Tag: Canadian government

Pissing on that refugee’s soon-to-be grave.

With this last bit of news I am officially ashamed to be from this country. Not since I was maybe ten, when I dressed up for Halloween as the made-up superhero, the Canada Kid, where I wore a Canadian flag as a cape, along with a red toque, red tights and a red t-shirt, would I say I was patriotic. Supporting Olympic athletes, thanks to the corporate encouragement from Maple-flavoured Wheaties, and free Esso collectable cups, was one of my greatest passions. I would draw pictures of the Canadian Olympic logo, dream of the distant lands of Nagano, and talk about getting a tattoo on my ass that said, ‘Made in Canada’. I could’ve ended up like this.

But thanks to years of cynicism, informative reading, thrashy music, I haven’t.

And thanks to years of governments ruling the country as if it was a coloured piece of land on a board game, I haven’t.

There is maybe nothing else a government could do to embarrass me more (I am currently, and constantly, knocking on wood). The environmental-raping side of Bill C-38 makes ‘sense’ in a twisted, soulless, no-foresight kind of way. But this, sweet Lord, this makes me feel like I just ran over a family of immigrants in my car, which was maybe what they were going for. I feel like I was at the driver’s seat. I feel responsible. I can no longer make this political banter poetic or ambiguous. I can no longer dance around my views to avoid this as an idiot-styled opinion blog. We reduce our foreign aid for those billions that don’t live here, but taking away funding for the hundreds of thousands that barely made it here, and only did so to save their own lives, is, put lightly, misdirected. If put truthfully, it is selfish. It is inhumane and uncivilized.

I can only imagine how many fabled jobs this will create, as if job creation were the cure to the illnesses of our likely already employed refugees. Hard work cures all. Hard work makes you forget your ills. Hard work leaves no time to go to the doctor. Hard work kills. Hard work reduces the amount of refugees. The Omnibus is now departing, and the Omnibus now makes sense.

Here is to the creation of jobs, the trump card used in every possible governmental situation to make cuts sound reasonable. Those temporary, resource and location-based, earth-pillaging jobs. I can’t wait to get one.

On that Halloween as the Canada Kid, in between houses where we scavenged processed sweets from wealthy extra-suburban families, I found my bladder full of carbonated beverages. I stopped at a group of bushes, my cape blowing heroically behind me until a new gust sent it back my way, intercepting my stream of warm, patriotically-digested sodapop. I pissed all over it. A fortunate bit of foreshadowing as to what I wish I could do now if I had a flag on ground level, or if my rainbow of piss could reach the height of a flagpole.

I would gladly piss all over this place now. And on the many symbols that represent it. As it has already pissed all over us. Several times over the past year.

Read more here.

The Age of the Beast

They wouldn’t accept my blood. The proper receptacle, the Canadian Blood Services, would not take my blood that I was willingly offering. I am a strapping young lad, if I do say so myself. Although I may not be able to squat three hundred pounds, although I may sweat after climbing two sets of stairs to take a five-second piss, although my hygiene leaves something to be desired, I am a regular limber and nimble Hulk Hogan. And all because I entered the land of Mexico for a brief two weeks. Somehow, according to Heath Canada, malaria-ridden mosquitos inhabit the Mexican states that neighbour the United States, but they dare not cross the border, likely because of ‘up the ass’ border treatment and the ‘you look like a threat’ Immigration Agents of Arizona. They are all a threat. Mosquitos I mean…

And although the professionals didn’t want my tainted, tattooed, malarial, gold-infused blood, someone else is constantly trying to suck it from me. The recent rise in vampire popularity is entirely caused by the fact that people can relate getting sucked dry by lifeless, immortal, unstoppable beings. The bloodsuckers, the bastards, stare directly into the souls and habits of the weak individual, taking from them the pieces that make them warm-blooded animals. Take away the arts, take away supporting other human beings, take away hockey, take away the environment. This bloodsucking beast, a multi-headed, sharp-clawed collection of a profit-first government and profit-first corporations, takes what it wants. We are in the age of the beast.

Although it may seem dramatic to describe policy makers as evil, as in, lacking any good or regard for others, I will stick to it. There must be good there, it is just hidden behind blood-stained teeth and human-digesting stomach acids. Deep below the five serpent heads, past the sickly heart pumping the vitriol, possibly wrapped in the bowels, strangled and without light.

