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.





During the Canadian Federal election of 2015 I remember passing through an intersection in my car. As I glided past the stop sign I noticed that somebody had added a crooked sticker beneath the word ‘stop’. All the sticker said, in bold letters, was a single name: Harper. This mantra, “STOP HARPER” (and thru proxy his Conservatives), was the refrain that defined the election that year. I recall thinking later that the word was literally on the street, that it seemed inevitable that the Conservatives would lose, and lose big.

It therefore came as no surprise to me when the Liberals, under the leadership of Justin Trudeau, claimed 39.5% of the vote and “picked up 148 seats, easily the biggest numerical increase for a Canadian party since Confederation”. [1] Harper was effectively “STOPPED”, and his period in office, dating back to 2006, was suddenly finished. Youthful Trudeau had won the 42nd Canadian Federal Election and went on to become the new Prime Minister of Canada.

Many attempted to explain the upset, and every news agency postulated what had gone wrong for Harper. Some said it was because Harper was seen to be ‘against democracy’, with a steady stream of scandals (such as the ‘Robocalls’ incident), and actions that put into question their parties’ integrity.

Others said it was Harper’s disdain for the media, citing the fact that he seldom granted interviews or exposed himself to situations likely to grant news agencies the upper hand or make him look foolish. Perhaps he was right to avoid random, unscripted or ‘open’ question periods. I personally will always remember Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s early appearances on ‘This Hour Has 22 Minutes’, especially those featuring Marg Delahunty. Boy, did he ever look like a stuffed shirt most of the time. Harper thereby began giving interviews “on the condition that the questions were restricted to one topic, such as the historic importance of D-Day. This meant that he could get valuable media exposure without having to handle queries on such embarrassing topics as the Senate expenses scandal.” [2]

But I believe that the real reason was much simpler than those suggested by the pundits and the political theorists. The real reason (coupled with the fact that Harper came across as a bored, dispassionate and uncomfortable most of the time), was that the opposition brought in a celebrity just in time for the election. And, ignoring the fact that it was prostitution politics at its worst, they chose someone who behaved like a cosmopolitan metrosexual. Female voters breathed a collective sigh. Young voters finally had someone to whom they could relate.

The name Trudeau had immediate associations for most people, conjuring images of the plaid suit wearing, sharp-tongued, exceptionally intelligent Bolshevik, Pierre Trudeau. Regardless of the fact that Pierre had arguably done astonishingly bad things to Canada and her economy while acting as Prime Minister, the name had a flashy connotation and a certain celebrity mystique attached to it. Trudeau, most agree, was a shaker and a mover, a radical who got things done, for better or for worse.

And Justin Trudeau, with his coiffed hair and devilish good looks, played the role of a celebrity very nicely. Indeed, one could say that young Trudeau, “who taught math, French, humanities and (most importantly) drama between 1999 and 2001 at Vancouver’s West Point Grey Private School” [3] was the perfect choice.


I recall seeing a Justin Trudeau commercial during the election campaign entitled “Real Change Now”. It featured him speaking before thousands of people at Liberal rally, delivering a movingly passionate speech about uniting Canada and replacing fear (of others) with hope. This speech, I recall, more than anything else, made it clear to me that Justin Trudeau was destined to win. Despite having no political experience, something often criticized when describing Trump, he played the part with perfect dexterity and deftness. Click To Watch People swooned when he was elected, like teenage girls at a boy band concert.

And so, we got what we deserved: a performer, not a leader, an actor, not a Prime Minister. Since this is what so many people voted for, Canadians (mostly young and female) were quite happy to indulge in his flamboyance and pretend that his antics were like episodic installments of a favourite sitcom. The selfies, his soft and cozy socialism and over-the-top feminism, the showboating, the hugs for newly immigrated Syrians, the goofy print socks… all of it was not just tolerated, but applauded. We as a nation could smile and chuckle ad infinitum as he wandered into people’s campgrounds shirtless [4] for photo ops with wedding parties or paraded with the homosexuals wearing a pink shirt and temporary rainbow maple leaf tattoo on his face. [5]

As with actors, Canadians also seemed infinitely willing to tolerate and forget his endless stockpile of stupid gaffes. Comments about the “budget balancing itself” [6], statements about how ISIS fighters can be “an extraordinarily powerful voice” in Canada [7], the incident in which he forgot that Alberta was a province during a Canada 150 speech [8]. There was the time he said that he wanted Canadians to “Stay angry”, that “all must pay” for Omar Khadr being awarded $10.5 million in reparations for his terrible Guantanamo torment. [9]. And let’s not forget his pledge to “Grow the economy from the heart outwards”. [10] As a writer for RWN, I winced at each increasingly dumb exclamation. I have been constantly revolted by just how much nonsense the Canadian public can tolerate while still celebrating Trudeau.

