Saturday, September 30, 2017

Playing the Reputation Game with Matt Earle

The latest sneering member of the man clan to garner my curiosity is one Matt Earle.  This cocky shithead thought he'd take some time out of his busy day to waste his efforts threatening an obscure blogger few people read anyway, as if my tongue-in-cheek musings would have any impact whatsoever on his self-indulgent sister’s nascent “brand” Luxurious Roxy.

Real Housewives of Toronto and the Slut Shame (the blog that triggered Matt Earle's ire: see here).
I've been living in the trenches long enough to recognize a veiled threat when I see one: "enjoy your limited time on earth"? What exactly is Matt Earle planning that he can make such a bold, prophetic statement? I was trying to let this go, as any sane person would. However, months later and it's still nagging at me. I need to purge. I need catharsis. Besides, insanity runs in my family.


I suppose Matt Earle thought with self-satisfaction that he was putting a female voice in her "rightful" place, getting under her skin, intimidating her, tempting her with a small clue to puzzle over, something with which to occupy her restless mind. As you can see, it worked. 

Congratulations, Matthew. You have my attention.



So what do we have here? I don't have a lot to work with, mostly just some google scraps. But no worries, I'm a scavenger, always on the lookout for a bone, always chasing my own tail when there's no other tail to chase. Besides, it's more fun to piece together a profile with fragments of information as opposed to having free access to the full cache of a man's dark secrets.

I like games.

Matt Earle must also like games. He's already played his two moves before I even knew we were playing! Sly dog. Or would we call that cheating? 

It's fine. 

I'll let a little cheating slide (unless I'm married to you. If I'm married to you, it won't slide, I won't forgive, I won't forget. Expect my hex, asshole – okay, okay, clearly I have been watching way too many cheesy anonymous videos. Expose yourself to a philosophy long enough, it starts to seep into your worldview before you even realize it's happening. Next thing you know, you're thinking the thoughts of that philosophy, speaking its language, becoming an accidental adherent, or a closet fan. That's why, Matthew, you should be careful of the company you keep, the hate-inspired rhetoric you spout and the extreme ideologies you immerse yourself in. If you aren't careful, next thing you know, you'll be a douchebag and not even realize it! Stay alert!).

I digress.

Where were we? Oh yes.

Games.

My turn.

Let's see, now. What does Sherlock Holmes advise? He says details, details. The little things are infinitely the most important. His method is founded upon the observation of trifles. Concentrate yourself upon the details, he says. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. What type of man am I dealing with here, then?

First off, he is a man with a vested interest in Roxy Earle's reputation – Roxy Earle, a well-nourished, phony reality TV actress desperately trying to create a personal brand for herself, a "Roxy Empire", a legacy of vanity and waste (see here). A shamelessly pampered woman married to a much older man, a man with coin and a murky past, who I can only assume has ulterior motives. She is also a woman I happen to amuse myself ridiculing and who happens to be Matt Earle's sister.



What else? He's the CEO (just "love" me a slimy CEO) of an Orwellian "reputation management" company. There's some language manipulation for ya! Somewhere in the great beyond George must be feeling smug right about now, turning to the other literary saints with a knowing smile, "I told you so". Huxley, not to be outdone, pipes up, "Hey! I called Trump! A little respect!" (source).




As for our boy, Matt Earle, and his foray into the potentially lucrative business of "thought policing", it seems he's trying for the big leagues. He plans to do this by cleaning up the sloppy online trails of debauchery, corruption and revealing commentary that invariably follow filthy rich men wherever they defecate go. (Rich men like, oh I don't know, Roxy's husband, Raghu Kilambi, perhaps? Here's his resume if any sugar babies out there are interested in sizing him up for a side gig. Don't worry, men like Raghu are rarely faithful. It goes with the territory. Roxy knows this, it's probably stipulated in the prenup that he's allowed his extra "treats": Raghu Kilambi's resume).




Back to Matt Earle, there might be a slight hitch in his master plan to get in on the early stages of the cyber police state. His expertise in "reputation management" is going to be a hard sell when he cannot even keep his OWN online reputation squeaky clean. As much as I detest filthy rich assholes, you can't really call them stupid, not in business, anyway. They will do their due diligence, Matthew. They will find out that you suck at this.




What else can be said about Matt Earle? There isn't a whole lot to skewer, but he's left enough debris scattered about the web that at minimum, we can determine he's a weak, undisciplined sniveler of generous proportions who is overly concerned with "enjoying" himself, keeping himself doughy. A soft, flaccid man with poor impulse control who doesn't practice delayed gratification and denies himself nothing? His wife must be so disappointed. Poor thing, a woman, dare I say, to "pity"?

Let's see, what else.

Matt Earle, a rape apologist who defends Jian Ghomeshi and openly maligns the "feminist worldview" (I would love to know what he thinks the "feminist worldview" is other than the "radical" notion that women are people entitled to the same human rights and dignity as all people).

Matt Earle, an ineffectual businessman who attempted to help his disgraced client, Jian Ghomeshi, regroup, rebrand and relaunch – Jian Ghomeshi, a sadistic narcissist of ill repute with a confessed predilection toward sexual assault who, with the encouragement of Matt Earle, thought he could re-emerge like a prodigal son with a new venture called The Ideation Project to a forgiving, welcoming audience.  I don't think it worked (source). Oh, Matt Earle, you're just so bad at this.



Matt Earle, an insecure galoot who has trouble articulating himself in interviews or comfortably looking another in the eye. A Trump fanboy, a lesser specimen, not an alpha – a spineless, simpering monkey who frantically latches onto bigger, meaner, smarter monkeys for protection, and for the false sense of superiority associating with a more impressively vicious beast gives him. A buffoon unoriginal in thought who mouths the words and mimics the actions of nastier, shrewder, more overtly misogynistic and aggressive men, such as Ezra Levant and his Rebel army of trolls (source). Matt Earle, a man, dare I say, to "pity"?

Matt Earle, a man who overcompensates for his insecurities by leaning heavily, not on his wits, but on the upper hand he came prepackaged with the day he was born with a penis. With the pseudo bravado male privilege affords him, he has no hesitation hurling lowbrow slurs and harassment at those, such as women and religious minorities, he's confident don't possess the social status that would enable them to retaliate on a level playing field.

