Winterpegers, I am your Lord Musum. Have Fear. Have great fear

Oh you contemptuous Winterpegers. Behold your god! You are bad people, ignoring me. Your media criers don't give a rat's behind about the magnanimity I bestowed upon you when I came to your mosquito ravaged megalopolis to instill my splendour in your newfangled ziggurat.

I don't trust the underpinnings of this pile of rock and steel though. Building a monument to last for millennia on the mud of 7000 floods? You guys got lots to learn. You think that the little ditch that Duff built is going to save your fancy chancy architecture from those yearly once in a millennium floods come the great warming and all?

You build it, we will come, us gods, nonetheless. I chanced to be cruising about with the emanation of Justin the Bieber, listening to some girly tunes, when low and behold we happened upon your ziggurat, pinnacle in the heavens. Well, gracious me, gods can not pass up opportunities like this. A ziggurat in the 21^st century CE. What a sweet surprise. A home for a god. But in mosquito heaven? Well, I packed up my bags and said a hasty farewell to my chums and off I stole in the middle of the night to slap the claims on your neat establishment as a godly ghost, forever to wander it's great halls and play havoc with your super screens. And this plastic remote is really neat compared with my normal crooked staff.

Oh chemical man, gods laugh at your own undoings. You have etched joy into the hearts of us more wicked types. Nanna is up to his armpits in nostalgia for the good old days when chariots with torches of fire where the worst he had to deal with in his bid to tame mankind. And these humane rights you have chiseled by my rostrum here: everyone is entitled to live once they are created and everyone is entitled to do anything they want to so long as it doesn't conflict with the above. Ya, right. You were created to indulge the gods, nothing more and nothing less.

People! Please! Do you not know that gods must be honoured, cajoled, appeased, humoured? Your culture must be enlightened. If you wish to build a ziggurat, you will attract a god. And you must provide him with food and drink and song and lewd dance or there will be trouble! Your science knows twat about the intricacies of the etherverse.

Now, as starters, I am going to provide you with some subliminal messages on these vast surround screens. As your school children file through these capacious halls I will subject them to an assortment of hints and prods to get them all shamelessly singing and dancing for my amusement. For the more nocturnal sort it's dreadfully easy to unwittingly trigger those hormones with a few flicks to get the party rolling. A little feast and some good booze and the unrestrained lasciviousness will quench my desires. We'll get this scene arockin.

When I am imbued with the terrifying splendour of royalty, your Lord Musum shining like the sun, when I am allowed to perfectly wield my august divine powers, the great divine powers, when I am cloaked as if with a mantle in the great awesomeness of royalty - then I will come forth in brilliance like the shining moon soliciting on your behalf with the Bart of Heaven for protection from the yearly floods and hoards of ensuing mosquitoes.

Till you honour me with your thoughts and prayers and above all the lewd dance, oh peoples of Winterpeg, be very, very afraid. Pestilence from every critter and scourge of nature will ravage your lives until you come crawling up the ramparts of my ziggurat, prostrating yourselves before my resplendency. Have fear, have great fear.

A supplication for the Lord Musum of Winterpeg

Translators note: A literal translation of a manuscript found in a bottle buried in the mud of the ancient banks of the River Red. This document is believed to be from shortly before the great warming, 4400 years ago. This find is of great significance as most of the literature from this era of the chemical man which was stored on charged disks has been lost due to the magnetic storms which accompanied the great reversing of the earth's magnetic field circa 2073 CE. It hints at a return to polytheistic views, which became prevalent as the chemical age came to a mortiferous halt.

Oh venerable Lord Musum, may you confirm your royal position by taking your seat in the ziggurat, on the lofty rostrum on the muddy banks of the River Red! May you strengthen the foundations of your throne by grasping the remote control of your lordship! May you bring to perfect completion the princely divine powers by inspiring awe in the holy place, the pure place! When you surf on the wide screens in the holy royal rostrum, may you lift your head high in a lordly manner!

