Category: Moonbattery

[This post contains some language and subject matter that is not appropriate for children. Parents are advised.]

I wasn’t going to write anything today; I’m supposed to be on vacation — I figured, since I hadn’t taken any time in over a year and just got laid off, why the hell not? But the crap that I’ve been tripping over in my daily paper is just plain (you guessed it) gettin’ on my nerves.

First, there’s the bunch of lazy shitbags in TO that drank a little too deep of the Entitlement Koolaidâ„¢ and knifed a guy to death when he wouldn’t give them any change. It’s not like no one could have seen this bullshit coming, either; “aggressive panhandlers” have been becoming more and more of a problem in the Arsehole Of The Universe® for years now and every time someone dares to point out the fact that it IS a problem, the argumentum ad hominem flies fast and furious from all the usual suspects in TO’s Homeless Millâ„¢ industry. But for all that, it is still a problem, and the tax-dollar Pac-men know it too:

Earlier this year the mild mannered woman told a committee of Toronto councillors that when she asked a panhandler to leave the Tim Horton’s she owns, the panhandler slapped her across the face and cut her. She says her staff “don’t want to approach [panhandlers] at all anymore.”

And before some squawking dildo out there starts in with all the “you’re just a mean conservative, you don’t understand, etc, etc, ad nauseum” bullshit, there’s a little something that you need to know about me. I don’t admit this very often because, quite frankly, I’m ashamed of it but here it is anyway:

I used to be homeless at one time.

That’s right, I lived on the street for nearly a year once. So, before all those self-righteous buggers out there sitting on your comfortable little arses start condemning me as an ignorant meanie, consider for a moment that I just might know one hell of a lot more of what I’m talking about than you do. Or ever will.

Did I beg for change from strangers on the corner? Not on your life. I’d rather cut my own nuts off. I didn’t beg, I didn’t steal and I didn’t do dope. I managed to survive, get by, and get the hell out of there, and I did it without any free sleeping bags or crack pipes. There are a whole bunch of misconceptions filthy lies that the homeless industry (and don’t fool yourself: it IS an industry) has perpetuated for years that need to be shot down.

And I’m in the mood for some skeet…

LIE#1: They’re victims of circumstance
Bullshit. The vast majority of these buggers aren’t downtrodden victims of a heartless system; they live on the streets because they choose to! Yeah, you read that right. They choose to live on the streets because, on the streets, you can do whatever stupidity you damned well please; the bar is so low that you don’t have to worry about disappointing anybody, not even yourself…
Wanna spend your days stoned stoopid, doing bugger all? No problem. Anybody that points out what a screwup you’re being is just an asshole that “doesn’t understand life on the street.”
Wanna rip something/someone off? No problem. They have something you don’t, so they’re better off than you, so they can spare it. Besides, if they really wanted to keep it, they’d have locked it up better. And if they don’t hunt you down and stomp a mudhole in your ass for it, well, that just shows what suckers they were to begin with.
Feel like banging/getting blown by half a dozen chicks today? No problem. Their expectations are just as low as yours and if somebody points out that they’re being slutty, they’ll get condemned for trying to stifle the poor girl’s sexuality, complete with the full “it’s my body, blah, blah, blah” rant. Throw in a “Patriarchal Oppressionâ„¢” reference for good measure.
Feel like kicking the shit out of someone that pissed you off? No problem. The rules are different on the street, don’tcha know? And the pigs really need to learn to mind their own business.

LIE#2: They’re hungry
Bullshit. When’s the last time you heard of someone starving to death in Canada? I haven’t heard of it either. As far as I know, there isn’t a single God damned city anywhere in Canada that doesn’t have food banks, soup kitchens, a Sally Ann, or some other place to get a meal. Most cities have a shitload of ’em. These assholes aren’t hungry, they’re just sober. And they don’t like it.