Ensconced in this male privilege, apparently with no mirror around to look at his reflection, he had no problem AT ALL openly deriding (see here) the physical attributes of a woman he doesn't know simply because he was upset she had engaged in some harmless ribbing on twitter that involved his sister, a reality TV actress. His sister, Roxy Earle, a living large showoff gunning for fame through the Real Housewives of Toronto (see here). A voluptuous lady with an ugly heart and a high body mass index, so focused on her own leisure that she has to pay an assistant to make her a smoothie and run her a bubble bath (see here).

You'd think that a man with the balls to demean the appearance of a female stranger who doesn't have the kind of money or desire required to keep a woman looking like a lusty plasticized trophy would be SURROUNDED by great beauties to justify his arrogance. But I looked. And no. There are no great beauties in his family tree. 

Matt Earle also has a daughter – a treasure treated with kid gloves and referred to as "princess". Society can thus look forward to yet another spoiled, jealous, materialistic, self-centered person being unleashed on the rest of us in the future. Hopefully I'm wrong, but as we all know, the apple doesn't normally fall far from the tree. 

The fact that Matt Earle has a daughter makes his misogyny all the more disgusting though, doesn't it? I know some people do not like when this point is made, that men with daughters should be any more outraged or empathetic to the plight of women than anyone else; however, a basic feature of human psychology is that the closer you are to an issue, the more emotionally invested and moved you will be by that issue. It's why trauma survivors become activists and make the best advocates. It is also a useful persuasive tactic in advertising or wherever persuasion is used: Make things personal and people are more likely to engage

With the above in mind, that misogynists, such as Matt Earle, have daughters (in addition to the concerning popularity of incest and child porn), and that having daughters does not change their feelings and perspective, speaks volumes about how men are still, despite all the progress made, socialized from birth onward to view the female as inferior, as chattel, as "creations" made or evolved exclusively for male desires and needs. So don't tell ME the world isn't a fucked up patriarchy, its dominant religion misogyny, when not even daughters can trust their own fathers, men who ostensibly are there to love and protect them, not to be pigs.


The Words Go Marching In: Word
And by the way, to any "goddesses" out there toying with the one-dimensional thinking that MY comments are misogynistic now, or sexist or whatever, do not bother. I recognize women as fully human with agency and intact intellects, capable of amazing heights (when they aren't being unfairly thwarted by the contempt this world constantly spits at them), but also despicable lows.

She deserves her praise, opportunities and to experience the consequences of her own free-willed actions, but she can also handle her critics EVEN THOUGH she's a hobbled player up against a patriarchy that awards its dick-holding members handicaps, free passes, concessions and bonus moves women are forbidden. 

That said, I do also recognize that there is a certain female "archetype" (based largely on what she looks like and how effectively she panders to male supremacy) who "enjoys" privileges denied other, more "defiant", non-conforming women. I furthermore recognize that there is diversity among us, women of all stripes and sorts with varied weaknesses, strengths, challenges and degrees of emotional resiliency. Some women come better equipped than others to cope with hardship and insult.

It would be nothing but cruel to lob harsh criticism, judgmental condemnations or snarky jabs at all women equally regardless of who they are or the severity of the individual struggles they face. The strong should help the bullied and misunderstood, the healed should comfort the sick, the redeemed should minister the fallen, and the found should seek the lost. Don't desert a downed solider.

There are some women so abused, mistreated, beaten down and defeated, who are just trying to survive in impossible situations, that it would be morally reprehensible to do anything but show them compassion, no matter how "despicable" their behavior might appear on the surface. Intention, nuisance, discernment and history do matter.

Roxy Earle, for instance, or any of the other privileged women I poke fun at are NOT feeble, defeated women with few choices prevented from realizing their potential or exercising their free will. They are fair game. They are women who have the world at their fingertips and willingly put themselves on TV to be ridiculed. What did they think they were doing on there?  

Did they think they would be nothing but swooned over by all who saw their "flawless goddess" beauty? They should be flattered that I am not one of those people who think they are too fragile to withstand scrutiny. They should be flattered that I find them suitably strong enough to withstand my observations. And if they really, truly can't handle it? Don't put yourself on a reality TV show then, geniuses! 

Although, who are we kidding? They all have an agenda (SEE HERE) that has everything to do with promoting their various business interests and personal brands.  I guess they figured that in addition to uncritical swooning, they'd have swarms of gullible people lining up like herded cattle to join Joga classes, apply for loans through iFinance Canada, or make appointments to undergo pricey Sculpsure treatments with Ann Kaplan's husband, Dr. Stephen Mulholland (see here). 

Or, let us not forget, to buy clothing and fashion accessories, no doubt made as cheap as possible in some Chinese sweat shop, through Roxy Earle's soon to be launched brand, Luxurious Roxy. Roxy's Cheap Luxury, there's an oxymoron for you. 

I am not sure what Joan Kelley-Walker was hoping to gain by showcasing herself on The Real Housewives of Toronto, other than maybe exposure so she'd get more magazine covers (see here). Narcissism is never satiated for long.

As for Matt Earle, his online body shaming antics are a tad foolish, don't you think, when he's trying so hard to promote his sister's BODY POSITIVE brand?? Dumb, dumb, dumb. Matthew, you need to reevaluate your career choice.

Men who attack the way a woman looks rather than debate the merits or lack thereof of her opinions have to be the most pathetic of the whole fucking troop. Where does he get off? Has HE seen a picture of HIMSELF?


Matt Earle's identical twin brother. Uncanny.
Matthew? Are we done here? If so, go play nice with someone else.

Oh, never mind. Since originally writing this blog, it's come to my attention that Matt Earle (or those he represents) is distraught that I have responded to the communication HE initiated. Just when I thought he couldn't be any more pathetic, too. Imagine, a grown ass man all hysterical over a few teeny weeny little words all written in fun. So weak, Matt Earle.  Or as his "pussy" idol would say, "sad".