When you are imbued with the terrifying splendour of royalty, Lord Musum shining like the sun, when you perfectly wield the august divine powers, the great divine powers, may you be cloaked as if with a mantle in the great awesomeness of royalty! When you come forth in brilliance like the shining day, may the Governance of Canada determine a great destiny for you! When you appear like a drone over the Land, may the great prince, the Pied Piper Harper pray on your behalf in his overflowing heart!

May your headdress sparkle over the land like Black Gold, oh Lord Musum! May your remote correctly guide the numerous people! May the Supreme Court of Canada let you control the living beings! With your remote control may you lead Winterpeg of Manitou as if you were their mother and father! May the widespread people, the people whom you have united, pray to you as you shine like the Bart of Heaven! May you be the god of the foreign lands that are settled together!

Oh venerable Lord Musum, may you manifest yourself in the jurisprudence set before your alter, the Three Inalienable Rights chiseled in rock by John the Locke, our father of enlightenment, in the vast and empty void before the ethernet:

• Everyone is entitled to live once they are created.
• Everyone is entitled to do anything they want to so long as it doesn't conflict with the first right.
• Everyone is entitled to own all they create or gain through gift or trade so long as it doesn't conflict with the first two rights.

May your fingers frolic in delight at the dazzle their rendering unheralds on your majestic screens as your patrons are befuddled with the simplicity bestowed on their day to day goings-on.

When you come forth like an gushing oil well, joy overwhelming your rapturous proselytes, and their gaze is fixed as if on their own parents, when you feed them lavishly, may their sentience sweeten your acrimony! When you generously give them drink, may they frenziedly please you with lewd song and dance, the nāru and the zammeru! May the pizzazzanly-headed people in the mosquito ridden quagmire inundating the mouth of the River Red cool themselves in your shade! May your shepherd ship, guided by your visceral remote, deliver the stranded multitudes in the yearly overflowing River Red from their rooftops to partake in the lascivious appeasements on your behalf.

May Lord Musum be praised! May your royal ziggurat be forever stable! May you surf in ecstasy! May you be honoured unceasingly! May you shine with the luminance of Black Gold! Oh Lord Musum, my king!

The Real Canadian Super Enquiry

It's tough to say whether an enquiry into the murdered and missing aboriginal women in Canada would achieve any lessening of this wound which our country has. It is obvious to anyone who has eyes and ears that we have a formidable amount of what we call discrimination towards the Métis and aboriginal people, and others as well, including those blessed Mennonites even though many vote conservative.

I am a snowball, my wife is Métis. Her three boys, obviously Métis, were around their early teens when I first met them. They were in foster care. My wife grew up in foster care from the age of three, her mother was an alcoholic, she never met her father. All these people in my life hurt, from the past and from the present, they didn't need a res school for that. The boys are grown men now, gangs have taken their toll on two, the other has persevered although scars remain. My wife and I live in Winnipeg's West End, one place where we can walk hand in hand unvexing to the majority of it's inhabitants. We just want to live in peace, humour is our sustenance.

All cultures in our world have a hard time welcoming other cultures into their midst. It is part of a culture's armour to frown on infringers. So what do we do? People have become more mobile and infringers have become commonplace in every land. The experiment with apartheid does not work, unless tyranny is the desired outcome with it's characteristic rebellions. Areas like our West End have diversity and for much of the population the respect needed to get along, however we also attract an element which causes us to have one of the highest crime rates in Canada. One of the murdered women was found within eyesight of our window, and the Red River is a short walk away.

(As far as short walks goes, the Canadian Museum for Human Rights needs a huge set of flashing red lights on it's citadel. Please someone, warn Transport Canada. That thing is a menace to Police Force One as it circles our hood.)

Different cultures have differing views and values. The obvious solution to living together is for cultures to embrace each other and value the positives they each bring to making our mother earth a good place, while cessating on the ideals which have negative impacts. This does mean we all have to temper our tenets, which is not human nature. Enquiries recommendations have a way of being ignored or at best being halfheartedly implemented. The great ideological revolutions of our civilizations have come about slowly and bereft of enquiries. The transformation of our cultures ideals into those where we embrace each other will take hundreds of years, if ever, we learn from history.

