Canada’s Family Compact

Canada: The Liberal Family Compact

Of eight of the latest senate appointments, five donated substantial amounts to the Liberals, two were former Liberal candidates and one was a director of the Trudeau Foundation. There ya go. Independent, unbiased appointments to Canada’s upper chamber by Justin Trudeau.

The Liberal Party under Justin Trudeau gave the Canadian press $600M so as to curtail their demise in the digital age. Do ya think any of them will print a word critical to the Liberal Party??

CBC – Canadian Pravda for the Liberal Party of Canada. Why? $1.4B reasons why.

Canada has an elected dictatorship hidden under the guise of an parliamentary democracy and:

That is why I will never vote in this country again as I do not want to be party to a corrupt regime and electoral process.

Justinian’s Liberals are destroying this country by a thousand cuts and the Liberal hacks of Ontario, Quebec and the Maritime are blind to it. BTW, these provinces were the original 1867 Confederation signatories. The Canadian Con…federation. Perhaps it is time that we revert back to that original model and leave the rest of us to our own devices.

Just saying…

Family Compact? Where a small group of Canadians control all aspects of Canadian life. In this case Quebec, and French Canadians in Ottawa led by the Liberal Party of Canada and Justin Trudeau control everything.






Press; and



Class Discipline

Father Fitzpatrick—history and English. His weapon of
choice was one of those two-sided blackboard erasers. One side
was covered in tightly packed bristles with red, white, and black
stripes, with the other side a thick, soft sponge. The eraser
measured about ten inches in length, just the right length, weight,
and balance, and in the right hands, oozed lethality in his

I do not know how Father Fitzpatrick accomplished his
amazing feats with that eraser in his classroom. It must have
taken years of practice or perhaps he spent years in the
Australian outback mastering the ins and outs of throwing a
boomerang with deadly accuracy. Maybe it was jai alai. Whatever
it was, he was deadly accurate with that eraser and could
wipe the smile or smirk off of any one of our faces at any point
or distance in that classroom. Usually it came without warning.
Talking to one of your mates, appearing indolent, daydreaming,
falling asleep, or just plain idleness on the part of one of the
students was cause enough for Father Fitzpatrick to unleash this
kraken of classroom discipline. It would come at you unannounced,
its trajectory well thought out and executed with skill.
The impact was normally just above eye level at the forehead or
hairline. Never directly in the face, mind you. End over end that
eraser would fly, hitting the target sponge side up so as to not
cause any real damage such as a bleeding or a broken nose. How
he could accomplish that, I don’t really know. It was amazing for
when that eraser found its mark, a puff of chalk dust would
explode on impact. It was a sight to behold. The student’s
surprise was wickedly funny with white pancake-like dust all
over his face, up into his nostrils, into his mouth, over his eyes,
all over his hair, and down the front face of his blue blazer. We
didn’t dare laugh.

“Pay attention” was all that Father Fitzpatrick would proffer
to the class in general. To increase the shock value of this unique
form of class management, it could be many days, even weeks,
before Father Fitzpatrick would release his kraken again. We
never knew when it was coming or which poor bastard would be
at the receiving end. Amazing, these priests.

There were also the occasional slaps, ear pinching or pulling,
and other forms of corporal necessity at that school. Some of the
priests were uniquely creative while others reverted to the standard
tried and true but boring means of class discipline and
punishment. The lay associates never laid a hand on us. It must
have been some unwritten rule that only the purveyors of justice
and faith in this faith-based educational system, the priests and
nuns, really knew how to dish it out. Perhaps their direct line to
God gave them the right to impart religious justice and discipline
to the unwashed masses of Catholic boys and girls. In other
words “we will provide you with an education even if we have to
beat it into you.” Unfortunately it did the opposite and accomplished

We generally had a good time with all of this. It could be
wickedly funny to watch. And like our experiences with Father
Stack, we did our very best to be discreetly rebellious and to find
the ways and means to undermine the priest’s authority and in
doing so to make some of them, such as Mr Aslin, look weak and


Laissez Faire

CLASSES AT ST BASIL ended at 1500. At about 1455 every day,
like clockwork, the public address system would come on. The
vice principal, Father Rourque, would make an announcement in
his usual matter of fact way. It would start:

“Attention, all students. The following students have been
kindheartedly awarded the detention of the day: so and so, so and
so and so and so, and so on and on so.”
Followed by:

“Would the following students be so kind as to grace us with
their presence at the vice principal’s office: so and so, and, so
and so, and so and so, and on so and on so.”

