Month: July 2021

A Lot of Laughs

First: Is this the “Mark of the Beast?”

France’s President Macron delivered a 27-minute speech to the nation on television. Macron announced a full-blown authoritarian measure that takes France off the tourist list. He has made vaccinations MANDATORY for caregivers, store clerks, waitresses, and all other workers “in contact with the public” with no exceptions for health or religion. On top of that, he has made it also MANDATORY to have his Gates-inspired health pass to enter all restaurants, cafes, theaters, and cinemas. In other words, without a vaccination, you are not even allowed to go to the store and buy anything.

As if this was not bad enough, Macron also announced a pension reform after the epidemic. This is the real reason for all of this. SOCIALISM is dying and what they are really afraid of is an uprising where like in ancient Rome, the mob storms the palaces and beheads the emperor. Their solution – TOTALITARIANISM and there will be a subtle move to eliminate democratic elections in 2022.

Wow.

Consider this. It is not only the Indigenous people you know.

I remember one evening, a school night, it was about midweek.
I was running late and it was as cold as ice outside. I had
been at my friend’s house and was now on my way home, taking
a shortcut through the park, alone with my thoughts and my
futile attempt to stay warm. There was a cruel frost in the air that
froze one’s breath into that visible plane of CO2 stillness:
opaque, inert, foggy, dull whiteness that seemed to just hang
there in mid-air, motionless, wafting for a second or two, then
disappearing wistfully until followed inexorably by the next
sustained exhaled breath.

I sauntered down to the area of the rink. The usual bandits
were not there. In fact no one was there except a lone figure
holding a fire hose emitting a jet-streamed rush of water over and
on to the ice surface. The natural light of the half moon and its
reflection off of the snow and ice surface made it somewhat
surreal watching this stream of water jet forth from the nozzle
like liquid crystalline, then arc its way up and over some invis-
ible barrier, then down and out it went splattering onto the
surface of the ice, flowing and emanating outward in what
appeared to be rippled waves of smooth liquid velvet sheets
across a frozen yet clear, rejuvenated expanse. Ironically, that
cold blast of water resembled a cauldron of steam, exploding like
an expansion crack when it made contact with the surface and
frigid coldness of the ice.

The caretaker just stood there, like an automaton, as if
watching and admiring the outcome of his work from afar. He
would move the hose from side to side, then up and down a few
times, as if coaxing, then directing, the stream to do its magical
work, somewhat like a maestro conducting a movement. He was
old, about forty I would guess, crusty, with the wrinkled face of
someone who made his living working outdoors. He had a low
forehead from what I could see just shy of his toque. His was a
square face with a set strong jaw and a bulbous crooked nose
masking a dark, brooding inset pair of eyes. From time to time
one could see a slight glint but that only came to light as part of
the draw on his rolled cigarette. The exhaled smoke, combined
with his frozen breath, gave the impression of a magician’s folly
with nature’s illusion of turning water magically into ice.
He saw me, looked down at me, smiled I think, or perhaps
smirked. The cigarette was burning red hot ashes from the corner
of his mouth as both hands were needed to control the pressure
of the water hose.

“What can I do for ya, young lad?” he offered in a lyrical
brogue.

Somewhat embarrassed and off guard I returned: “Just watching,
sir, that’s all. Tomorrow this will be an awesome piece
of ice.”

“Aye, with any luck, if the weather holds.”

Silence.

“So, this must be some neat job you have here, looking after
things at the park?”

“Yes, but this is only part of it. I have three other rinks to
look after besides this one.”

“Wow” was about all I could muster. Then, continuing on:

“When I grow up, I want to have a job like this. So cool.”

He chuckled. “No you don’t, and no it ain’t,” he said rather
emphatically. “I have to do this. You don’t. I have no other
choice. You do. So stay in school.”

“But school sucks. I hate it. The nuns, the priests, the rules,
and the strap.”

He chuckled somewhat.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, I know. I know it’s not funny. But thinking back, I got it
good too from those nuns and priests. Real good. But not here.
Over in Ireland, where I come’d from, where I grew’d up—those
priests and nuns were the devil’s own, the devil’s fire brigade.”