Is it time for Canadians to have an enquiry into enquiries? Enquiries, those portholes into the workings of our society. We could enquire into the economic strategies, the religious backdrops to our values, on how to regard our foreign neighbours, on whether it's polite to eat with our fingers. You know, an enquiry on just exactly what the hell we're doing here. It wouldn't need to come up with any recommendations, just open up a debate and get people thinking. Much like the ideals of our Canadian Museum for Human Rights, huge flashing red lights or not.

That one trip enquiry tour, The Real Canadian Super Enquiry, fathoming the depths of our existence, our future role on this good earth. An enquiry utilizing the most efficient commissary model of our era. We could find out everything we need to know and save tax payers billions in the upcoming years. Seriously, we need to ask some deep questions, and our aboriginal cultures had and still have some pretty darn good views. Would an Enquiry into the Murdered and Missing Aboriginal Women of our country delve into the depths, or would it be a superficial, ideological eschewal?

My sweety

I get a little frustrated and much annoyed with my sweety at times. This woman who was vibrant and independent only short years ago now comes and parks herself in my face as soon as I stir in the morning and does increasingly annoying things if I ignore her even just a little. She has dementia, to the point where she changes the calender to the next month every day because it's a new something in her mind. When you become a full time caregiver to someone you care deeply about it changes your life. In many ways you put your life on hold, for how long? For the foreseeable future at least, and you don't want to think of the beyond that time anyhow. I am not always up to the task, 24 hours a day. There, I said it.

Dementia is a strange disease to behold. The mind does not quit working, it just works differently. Short term memory loss is just part of it, and even that is inconsistent. If something makes an emotional impact whether funny or scary or whatever, it can be remembered very well, for a few days at least - emotional things must be remembered by our brains at a different level than humdrum things. My wife used to enjoy watching television and that has really tapered off, it's often on the weather channel now, she likes the music. I think the reason is that the commercials are too distracting from the program to remember what was on three minutes ago and the programs get lost in the fog. Reruns from years ago seem to be easier to follow because her brain still makes a connection with things remembered from the past, although even that is waning.

Emotional things, such as a normally minor problem one of our children may have, can become an all consuming topic for a day or two till it loses relevance to the daily routines. You become torn between involving her in the conversation or isolating her from the idiosyncrasies of life, because it's just too hard to deal with the gloom in her mind surrounding these incidents, and the endless phone calls which the other party has a hard time comprehending.

I have a sense of humour, albeit sometimes weird, and I can sit and chuckle to myself in most circumstances by viewing the world from a less than morbid perspective. It usually carries over to my dealings and conversations with others, and often I can lighten the mood in our home with a little tomfoolery, but sometimes the depression that invades her mind is too deep and she just gets angry that I'm making light of the world. Those bootstraps just don't lift us over the murky waters. The only thing that works is to change the environment, take her for a ride. She loves Chinese food. She enjoys eating in a park. As soon as I mention a diversion she lights up, problem is it has to be right now, immediate gratification. So you become very careful about mentioning plans for later in the day at 9 am. I learned this lesson well from a teacher with dreadfully smart mind, a dementia crazed genius. Matching wits, I don't often win, especially when it's with no holds barred from the other side.

There's 'stories' she tells me too. “There was a knock at the door when you where away. They called me by my given name,” (which no one knows except for the legal guys). So you become detective. Did someone find a piece of our discarded mail, and knowing I was not in, try to get her to open the door? Or was this her imagination, real as reality, playing on her fears of being left to fend for herself in a less than comprehensible and scary world. If this actually happened it would be a real problem, so I ask her if her 'three' cats slept peacefully with her while I was away. “Oh yes,” she says, “They never moved from my pillow.” Moderate assurance for me that no one knocked because those 'three' cats would be gone out the cat door for half an hour if there was a strange knock at the door. But it makes for care, doesn't it?

So between distractions and cooking and cleaning and fixing and finding I blog away. This took me 7 hours. Sometimes I spend days on one ambiance, fribbling or not. 'The good lord giveth and the good lord taketh away.' I wonder if the soul who wrote that had a spouse with dementia.