LIE#3: It’s not their fault because they have addictions
So God damned what?? If you’re addicted to something, it’s only one person’s fault: YOURS! YOU are the one that decided to pop those pills, mainline that speed or suck on that glass dick. YOU did that, not somebody else. It’s YOUR fault. YOU dug the hole that you’re in. You say you want help to get off the stuff? Fine. But there’s a couple of things that YOU are damned well going to have to do before I’ll even bother listening to you:
First, you have to damn well prove to me that you mean it. Yeah, you heard me: PROVE IT! Get off your lazy ass and DO something to prove to me that you’re serious because, unlike those soft-headed, social worker idiot types, I’m a little too damned street-smart to take a junkie at his word. For anything.
Second, you — yes, YOU — are the one that’s going to have to do all the hard work. Get that through your head. Nobody is going to fix you; you’re damned well going to have to fix yourself.

LIE#4: They’re mentally ill
No, they aren’t. The mentally ill make up, by my observation (and I’m someone that would know), less than 5% of the so-called “street people” that you see bugging you for change every day. I can think of only one homeless person that I see regularly in the city of London who is, beyond any doubt, crazy as a shithouse rat. The vast majority of panhandlers are either late teen/early 20s buttmunches looking to score some cash to get high on later, or else they’re middle aged drunks, jonesing for a jug of ale. I know this because I see them emptying out their piles of change onto the bar. Yes, that’s right: I go drinking in the same places that most of you buggers criticizing me would be scared shitless to even walk past, let alone enter.

LIE#5: They CAN’T get jobs
Bullshit. It isn’t that they CAN’T get jobs, it’s that they WON’T get jobs. There’s a bunch of sub-lies that go along with this one: they can’t get clothes, no one will hire you when you can’t shower, there is no work to get. All bullshit. Let’s take ’em one at a time, shall we?
They can’t get clothes… Even in the town where I grew up (population: a piddling 3000), there was a Sally Ann store where you could get clothing for free if you needed it. And not all thrift store clothing is crap, either. I once got a three piece suit and an Armani tie (yes, Armani) at a thrift store, so don’t tell me that there’s nothing there. Getting a pair of jeans, shirt and work boots is a no-brainer.
Showers… Please piss off with this one. I was on the street during one of the most humid summers I can remember and nobody smelled me coming. There are all kinds of shelters, mens’ missions, Sally Anns and other places where you can get shower and even do your laundry. Most of ’em serve meals, too (see LIE#2).
There is no work for them… Again, piss off. There was work to be had, even in the middle of a recession, there’s honest work to be had now. There was a place in London — it used to be down on Marshall Street, I don’t know if it’s still there or if it’s moved — called the “Casual Labour Office.” All kinds of companies, from factories to small construction contractors, would come in every day looking for someone to hire for the day. Some of it was minimum wage, some wasn’t. If you did a good job that day, you might get called back by the same company, maybe even hired on permanently.

Casual Labour opened the doors at 7am every day. The lineup would start forming at somewhere around midnight. To this day, I have no idea how many nights I slept on that sidewalk. There was a stack of flattened-out cardboard boxes that we kept tucked around the corner so we wouldn’t have to sleep on the concrete. When it rained or snowed, we’d move and take shelter in the parking garage across the alley (long since torn down for a co-op), always keeping in mind our numbers in line.

I did that for nearly a year, saving every spare cent until I had enough for first & last on an apartment and a bit to float me until I could find a permanent job. But I did it, and so can they. The difference is that they choose not to. I have a T-shirt that reads “Yes, I have plenty of change, you homeless piece of shit, thanks for asking.”

I wear it for a reason.

The so-called “homeless advocates” aren’t advocates of anything except keeping themselves firmly locked on the government teat. They need these people to look pathetic so that they can keep their cushy, overpaid jobs. The best way to get people off the street is to make living on the street actually suck. That means no free sleeping bags, no free pipes and no spare change. Anything less is being part of the problem.

I was going to go off on a rant about something else, too but this is getting kind of long-winded. I’ll do the rest later…

Let the hate mail begin…

[The following post contains language which is not suitable for children. I try to keep the site relatively clean but there are times when soft language is just plain dishonest. Parents are STRONGLY advised to preview for themselves before allowing their kids access to this post. Better yet; don’t even let your kids read it at all. -Dennis]

Well, this took longer than I thought.