“Really,” I thought aloud, “just like here?”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “They’re everywhere. With fire and
brimstone they spoke, with the brimstone and fire they breathed.
And they sure set the standard for all of the physical pain and
grief that a Catholic young lad or lass could harbour, without
being dead, the world over.”

“What school do you go to?” he asked.

“Our Lady of Peace,” I answered.
He looked right down at me and into my eyes, into my very
soul it seemed.

“Is that so,” he said. “Well, I think they had a school for it
over there as well. Our Lady’s School of Perpetual Abuse, I
would think. For they knew how to give it and we got it good,
day and night. Black and blue we was, then black again. The
thing is though we fought back, but in such a way that the bastards never knew they was being conned. We had a lot of
laughs outsmarting them, doing that. That was the key for us to
survive in these schools.”

He chuckled but in remonstrance, remembering perhaps that
it would seem to be a memory hidden or repressed.

“Listen to me, young lad. Adapt, and don’t let them get you
down, or get to you emotionally, in your thoughts, and if you do
it right you will have fond memories of your and your mates’
experiences and a lot of laughs. But I’m sure it isn’t as bad as
when I went to school. That was day and night back then. No rest
for the wicked boys and girls, as they said. We was all orphans.”

He paused, as if to let that last comment sink in. Then he
turned, slightly, to blanket another part of the rink with water.
Silent! I followed him around.

“Orphans? In Ireland? Wow.” It seemed so far away, and too
much to sink in.

“Orphans, yes. I don’t remember my mother or my father.
Just the school, the orphanage, the nuns and priests. But I got out
of it. Ran away and joined the Navy.”

And as if sensing my next question. “I was fourteen.”

“Yup, Royal Navy, the Senior Service, as they say.” He
volunteered, “It was also harsh discipline thar, in the Navy, but I
thrived on it cause I was already used to the abuse… Aaaargh.”
He laughed out loud.

“But in the Navy they had free rein to kill ya if they so
choosed. For being out of line, AWOL, or desertion as they
called it. But again, my mates kept me sane and my wingers safe.
And justice? For the smallest infraction, there was shipboard
justice… before the mast, before the Captain… the Coxswain
would cry out in his loud and booming voice: ‘MARCH THE
GUILTY BASTARD IN!’ As I said, I loved it. Rum was dirt
cheap and the cigs even dirtier cheapier. Clean sheets and three
squared—if you liked kippers and hard tack that is. But
compared to the boarding school, and the Army, I thought I had
died and gone to heaven.”

He paused, while directing the water to another section of the
rink. The was a moment of dead silence except for the crackling
sound that the water made when in contact with the frozen
expanse of the ice. He then continued with his story.

“I came through the war unscathed though. Only once did
providence come to my side.”

“What’s providence?” I interrupted

“Providence is a sort of destiny’s luck,” he continued. “Like
something that happens to you in the present that makes no sense
at all except that it has an enormous impact on something in the
future.”

He looked at me whimsically, quizzically, probably knowing
full well that I didn’t have a clue of what he was getting at.

“Let me explain it this way. I was transferred to an oiler—
that’s a ship that refuels other ships at sea, like a floating,
moving gas station on water—and just before boarding that ship
to leave port and to go out to our war station at sea, I was called
back. Some sort of emergency at home. How could that be, I
thought? I had no home! So the ship sailed without me and
when I arrived back in the town where I had lived at the
boarding school, it turned out that I did indeed have a younger
sister who was quite sick, had been given last rights, and had
asked for me. Turns out she, like me, had also been given up and
had been sent to another boarding school, but in the next village.
Damnation, I thought. I had a sister. As it turned out, her school
was a front for the so-called Magdalene Laundry Houses—or
asylum. You wouldn’t know about those places, but there was
nothing asylum about them I can tell you that. They was an
affront for sure, those sweathouses. An affront to humanity,
human kindness, compassion, empathy, everything civil and
just. The Irish nun’s laundry school from hell. And that’s all I’ll
say about that.”

He paused briefly, then continued.

“But, as unluckily as it was for her that this was, it was also
luckily for me because that oiler took a hit and being so full of
oil went up like a some heavenly torch, burnt the sky crimson, in
spectacular fashion it was with shades of reds and oranges and
yellows, before being doused to eternity’s sleep as she slipped,
stern first, into the sea, breaking up below the waves to the
bottom below but with one last glorious belch of sea salt from
old Neptune himself, or so they told me after. No one survived.”
He let that sink in for the moment.