Doctor, doctor

(I read this to my sweety, I get a big smile, and “And you think I need help?”)

We're off to see our doctor, our wonderful supplier of pills
He is a whiz of a wiz, if ever a wiz there was
If ever, oh ever a wiz there was, our wonderful supplier of pills is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things they do
We're off to see our doctor, our wonderful supplier of pills
they do they do they do they do do do do do do do do

Doctor doctor, please oh, the mess I'm in
She walked right in and stole my heart
And then she started to take my mind apart

Doctor doctor, please oh, the mess I'm in
But you look so angry as I crawl across your floor
She's got the strength, and I can't take any more

In a cabin, in a wood, little old me by the window stood
Saw a vision hopping by, knocking at my door
Help me! Help me! Help me! it cried, or the hunter shoot me dead
Little vision come inside, safely to abide.

She walked right in and stole my heart
And then she started to take my mind apart

I saw her there, just standing there
And I thought I was only dreaming, yeah
I kissed her then, then once again
She said, oh come along and dance with me

Dance with me, across the sea
And we could feel the motion of a thousand dreams

Doctor, doctor, can't you see, I'm burning, burning?
Oh, doctor, doctor, is this love, I'm feeling?

Ships at night give such delight
We all leave before the morning light
Please don't go, no please don't go
'Cause I don't want to stay here on my own

Crawling, crawling across your floor
Oh oh

Help me, help me, help I cry

Or this vision shoot me dead

Please my doctor give me pills

A wonderful, wonderful hill of pills

Doctor doctor, please oh, the mess I'm in
She walked right in and stole my heart
And then she started to take my mind apart

Distracted living

In support of the downtrodden of our society, we rally our courage today to politically incorrectly give some advice to big tobacco on how to deal with the next phase of harassment against smokers by the anti smoking lobbyists of our era.

News flash:

CAA Manitoba teams up with police and set up at three locations, grading drivers and looking out for risky incidents between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. At one of those schools the observation team saw 150 cars fail to stop properly, counted six speeders and saw one driver smoking, speeding and talking on his cell phone, all at the same time. He was pulled over by police.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/manitoba/drivers-seen-speeding-smoking-cell-talking-in-brandon-school-zones-1.2768968

To top it all off it was rumoured that the driver with the stogie also had a Seven Eleven super big gulp of non diet cola in his cup holder. What a wayward rascal. But there is hope. We have the technology.

We can deal with the cell phone problems with simple cordless implants to our ears. Ideally this should be done at birth so the brain can learn to deal with a constant barrage of input from it's getgo. But anytime in later life will also do. What freakish thoughts go on in our grey matter is of little relevance to the courts, as long as our hands are not caught in the act of absconding from that blessed steering wheel.

The speeding issue can also be solved in the near future although the political fallout from lack of revenue from the heavy footed may pose a challenge. A little radio pulse from the 'slow school' sign to our vehicles inboard computer could viciously slam our brakes to gently remind us that this was a 30 km zone that we were idling along in at 40 clicks. It will be seen whether kids' safety or revenue wins out.

Now to that smoking issue. Big tobacco must refashion it's vital image of the finger stained smoker. A hands-free approach is badly needed if it is to survive in the distraction free future of motoring. Many approaches could work. A craving controlled drone, modelled after a delightful butterfly would be able to deliver a freshly cherried cig to your lips, taking the ash away for you all on its' own. Or maybe a drop down holder which would automatically load and light a smoke for you to drag on right in front of your face. The possibilities are almost endless. Big tobacco must invest a few of the millions they have left over from the never ending law suits so they can support our governments even further in their effort to lower everyone's taxes. We encourage them not to give up hope. Technology and advertising is where it's at. You just have to be sneaky.

Smokers of the world must find a way to continue to distract themselves from the everyday humdrum which surrounds them. To give up this spiritual compulsion and join the hordes of nonsmokers who distract themselves with sex or the vain collection of material wealth or to ruthlessly work their way up the social ladder would be a sell out of man's instinctive nature to defy the odds of survival in face of massive opposition. Come on big tobacco, you can overcome this distraction problem for our distraction.

