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Archive for April, 2013

Don’t blame us for being men, and we won’t blame you for being women

April 29, 2013 Leave a comment

Commercials on television are a good barometer of contemporary society.  There’s one for an SUV of some kind that has seats that easily fold down in back.  Some goofball guy is giggling foolishly as he gleefully pops them down and up – repeatedly.  Meanwhile, his wife is standing by with her arms loaded with full shopping bags while some purchases splat to the ground.

I don’t say that there are no guys like that.  At the same time, there’s lots of guys who are not like that.  And guys do go nuts in front of television sets as their team scores, or the opponents score, or something like that.  And they do wolf down a lot of foul treats while doing this nonsense.  However, an objective view of women reveals some wackiness there, too.

It is a little strange that women often paint their mouths in various unnatural colours.  Some colour their hair in shades that nature never intended… often a brash, copper colour the should be in cookware, not hair.  Glued on false eyelashes and fingernails is another trend, some with patterns and sparkling stones.  And shoes… they go nuts over shoes… lots of shoes.

We should all realize that it’s the nature of we beasts.  Women want to attract men, so they pancake makeup their faces, colour their eyelids with sparkly blue or green or silver shades, push their boobs up and out, wear very revealing garments, and so on.  At the same time, if a guy is attracted by these lures that are meant to attract him, he better be the right guy with the right approach, or he is greeted with reproach.

It’s all weird, and natural.  So, in short, let’s all forgive each other for being what nature made us to be.  Women can’t help being what they are, nor can men help being what they are.  We’re no better than families of wolves or bees.  We’re all slaves to our genes and our DNA, so let’s just all get along… as well as we can, considering we are different from each other, and are best apart from each other except to procreate.  Things just haven’t worked out that way, and we have to learn to live with it.

One final thought: men who abuse women should be beaten severely… and so should women who abuse men.  So should anyone who abuses children.

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Categories: Uncategorized

I ran across a piece of video today,

April 26, 2013 Leave a comment
I ran across a piece of video today, presented by a man whose name is David C. Pack. He has apparently written something like eighty books and pamphlets. This video claims to address the question: “What Happens When You Die? Professing Christians believe those who die go to heaven or hell. Does the Bible teach this? Do people possess an immortal soul? Is there life after death?”

Forty-five seconds into this half-hour video, this hustler says, “If the bible is the word of God, then we must examine what the bible says, not what men say.” This caused me to ruminate on what was God’s writing instrument. Was it a quill pen from a golden goose? Was it a Mont Blanc pen? Was it a number 2 pencil? In what language did he write the bible? Hebrew? Yiddish? English? Pakistani? Watusi?

I am left with one conclusion… men, not God wrote the bible… in a multitude of languages. With the inevitable fallibility of men, the bible must be filled with erroneous suggestions and a good deal of pure bullshit.

So this hustler, David C. Pack, is pushing a pack of lies, perhaps for which he was named. And perhaps the “C” for his middle name stands for “Cockamamie”. Of course, as one might expect, in the last seconds of the video, there is an appeal for donations.

If you believe in this prick’s pile of bullshit, I am sorry for you.

Categories: Uncategorized

Cold Vengeance, part three.

April 25, 2013 Leave a comment

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Doctor Aylene Delaney avoided the loneliness of her life most evenings by remaining in her office.  Her hospital duties and responsibilities require a lot of attention, and she was glad to have even this drudgery rather than rattle around her home alone, despite its luxurious comfort. 

Her office door was open as usual, and she could hear the hushed activities of the night nurses and sporadic rushes in the emergency department.  She turned her attention from her cluttered desk when she heard the shuffle of feet in the hall outside her doorway.  Marilee Foley stood nervously in the light of the hallway, her hands fluttered around her dark, Jamaican face.

            “Hello, Marilee,”Aylene said.  “How are things in the emergency ward tonight?”

            “I think you’d better come see for yourself,” Marilee said.  Doctor Delaney was immediately on alert and she swept out of her chair and headed for her office door.  As they strode down the hall toward the staff elevator, Nurse Foley cleared her throat twice before she spoke.

            “I’m not sure, but I think your sister was just brought in by the paramedics”, she said.

            “Darlene?  In emergency?  What happened?”

            “It looks like she was pretty badly beaten up”,  the nurse replied.

            “Oh, God”, Aylene breathed.  “I’ve been afraid of something like this since she started living her high-risk way of life.  How bad is it?”