Then continued, “I survived the war though death really hit home. I cried and I cried and I cried. I don’t know why I cried so hard because I didn’t
really know anyone on that ship, thank God for that. And I didn’t
know my own sister either yet I cried so hard for her.” He made
the sign of the cross with a free hand.

“What happened to your sister?” I asked, politely.

“Died… a lung disease. But she really died from one of life’s
broken hearts, and broken promises. I never knew her but I think
I loved her. Funny that. Not knowing somebody but still loving
them, potentially I guess, unconditionally perhaps, for I never
knew, I never knew her. The ties that bind, I think. You understand
me, boy?”

“I think so,” I said. I didn’t.

“Good, ’cause I’m not sure if I do… understand myself or
my life, that is.”

Silence again. Much longer this time as the time was needed
to take in this account of his.

“You should be getting home,” he said as he turned again to
strike out at another area of the rink.

“Stay in school, and don’t let them penguins get to you. By
the by, what’s your name?”

“John,” I answered, awkwardly.

“Well, John. I am Desmond O’Brian. Des for short, but not
for long.” He guffawed. “You can call me sir.” He guffawed and
guffawed again. Then he was suddenly snorting, snorting then
coughing, coughing hard, a bronchial, nicotine-laced cough that
went deep into his own form, shook his entire physical being
relentlessly before dying down and out through his throat.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, John.” He choked again
and waved me off with one arm, coughing again.

I left, turned away toward my street, and off I went, carefully
as the ground was extremely icy.

It always seemed weird, but nice, to me when an adult with
whom I had no association at all called me by my first and given
Christian name. John… John, yeah John. A simple name, yet the
sound of it from someone else’s voice directed at me and at me
alone gave me a sense of well-being and a confidence in myself
because the adult had the respect and acknowledgement of my
own existence in this world, however small my own worldly
horizon or vision might be. It was as if we shared some of life’s
experiences, good or bad, in some sort of way, synchronicity
perhaps. It was always a nice, heartfelt gesture to hear one’s own
name in that manner by a relative stranger. Instead of the usual
… MORRISON, PAY ATTENTION OR I’LL PAY IT
FOR YOU!

Before I was out of sight I stopped, turned, and looked back
at the rink. I could see Mr O’Brian ever so faintly, or should I say
his silhouette, which really resembled a dark, lifeless shadow in
the stillness of this winter’s night. The stream of water continuing
to rise, then arc, then cascade out and down and out again in
a frost-like icy fog over the surface of the rink. Tomorrow that
ice surface would be an awesome shade of greyish blue, a
smooth virginal sheen of ice, as fragile as frozen glass, bordered
by the brilliance of clean white snow, until the inevitable cut and
crunch of the first set of cold steel blades hit its surface.
I never saw Mr O’Brian again.

Have a great weekend…

SJ…Out

And We Got It Too…

Another excerpt from my experiences at a Catholic elementary school. Read all about it in my book: “I Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven.” Click on the link at the top of the page.

The Artful Dodger:

I REMEMBER ONE TIME, I believe it was in grade six, Mr
Bowner’s class, in one of the outside portables. We had a break
from our usual lessons when in walked Sister Mary Bernice to
instruct us on the vagaries and intricacies of confirmation—
another religious rite of passage, a sacrament. Not like corporal
punishment, mind you, but a call to religious arms in that you
were now a member of the Catholic brotherhood—and sisterhood.

But not to be outdone by the nuns, we still got whacked by
the priest on the top of the head. Hey, but the neatest part of this
sacrament was that we were allowed to take on an additional
name. Of course it was supposed to be a name that harkened
back to the saints or the martyrs or some other holy ordered
person. Not for me though. I was fascinated at the time by the
War of Independence and loved ornery sea stories. So I took the
name of Paul. St Paul, how cute, they thought. No, not really.
Paul, after John Paul Jones. My real first name was John so it fit
nicely. John Paul Morrison: the United States Navy’s first real
naval hero. Or so I dreamt.