Our Goddess Serendipity debunked

The Wanderer,  Joseph Sigall

I think we have it here, our twelve personae, we're on to something beyond a fribbling nogginal ambiance. All this blogging and thinking, I believe we have figured ourselves out. We're just plain wanderers. No serendipity involved here, we've never set a course in our wanderings for anywhere in particular and you need some sort of zest to happen upon Serendip.

Even our marriage had no purpose, no aim. It just came about in a stumble upon circumstance, like tripping over a root in a path through the woods. It's just that we got all tangled up and the vines grew faster than we could trim them away and we're still entangled after 35 years in the middle of our path to nowhere.

We're no flâneur. We wander the streets with no map and no purpose. No connoisseur of the street here, no special appreciation for any particular field, especially the arts. That 1960's bungalow with the faded siding and unmowen lawn is just the cat's meow.

We surf the internet with no goal in mind. The lies and misleading discourses are just as fascinating as the educated and well thought out homilies. What we write in our blogs takes no thought, we simply type in a bunch of letters which reciprocate our current ambiance and hit spell check and there's a perfect post. And reading material, why the local dumpsters are full of lovely novels which no one wanted at the last garage sale – mind improvement is much like home improvement for the do-it-yourselfer. That's also where we find most of our building materials, we remodel with no goal in mind, just making use of what we find.

Lest we ramble on too long here without mentioning chaos, that utter state of confusion, we succumb. But even chaos is sensitive to initial conditions. Our wanderlust has no beginning and has no end. It is truly the incarnated omnipotent desire us heathens long for in our search through our forlorn universe. It therefore exceeds chaos in its magnitude, assuring total bedlam as the rapturous overtones of our earthly sojourn.      Have a pleasant day, you’all.

Our blogging cortege

Goddess Serendipity

Yes nice lady, twas me. You found the culprit who spied your little card in their mailbox. Canada Post had a mishmash of sticky addresses from a handful of your long lost relatives from all over our fine city stuck on your snail mail, and it finally ended up here at Deathrock Apartments. Canada Post employees are very hard workers who do not have time for the fringes of our society, it would seem.

Who do we write to when we blog?

In our mind's eye we envision an audience, vast in scope, of all the people we know and have had dealings with whom we address in our egomaniacal philanthropies. Ex's and old flings, like the little red haired girl we had a crush on in high school and took out to a hockey game never to be acknowledged by again, make excellent specimens. Like they really care, we can contemplate the agony they must endure when they fathom the grace and depths of our psych which they so melodramatically ditched for a more hip dude. We can fancy them sobbing with visions of the gratification they could have achieved in wanderings with us o’er our great earth and through the bizarre encounters with the musings of a great mind.

Or the politicians who have all the time in the world to read our perspectives on the secretive intrigues which keep our fine country churning along. Not that we have any idea how ill informed and misinterpreted our views on their views may be, we privilege them with anarchistic bents which would utterly destroy our cherished complacency about poor and ignorant and war trodden hordes who also tread this earth. But we blog on.

Our self esteem soars as we see hits from far away countries in the vain hope that they really have an interest in the leanings of wild Western North American swashbucklers, and that they're not just phishing for hints at passwords to charm the riches away from us stinking rich chumps. Never mind, we just egg them on with our tales of endless open prairie and pristine forests stretching mile after mile into the great white north where the skies are not cloudy all day.

Or we can simply write for that handful of nice people who have actually responded to or +1'd our frivolous posts, kidding ourselves worse than the Twins of Vanity that they will ever stumble upon us again in the vast realms of the ethernet of modern Gormenghast.

But today I wrote to that nice lady. Even used my never before utilized statistics course from 45 years ago to calculate that she had a 1 in 5,837,396,214 chance of ever glimpsing let alone comprehending this little message. But then given the odds of our universe's existence and the even less odds of my own existence and awareness, that's an almost dead certainty. My optimism suffers no delusion.

Serendipity, the goddess of the ethernet.