            “She’ll live, but she will need a lot of attention, I think.”

They stepped into the elevator, but did not continue their dialogue because an orderly was in the elevator with his cleaning cart, attending to his constant maintenance duties.  They waited patiently as the elevator stopped on the next floor and the orderly wheeled his cart out into the hall.  The elevator resumed its way to the ground floor, and the two women hurried to the emergency department.

Aylene Delaney was directed to the gurney where Darlene lay, her head bandaged and her face mottled with bruises and cuts.  Dr. Delaney stooped over her sister to peer carefully at the wounds.  She carefully lifted the eyelids one after the other and shook her head slowly and deep concern furrowed her face.

            “How is she under those bandages?” she asked the duty nurse.

            “She’s concussed, and there’s a considerable fracture,” the busy nurse answered over her shoulder.  “I have doctor Klein on his way in now.”

            “Thank you,” Aylene said.  She stood silently observing her beautiful sister’s damaged face.

END OF PART THREE – part four to come. 

Categories: Uncategorized

April 18, 2013 Leave a comment

COLD VENGEANCE – Part Two

Life in Russia was unpleasant for the family of Mikhail Fedorov. His father, Anton, was a military man, a profession that he loved. He enjoyed the authority that came with the uniform and the badges. Anton Fedorov enjoyed brutality. At any opportunity, he beat criminal suspects with his huge fists and the baton which swung from his belt at all times

In the absence of any suspected perpetrators, Mikhail’s father would drink a good deal of vodka after which he would beat his wife and his son. Mikhail often observed the abuse when he wasn’t himself the recipient, and in his mind, this was the way to keep life under control. While Mikhail was still younger than twelve years old, his parents managed to get the complex paperwork completed to let them emigrate to Canada.

As he got into his later teen years, Mikhail Fedorov grew to be a large boy. Larger even than his substantial father, and he sought after a career in law enforcement, to emulate his father. Anton Fedorov had difficulty in finding and holding a job in Toronto, and took to hanging around with several other Russian immigrants that he met in a bar that was a favourite with the Russian immigrant crowd.

While the Canadian Government provided for the Fedorov family, Mikhail resented the feeling of being a welfare brat. He applied to the police academy and was accepted for training as a police office in the city. It was not long before his zealous participation and physical presence enabled him to rise in the ranks, from a uniformed beat officer to an undercover detective.

Spending much of his time in the back alleys and dark parks of city nights, Mikhail Fedorov soon became familiar with the shadowy figures that populated the drug infested areas that are common in most every large city. His physical size and his propensity for violence created the reputation that he hoped to earn. It was not long before he began to abuse the privileges of his authority. Especially with the girls who worked the night streets, struggling to earn enough for their next hit of the drugs that enslaved them.

Mikhail Fedorov began to consider the hookers in his neighbourhood as his own personal harem, and he enjoyed forcing sex on them – sometimes as many as four or five rapes in a week. Of course, there were never any reports or complaints from the women, because their fear of Fedorov was greater than their fear of rape. They capitulated to the man’s demands, or they were beaten, and sometimes imprisoned in his private prison until they fell into line with his other victims.

Things began to change for Fedorov. The street people began to know him as “Big Mike Fedora”, and he enjoyed seeing fear in the faces of the derelicts of the night when he approached them. On the night that he first encountered Darlene Delaney, he met the first hooker who did not bow down to him. As a result, he struck her severely, first with his ham-sized fists, and then with his baton, that he kept hidden in his jacket. He left her in a bloody heap among some garbage bags in an alley near Dundas Square. When some of her fellow prostitutes, male and female, discovered her there, they flagged down a passing patrol car to report her condition. The officers investigated and immediately called for paramedics. They applied first aid to her battered face and head before they rushed her to the hospital.

End of Part Twoto be continued

Categories: Uncategorized

April 18, 2013 Leave a comment

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COLD VENGEANCE – Part Two

Life in Russia was unpleasant for the family of Mikhail Fedorov.  His father, Anton, was a military man, a profession that he loved.  He enjoyed the authority that came with the uniform and the badges.  Anton Fedorov enjoyed brutality.  At any opportunity, he beat criminal suspects with his huge fists and the baton which swung from his belt at all times

In the absence of any suspected perpetrators, Mikhail’s father would drink a good deal of vodka after which he would beat his wife and his son.  Mikhail often observed the abuse when he wasn’t himself the recipient, and in his mind, this was the way to keep life under control.  While Mikhail was still younger than twelve years old, his parents managed to get the complex paperwork completed to let them emigrate to Canada.

