barely suppressing my fury, I asked very slowly, "Chloe...? Where did you get these?" Turns out my pistol came from the police station. "As for the machine gun - don't be dense, Jimmy! We stole them from you!" I struggled to choke down my rage. If my former customers dealt with me this way, I'd have shot them for their troubles. But... I wasn't facing my usual clientele with face and neck tats and switchblades. I was facing two pretty chattering housewives. One of whom I knew. Suzy jammed her muzzle into my crotch again, seeking more love and attention. For the first time in years, I vapour locked with indecision.
"The boys will be back to explain everything, Jimmy. But they've just been going nuts trying to keep everything together. They'll be by in the next day or two if they can." In a daze, I waved lamely with my good arm as the women drove away. One of my big shipments had just been hijacked by a couple of housewives, and all I had to show for it was a slightly used dog.
"Fuck this rattle, Suzy. I think it's maybe time I retired… Maybe we should go for a walk?" Suzy and I went for a stroll in the fall sunshine, and she happily showed me the best places to smell and pee.
TOON IN TOMORROW FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION
OF THIS EPISODE!
SAME FILTHIE TIME, SAME FILTHIE CHANNEL!!!