Fix'n stuff

I forgot to give my sweety her meds today, silly me. Supper time came and she was a little more 'testy', shall we say, than her normal spiky self without all the bribes and coddling. So I took out her stash of hidden mood enhancers, and low and behold, the lunch ones where still there, pristine in their blister pack. “Sorry”, I apologized to her 'three' cats who were nowhere to be seen. “We'll have mom fixed up in a jiffy. She'll be good to go in a few minutes. We'll give her both her lunch and her supper pills, it'll make her day. With that steaming lasagna in the oven you guys will have full tummies tonight. Just give her about ten minutes. Those meds work real quick.”

Being a veteran diesel mechanic gives me a real good insight on how to fix'n things, how to keep them running ship shape. We all screw up once in a while – forget to fill the fuel tank, you know. But these things can be fixed, just fill the tank, bleed the injectors and you're off and running again. It's the same with people – forgot your meds, you know. But you take a double dose, give your head a shake, and you're good to go - just take care on the road though.

To regress a moment, I often think the wage disparity between mechanics and doctors is haywire. Docs make a cut, remove or add a few parts, and staple it all up in a jiffy and the body will heal itself even if it leaks a little in the process. Mechanics however must disassemble, change or repair parts, and then they have to do all the healing themselves by welding or bolting using sealants and if it leaks they are responsible for more repairs. And really, what's worth more, a $987,654 buggy or the fungible operator who slices his thumb wide open adjusting the antenna for his tunes?

So we sit down to dine, steaming lasagna on the platter. Sweety is smiles from ear to ear. Her three cats, the orange ones calmly recline by her feet. As the platter empties, the cats change colour, from orange to grey to black and white. I extol my wife's ferocious appetite and she just beams wider. I often wonder whether those three chameleons appreciate my efforts at sponsoring their well being all because of the bribing and coddling which must betide to keep my better half reasonably consonant. They could at least be more forthwith about this colour change thing. I don't for one moment believe my sweety's claim of only three cats even if that's all I ever see at one time. Dementia or not, ten pounds of dirty litter every day from three felines? I was not born yesterday, my dear.

Oh yes, back to my sweety. Well the dishes are washed, she's all tucked in for beddy bye and she asks me “Did you forget supper tonight?” This memory thing, I think it may be catching.

Time is a nuisance

Time. It often confuddles me that now I'm sitting here on this picnic table enjoying my nightly coffee with the rabbits, and in a while I'll be hiking along a dark desolate railway track amused by 'police force one' circling the hoodlum infested neighbourhoods of our fine city. I'll be the same person, the same nogginal entity, slightly different physical co-ordinates on sweet mother earth, but never to return to this juncture in the unfolding expansion of our universe. Time.

A recurring nogginal ambiance tells me that time is an illusion, all moments are actually concurrent, our lives are a single essence, time is a nuisance which keeps us from fathoming our whole rapturous encounter with the cosmos in one hysterical twinkle. The dinosaurs and us, we're actually coeval beings, a delightful poke from the gods of humour at filling their twinkle with dash. But time? This humour thing, why? Is there really a need for the shattering of our peaceful holoscopic reality where time is really not that necessary, and probability is probably the best you can do at establishing that we are anything other than a simulation (most probably a computer simulation), of which we the simulants are totally unaware of this humour playing out at our expense.

Why, we wonder on, and does it really matter if we are a simulation or not. We're only pawns in this universe anyway. It does what it wants with us. Freedom is a joke. But all is random we may conceptualize, yet it has it's rules, laws as it were, pulling us up by our bootstraps.

We must live by faith, faith that there is a reason, a purpose to our awareness. But no, it is but a joke. We are not, gods aren't what they aren't. Or at least we'll never know. Humour must become our god. Humour creates us, sustains us, keeps us sane. Yes the probability that humour created us is just as plausible as any other explanation. And humour has a purpose – it makes us chuckle.

Time, time, time. Time to dine this remorselessly craving illusion the gods humour me with.