As I am sitting there listening to the Sister’s rant about the
religious ceremony of confirmation, I became bored. And what
can a ten-year-old do in a situation like this? Squirm? Not really
and not for long. For those wooden seats expelled splinters.
Shake one’s leg? Perhaps. But one gets bored of that pretty
quickly. But Hilroy, God bless their hearts, they thought of everything
when they designed those plastic rulers for students like me
that could bend and yaw them with great flexibility before snapping
and breaking in two. They made great sling shots, but
without the sling. More like a catapult. Just bend her back, let her
go and watch the spit ball rip. Amazing! Better than that though,
these rulers had three holes that were strategically punctured
across the twelve inches of hard plastic sheen. One hole at each
end, about one inch back from the edge, and one hole of which
was dead centre on that ruler. And these holes were engineered to
such an extent that their circumference was just large enough that
an HB pencil, a number 2, could slide itself through those holes
with little friction. Man, those Hilroy engineers and designers
were geniuses. They thought of everything. All one had to do
was insert the HB pencil through the centre hole, flick one end of
the ruler with your finger, then watch it spin like a top or a helicopter
rotor around and centred on the pencil itself. Faster and
faster one could make that ruler spin, limited only by the quickness
of one’s finger and wrist. That is until that dreaded sound:
whack, whack, and more whack of open-palm hand to face
followed by the burning cheeks and the incessant ringing in the
ears. Sister Mary Bernice had struck again, ever so discreetly and
unapologetically.

Her other weapon came in the form of a very long, wellworn,
or should I say, well-used strap. It was about eighteen
inches long by about three inches wide by about one eighth inch
thick. It was rigidly firm yet flexible. It was worn and frayed at
the business end, brownish red and fading. Not blood-worn,
mind you, but faded from years of use. I often wondered where
on earth they got these things. A throwback to the Spanish Inquisition
perhaps? Or do they have a strap-making factory somewhere
in the Catholic Archdiocese. Perhaps all Catholic school
principals like Sister Mary Bernice had to take a course aptly
named “THE STRAP,” or “Corporal Punishment 101.” And did
they take them with them from school to school? And,
oxymoronically, our school was named “Our Lady of Peace.”
But just a few blocks away, in the next parish, was the more
appropriately named school “Our Lady of Sorrows.”

For us lads, getting the strap was somewhat like a rite of
passage. I remember on one occasion though, quite funny, a
bunch of us were summoned to the principal’s office—Sister
Mary Bernice. It meant only one thing, that summons: corporal
punishment. Her office was located at the end of a narrow
corridor on the main floor, adjacent to the school’s entranceway.
Once you entered the corridor, there was no turning back. And
her office door was always slightly ajar as I recall, but just a
smidgen, such that each one of us in that line of doomed souls
could hear the whacks and the cries and the wailing and the
gnashing of teeth. For this, as in all events at a Catholic separate
elementary school, and in real Catholic terms, was truly a religious
refrain and existential experience, pedagogically speaking
of course. You could also hear and feel the whoosh and the wind,
as that strap came down from heaven onto our earthly psalms,
er palms.

We were all lined up in single file. I was two back. Whoosh,
whack, whoosh, whack, whoosh, whack. I could hear plainly
enough and feel the rhythm of the usually two, sometimes four—
one or two whacks per hand. This waiting in line was pure
torture. I had to hand it to the nuns. They had an iron grip on
both corporal and psychological warfare, I mean punishment.
You knew what was coming. But the wait was interminable. The
summons, that call to arms, was almost akin to waiting for the
gallows and for your call number, er name, to come up. Will it
hurt? How bad? Will it sting? How bad? Some of the boys, the
really young ones screamed, peed, shit themselves and then cried
their eyes out.

“GET BACK TO CLASS—NEXT,” she snapped in precise
military fashion, like the drill sergeant that she was.
And, looking back on those incidents, I have to admire the
tenacity and perseverance of Sister Mary Bernice and her ilk. She
never let up. She was in great shape. She could easily handle ten
of us at one go. Ten? We were always in trouble. I wondered how
much she could press!