It’s been a whole ten days since the hunt started for a murdering bag of whale shit named Jesse Imeson and the excuse makers have finally put in an appearance. One of the problems with living in Canada (and hey, even I can admit that it’s not a perfect country) is that, if you just sit still long enough, some shitskull will come along and make an excuse for any behaviour you can think of. The self-induced stupidity started over in the comments on this post, with somebody calling themselves “Encourager” (encouraging WHAT, I’d like to know) who posted the following buffoonery from a Calgary IP:

Jesse is having and will have a hard time for the rest of his life.He may be many things but he is not a BULLY as I note many of you are!Put aside the bravado, get off the hate wagon and show Jesse some compassion.He needs to be dealt with respectfully and fairly and be allowed the opportunity to change his life. After all he is only 22, he could still have a fantastic life if given the chance.

WTF?? From CALGARY???? And here I thought that Albertans had gotten rid of all their idiots. Must’ve moved there from B.C., I guess… At any rate, that idiocy was followed up by an anonymous comment from somebody with an Ottawa IP:

Thank-you “Encourager.” I am not an old girlfriend of Jesse’s or anything like that. I just think one day some of you may regret the things you say today as it may happen in your family someday. Also, his family is going through enough dealing with all of this- they don’t really need to see all of those nasty things you feel like writing.

Well, golly willickers, what can I say about that? Oh, yeah: GO FUCK YOURSELVES! Yeah, you heard me right: get the fuck down on your little, excuse-makin’ knees, clamp your flappin’ cockholster around my purple-headed yogurt-flinger, make like a ShopVac®, and chug-a-lug a few pints o’ SHUT THE FUCK UP!! Were you born retarded, or did you have to go to university for that?

We ain’t bullies — we’re decent, law-abiding folk. In case your little pea brains are having a tough time with figuring out the difference, here’s a quick primer:

• WE don’t strangle bartenders.
• WE don’t steal cars and guns.
• WE don’t hog-tie old folks and shoot them.
• WE understand that respect is earned, not given and Imeson don’t deserve any.
• WE expect people to face the consequences of their actions. Actions like murder.
• WE aren’t going to look back on this and feel bad about ourselves, because WE know that WE‘re in the right. Period.

In other words, we’re not bullies. But we know how to deal with bullies, all right. We’ve known it since we were in grade school: The minute a bully starts pushing you around, you start swinging and you don’t stop. You put him on the ground and pound on him until he cries like a girl. Then you bootfuck him for a bit, just so he doesn’t forget what he’s in for if he tries that stunt again.

So take your happy little pop-psychology bullshit and stay the hell in the city, where you belong. We do things our way because we know that our way is better. Get over it.

Last but not least, to that twat who called me an “ignorant hick” (you know who you are): Look at the bright side, girlie… you were half right. I may have been living in London for over 20 years now, but I am definitely still a hick. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now that the grouchy stuff’s out of the way, enjoy a tune…
(more…)

No matter how you slice it, this is more good than bad. Yes, Avi Lewis is downright embarrassing in his blatant idiocy in comparing “fundamentalist Christianity” and the USA with countries that have the boot of Sharia law on their necks but hey, I got used to being embarrassed by the Ministry Of What You Should Think a looooong time ago…

Ayaan Hirsi Ali is, in all probability, more qualified to speak on the topic of Islam and Islamofascism than any other woman in the Western world. It’s absolutely wonderful watching her occasionally rolling her eyes while Lewis gets more and more flustered as she methodically picks his idiocy to its bones with a calm and grace that is all too often lacking in public discourse on this subject (and yes, I know I’m guilty of going off half-cocked myself, every couple of minutes now and then).

I think the best probably has to be her blunt statement, “there is no Islamophobia, it’s a myth.” Check out the vid for yourself (you can download it here, if you have trouble viewing it in your browser)… (more…)

And these are the assholes that Jumpin’ Jack!off Layton wants us to negotiate with?? Thank God that ignoramus prick wasn’t alive in 1939… 🙄 Jerkweed Jack seems to be of the opinion that we can just have ourselves a nice little sit-down with a bunch of medeival skin-stogie-smokers (figure it out) and work out all our little differences over a couple o’ pints.

Bullshit.

These are the same gutless assholes that treated women worse than dogs and hide behind civilians like the gutless shits that they are. There’s a real simple reason why the Taliban and their ilk are relying so heavily on roadside bombs: every damned time that they try to come on out and actually face our boys, they get their asses handed to them.

