John Lennon must be spinning in his grave tonight!

"... as these things start to occur, raise yourselves erect and lift YOUR heads up, because YOUR deliverance is getting near." Luke 21:28

Um, umm... Jeezeeus! Stephen Harper singing a Beatles ditty with Yo-yo Ma at an 'elitist' gathering? Egad, I hardly know where to start.

Ahhh, ... [Christ, my head is spinning, I feel faint]... now he's telling us he "gets high with a little help from his Friends"! WTF? Jack, Gilles & Harpo are smoking doobies together!

Can someone please refresh my memory again: what exactly are the first signs of an apocalypse?

And could this be one of them?

"Friggin' Flaherty and his Fiscal Apocalypse": Daddy tell us a Horror Story pt.1

[as originally posted 01/30/09 on my formerly free thinking blog http://tworippingarseholes.blogspot.com ]

Year: 2016
Date: January 26th
Place: Winnipeg, Canada

Event: Federal Budget Day

Nearing dusk, wind-a-blowing. Crows swirl above. In the distance, along the frozen river, a group of TB enforcers (Tory-Bankers) are putting the boots to a Black Rod vainly trying to raise a tattered Canadian Flag with New-Afghanistan sprayed on it. He is, well, err... truly being boot-fucked. Unseen, the new media is filming the beat down as a destitute man with a notebook next to them licks yellow snow. Other passers-by are simply uninterested. Preferring instead to gawk at the street full of Harpo-Buggies. Horseshit is everywhere.

Two dirty wide-eyed emaciated innocents, a boy and girl, are shivering. Lightly clad, they are gripping their Daddy's hands tight. Together the three step off the northeastern side of the bridge and onto the icy and littered sidewalks. Across the street Great West Life's headquarters lie empty.

"Daddy, why they beatin' that man?" the blue-eyed boy asks.

"They call it 'knocking sense' son. Part of their three-pronged anti-critique reduction strategy: Knock-Kick-Kill. That's just a second warning. Probably the guy was asking too many questions."

"Daddy, what happens if he doesn't listen?" the boy asks.

"That!" the dad says pointing to the west, to a cross with a man nailed to it far down on the river ice. Above it, a huge placard with blood red letters proclaims:

"This is Power to Truth!"

'Poor guy,' the Dad thinks, 'his public eye now nuthin' but crow food.' Immediately, the father realizes the mistake. 'Too young for KKK' he chides himself, ... 'too young.' "Quickly," he says to his shocked children, "Quickly, now. We have to get there by eight."

As they walk they pass a man who's seen better days. Standing perfectly straight, he's mumbling over and over "Anybody want a Peanut? Anybody want a Peanut?" His hand is extended; it wants to complete the offer. Sadly, he has no peanuts? They've been taken away.

Across the street another indigent with an 'I Luv Bjork' sweater keeps bellowing at a dog that won't stop sniffing his ass: "This is Just Damn Stupid! Just Damn Stupid!" he's shouting, "That's it!" he exclaims, "I'm moving to Iceland!"

Looking on is a Conceited Jerk who can only grin as he holds his beloved Nadia. Mute for years now - he's but one of many. Once, back in 2009, all these men were able to offer digital peanuts. But since the Tory ban on public expression and private computers the only platforms now left are the cold, hard streets.

"Daddy are they the ones they tell us about in TB indoctrination classes?" they ask.

"Shhh." he hushes. Then whispering as he bends to their ears, he says "Yes, they're the ones. They've been caught. Censored. Remember, try not to draw attention."

Then, as he always does when here, the Dad glances at the tattered structure nearby. The man's eyes furtively dart upwards to its Dome. The Golden Boy is gone - Forever - long ago sold for a song to fund Doer's failed "Spirited Energy II" comeback campaign just before the streets started going dark at 8pm. Then a crazed-eyed manic man passes on a wobbly bicycle screaming: "Dual Flush Toilets! Dual Flush Toilets! Use them and they will turn our water back on! Use them now!"

"Daddy, is that true? If we use them will we have water for more than 2 hours a day?" the daughter asks.

"No child, first cities privatized their treatment plants. Then the Tories sold our national water rights away to NEW-USA in 2012 to 'fix' the structural deficit. Sorry honey, but we'll never get our rights back."

Just then they pass a bespectacled man with NO IKEA tattooed to his forehead. He's with a group of TRUWinnipegers and one Frog. Indignant all, they are shouting at a burning effigy. "Donkey Trams! Donkey Trams! Pol Pot Katz - what kind of Progressive LRT is this?"

"Daddy, can they do that?" they ask pointing to the solid pile of horseshit and ad hominems that form the effigy labeled 'Mayor.'

"Well they can - until the blackshirts come." he replies as they turn the corner where they pass a downtrodden dude singing the city anthem.

Proceeding east, they look to the right. The steps of the Legislature are, as usual, lightly populated with haggard protesters. Also, as usual, the protesters are outnumbered by the TB crowd controllers. Bemused, the security forces are laughing at the forlorn assemblage. The Legislature's doors are chained shut. "Prorogued" they call it. One indignant Hacking Wonk can be heard screaming: "This is not the way it was supposed to be! I was lied to." Just then, a balding wee-Hughie looks down from a window above. Laughing maniacally, he screams back: "You think you've got it bad - I'm actually in charge of this NUTHOUSE now!"

Crossing the main buggy entrance they see a shovel ready ranting man moving horse crap - all the while exclaiming to no one in particular: "My soul for a forum; my soul for a forum!"

Nearby a former idea planter is listening to an underground radio station on an old transistor radio. One can hear the voices. It's a show about Harpo's new law allowing his acolytes to shot unrepentant Lib's & Dippers on sight. The debate includes that crazed self-professed elder statesman and a partisan post-punker who actually claims to know what jailed Iggy is really thinking! Further on, a man full of love and hate is taking a picture of a pot-smoking one-eyed pecker pissing on a newly erected statue of Friggin' Dim Jim Flaherty. (The ninth such 'national' statue erected since his appointment as the State's Minister of Truth.)

At the next corner, a displaced poetess waiting for the moon is waxing about an 'Unravelling' that came too soon.

"Daddy, her words are beautiful, is she new?" the daughter asks.

"Yeah, I guess. You see after all the Territories flooded from the Arctic ice-melt in 13', these people had to find new homes," he says. Then, seeing some blackshirts approaching, he says gently, but firmly, "Hurry up kids, hurry up... we'll be late."

[To be continued....]

5 comments:

The Public Eye said...

I have always found this blog a great read, but with this post, you have crossed the Rubicon in terms of transcendent originality. Ripping fantastic!

January 30, 2009 4:50 PM

RachelW said...

Ha! You guys are crazy! Love it!

January 30, 2009 6:27 PM

cherenkov said...

Maybe what we need is some good post-apocalyptic chaos to separate the strong from the week and get human evolution back on track!

January 30, 2009 9:33 PM

Prairie Topiary said...

Nice. I've always thought of doing a blog post that would stand as a trail guide to the Manitoba blog scene. You've done me one better!

February 3, 2009 1:01 AM

Conceited Jerk said...

Jesus!

And I thought my outlook was bleak...

Can't wait for part II!

February 3, 2009 10:12 AM