Grace, my ass, for this was code for major pain.

We never knew what the infractions were or the degree of
which warranted a detention or a visit to the vice principal’s
office. Initially we did, but after awhile, like Pavlov’s dogs, we
became accustomed to this daily rant. Listening but not really
listening unless the familiar tone of one’s name was announced.
We just didn’t care. We sucked it up, whatever punishment it
may be. These priests had a way about them and each of them
reacted in their own unique way.

Father McMullen—math class. Chewing gum? No problem.
Spit it out onto his hand then watch and feel his hands rubbing
said gum into our curly or wavy locks. Brush or crew cuts
presented their own unique problems when this type of discipline
was meted out, but given this new age of Beatlemania and
longish, stylish hair, very few of us sported the short-cropped
hair design. Sports card bubble gum, Bazooka’s, was the worst,
extremely difficult to get out of one’s hair. Chiclets? Wrigley’s?
They were much milder. It must have been the sugar content that
dictated the air and degree of difficulty in trying to get the
gummy gum out. Invariably this equated to a trip to the barber
with the causal effect of sporting the now defunct fashion faux
pas of a crew cut or a brush cut. The John Glenn look. The very
right stuff indeed.

Mr Aslin was a priest in waiting. Perhaps, but he was more
like civilian laity doing the work of a Catholic apostolate. A
pretend priest. An ecclesiastical groupie per se. His modus
operandi was in the form and shape of a thin metal ruler, eighteen
inches long, very flexible and bendable in its delivery of
pain via an effective slap across the palms of one’s hands.
Talking or not paying attention usually earned a slap from this
innocent looking yet nefarious piece of torture machinery. Even a
smirk on one’s face could warrant such a physical reprimand if
Mr Aslin thought, in his smallish mind, that it was a smirk of

“Hold out your hands,” he would bark. “Palms up.”
Then whack.

One day Mr Aslin met his match in one tall, gangly looking
student named Art O’Neill. This O’Neill boy was definitely
making a name for himself? Mr Aslin walked down one of the aisles, pulled out the ruler, and stood by Art’s desk. Standing there, patting his left hand with the ruler itself.

“Hold out your hands, Mr O’Neill,” Aslin barked.

“Palms up.”


“Did you hear me, Mr O’Neill? Get those hands out,” he


“I said, get those hands out!” Now Aslin was screaming.
Nothing. Art would not look at Aslin but just sat there staring
straight ahead with his arms crossed across his chest.
Suddenly, a whack came down hard across Art’s wooden
desk top.

“Now get those hands out,” Aslin demanded.

We all flinched. Aslin’s face was beginning to turn red. He
sensed, and we all sensed, that he really had no clue as to how to
handle this token of disobedience. Fortunately for him, unfortunately
for Art, the situation was resolved for him.

Art suddenly stood up, defiant, facing Mr Aslin. In his black,
Cuban-heeled “Beatle Boots” he was about half a head taller than
Mr Aslin. Then without fanfare, without notice, and without any
indication of intent, Art stepped back, and then with all of the
forward momentum that he could muster, he kicked his right leg
up, making direct contact between the pointed toes of his “Beatle
Boots” and the balls of Mr Aslin. Ouch! Emasculated, Mr Aslin
went down on all fours groaning, cursing, and writhing in pain,
gasping for breath and gesticulating at someone, at no one, that
he needed divine intervention. Art calmly stepped over Mr
Aslin’s frame and walked out of the classroom. We were all in
jubilant shock. We never saw Art again at St Basil’s Catholic
private high school for boys.



Without a doubt, words are our best tool for expression and communication.  They can also be a great deal of fun, and, can be downright confusing.

Let me try to put my thoughts into words:

Words!  What is in a word?

“My kingdom for a word!  A horse it may be but a horse is only a word that by      any other name is still a word.”

“Words declare wars, they garner peace.”

“Words can be hurtful, they can be playful.”

“Words describe words as in spiteful words, hurtful words, insightful words.”

“We can have a war of words, crosswords or:  them’s fightin words.”

“Words can be theatrical:  we can have a play on words.”

“Word is law.  It is the word.”