Discordianistic randomness

We gather together today to mourn the loss of that which might have been, a charity whose noble aims were dashed in infancy, aborted as it where by the defenders of the good life. This tale adheres not much to the truth, coming from a non sociopathic habitual liar who errs on the side of wrongfulness. We begin our journey of woe with an application to the Canada Revenue Agency for charitable status on behalf of the Goddess Eris Foundation to help all sojourners to achieve chaos in their lives and country. This comes on the wake of a recent conversion to Discordianism, a religion and subsequent philosophy based on the veneration or worship of Eris also known as Discordia, the Greek goddess of chaos, or archetypes or ideals associated with her. It was founded after the 1965 publication of its first holy book, the Principia Discordia.

(If you want in on the Discordian Society then declare yourself what you wish, do what you like, and tell them about it, or if you prefer don't. There are no rules anywhere.)

Now this here Canada Revenue Agency has bent. They must prevent the gullible tax payers from being ripped off by naughty anarchists so they forthwith come out with some factors that will prevent an organization from being registered as a charity. To be charitable at law, an organization must have purposes that fall under one or more of the four categories of charity: the relief of poverty, the advancement of education, the advancement of religion, and certain other purposes that benefit the community in a way the courts have said is charitable. Organizations with political purposes will not qualify for registration.

The courts have determined political purposes to be those that seek to: further the interests of a particular political party; or support a political party or candidate for public office; or retain, oppose, or change the law, policy, or decision of any level of government in Canada or a foreign country. Organizations with activities contrary to Canadian public policy will not qualify for registration. A public policy is a definite and officially declared and implemented policy (i.e., found in an act of Parliament, or a regulation).

It's a fun trip arguing with Canada Revenue Agency's gentility on philosophical issues such as whether chaotic randomness as a religious concept has overtones of disruption to the policies of the Canadian public. Random selection's use in politics is very old, as office holders in Ancient Athens were chosen by lot, there being no voting. Now Revenue Canada's take on this is that it would be a major blow to democracy if our dearly anointed representatives were chosen by lot and not by ballot. They had to agree that we were not supporting any one candidate and by default any particular view pertaining to any policies but they just could not get there heads around this idea that a democracy could function with randomly anointed policy makers. They had to agree that chaotic randomness could be a religious concept and that we had a right to the advancement of our religion and even that we were providing education in certain universal realities.

But for a religion to question the culling of those pillars of our society, the fine upstanding candidates who subjected their total lives to the scrutiny of the nation, was dissentient. Those aspirants, who if they wanted a position of leadership and the responsibility, they had to play the 'power-play,' the 'political game, that everything they did had to have an angle; every conversation; every project they took on; everything they volunteered to. Their doings, their successes, their contributions all open to scrutiny. How they were going to 'protect' the people, the land, and above all the Queen; marriages often reconciled for the heroism. It had little to do with how right they were about anything, but only on how they were perceived. And we questioned this valiance?

We tried in vain to reason with Revenue Canada. We patiently explained to them how politics works, the left and the right. On the right the useful idiots (the normal people) were the end-of-days religious fundamentalists, and the nativists, and the racists, and the nationalists. They all acted out of their true beliefs and emotions, and were manipulated by the sociopathic ruling class. On the left, were those who earnestly went about trying to respond to every absurdity coming out of the loony right-wing. They refuted every stupid and absurd comment with facts, and studies, and statistics. They basked in the glory of being right about the issues, about the science, about the empirical evidence. It was all done in a mainly ineffective and powerless echo chamber, but ultimately, also was manipulated by the same sociopathic ruling class.

We showed with empirical philosophical evidence that introducing a spiff of chaos into the system would muddle the stranglehold the luminaries had on the masses. However, it was apparently felt that to randomly select Ivy the seamstress, and Carl the plasterer, and Susan the accountant, and Arthur the landlord to oversee the acquisition of F-18's would be much less Canadian policy oriented than electing very meticulous, merciless, remorseless, shallow, not to mention manipulative and ambitious vain individuals whose only goal in life was power and prestige to oversee the acquisition of F-18's.

Discordian's have faith in their goddess however. Chaos will come, Canada Revenue Agency or not.