Are these people, people of privilege who have every advantage in the world, seriously THIS worked up over a nobody playing around with a few letters of the alphabet to the point that they would exert the effort required to "bury" an inconsequential blog even further? Children! Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you. Come on

They have everything else, do they really need all the words, too? Greed this extreme is nothing but a curse that erodes the soul and rots the mind. These people condemn themselves with their own deeds and thoughts, thereby rendering incantations unnecessary, which is a relief. You should always do your best to avoid directly interfering with the work of karma, lest karma turns her penetrating eye back on you.


See? The Alphabet?. They are just words. They can't hurt you.

What did Matt Earle hope to accomplish by signaling an insomniac with a curious mind and unresolved issues looking for an outlet, anyway? I didn't snipe anything disrespectful or threatening at him. I merely acknowledged that I was aware of his interest. Then this? Bad sportsmanship, Matthew. I had thought we were done.

Apparently I thought wrong...as tends to happen. They do want to continue playing this game (and as I've alluded, I do not for a second think this is coming from Matt Earle alone, he's merely a "representative". Evidently my words have ruffled some grotesquely swollen egos so pathologically puffed up that they cannot see what truly ugly human beings they are. And as with any dark, twisted thing these guys like to play dirty). 




Matt Earle, if you, your friends and clients are going to be so bold as to openly act like alt right trolls online, then you should have the courage of your "convictions" and stand by your words, you pitiful piece of shriveled foreskin. 

These are definitely NOT "noble" enemies I'm dealing with here. More than enough is never enough for them.

They all scream free speech! Free speech! But they only want that free speech if it is for themselves because the moment I or anyone like me expresses an opinion they don't like, or satirize their clear-cut folly, we have sinister fucking people skulking around us in the cyber sludge.




As for me, now, for the love of progress and the fantasy of a civilized world, I'm going to have to keep "musing" about certain kinds of people and certain kinds of issues I originally was not really that interested in other than for the sake of amusement. However, thanks to clowns like Matt Earle and those he represents, my interest in what I formerly saw as a lark – a "lark" that had lost its appeal because my inner troll was overruled by my sense of guilt and humanity – has now been permanently piqued.

You will have to excuse me, then, while I go find some fresh fodder and let it percolate in the cauldron of my mind until the words are ready to re-assemble once more in their special way in due course, hopefully irritate another asshole who should, nay needs, to be irritated.




People always underestimate the underdog.


Thursday, September 21, 2017

The Privilege of Joan Kelley-Walker, World Vision Ambassador

One thing a cynic like me cannot get enough of is a hideously wealthy socialite bemoaning the ills of the world, ills for which she and her lifestyle are complicit. A woman who calls herself a humanitarian because her privilege enables her to be a Barbie Doll Savior, as well as write useless, tone-deaf pieces about starving children forced into slave labour. Fluff pieces with titles like: Canadian Consumers Shouldn’t Accept Child Labour In Their Products (source).

Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist ― George Carlin

When your name is Joan and you're married to a CEO as well-connected and compensated for as Don Walker, you can be, do and say whatever you want regardless of talent, merit, a solid understanding of the subject matter, or even decency. You can be a model, fashionista, writer, ambassador, an activist whose primary activity is preening behind a podium, reality TV actress, proselytizer for an evangelical organization, or have your body cosmetically mutilated so everyone can constantly prattle on about what a goddess you are. Whatever you desire, it's yours. 

The world is your oyster. And when you're done noisily slurping that down until well and satiated, likely before a desperate crowd of emaciated youngsters with outstretched hands, you can be entertained by those same youngsters as they literally sing for their scraps. Nothing like making a disadvantaged child "perform" so you look good and can feed your narcissistic impulses. You can then peer over the bowed heads of those same youngsters, dismiss their hunger pangs as the price of business, and admonish the rest of us for not doing enough.

After that, satisfied that you've fulfilled your self-appointed messianic duty without breaking a nail, you can leave the filthy urchins in their parched hell, and happily return to your paradise, a summer "cottage" in Muskoka.  



From there, amidst pleasing breezes and leisurely sunny days, you can lament how difficult it is for the "help" to find cheap luxury goods that still allow YOU the selfie-freedom to look at your own reflection without needing the false reassurance of a Magic Mirror. You and your deluded conscience can then sleep soundly at night without fear of being ambushed, unlike those for whom you claim to advocate.

Joan Kelley Walker, who according to an interview with ET Canada "went from humble beginnings to a life of luxury when she married multi-millionaire, Don Walker, the CEO of Magna", seems to have come to the conclusion that because she's been prenup'ed into the "rich man clan", her superficial ideas are something we all need to hear. 

It's as bad as Pamela Anderson's disingenuous road to Damascus moment.  After achieving fame and fortune from what basically amounts to a pornographic career, Anderson suddenly comes out at the age of nearly 50, with creepy Rabbi Shmuley of all men, to denounce the industry that secured her a name?  Decades later, well past her "best before date" and safely protected in a fortress of wealth and acclaim, she has the audacity to shame those who now have an unhealthy addiction to pornography in part because of people just like her?

I don't know about anyone else, but I've heard about enough hypocrisy from the cartoonishly augmented Pamelas and Joans of the world and their smarmy male "investors" jerking off in the shadows. Just because pustulating masses of oozing men wanted to fuck you when you were young and pliable, now in your comfortably delusional aging years you think we all need to sit down and hear your words? 

Even worse? People DO sit down and mindlessly stare at the Pamelas and Joans of the world, pretending to listen! 

No one has ANY IDEA what torture it is for me to exist on this intolerable planet.

An audience will stop and give attention to women who have made careers and marriages out of sexual objectification, not because of what these women say, but because of who they are and what they look like. 

They take advantage of a populace that is already conditioned to notice when those with celebrity or social status are in a room and have a mic.  The idea that their words inspire action beyond seeking out a plastic surgeon, going into debt, acquiring a sexually transmitted disease, or finding out that nothing can make you happy anyway is dubious at best.

That this type of "runway model" pseudo-activism effects any real long-term, structural change in the causes that sexbot types lend their names to is as probable as Kim Kardashian deflating her implants, shedding her fur, closing her Instagram account, surrendering her iPhone to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and donating everything she has to the Invisible Girl Project. In other words, I call bullshit.