“Words are prophetic. Words can be the gospel truth. So sayeth the word of the Lord”

“Words inspire, they transpire”

“Words transcribe:  you have my word on that.”

“Failing that, can I have a word with you?”

“Words are not enough.” That’s why we have lawyers.

“Words can be despotic, or chaotic.”

“A single word can inspire poetry, lyricism:”

Lennon and McCartney understood words to such an extent that they had a song with two words called “The Word” to describe a single word.” An extract:

“Say the word and you’ll be free

Say the word and be like me.

Say the word I’m thinking of.

Have you heard the word is love” (Lennon and McCartney; Rubber Soul, (1965)

“Ah yes, LOVE.” The English language’s most poignant and, perhaps, most dangerous word.

When a few words are taken together, we have a phrase.  And when a couple of phrases are linked together we have, in a word, a “sentence.” And when a group of sentences are grouped together we have, in another word, a “paragraph.”  And, to describe or summarize a paragraph, we can go right back to the beginning of this word-train of thought – to “paraphrase!”

We can combine words to make quotable quotes: some profound, some sublime, some simplistic, some stupidly clear:

“To be or not to be – that is the question.”  That may be but on Jeopardy it is the answer!

“If things are good in moderation then they must be great in excess.”  My favourite.

“If something is worth doing, then it is worth overdoing.”  My other favourite.

“Baseball is 100% physical. The rest is mental.” (adapted from Berra).

“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.  A woman does what she wants.”

“A consultant is someone who is adept at making the simple… complex.”

“The problem with theory is that it’s just not practical enough!”

“A wise fool is an oxy moron.”

“Those lefties are so darn righteous!”

“She was at a loss for words.”

or paradoxically:

“Words cannot describe what she said.” Huh?

Yet words are not enough when communicating.  Context and understanding are crucial. Without context confusion arises to the point of ridiculousness.  Let me try to illustrate:

Take the word “nit.” The Concise Oxford English Dictionary defines “nit” as a stupid person, a louse.  Then add the letter “k” before the “n” and you have “knit.” Yet the word “nit” from the word “knit” is a whole different kettle of fish.  And what is that anyway: a kettle of fish?

Now, let’s take the word “wit:” defined as someone with a sharp sense of humour, a player of words perhaps.  As in “that man possesses wit.  He has a sharp mind.” But then add the letter “t” before the “w” and you have “twit.”  Or, combine the word “nit” with the word “wit” and you have a “nitwit.” But “nit” and “twit” together doesn’t sound quite right – “nit-twit?”

Nonetheless, given that a “nit” is already defined as a stupid person, and “wit” is someone who has a sharp mind, then “nitwit” defiles all logic in a descriptive sense except perhaps to define someone who possesses a stupid “wit” – which is in itself oxymoronic.  But “dimwit” already has that locked up.  Yet what is really frustrating about the undercurrent of this word is that “dimwit” is the opposite of someone who has a sharp “wit.”   So, that being the case, let’s call him or her a “blunt-sharp” person!

To make matters worse a “twit” could be someone who has a sharp “wit,” and is still a “nitwit” or a “dimwit.”  So why can’t we call him or her a nit-twit?  Or a “dim-twit”?  Confused?  I am. The bottom line is that “nitwit” or “dimwit” sounds better.  The other bottom line is that English words are just downright confusing without context and a shared understanding of the contextual environment we are communicating in.

Who ever thought that a single word, like “please”, in context, could be so humorous?  Yet Henny Youngman made a comedic career out of four simple words: “Take my wife….. please” (Youngman).  Yes, the word “timing” says it all.

Words can mean different things to many different people.  It is how we shape them, construct them, and construe them that are key to our success in using them.  Timing may be one thing but context is everything.

Finally, we do not have to worry about the size of our vocabulary in how we use words. Hemingway is said to have had a very limited working vocabulary.  Yet, like a sculptor working his clay, Hemmingway formed, molded, shaped and plied his words into words – of art!  And like any art form, it was no easy matter.  As Mark Twain once remarked: “Brevity takes longer.”

And what is my favourite word? – “Imagine.”  Not the song but the word. I hate the song.: an anarchist’s anthem.

Imagine that!   Imagine the possibilities in that word.

Take my word for it.  You’ll be surprised at how much fun words can be. You’ll be truly amazed at your wordiness.

You have my word on it.