A friend eloquently told me this: We all have basic needs. The reason that we are here, where we are, is heavily based on wants. It is those people that perpetuate the mentality of wants that need to be controlled. That is, the bloodsuckers need to be controlled. Our blood, what makes us human, what makes us good, is being sucked dry. It is being is being frozen. Becoming sludge. We can revive our crumbling culture, we can offer a blood transfusion, by controlling those who need to be controlled. Those who perpetuate the mentality that profit, fast profit, matters more than our health and our education and our culture and our neighbours.

Don’t become lethargic because they have sucked you dry. Your blood is all you’ve really got.

(Balls of Rice 666th post)

Time Travel

Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have moralized upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified.
-H.G. Wells, The Time Machine, Chapter 11, p131

We can walk through walls. When I was in grade seven my friend told me that his older brother learned this in university. Physics class told him that it was technically possible for us to walk through walls if we lined up our particles perfectly with the gaps of the particles of the wall or door or window. Physics is mysticism. I would maybe ask a different question. Why bother walking through walls when we can teleport anywhere we want? To take our physical being, the particles that make us up, and come up with some wavelength that could capture them, and send them far away to the destination they wish. But does such an extraction of physical being also carry with it the soul of a person, or does that get sucked up in the mass of all the rest of the souls swirling in the atmosphere? Science fiction becomes real, just ask the inventors of Skype. ‘The Jetsons’ are science fiction.

Then you may ask, if you were discussing such topics with people with scientific minds, unlike my rotting philosophical mind, if you would rather be teleported to be able to see who you want when you want, or if you would rather travel through time. The moral implications of time travel are different than the business implications of teleportation. Undoubtedly institutions such as the Canadian Government would quickly shut down open discussion about things such as teleportation because dialogue with educated professionals is apparently unhealthy, and teleportation would make obsolete Canada’s fastest growing source of income, also known as ‘The Tar Sands of Our World’s Demise.’ As titled by me. But I’m sure in the vast expanses of the Canadian North, the oil companies and Harper would be able to find some rare mineral that a teleportation device would require to run, market that and start to ban discussion on time travel, which most level-headed people would want to use to escape the natural-resource raped present in which we find ourselves.

Later, when I was in grade nine, I learned firsthand about time travel when I starred in the White City School production of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. I was the Time Traveller. I wore Chuck Taylors, my time machine was a wheelchair with a silver-spray painted lever and a laptop. Once, at the start of a scene walking with the Eloi named Weena, my futuristic wireless microphone provided a shriek of feedback into the ears of the audience. I grimaced and pretended that nothing happened, but have always looked back upon this occasion in regret that I didn’t improvise and say something like, “There are many unsourced and unpleasant noises in this future time.” At the end of the play, my grandparents complimented me by saying, “You sure had to memorize a lot of lines,” instead of what I was hoping for: “You sure acted the hell out of that play, Nic.” I still think I could have done better. If only I had a time machine to go back and restart my acting career.

As for the previous question, I would opt for teleportation. My curiosity as to what goes on in the future is less than my desire to see the current world as I wish. The current world, something I do not know enough about, still needs to be properly discovered before I can learn about the future. The same logic applies to my recent selection of books. We can now only hope that when teleportation is inevitably invented (this inevitability based on ‘The Jetsons’ science fiction logic) that the Government ceases to hide facts of the past and the present like climate change and the ice age, possibly coinciding phenomena, to save an industry that is killing us all. Either that or we can focus on a time machine, travel far into the future or past to escape a present that we seemingly cannot change.

While biking home last night I encountered a train. It was a long train. I saw and heard it coming, pedalled as hard as I could with the cool air burning my lungs, but the striped reflective arm of the railroad crossing came down like the fist of God. Would it have been better for me to own a time machine to go back to leave five minutes earlier, or to have a teleportation device to leave exactly when I wanted to? A time machine suggests more of an escape route masked with scientific intentions. A teleportation device is not as pretentious in suggesting simple, expedient, clever transportation that says, “It is nice to be where you want to be.”

Face this world. Learn its ways, watch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning. In the end you will find clues to it all.
-H.G. Wells, The Time Machine, p99, Chapter 7