Joan Walker can blather on all she wants about how "heartbreaking" it is for five year olds to be forced to work in dangerous jobs, or how they should be in school, but when one contemplates where HER wealth and privilege comes from, her chiding "humanitarianism" rings a smidge hollow. 

She writes that she has "little or no idea about the manufacturing chain a product passes through". Oh really? She must have some idea, or are trophy wives not allowed to talk to their husbands?  She is, after all, married to the CEO of an automotive multinational that takes advantage of the SAME dismal working conditions, slave wages, unregulated trade borders and injustice that, as she references, pushes "168 million children" into forced labour worldwide.  


Don Walker is opposed to raising minimum wages anywhere on the planet because he worries that if  too many people are able to feed themselves and improve their quality of life, there will not be enough left over to appease the financial appetites of a gluttonous few. Greed feeds off the suffering and desperation of the poor. They don't need your pity, Joan, they need people like you and your "friends" to stop sucking them dry of bone, blood, hope and life.

When Magna moves its operations to countries like China, India and Mexico because labour and production costs are so cheap that workers cannot even live on the pittance they are paid, someone has to pick up the slack in the name of survival.  Guess who that someone is?


The floating heads of privilege:
Don Walker,
anti-human rights activist
and first husband
of coddled heiress Belinda Stronach
It isn't greedy businessmen like Don Walker who are made rich beyond reason by the unethical practices of unfettered capitalism and a notorious lack of regard for basic human dignity and principles of fairness.  And it isn't "fainting fashionistas" with delicate sensibilities like second wife, Joan Walker. Oftentimes, it's, you guessed it, CHILDREN who have to pick up the slack. 

Advising people to malign and boycott products possibly made by those in survival mode is akin to handing a child a death sentence. If Joan Walker is serious about "making the world a better place", she might consider that charity, like peace, begins at home. You know, her homes, the ones bought with funds associated with the very globalization, offshoring, repression of workers' rights and below subsistence level wages that fuels economic inequality and pushes demand for the same child labour Joan feigns such concern about? 

Joan Kelley Walker is "certain" she "speaks for all Canadians"? Well, I'm Canadian and she definitely DOES NOT speak for me. Go fuck yourself, Joan.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Feral Cats and Dark Entities

I come home tonight and it’s like I’ve walked into the pages of a Stephen King novel. When I get out of my car, it is to the deafening sound of meowing, screeching cats on the ground and squawking crows in the air.



The scavenger crows harass the feral cats, or at least that’s how it appears, but the cats don’t care. They (the cats) are everywhere and are of various sizes, casually loitering about, hanging out with their friends, forming alliances and rivalries; a couple of them erupt into a cat fight while another pair starts copulating right then and there in the open. Disgusting. I hate cats.

“Get a room!”  I shrill as I trudge past them and across the street towards the 300-stair climb to my brother’s Psycho House on the mount where I've been staying, freaking myself out, as a "favor" to him while he's away.  Never trust emotionally incontinent people who ask you for favors.  It's a trap.

I always find myself in traps from which I must break free, live or die style. It's not easy. I have many scars.

But "goodie" for me, while I might be maimed, I'm still here.  The universe can continue amusing itself at my expense.

And that is exactly what happens next when a scraggly looking man, who evidently heard me yell at the cats, lops by carrying an unopened case of Lucky beer. He's wearing shorts that show off his prosthetic leg and when he sees me looking, screams, “YOU get a room!!”

It makes no sense for him to say that I should get room, so I holler back, “Really?”

I am a wizard of witty replies.

“You want a piece of me?!!” he immediately spits back even though it’s a ridiculous thing to say, especially given the present context. Is he kidding? No he is not.  Is he drunk? Probably. Surely, though, he's not going to continue this, I think. He must want to get to where he's going and crack open that case of beer, as if he needs any more.  But no. Lucky-beer-guy-with-the-missing-leg wants to persist with this altercation I’ve inadvertently started. Why are people so confrontational everywhere I go? I hate cats. I hate drunks. I hate confrontation. It's everywhere. And people wonder why I avoid them.

Only a few meters separate us by this point, but although he does slow his pace and keeps turning back to glare at me, he doesn't actually stop, which I take as a good sign.  I pick up my own pace and continue to cross the street. It’s absurd he's decided I've told him to get a room for no apparent reason! I don’t want him going around with such an absurdity in his head, so I call out, “Take it easy! I wasn’t talking to you – I was talking to the CATS!”

I can’t quite make out his reply, but I suspect he calls me a “crazy bitch cat woman” or some variation of same.

Oh my god.

I DO NOT want to be thought of as a crazy cat lady. I don’t even like cats.  As I've said, I hate them.

“They’re not my cats!!” I yell a little too desperately.

But it’s futile. He’s lost interest and keeps going, disappearing into the bowels of the darkening street with the erroneous notion now embedded in his worldview that I’m some crazy cat lady who inexplicitly thought he should get a room.  I do not like this turn of events at all. Not at all. I feel unsettled now and fight the urge to run after him in an attempt to clear up this horrible misunderstanding.

As for the cats, they are oblivious to all this unfortunate human drama their existence has caused. They wander aimlessly in the middle of the road; some block the sidewalk and others trespass on people's lawns. They do and go where ever the hell they please. There are so many of these cats - some of them alarmingly huge tomcats - that I feel like I'm in danger of being jumped by a gang of them.  I tell them to "shoo! shoo!" but they ignore me. They're not afraid of me. They are afraid of NO ONE.



I however have spent enough time thinking about these cats and it’s gotten dark.  I just want to end this day. So I race up the stairs and when I finally reach the front door I have to stop to catch my breath. As I do, the door creaks open, as if someone has pulled it open, but no one is there. It gives me an eerie feeling made all the more eerie when I walk into the dimly lit, quiet house, save for a ticking clock and running toilet.