So what do they do? They hide in their little caves, come out every now and then to plant bombs, and then run away. Oh, yeah… and they try to recruit kids to do the stuff that they don’t have the balls to do themselves…

KABUL — Fourteen-year-old Rafiqullah said the men at the Pakistani madrassa showed him and two classmates videos of suicide attackers. They taught the boys to drive a car and let them ride motorcycles. Then the militants gave Rafiqullah his mission: kill an Afghan governor.

The teenager walked eight hours over the porous border from Pakistan to the eastern Afghan city of Khost, where a man named Abdul Aziz tried to pump up his courage, Rafiqullah said. Aziz gave him an explosives-laden vest and the teen confessed his fears.

“I said I was afraid to carry out the suicide attack and Abdul Aziz pointed a gun at me and said, ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t,’ ” Rafiqullah said while in the custody of Afghan authorities over the weekend.

Oh, yeah; we can negotiate with these buggers, alright. Dickheads.

And it’s not like this is the first time that these gutless shitweasels have tried a stunt like this, is it? Anybody out there remember Juma Gul? Maybe you don’t, but I do. He was only SIX YEARS OLD when the Taliban tried to talk him into blowing himself to confetti around some ISAF soldiers. Luckily for him, Juma may have been born at night (I don’t know for sure) but he sure as hell wasn’t born last night…

FORWARD OPERATING BASE THUNDER, Afghanistan (AP) — The story of a 6-year-old Afghan boy who says he thwarted an effort by Taliban militants to trick him into being a suicide bomber provoked tears and anger at a meeting of tribal leaders.

The account from Juma Gul, a dirt-caked child who collects scrap metal for money, left American soldiers dumbfounded that a youngster could be sent on such a mission. Afghan troops crowded around the boy to call him a hero.

Though the Taliban dismissed the story as propaganda, at a time when U.S. and NATO forces are under increasing criticism over civilian casualties, both Afghan tribal elders and U.S. military officers said they were convinced by his dramatic account.

Juma said that sometime last month Taliban fighters forced him to wear a vest they said would spray out flowers when he touched a button. He said they told him that when he saw American soldiers, “throw your body at them.”

[…]

“When they first put the vest on my body I didn’t know what to think, but then I felt the bomb,” Juma told The Associated Press as he ate lamb and rice after being introduced to the elders at this joint U.S.-Afghan base in Ghazni. “After I figured out it was a bomb, I went to the Afghan soldiers for help.”

Here’s an idea for ya, Jack!:
You want to negotiate with the Taliban? Fine. Send your wife to do it. If she comes back alive, we’ll all be real interested in what she has to say.

Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised by this. At all.

I may have been a little hesitant at first — and there were plenty of people emailing in to call me on it — but after the early revelations, my mind got changed in a hurry and what we have here now should surprise absolutely no one. I’ve gotten quite a few emails speculating about just how the murders of the Richardson family in Medicine hat were carried out, and most of them shared a common theory: Steinke killed the parents and Jasmine killed her 8-year old brother herself.

Well, so much for that being a wild theory:

MEDICINE HAT, Alta. – A 13-year-old girl accused of killing a Medicine Hat family broke down twice on the witness stand yesterday while admitting to stabbing an eight-year-old boy who was begging for his life.

Speaking in a barely audible voice, she admitted to stabbing eight-year-old Jacob Richardson in the upper part of his body.

“I’m scared, I’m too young to die,” the girl told the court, recalling what the boy said during the April 23, 2006, massacre.

There you have it. Sweet, innocent little Jasmine Richardson stuck a knife in her little brother while he begged for his life. Of course, she’s trying to hang it all on Steinke, but that’s not the way the evidence is piling up:

After three weeks of Crown evidence about the grisly crime scene and a rebellious adolescent who hated her parents and the rules they tried to impose, Tuesday’s testimony was the first time the jury heard full details of the murderous encounter.

She was angry because her parents grounded her and took away her computer privileges in an attempt to cool her relationship with the 23-year-old Steinke. She told the jury she often “vented” to her boyfriend as they talked on the phone late at night after her family had gone to sleep and admitted she’d had several “hypothetical conversations” with him about killing her parents.