Yet everyone hates a bad actor, and that’s just what Justin has become.  Trudeau’s most recent word usage gaffe has painfully illustrated to even the most ardent Trudeau enthusiast that the man is a politically correct turd. He hit bottom for many when he corrected a woman’s usage of the word ‘mankind’ during a Q & A session saying, “we like to say peoplekind, not necessarily mankind” in early February. [11] Although he later declared that this was spoken in jest, many people took the incident at face value for what it was, namely, a government representative mandating which politically correct pronouns a citizen should use in free speech. Some felt that this was creating a dangerous precedent, and began to glimpse the kind of statist ideals Trudeau was promoting.

And then came the infamous week-long trip to India, what came to be labelled as a ‘total disaster’, and a ‘cosplay-riddled embarrassment’ from February 17th – 23rd. An actor’s choices of attire can be oh-so important to his performance. Trudeau, our ever-chic Prime Minister and his family, donned traditional Indian costumes for the journey (as he had similarly many times in the past), despite the fact that nobody in India wears such gaudy attire anymore. Many regarded our fearless leader’s clothing choices as cultural appropriation, a cheap gimmick to help sway the Canadian Indian voter base, or, as playing dress-up on yet another tax paid vacation. Strutting and fretting (and sometimes even dancing) his time upon the stage, our Prime Minister’s actions were in fact, more farcical theatrics than leadership once more.

The Prime Minister made every blunder possible during this dubiously work-related family vacation, the worst involving Jaspal Atwal, “a Canadian national of Indian heritage, who in 1987 was sentenced to 20 years in a Canadian court for his part in the attempted murder of a visiting Indian state minister.” [12] An invitation was extended to the man, but then later withdrawn when the “error” came to light. To make matters worse, outlets then turned up photographs featuring Atwal standing with Sophie Trudeau, Justin’s wife, at a reception held in Mumbai. Our Prime Minister and his family, it seems, likes to keep with terrorists, dictators, and communist leaders: from Omar Khadr to Fidel Castro to Xi Jinping.

It’s time to face facts and admit that we as a Nation have elected a clown to lead us, a vacuous sock puppet controlled by socialist bureaucrat handlers. We have made a grave mistake, far graver than the American’s perceived ‘struggle’ with Donald Trump (as propagated and endorsed by CNN.) Let us pray that Canada’s love affair with Justin Trudeau is wearing off and that during the next election, in 2019, we as a nation can avoid the temptation to vote for a talking hairdo instead of a leader. I dearly hope to see ‘STOP TRUDEAU’ street signs appear (complete with a caricature of Trudeau’s face, looking suitably asinine beneath the word STOP.) For God’s sake Canada, we may not get a second chance to salvage our country’s pride, her economy and what is left of her dwindling sovereign inhabitants.

Do something.





Walk along any street in practically any city in Mexico pushing a baby carriage and you will meet with an unexpected reception (i.e., not the kind involving a knife or a wallet being handed over). You will be greeted by kind smiles from women, knowing, cheerful nods from men, and, most unexpectedly of all, playful words (goo goo!) from youths directed tenderly towards the baby. Older ladies, called ancianas, rush over in multitudes, clasping their hands over their hearts, pinching cheeks, kissing foreheads and often asking to hold the baby. They genuinely crave physical contact with babies, exalting over the child incessantly and repeating the word ‘hermosa’, translating roughly to ‘beautiful’, with heartfelt joy and teary-eyed jubilance. Everywhere you go people seem to love babies and give deference and respect to parents.

For example, Mexican people seem to give right of way to a person pushing a stroller, be it in a strip mall or in a street; pedestrians step aside, rush to open obstructing doors if needed, and will many times let a parent advance to the head of a line up. Crossing a busy street with a baby carriage will literally cause waves in traffic, as drivers will dangerously hit the full stop, without hesitation, to let a stroller pass. Generally, Mexican people seem to have an innate understanding of children, their importance and their necessity.

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