I turn on the light only to discover, much to my surprise, that my children, the dog and my ex-husband, all of whom should be here, have probably been abducted by aliens (my ex-husband, who might as well NOT be my ex-husband since he's always around annoying the fuck out of me. I've been trying to rid myself of him since I was a teenager, but there seems to be some sort of invisible chain that keeps him forever attached to my wings, weighing me down. Also, we procreated so even if I could figure out how to sever the chain, it wouldn't matter. The children make that just impossible and my first loyalty is always to them. They like him no matter what he does or does not do. It's infuriating. But there's some stupid unspoken rule that says I'm not allowed to badmouth him in case the kids find out which is why I'm doing it here. I don't know who made this rule up. The universe has a sick sense of humor and one day has some explaining to do).

As for the suspected alien abduction, the evidence is everywhere.

You’d have to be a FOOL not to suspect alien abduction here.  It looks as though everyone has vanished into thin air amidst doing normal evening activities. They were taken in mid-sentence, mid-feeding-the-dog, mid-eating-supper, mid-brush, and in mid-picking-up-the-wet-bath-towel-you-dropped-on-the-kitchen-floor-because-who-DOESN'T-get-ready-for-bed-in-the-kitchen?

There are discarded, unattended, undone, unwashed, untidy items all over the place; nothing is where it should be and the lack of human sounds is making me think my thoughts of possible alien abduction might not be so far-fetched after all.

Then I hear a noise, a kind of rustling behind me, and as I turn to look, I’m startled by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

I jump and whirl around, fully expecting to see a big-headed alien with huge black sockets for eyeballs staring back at me, peering into my soul.

But it’s not an alien. It’s something much, much worse.

It’s a cat.

It’s one of those frigg’in tomcats from the street, nonchalantly strolling right on into the house as if it owns the joint. I gape at the thing in paralyzed disbelief as if it’s, well, an alien. It meows at me, yawns, sashays about the living room, basically shrugs its shoulders before deciding there is nothing worthwhile here and leaves out the door it came through. The same door that only moments before had been slammed shut. The door is obviously possessed.

What’s next in this creepy place? The crows? The door, the evil door, will let a murder of them swarm in like a colony of minion bats. They'll overtake me completely, whisking me away to the alien ship where I'm sure they are about to probe John because they too find him exceedingly annoying. We'll make a bargain. The aliens can keep John for their experiments if they release the kids back to me. It turns out the aliens, while disturbing to look at, are reasonable beings, open to negotiation and diplomacy, and are willing to take the deal.

Then Lala lives happily ever after...there's definitively a maid somewhere in this story. A well-paid maid, but a maid nevertheless. There are no drunks. No confrontations. There are no cats. There are no ex-husbands and there are no emotionally incontinent brothers. All the bad fathers have been destroyed and what annoying people do remain suddenly vanish like vapor. Then? Bliss.

The end.

Monday, August 28, 2017

The Vegetarian who ate Organic Chicken

Sunflower was a vegetarian who ate organic chicken. She did not see any problem with this obvious contradiction, but her roommate, Jennifer, did: “But Susan, you can’t call yourself a vegetarian if you eat meat!”

Sunflower ignored Jennifer and continued slicing into a thigh.

“Oh, right,” Jennifer rolled her eyes when she realized her mistake, “Sunflower?”

Susan had changed her name to Sunflower in recent months and Jennifer was not yet accustomed to the switch.  They had been life-long friends  or age-old foes depending on the season  and it's no easy feat for anyone, no matter how how well-meaning or open-minded, to weed out deeply ingrained biases or readjust deterministic linguistic habits.  



It was therefore understandable that Jennifer would have trouble keeping Susan's new name straight. 

Susan did not see it that way. 

Though a self-identified empath with an open third eye and a dogeared copy of The Celestine Prophesy on her nightstand, Susan was not, in practice, sensitive to the struggles of another or to viewpoints she herself did not share. 

As an unsympathetic empath, then, Susan tended to be openly hostile towards anyone who did not refer to her as Sunflower, even if the "ignorant" person genuinely did not know she had changed her name.

It would appear in the current context, however, that Susan was foregoing her usual hostility in exchange for another tried and true tactic of those with a superiority complex who can't handle having their illusions questioned or opinions challenged: Pretend the "offending" person does not exist.

Susan, though, having never really possessed the courage of her convictions, could not keep up the pretense for long. The second Jennifer addressed her in the desired way, she (Susan) immediately slammed down the cleaver she'd been using to delicately slice the chicken, assumed a tight smile, took a deep breath and cheerfully exclaimed, "Jen! I didn't see you come in! Did you say something?"

But of course Susan knew perfectly well what Jennifer had said and before Jennifer could repeat herself, the cheerfulness drained from Susan's voice and she snapped, “It’s organic!” as if the word “organic” granted meat a pardon from not being a vegetable.

“And another thing!", Sunflower continued, quickly working herself up into a rant, "I don’t want YOU or ANY of your friends touching my organic chicken! If you touch any of my stuff I’ll call the police!”

Susan (or Sunflower) appeared to be wilting under the strain of trying to be something she was not. But rather than consider the roots of her hypocrisy or give Jennifer a chance to speak, Sunflower angrily lit one of her organic cigarettes and with a dramatic swoosh of her bohemian skirt, stormed out of the kitchen, bumping into Judith along the way. “Judith!" she screamed, "you’re always in the way!!”

Judith was an antique armoire Sunflower had found at a flea market.

Sunflower named all her material possessions. Every person, object and thing in the universe, inorganic, organic or otherwise, was on its own spiritual path to enlightenment, she claimed, and deserved a name that captured its true essence. As for Sunflower and her chosen rechristening, like most ideologically-driven people, she did not heed her own rhetoric and no more resembled a sunny flower than she did a vegetarian or a non-smoker.

In view of this most recent manifestation of Sunflower's aggression and volatility, Jennifer realized that her "friend" might truly be dangerous and for the sake of safety, decided to do as Sunflower demanded and not touch anything that belonged to the crazy woman. Jennifer further decided then and there that she would keep her distance until she could find her own apartment.

Still, it's difficult to find your own apartment when there is a shortage of affordable housing.  It's also difficult to keep one's distance when living in the same space, and as the weeks passed and the stress of trying to remain civil to an uncivil person wore on, Jennifer’s resentment towards Sunflower grew. 

