All posts for the month June, 2018



Sitting in Bumpy’s Café recently with my computer, I chanced to glance up, surprised to notice a couple seated at a table nearby. I had thought I was alone in the café. The two were so visually unimpressive that I hadn’t even realized they were there. I studied the faces more closely and certain minutiae immediately stood out. I felt, once more, the all-too-familiar anger wash over me. There were many noticeable problems with the duo, but the main issue concerned the male (so-called.) Was it a man, or a woman or perhaps someone ‘transitioning’ to a new ‘gender identity’ (experiencing gender dysphoria)? Was it a homosexual? After a few minutes, I decided that it was probably a male, albeit an incredibly insipid and pathetic example of one.

The man was perhaps 18 years old. He wore a docile, defeated expression, out of place on someone in the prime of his life. His face seemed to express only boredom, nervousness and casual resignation, like a man in a nursing home staring at a fuzzy television screen from a wheelchair. Perhaps most noticeably, the man’s face was slack, hairless (if he shaved) and bore no telltale indicators of suffering, no lines that denoted any extreme past emotion or struggle. He struck me as completely gutless.

So too were his hands supple and washed; they had likely been manicured. His hands were entirely free of callouses, cuts or any dirt beneath the nails. This was a man who had seldom if ever been compelled to work hard, a man lacking the mettle of determination and a man who had certainly never been in a fight. He bore no masculine attributes whatsoever, and it occurred to me, sadly, that he was probably far closer to the post-post-modern male ideal of today than I.

The woman accompanying him was equally useless, with drab, loose-fitting clothing, a dull expression and an androgynous hairstyle. Her face was unadorned and she wore no jewellery. I asked myself if they were a couple, brother & sister, or perhaps even strangers sharing a table? There was absolutely no way to tell, as they seemed to have no affinity for each other, unless of course their frequent texting was actually between them (entirely possible, since this was all they seemed interested in.) When they did speak, they barely made eye contact and droned on in inflectionless tones. I could tell the conversation was awkward and worthless without even hearing the words. The discussion was obviously mere afterthought between these Millennials; they were clearly unused to using their voices to communicate.

The three words that sprung instantly to mind for me were bored, insipid and weak. These people, I thought, herald from a lost generation who will undeservingly inherit the Earth, briefly, before the West falters and plummets back into the shitabyss of the third world with a whimper and not a bang. Each time I see Millennials, clad in their skinny jeans, backpacks, hoodies and cheap shoes I can’t help feeling sad. Their passive postures and slumped shoulders give such a strong impression of weakness and apathy that I wonder how they manage to get out of bed at all on a daily basis.

My mind wanders back to a unique conversation I had on an LRT platform recently. I noticed a man carrying a strange heavy steel briefcase and asked what he was handling. He saw me staring at the case and explained that he was a private contractor, that his job was ‘hazing coyotes’.

“What’s that?” I asked him, for all that came to mind was the ‘hazing’ of juniors in high school or maybe a fraternity or sorority evaluating a new candidate.

“Essentially”, he explained, “coyotes have lately become a lot less fearful of humans. They’ve been venturing into public parks and there have been higher than average reports of coyotes attacking people’s pets. The coyotes are becoming uninhibited and are failing to maintain their distance from people and their children. There is some real worry of future human attacks, so that’s where I come in”, he said with a smile.

“So what do you do about ‘em?” I asked with interest. I suddenly imagined that the briefcase must contain firearms or perhaps traps and nets, that the man must be a hunter.

“Well basically”, he said, “I go out into parks with my case and a bait dog. The dog’s not in the case, he chuckled. A bait dog is a fluffy little thing that attracts coyotes. I walk around with the dog and watch for coyotes to venture out of the brush. When a coyote tries to attack, I first employ an air horn (the same kind boaters use) to stun the animal, then I take my paintball gun and fire a few tracer balls at it to give it the sensation of physical discomfort.”

“You… shoot the coyotes with paintballs?”, I asked dubiously. I had to stifle a smile, pretending to wipe my nose and coughing.

“It doesn’t hurt them”, he quickly added [obviously people had brought this up in the past], “it just stings a little. They remember the sensation and then are much less inclined to venture near in the future. I go out and do this several times a month and it helps keep the coyotes fearful of humans.”

