Lies And More Lies

At 4:00 p.m. (EST) Feb. 02, U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) forces conducted airstrikes in Iraq and Syria against Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC) Quds Force and affiliated militia groups. U.S. military forces struck more than 85 targets, with numerous aircraft to include long-range bombers flown from United States. The airstrikes employed more than 125 precision munitions. The facilities that were struck included command and control operations centers, intelligence centers, rockets, and missiles, and unmanned aerial vehicle storages, and logistics and munition supply chain facilities of militia groups and their IRGC sponsors who facilitated attacks against U.S. and Coalition forces.

Iowa class 1943 refit, full broadside.. [1240x1745] : r/WarshipPorn

US government: “But we’re not at war.”


But, but…it is for the greater good. Covid!

Unexplained excess deaths around the world are increasing dramatically. Then again it is for the greater good.


Canadian Liberal Government accuses Alberta Government, and parents, of targeting the LGBTQ+ community because they want to protect children and youth under 15 years of age against the intrusive sexual and transgender policies of the Liberals and the LGBTQ+ community.

Pride Flags 101: Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know About Gay, Trans ...

Alberta: the fall sitting of the legislature would bring a ban on gender reassignment surgery for those 17 and under. There would be no puberty blockers or hormone therapies for the purposes of such surgery for anyone 15 and under, unless they’ve already begun such procedures.

Parental consent would be required for students 15 and under who want to change their names or pronouns at school. Students 16 and 17 would not need consent, but their parents would have to be notified.

And the province would clamp down on transgender female athletes competing in women’s and girls’ sports.

Smith said the changes are to protect children from the consequences of choices they may later regret. It’s also to preserve the role of parents in the lives.

Not so says our Liberal government: “Danielle Smith has now moved forward with the most anti-LGBT policies of anywhere in the country,” he said.

In other words parents have no place in raising their children. That must be left to the government and the LGBTQ+ community.

Alberta’s position is not anti LGBTQ+.  It is common sense.

Take your children out of the public school system and home school them, or send them to private schools if you can afford it.

Fast forward 30 years (2054): the number of male and female transgendered individuals in Canada that are suing the Federal government and their now elderly parents for allowing them to transgender at such a juvenile age has increased dramatically. This is going to  cost the feds billions of dollars.

Heard in passing:

“They, the government and especially my parents, should have protected us against this sexual intrusive policy. This is akin to Canada’s residential school abuses.”

Suicide rate among transgendered individuals who are now in middle age has skyrocketed.

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:

Another Excerpt

Another excerpt from my new story:

The tidal flat stunk to high heaven or low hell at low tide, which was right around now. It would be some years before they filled that in. The broad tidal flat lay off to my left from the stone seawall out to about two hundred yards. The flat meandered to the left and right as the tide line went in and out as far as you could see from my vantage point. Almost all the way along the train tracks to Long Woods and beyond, possibly all the way up to Totnes. The tideline was broken by the creek to the east, which seemed to be but a trickle to the Dart’s tidal flat at low tide only to be replenished again and again at the high water mark. As I walked along the high street. I could see a few souls out there working on their banked boats, caulking or cleaning or scraping the unwanted smelly sea growth. They could only do one side at a time, only changing the hulls aspect as the next tide came in to refloat the boats. This part of town was of great fascination to me.

Kingswear was not immune to the war. German warplanes bombed the Phillip and Noss shipyard 18 September 1942. Over 17 men were killed, 40 wounded and yet, to the credit of the old English “do no less, stiff upper lip” spirit, the shipyard never lost its beat remaining operational throughout the raid. There were other bombings on Kingswear and Dartmouth including the Royal Navy’s Britannia and the Naval College. But none were as catastrophic as the shipyard.

I found the local grocer, went in and purchased a few item for my father. The grocer lady always had a smile for me and gave me a few sweets. I think she felt sorry for me as she would shake her head in a solemn way as I exited her shop. Then on to the Inn to buy some scotch eggs, some cheeze and some cold mutton. For me, I would wait and grab a fish and chips from the fish monger later in the day.

I hurried home. I could sense trouble inside by the noise coming from the drawing room, the larder and the pantry: glass smashing, and the accompanying thud, thud thump of furniture falling. I opened the door and snuck into the drawing room, then the pantry. Just then I could feel my father’s cold calloused hand grace my neck from the collar of my duffel jacket. He turned me around sharply to face him. His breathing was heavy. His breath was laced with spittle and drool…and alcohol.

“Do you think you are better than me Nigel? Hmmm? Well do you?

I could only shake my head…no., no I thought to myself.

“No Father.”

He stumbled around. His dirty grey flannel pants were coming down at the back as he tried to maintain some semblance of balance. His dirty white and yellow stained undershirt – a wife beater – as they called those things – hung loosely. It was dirty and stained in yellowish orange tobacco hues.

He lunged at me. I stepped out of his way. He lunged again. He missed and almost fell. He was inebriated and violent.

“Where are my foods you little blimey turd?”

I ran into the larder and grabbed the scotch eggs and placed them on the table to his left. He saw them, picked one up and took a bite. Without swallowing the portion it he spit it out, as the juices from the egg spilled down his jowls and on to his stained undershirt.

“You little piece of fucking shit tard,” with that he threw the egg hard against the wall, where it splattered and stained the plaster with the sound of a splat. He grabbed the other one that I brought for him and threw it at me. It just missed my face. I was terrified but I couldn’t get out of the pantry. I shriveled in the corner of the room and held my hands up to cover my face. I was shaking uncontrollably. I was terrified.

“Why, oh why, did my sweet, sweet Jenny have to die. Why couldn’t it have been you? You…you useless, mindless urchin of a boy?” He yelled at the ceiling…at the walls…then grabbed his bottle and took a swig, or a swirl as half of it spilled all over his red blushed face. He then turned toward me, snarled at what he saw…

“Please daddy, please don’t hurt me.” I cried.

…me.”

He came closer. I could smell his breath, decayed from alcohol.

No daddy, please no…” and he whacked me with the back of my hand. It stung, physically and emotionally. I began to wail.

“Cry…cry…cry my little shyte boy Nigel. Cry…cry…cry you little fuckin retard shit of a boy.” He hit me again, and again. It was only the duffel coat and his wavering balance that softened the blows.

Finally he fell and passed out. I snuck out and ran up into my room. I locked my door, undressed and found solace comfort and safety beneath the sheet, all but darkened from the cruel existence of my home.

“MOMMY!” I cried out…over and over again. “Mommy” and I cried myself to sleep.

I awoke a few hours later. It was late afternoon. I wiped the dry tears from my eyes. Not a sound was forthcoming from the drawing room. The rays of an unexpected late afternoon sun graced and warmed my room. I got up, shook the sleep from my being, grabbed my things and quietly left my room. Slowly I went downstairs, trying not to make a sound. Luckily for me I could see the legs of my father sprawled out and lifeless from the pantry. I took a glance. He was comatose from the liquor. He was lying belly down. Fortunately for him, unfortunately for me, he had not choked on the vomit that lay in a yellowish brown paste beside him. I grabbed my coat and left.


SJ…Out


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