It grew each time she opened the fridge and noted the partially-picked at, soon to start rotting carcass of Sunflower's organic chicken. It grew every time she eyed Sunflower’s unwashed dishes sitting by the sink, or smelled the stench of organic cigarette butts left smoldering in ashtrays all over the house. It grew with each new layer of Judith’s accumulating dust and the resulting sneezing fit Jennifer invariably launched into every time she walked by the armoire. But it grew the strongest whenever she overheard Sunflower misuse the word "organic".

Eventually, Jennifer's simmering resentment intensified to such a degree that she could stand it no longer. In a cleaning frenzy, she attacked the kitchen with a mop, Pine-Sol and dish soap. She threw the chicken carcass and its container into a trash bag, noting that it wasn’t even organic. It was an ordinary rotisserie bird bought on sale at the independent supermarket.

Sunflower was ENRAGED when she later discovered what Jennifer had done and promptly called 911.

“I need to report a crime!” she shrilled into the phone, but stopped mid-sentence when she noticed Judith standing there, gleaming and dust-free.

Hyperventilating, still with the phone to her ear, she yelled at Jennifer in disbelief, ”What did you DO TO JUDITH?? YOU ASSAULTED her!! How DARE you!!!”


The police arrived shortly thereafter. They had received a call about an altercation involving a housecleaning incident, a chicken, a sunflower, two victims named Judith and Jennifer, and one assailant wielding a sawed-off broomstick.

In the mayhem and confusion that ensued, Sunflower, whose name as it turned out had not been legally changed, was taken away in handcuffs for later psychiatric evaluation.  Jennifer was checked over for any injuries and though shaken was deemed fine. She said she was just happy she wouldn't have to live with Susan any more and did not want to pursue criminal charges.

Judith was not available for comment.

Friday, May 12, 2017

Final Absurdities of The Real Housewives of Toronto

The Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode Ten, Season Finale

As it began so it ends: Dumb, dishonest, petty and dull, albeit with a dash of the absurd, as well as an elephant thrown in for good measure. It was only the promise of this absurdity in addition to my curiosity regarding the shady men lurking in the periphery that kept me going until the bitter end. 



And lo and behold, just as predicted, what do I notice "lurking in the periphery" like a psycho stalking his next set of female organs? Brett Wilson. He's desperate to fill his "buckets" with as many penetrable body parts as he possibly can before his erectile dysfunction is permanently medication-resistant and castration becomes his last remaining option. 


Look at him. Weasel. 
Casual hookups, "blind" dates with "professional matchmakers", entrepreneurial "proteges", private gatherings stocked with sushi girls in any location renowned for male-friendly "tourism", whether the Philippines, Dubai or the Virgin Islands, are all well and fine, but there's nothing quite like a conveyor belt of home-grown malleable young models to coax a penile response. 

The added incentive for Wilson in the context of The Real Housewives of Toronto is that he can be involved with yet another reality TV show, which he loves reality TV. 

But perhaps I'm wrong and he's merely hanging out with his cohort. 


It's possible he does not in fact have anything to do with the financing and production of The Real Housewives of Toronto. It's possible he never intentionally set out to undermine the hard-won gains of feminism by introducing yet another demeaning depiction of women into the male-controlled entertainment sphere.

It's possible this old, spongy white dude, this shriveled Mr. Potato Head, past his physical prime, who despite faulty plumbing still carries a reputation for being a male slut with presumably a venereal disease, never consciously intended to facilitate the end of civilization via the dumbing influence of sensationalized "reality". Perhaps he merely "stumbled" into the private party of a pair of wealthy swingers who "happened" to be filming the final episode of a TV show he's been associated with in the past? Maybe he really isn't a narcissistic sociopath stalking the parties of the rich and ridiculous and his presence on screen, being rich and ridiculous himself, is simply a coincidence.


“Fictions are necessary for the people, and the Truth becomes deadly to those who are not strong enough to contemplate it in all its brilliance. In fact, what can there be in common between the vile multitude and sublime wisdom? The Truth must be kept secret, and the masses need a teaching proportional to their imperfect reason.” ― Albert Pike

While there does exist a compelling theory within social science that draws a link between psychopathy and an engineering degree, Wilson is an "engineer", who by his own account, barely made it through school and never really used his degree in any direct manner anyway. His worldly accomplishments therefore are more likely attributed, not to the methodically carried out machinations of a psychopath, but to the luck of white male privilege, a socioeconomic climate made ripe for harvest by those who came before him, and the genetic happenstance ambitions of an Olds and Milner's rat driven to succeed. 

And while it's also possible a climate science skeptic (denialist, same thing) with a BLATANT conflict of interest, who struck it rich through oil and gas and the very practices climate science has shown are wreaking havoc on the planet, has integrity operating beneath his smug facade, it's un-fucking-likely. If ever there was an archetype of a douchebag Brett Wilson is it.





Besides, it's hard (oops) to fathom a man THIS stupidly egocentric, who spouts cringe-worthy cliches about failure not being failure when he's the one doing the failing, or how success is determined not by the size of his wallet but by the size of his smile (gag, also not true), and who dresses like a mental patient who escaped the asylum only to find himself wandering the aisles of Value Village, has ANY awareness whatsoever outside his own immediate concerns and carnal urges. Look at him. What an asshole. He looks like a parody of Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos.


Brett Wilson's doppelganger, TV gangster, Tony Sirico (Paulie)
An arrogant bug is a cocky roach.


Then again, he does quote Albert Pike (1809-1891) in his terrible book, Redefining Success, Still Making Mistakes. If Albert Pike, a Freemason and purported Satanist involved with the occult and whose writings are considered a blueprint for the "new world order" is one of Wilson's dogmatic sources, then "calculating psychopath" is still within the realm of possibility. If that is indeed the case, then his disguise as a pompous fool and embarrassing clown is nothing short of genius.  You play your role well, psycho.


Quoted by Wilson in Redefining Success, page 12.


The true evil intent of Albert Pike.
But putting aside the satisfying feeling of being right about Brett Wilson on some level, how do the kind of people we see portrayed on the Real Housewives of Toronto as well as the fawning multitudes who inevitably flock around them not see how utterly absurd they look, or how despicable their extravagances are in a world teeming with so much poverty and suffering? 