Next up, penultimately for me, was this gangly looking kid
from grade five. His offence? Who knew! But it didn’t really
matter what you did or did not do in these Catholic separate
elementary schools. You were singled out for something sinister
in deed or, failing that, in thought. Those nuns had to be telepathic,
no doubt. For even if you were outwardly innocent you
must have had evil thoughts of some sort. They knew, of course,
for they were always telling us to get rid of that smirk on our
faces or they would remove it for us. It obviously reflected a
nuance of some evil, pure and subconscious, unadulterated dread
and evil thoughts.

His name was Arthur—Arty for short. O’Neill I think. One of
eight siblings in that family. A good Catholic family. I knew his
younger brother Gerard. Arty was very tall for his age, thin as a
rake. Cocky and incorrigible, very athletic. I really do believe
that incorrigibleness is also a prerequisite to attend Catholic
separate schools because I heard that descriptive word uttered
toward us by the nuns and lay teachers on a daily basis.

Arty was a tough nut to crack in this religious environment.
He showed no respect, only humorous disdain for what was
occurring to him and the rest of us.

“NEXT!” Sister Mary Bernice barked.

Arty looked back at me with that smirkiness and smugness of
his and with a whispered smile he said, confidently:

“Watch this.” In he went.

“Hold out your right hand, Mr O’Neill.”

I could just barely see through the crack in the door. Arty
held out his hand. It didn’t shake out of terror. Surprisingly, it
was as steady as a rock. Sister Mary Bernice drew up and with
all of her strength and with her temples bulging and with her
bloodshot eyes aflame—frothing at the mouth, the devil incarnate
it seemed—came down from that mountain and burning
bush in such a whoosh with her hell-bent-for-leather strap.
But just then, at that precise moment in time, young Arty
pulled back on his arm. The strap missed Arty’s hand. It was too
late. The momentum and trajectory of the strap lacked the sudden
recourse of Arty’s gnarly hand to curtail the downward thrust of
that blood-worn tool of medieval pain. That strap came down so
fast and so hard and in full force with both a whiplash and a
snap, crackling sound that seemed to crack into eternity as well
as the right thigh of Sister Mary Bernice. Her habit shook wildly,
uncontrollably, and could offer no resistance or restraint from the
Godforsaken blow of the blood-worn strap.

Young Arty could not contain himself. He laughed himself
silly. It was not a nervous laugh, mind you, but a gut-wrenching
guffaw. The rest of us, at least those of us that could see what had
transpired, were in bewildered shock: almost like some spiritual
shock and awe moment. Young Arty had the good sense, even as
a twelve-year-old, to get the hell out of there. Sister Mary
Bernice waned somewhat but she was strong, steadfast, and
remained on her feet, cussing it seemed, hyperventilating, or was
that just spiritual raptur-ed-ness I heard, for she was calling on
God and the Son of God many, many, many times. I didn’t know
it until that particular moment that Jesus had a middle name that
started with the letter “H.”

The rest of us were spared. Good ole Arty. Funny that, but we
didn’t see Arty for a few weeks after that. And why did they call this punishment corporal? Don’t really know. As young impressionable lads, we didn’t have a clue as to what the term corporal punishment meant. That would come later. Yet this was no military school, I can tell you. So in that
vein I always wondered what “Private” punishment would be
like? This was after all somewhat of a private, albeit Catholic,
separate school. Then again perhaps it was best not to press the
issue or go in that direction.

Okay, so why didn’t they call it Lance Corporal Punishment?
This would be a more appropriate term, for more often than not
the skin on your palms would be slightly lanced with cuts and
scars as the tip of the strap cut into raw and virgin flesh. Blood
splattered everywhere. That strap sure was designed well: with
maximum potentiality for pain built right in with nastiness
threaded through and through into the coarse but smoothly
grained and textured leather. Perhaps it really was blood-worn.
And, I was told, but I don’t know for sure, or by whom, that once
you graduated to a Catholic high school, the Jesuits or Oblates or
Basilians, who ran those schools, had a name for their form of
disciplinary action, which was really code for corporal punishment—
not corporal punishment, or Lance Corporal Punishment
but Major Punishment, major pain. I can’t really believe that.
Must be a Catholic urban myth. We shall see.

Are you sitting comfortably:

Great song, great group. How I miss the British invasion, in stark contrast to the corporate musical crap that is out there now.