I am thoroughly unimpressed by this time. ‘Unbelievable’, I think to myself. Coyotes are unafraid of humans now. Why would they be? The fat, slumped, undisciplined people herding in city parks are a frail substitute for the proud individuals humanity was once composed of. Coyotes were once terrified of people, who, they knew from experience, could be randomly cruel and lethal. But the shared collective fear faded with time, and coyotes are getting the upper hand… a predictable outcome.



I’m reminded of a t-shirt I saw recently that read “Bro, do you even lift?” The answer is no. People now require a man with an air horn, a doggie and a paintball gun to do their heavy lifting. They can’t protect themselves, their pets or their children from wild animals. They no longer carry boomsticks or knives and lack the will to use them even if they did. The legacy of our ancestors is starting to diminish as we ourselves weaken, fatten and dumb ourselves down with marijuana and liquor.

It occurs to me that the real, longer lasting solution to the Coyote problem might be to hire a horrible bastard of a man in a hand-stitched coyote skin trench coat to go out and inflict gibbitude on the coyote population with impunity. With an assortment of firearms and mechanisms of pain, the unwashed, bearded mountain man would be tasked with conveying horror through incredibly swift acts of violence. He would kill many and injure many more, leaving a wake of carcasses and maimed, terrified coyotes wherever he strolled. The ones left alive would have a sweat soaked rag mashed in their faces, or perhaps the man’s underarm. There would be an instant connection between the humiliation inflicted and the revolting human scent. The terrible experience would leave deep scars (real and figurative) and permanent aversion to people. In modern vernacular, he would leave the coyotes with a lifetime of ‘PTSD’.

But such a thing would today be considered “animal cruelty”, no matter how effective, would it not?. I jokingly told a female colleague from my work about the ‘hazing’ and how ridiculous it seemed to me. She instantly replied, “that’s so meean!”. When asked in what way it was mean, she replied, “I can’t believe they shoot them with paintballs, that’s so awful… those poor coyotes.”

When I told her my plan involving the horrible man in the coat she went pale and covered her mouth with both hands, as though she might be sick, closing her eyes. As if choreographed, she turned away, trying to distance herself from the distasteful thoughts, and walked away. As she stormed haughtily off it occured to me that closet altruists and animal rights activists have no capacity to hear anything resembling truth. In the immortal words of TJ Hooker: “What’s the definition of a conservative? A liberal who’s been mugged”. It always takes a violent incident involving one of their dogs (not children, of course) to strengthen the resolve of left wing dummies. They always have to endure a terrible experience or two to begin to get it.

It’s like the time I absentmindedly announced to colleagues while on a break that I longed for a violent death rather than old age and a wasting disease. Inconceivable. People haven’t the belly for such unsettling words nowadays, they don’t want to be exposed to such dark, uncomfortable thoughts. They have no frame of reference that prepares them for the words of damaged people. They haven’t experienced pain or hardship or extreme emotion of any kind. How could they understand?

Again the immortal words of Alice Cooper spring to mind:

The world needs guts
The world needs power
Show me some blood
Show me some cuts
Show me some scars
The world needs guts
The world needs us… [1]

The world needs guts. The world needs power. God, those lyrics cycle through my mind a lot lately. It occurs to me that humanity is on the downswing of entropy… it’s falling beneath the wheel of civilization so to speak. It occurs to me also that the further afield we move from the harsh unpleasantness of survival the faster we fade as a human tribe. As we dull our senses, stuff our faces and allow technology to take the driver’s seat in our lives the less we resemble real human beings at all.  The more we attempt to quell the ruthlessness required of us, as it was of our forefathers, the softer we become.

As the gender confused replace sexually confident men and women, as metrosexual socialists replace people of strong conviction and conservative ideals, the easier it becomes to see how it’s all going to end. A fallen world filled with self-entitled closet altruists, a world populated by AIDS-ridden LGBTQ2S freaks. Like a global Pripyat, coyotes and other wild animals will once more walk freely through the crumbling foundations of our cities, unencumbered by people with air horns, paintball guns, bait dogs… and guts too.