There is no beauty in the finest cloth if it makes hunger and unhappiness ~ Mahatma Gandhi
We're all supposed to be SO impressed, in such awe, of rich people and their fucked up obsession with fashion. They act as if the designs are THEIR designs! They do the same thing with the arts. They collect, display and wear other people's work and then call it their own as if they literally did the creating. It's a fine, easily blurred line between patronage and thievery, and the wealthy have no problem crossing that line.

“If it were not for the intellectual snobs who pay - in solid cash - the tribute which philistinism owes to culture, the arts would perish with their starving practitioners. Let us thank heaven for hypocrisy.” ― Aldous Huxley

They also have no problem flaunting their wealth, their "conspicuous consumption", with seemingly no regard for the planet their reckless living impacts. With respect to fashion specifically, it's difficult to watch the masquerading women and men of The Real Housewives without thinking of the environmental damage associated with the clothing industry. It's also difficult to not think of the inhumane working conditions and mental health problems attached to the fashion trade, whether we're talking teen models starved and treated like branded cattle in a slaughterhouse, the eating disorders, body dysmorphia and sexual objectification intimately tied to commercialized fashion, or the slave wages of factory workers in impoverished countries with dismal human rights track records. 



I'm not against culture and the arts, prosperity, progress or freedom of expression, but I am against injustice, cruelty and the indifference of those who could do something substantial to change the plight of the poor, sick, hurt and oppressed, but choose not to because they've decided outside the exclusive privilege they enjoy, the state of the world has nothing to do with them.  They seem to have come to the delusional conclusion that they are a superior race of self-generating aliens from another galaxy, here on Earth merely as tourists.

I am also against the massive imbalance of power and wealth caused by the corruption, inhumanity and unregulated capitalist greed of these privileged few who arrogantly think they created themselves, and who use their appropriated power to further rig the game in their favor, at the expense of an anguished, disempowered many. 

I'm against the idolization of flawed mortals. And I'm against applauding their grandiose displays of obscene riches, while immediately outside their golden gates, languishing below their gilded cages, disadvantaged human beings writhe in pain and struggle in vain as they fight to survive.



Then UNBELIEVABLY, the second people who have too much money, such as Joan and Don Walker or whipping boy, Brett Wilson, decide to adopt the prestigious title of "philanthropist" and huck some resources at the very suffering and inequality they're responsible for creating and maintaining in the first place, we're all expected to be pathetically ingratiating and deferential towards them?? 




Constantly exalting the filthy rich for giving back to the world that made their atrocious accumulation of wealth possible in the first place is as ludicrous as constantly praising divorced fathers for paying child support. These are moral imperatives. They SHOULD be giving back without expecting anything in return. They already have SO MUCH. It's not good for ANY human soul to be so fucking greedy, or for ANY ego to be stroked so vigorously and so ceaselessly. Nothing should be stroked that hard.

The fatuous posturing and eccentric habits of the privileged and well-to-do, as if they've jumped straight out of the pages of The Hunger Games, wouldn't bother me to the degree it does if there wasn't just SO MUCH human misery surrounding them that they could actually do something structurally significant to change. 

If there wasn't all this desperate need and injustice in the world, I'd feel the same way about the extravagant lifestyles of the rich and famous as I do about tattoos, cartoonish breast implants that transform women into bimbo caricatures, "open" relationships, Pajama People, flaky New Age trends, placenta pills and religious fundamentalism: I'd never submit to these lifestyle choices and belief systems, but "whatever" if someone else does. Other than being curious about these things, I don't care. I might not get it, but to each his or her own. 




However, it isn't quite the case, is it, that the rich are simply living frivolous, materialistic lives that have no detrimental, oppressive effects on anyone else. They live the way they do, hoarding wealth, totally indifferent (other than for the purposes of their self-serving philanthropy and marketing ploys), and almost downright contemptuous of the poorer masses, because they're addicted to the power, illicit temptations, luxuries and unending adulation that comes with their affluence. 

They don't really want to do anything to alleviate suffering or elevate the oppressed into an improved state of being because that wouldn't serve their superiority complex or feed their lust for power. They don't really care about anyone else. They want an inferior, peasant class that stays desperate and hungry because it keeps THEM rich, powerful and exalted with all the "perks" that entails.


They like feeling superior, feeling like gods and goddesses, kings and queens. They like believing they're above the rest of us, either by divine decree or meritorious "hard work". And they like the idea that others are inferior because they're meant to be inferior. In other words, they like oppression and they like believing those who are oppressed somehow deserve their oppression.

With regards to their addiction to the constant praise that comes with status, how often do we hear the women of any of the Real Housewives franchises being greeted with how "amazing" they look, or how "beautiful" they are, or how they are "goddesses"? It's nauseating. 

It's as nauseating as watching Roxy in action with her impossible to hide envy and malice, despite her "reputation management" team's best efforts to spin it. Her micro-expressions, body language and the contradiction between what is said and what is done don't lie. 

If you want to know what makes a person tick, you have to ignore the superficial things they, their friends, family, acquaintances or the people they employ say. I mean, other than what the superficiality itself says about them.

Envy is a littleness of soul, which cannot see beyond a certain point, and if it does not occupy the whole space, feels itself excluded ~ William Hazlitt
You have to ignore the platitudes they regurgitate and you can't be bamboozled by their status, material success, physical beauty, credentials or the impressive people they claim as friends. You have to keep your mind flexible and pay attention to the minutia, the details. Absolutely everything in life, no matter how seemingly trivial, is endowed with some meaning, some clue that can help you reveal hidden truths, illuminate concealed miracles and expose otherwise cleverly disguised lies, if you have the eye for it. 

Not everyone does have or want this "eye" however, and who can blame them? Once you start peering beneath the surface into the darker depths of human nature it can be downright debilitating from a mental health standpoint. You run the risk of spending too much time ruminating on the depressing idea that there is something alarmingly wrong with humanity when it seems so willing to worship the rich, overlooking their more dismal behaviors and cruelties, while at the same time letting the meek, the unknown, the poor and the abused rot in some garbage dump, or be used as nothing but cheap labour and objects of sexual assault.