SJ………Out

It Wasn’t Just Them Y’know

All this talk about the abusive residential schools? What about all of us Anglo Saxon Caucasian Catholic School boys and girls? I was abused by the nuns in elementary school growing up in Toronto: Our Lady of Peace – as in the strap and the hard slap across the face by the hands of Sister Mary Bernice (not her real name). When I graduated to a Catholic Private High School for Boys that was run by the Basilian Brothers I also graduated to major pain.

I wrote a book about it. “I thought I Died And Gone to Heaven. An Existential Journey.” Check it out by clicking the link at the top of the page.

Here is an excerpt. From my elementary school days:

September 1957. It was now time for school. Grade one. I
was a smart young lad back then, for I skipped kindergarten.
What kind of name is that anyway, kindergarten? Jimmy-mum
and I would go together: walk to school, and keep each other
company all the way and on the way. It was about a mile and a
half to walk, normally taking a shortcut through a huge hydrofield.

I can still remember that walk. Stay on the left side of the
road, face traffic, look both ways, cut across the street, quickly,
then walk through the tall long grass of the hydro-field. That
field’s tall soft early autumn grass seemed to undulate in the light
breeze, like an ocean of grass. Each long and tenuous swell
appearing to a young fellow like me as an enormous mountain
barrier or a sea swell that had to be climbed or sailed across.
Down hill and dale we would go, through valley and trough, then
up to the next crest, then to the next and to the next, finally
portaging across some wild and raging river until, alas, back to
the reality of the schoolyard where I would be confined for the
next seven years.

Catholic grade school: grades first through eighth. No middle
school, no junior high or whatever they feel inclined to call these
things these days. To us kids it made no difference. And to an
imaginative lad, school was school. And it sucked. And the
Catholic schools really, really sucked because in addition to all of
the scholarly stuff we also had to contend with the wrath of God
disguised in long flowing black robes and habits. Sister this and
sister that. Father this and father that. Adapt quickly and quietly,
and quickly and quietly we did for it soon became apparent that
it was us against them. For that reason alone our time in the
Catholic school system was the very best of times as well as the
very worst of times. At its worst? A residential school for white
Anglo-Saxon boys and girls. At its best? It was a great deal of
fun and a whole lot of laughs, for it was us against them for the
next seven years. Seven years, as I skipped a grade for being the
smart-ass that I was back in those days. Then again, the Catholic
Separate School System had a mandate and a mission to spit out
as many good Catholic boys and girls on society as fast as was
heavenly possible.

Sweet innocent Sister Theresa. We all loved her. Beatific:
possessing an angelic soft-hewn face with saintly features. She
was young and she was beautiful. And a nun at that! Thinking
back, what a waste. But at that time she made a lasting religious
impression on our impressionable minds. In today’s world she
would have been our elementary school “Ying.” And with all
things “Ying” there had to be a “Yang” and in this case our
elementary school “Yang” turned out to be Sister Mary
Bernice… “Yang.” Burly, tough as nails, she wore polished black
ankle-height sea boots with that black habit of hers. Her gait was
that of a sailor who was not yet accustomed to the stability of dry
land. She possessed a jaunty walk, more like a saunter, not unlike
Charlie Chaplin’s, and would stride through the hallways twirling
a baton or strap that we would become very familiar with soon
enough. She was so intimidating that even the parish priests took
notice. Her face was nondescript really as it was framed by that
white veil of nunnery. I think her hair was black, slightly greying
at the temples. I know this because her temples seemed to bulge
out whenever she was laying out the wrath of our heavenly father
across the palms of our earthly hands.

To match her gait, she yelled like a sailor: a real Chief
Boatswains Mate, or Buffer in the naval vernacular. Her wrath
came down unexpectantly and unrepentantly with the surefire
will of an archangel, but no St Michaela here! She had two main
weapons in her arsenal to keep us all in line. Her hands, left or
right, it didn’t matter, came across one’s face totally and entirely
out of the heavenly blue like some religious and corporal stealth
attack. Just like that: whack, whack, and more whack, followed
by the incessant burning of the cheeks and ringing in the ears.
Not tinnitus, mind you, for that would come later, but a tone-deaf
ringing with each whack of those unflappable calloused palms or
the gnarly backs of her hands. With years of experience under
her black habit, she learned to cup her hands ever so slightly and
in such a way that, with each open-palm whack, her fingers
would somehow claw their way across one’s face so that they
seemed to draw one’s cheek and face upward toward heaven, as
if in a corporal raptured state of mind waiting for and begging for
heavenly intervention. To be fair to her she was an equal opportunity
inquisitor. The girls got it too. And their faces? Wow. Pink
and as pink as pure virginity could be but stained with the tracks
of their tears. Such tears they were: welling up and falling down
and across those pearly, pretty, and innocent faces.