As if all this weren’t bad enough, little Jasmine isn’t ever going to be held really accountable, regardless of the verdict. Thanks to the piece-of-shit YCJA that the Shawinigan Strangler saddled us with, she can’t possibly be handed a sentence of more than 10 years. And thanks to other idiocies like statutory release, she won’t do any more than six years inside, likely living with more creature comforts while she’s in there than most of you do out in the working world. Tack onto that the fact that she’s going to get 2-for-1 credit for the “dead time” that she’s served before her final sentencing, and she’ll be back on the streets before she’s old enough to drink.

And here’s the kicker: all the social-worker/hug-a-thug shitheads out there that think the YCJA is so lovely are going to try to tell you that you have no right to know who she is!

That’s right. In the all-too-near future, Jasmine’s going to be out on the same streets as your kids. Maybe, like my boy, your kids are about Jasmine’s age. And those sanctimonious assholes have the gall to try and tell me that I can’t warn him about this future Squeaky Fromme that’s going to be prowling the streets.

Like hell I can’t. My kids and my grandkids (whenever they show up) have a right to know if there’s a murderer in their midst.

Your kids have that right, too.

Oh, yeah; last but not least:

MEDICINE HAT, Alta. – A 13-year-old girl says she showed little emotion after stabbing her terrified little brother – knowing her parents were also dead – because the enormity of the act was “too big to cry about.”

Just one more thing to chew on…

Okay, the hangover’s worn off and I’m ready to get back to presenting my opinions like a cranky caged ape flinging poop at a gaggle of rubberneckers.

I have no idea exactly how it happened, but here’s how it went:

I got into it with one of those playdoh-skulled peaceniks on Friday night. You know the type; the ones that never met anything military that wouldn’t make ’em open a fudge factory in their Stanfields. This particular twerp was going on and on about how we shouldn’t be Fighting Dubya’s War For Oil© and oppressing the nice terrorists in Afghanistan and all the other usual bullshit. He was also űberpissed about how we were making our soldiers go and fight a war they wanted no part in.

That’s where my bullshitometer redlined. I pulled the emergency brake on his little chatter choochoo and gave him the bad news that service in Afghanistan is purely voluntary for CAF personnel. In other words, if you don’t ask, you don’t go. Of course, he tried to argue that with me (a doomed effort if ever there was one) but when that failed, he fell back on wondering “what kind of person volunteers for something like that.”

And that’s when it happened.

I had a profundity; right there in the middle of the pub. I imagine they’ve probably cleaned it up by now (it was one of those kinds of places) but it still happened, nonetheless…

“What kind of person does that?” I asked, still shaking off the incredulity. “Lemme ask ya something, bozo: do you own a dog?”
“Um, yeah,” he answered, wondering where the hell I was going with that.
“Has your dog ever gotten sick?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” This bonehead clearly had no idea what was coming.
“Just answer the damn question: has your dog ever gotten sick?”
“Well, yeah; once or twice.”
“Did you hake him to the vet?”
“Of course.”
“So you took your sick dog to the vet?”
“Yes, I took my sick f#%!ing dog to the f#%!ing vet, what the hell’s your point?” He was probably wondering if we were having the same conversation by now.
“So you treat your dog better than the Taliban treated women?”
“WHAT?!?!?” Where’s a camera when you need one? 🙄
“If your dog gets sick, you take it to the vet. Under the Taliban, if a woman gets sick, she can’t be examined by a male doctor, only by a woman doctor. But ther aren’t any women doctors, are there? Because women aren’t allowed to have jobs. And even if they could get jobs, they aren’t allowed to go to school. So that woman sits in the house — because she isn’t allowed to leave or she risks getting the shit beat out of her in the streets by the local “guardians of virtue” — with the disease or whatever it is working its way through her, and she either lives or she dies. Period. That’s it. And you can’t get your pissant little brain around the idea that some people might volunteer to do their part to put an end to something like that??”

After that, he quickly retreated back to burbling about colonialism, oil and Dubya until I popped him in the smeller and he went away. Not my proudest moment, perhaps, but one that I won’t be ashamed to share with my son one day when he’s older. (And before some knob out there starts accusing me of “advocating violence” or some other such bullshit, remember that I put a cute little kitten graphic to the right, so that makes it all okay )

Because I know, in my bones, something that waffling little snot will spend the rest of his life trying to avoid knowing: Without men like me, men like him are an evolutionary dead end.