Case in point, Magna, of which Don Walker is the CEO, opens assembly plant after assembly plant in Mexico because slave wages, trade union suppression, lack of workers' rights or even basic respect for human dignity, as well as unenforced government regulations and unrestricted trading borders keep costs of labour and production low enough to enable the Donalds of the world multi-million dollar compensations.  This then puts the Joans of the world in the "envious" position of being able to throw elaborate parties on a whim, so they can show off their privilege and material trinkets on television to much acclaim and devotion. Essentially, the rich FEED off the poor like fucking leeches.


But who wants to think about that? Who, other than maybe a few who reject the banality of the "positivity movement", want to think about all the "negativity" involved with the social ills of the world? Why do that when we can watch "goddesses", Ann Kaplan and Joan Walker, distract themselves with shopping for golden elephants and giant lip-shaped chaise loungers? 




Or when we can listen in on Jana Webb and Roxy Earle as they maliciously (and gleefully) gossip yet AGAIN about Kara Alloway? And then in turn observe Ann and Kara hash out the details of the same piece of gossip, albeit from a different angle, that Jana and Roxy were just digging into?


Jana and Roxy meet up to verbally "rip apart" Kara Alloway yet again, Jana stating, "I'm scared she's going to rip me apart and I'm going to be a rug on her floor". She's afraid?? THEY are the ones ripping apart Kara! Unbelievable. The always hateful, jealous Roxy disagrees and snaps, "Let's be clear, this is not an intimidating person. She's not important". Well, dummies, that turned out to be patently untrue, didn't it? You ALL made Kara Alloway THE MOST IMPORTANT focal point of the ENTIRE first season (and I imagine last) of The Real Housewives of Toronto. Then, unbelievably again after spending the whole segement trash talking Kara, Jana ends it by saying, "You know what? Let's stop talking about it, it's so negative". A LITTLE LATE for that, oh great Yogi of Bimbo!! Good god!
Why would we think about depressing Mexican factory workers far removed from "The True North, Strong and Free", who are paid a pittance and used like workhorses, when we can watch Don ogle the fake tits of some chick straddling his (I assume) Harley amidst the opulence of a "condo" that's more like a castle than a condo? Why would we?


The wandering eye of a filthy rich man always finds a pair of tits to land on. Where the eye goes, the dick is sure to follow. Sorry, Joan, your husband's a dog. But I'm sure you knew that. Oh well, you have the diamond.
And that OUTLANDISH vow renewal circus?! What the? I already had the Capitol citizens from the Hunger Games, with their bizarre getups and mindless indulgences, in my head from Joan's earlier fashion show, but Ann and Stevie's wedding ceremony clinched it. Holy shit. The inanity! The phoniness! The vanity! The self-exaltation! The senseless waste of money! 


We live increasingly in a world of haves and have-nots, of gated communities next to ghettos, of extreme poverty and unbelievable riches. Some enjoy rights that are completely denied to others. Relative inequalities are exploding, and the world's poorest, despite all the advances of globalisation, may even be getting poorer ~ Noreena Hertz
Meanwhile, there's an affordable housing crisis in Toronto, a city dubbed Canada's inequality capital and home to one of the largest wealth gaps on the planet. The shelters overflow and food banks cannot keep up with the demand. Untreated mental illness, addiction and human trafficking loiter the streets, sleep under cardboard or hide in the shadows, forced there by either those who are exploiting them or by a society that doesn't want to look at them.


Ann Kaplan and Joan Walker compare diamonds, their status symbols. They are status symbols that are stained with blood and infused with the stench of pollution, but they don't care. They can go shopping!
A society that doesn't care, where the bulk of the wealth stays at the tip of the pyramid, separated from the woes of this ugly world like a highly selective blood-brain barrier. The barrier is there to prevent foreign, harmful substances found in the blood from entering the brain. But the rich are living an illusion if they think they are the impenetrable brains of the operation. Their barriers aren't omnipotent and eventually something unwanted always seeps through, everything suffers, everyone dies, the pyramid crumbles and the capstone falls.



The self-glorifying rich, the sadistic, the corrupt and those with merciless ambition who abuse, ignore and exploit the poor, the gullible and the victims of this world will return to dust. They will meet their fate. The law of karma will prevail, whether in this life or the next.

Or at least that's what peasants like me tell each other. It makes us feel better about our marginalized existence, but really? Leonard Cohen was right:

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

I originally ended this blog with ill will, encouraging, Jana, for example, to perform Joga "tricks" until she developed an unsightly rash and itched so badly that her hair fell out by its bleached roots. But then I heard she'd been involved in a near-fatal head-on collision not long after The Real Housewives of Toronto finished taping, resulting in a long, painful recovery period. So I guess I'll take back my unkind "encouragement" and wish her well.

I also suggested Joan should down another bottle of wine and rip off another pair of panties until she projectile-vomited and a bacterial infection took over her urinary tract, but now that seems a little mean. So I'll take that back too and wish her the best of luck with Donald and his wandering eye. She's going to need it.

I furthermore thought Grego should yelp out another yahoo! until her voice became so hoarse that she croaked like a fucking toad. I told Ann to go ahead and inject some more filler into her face until her transformation into an unrecognizable mutant socialite good only for terrifying small children was complete. I thought Roxy could indulge to her gluttonous heart's content until her vanity and greed ballooned so far beyond the confines of her skull that her head blew up. However, I take it all back. May their futures be glaringly bright and blindingly illuminating.

But the shady men "lurking in the periphery"? My only wish for them is that they one day get everything they deserve.

The end.

Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 1: Dumb, Plastic and Sleazy
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 2: Boring Housewives and Ugly Husbands
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 3: The Polished Real Housewives of Toronto
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 4: The Slut Shame
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 5: Amazing Reality TV Stars
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 6: Infomercials and Friends in High Places
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 7: Social Suicide: Game of Thrones to the Rescue
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 8: Curious incuriosity
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 9: Denials, Dragons and Dummies
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 10, Season Finale: Final Absurdities