Us lads, we chuckled.

Tomorrow? The Artful Dodger.

Our Guessing Game for in the end it won’t matter at all:

Yeah…But

Say it isn’t so. From Small Dead Animals:

By Ruth Shaw, Staff Reporter

YORKTON (Staff) – A resolution asking that the Marieval Residental School be kept open as long as the Indian people want it, was passed by the chiefs and counsellors of eight Indian bands at a regional meeting held Thursday.

The meeting was held in the Royal Canadian Legion Hall, with Joe Whitehawk of Yorkton, district
supervisor, as chairman.

Various spokesmen said the pupils are generally children from broken homes, orphans or are from inadequate homes. There is a great need for the school and the need is increasing, rather than diminishing. Many of the children have no other place to stay, as many have only grandparents, who through lack of space, health or age are unable to look after them.

The alternative is foster homes, which will cost just as much money. Children in the residential school get a measure of correction, discipline and religious training and this should be taken into consideration, when plans are under study for the phasing out of the school, the spokesman said.

While residential schools are not the best, they meet the most needs of the children. Children in foster homes are deprived of correction, discipline and religious training. The older members were disciplined and given religious training and “we must get back to these old traditions,” the spokesman said. The spokesman, who is a community development officer, said the Marievale Residential School must be expanded one step further and a junior high school established.

Another spokesman said the Indian people passed a resolution asking that the school remain open and it should not be up to the department to say whether the school should be closed.

Another said that if the request is made it should remain open and “the people should not be bribed to close the place.”

Chief Antoine Cote of the Cote reserve said the people on his reserve are not satisfied with the integration of Indian students at Kamsack.

“They claim there is no discrimination, but there is and we realize there is. One of the reasons of phasing out the student residential schools is so our children can be sent to so called integrated schools,” he said.

Hmmm. But it doesn’t fit the narrative.

After all it is just politics:

Hypocrisy know no bounds for this guy:

http://www.smalldeadanimals.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/IMG_6866.mp4?_=1

Please vote him out in the next election when it comes. Without a doubt the worst PM this country has ever foisted upon us here in Canada.

Love this:

Bug experts get rid of the name ‘gypsy moth’ because some Roma people (Gypsys) consider it to be an ethnic slur.

Our current heat wave in BC was the worst ever and if we do not do something now with respect to climate change soon we are all going to die….so says our fear mongering press and ignorant politicians.

Yeah…but:

The World Weather Attribution website does not list its source of funding. Their mission only discusses the “possible” influence of climate change on extreme weather conditions. If we knew the funders we might possibly find out whether they included billionaire investors in green technology who would profit from such scaremongering. And scaremongering it is. As Bock notes, “On February 10, 1933 the temperature in Pendleton, Oregon hit 119 degrees. The CO2 concentration then was 309 ppm”, one hundred ppm less than the worldwide  CO2 concentration today. It is with good reason that as Rasmussen reports 58% of U.S. voters at least somewhat agree that the media are “the enemy of the people.”

In the mood.

SJ…Out

Wokey Dokey

Warning: Liberal-speak inbound.

I cannot believe this one:

“Math,” it continues, “has been “used to normalize racism and marginalization of non-Eurocentric mathematical knowledges,” and explains that taking a “decolonial” and “anti-racist approach” to teaching math will outline its “historical roots and social constructions” to students.”

Huh????????

Which is woke code for: 2 + 2 = 5

I kid you not. The resultant consequence of this new math is shown here.

See the source image

Or this:

See the source image

Or even this:

See the source image

Yup. Wokey as right

And more wokeness. Go Woke and Go Broke.

It is just a threshold of my dream.

SJ…Out