As he got into his later teen years, Mikhail Fedorov grew to be a large boy.  Larger even than his substantial father, and he sought after a career in law enforcement, to emulate his father.  Anton Fedorov had difficulty in finding and holding a job in Toronto, and took to hanging around with several other Russian immigrants that he met in a bar that was a favourite with the Russian immigrant crowd.

While the Canadian Government provided for the Fedorov family, Mikhail resented the feeling of being a welfare brat.  He applied to the police academy and was accepted for training as a police office in the city.  It was not long before his zealous participation and physical presence enabled him to rise in the ranks, from a uniformed beat officer to an undercover detective.

Spending much of his time in the back alleys and dark parks of city nights, Mikhail Fedorov soon became familiar with the shadowy figures that populated the drug infested areas that are common in most every large city.  His physical size and his propensity for violence created the reputation that he hoped to earn.  It was not long before he began to abuse the privileges of his authority.  Especially with the girls who worked the night streets, struggling to earn enough for their next hit of the drugs that enslaved them.

Mikhail Fedorov began to consider the hookers in his neighbourhood as his own personal harem, and he enjoyed forcing sex on them – sometimes as many as four or five rapes in a week.  Of course, there were never any reports or complaints from the women, because their fear of Fedorov was greater than their fear of rape.  They capitulated to the man’s demands, or they were beaten, and sometimes imprisoned in his private prison until they fell into line with his other victims.

Things began to change for Fedorov.  The street people began to know him as “Big Mike Fedora”, and he enjoyed seeing fear in the faces of the derelicts of the night when he approached them.  On the night that he first encountered Darlene Delaney, he met the first hooker who did not bow down to him.  As a result, he struck her severely, first with his ham-sized fists, and then with his baton, that he kept hidden in his jacket.  He left he in a bloody heap among some garbage bags in an alley near Dundas Square.  When some of her fellow prostitutes, male and female, discovered her there, they flagged down a passing patrol car to report he condition.  The officers investigated and immediately called for paramedics.  They applied first aid to her battered face and head before they rushed her to the hospital.

End of Part Twoto be continued

Categories: Uncategorized

It ain’t just what y’say – It’s the way that y’say it, too.

April 17, 2013 Leave a comment

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I truly love the English language.  Writing and speaking it, in all its extravagance and precision, is a great pleasure for me.  I am self-educated, so I can only attribute my acquisition of a considerable vocabulary to reading.  When I read, I relish a good turn of phrase and admirable structure of a sentence.  It’s like a dish of ice cream with syrup over it in enjoyment.

I don’t mean proper English.  I’m not qualified to judge.  But I am somewhat qualified to evaluate the communication value of words.  Anyone is qualified, because the words should be chosen and assembled in a way that the intended communication reaches the intended reader’s mind. 

Mark Twain, with his bending and blending of words, gives our minds images of dusty villages by a broad river, so clearly one can almost smell the southern heat.  By this standard, anyone is qualified to judge the effect of the writer’s efforts.

Sometimes I am thrown off the enjoyment of a conversation, either personal or on television, by the use of one or the other of a pair of words.  Those words are “anxious” and “eager”.  It seems to me that “anxious” is almost always used where “eager” would more accurately reflect the context.

For instance, one might say, “I’m anxious to get home ‘cause Norman made supper for me”.  Anxious denotes anxiety, which I don’t believe would be the intent of the writer/speaker.  I believe a more soothing statement that would add the appropriate warmth to the situation.  “I’m eager to get home ‘cause Norman made supper for me”, I believe carries the ‘feeling’ as well as the information of the sentence.

Perhaps, had I bothered to gain an education, I would understand two more structures in English that make me wonder.  The common phrase, “I’ve got…”, is a form of “I have got”, which is clumsy, to say the least.  So why don’t we just say, “I have…”.  “I’ve got a date with Norman” might be smoother as, “I have a date with Norman”.

My fourth English language conundrum (besides my wondering why the name of a language should be capitalized) is the positioning of the two words, “to” and “not”.  We say, “They warned me not to go there”.  Somehow, it makes me feel that the better – yet incorrect – way would be, “They warned me to not go there”.  I imagine the warning person saying “Do not go there”, therefore one has been “…warned to not go there”.

I just don’t know.

NOTE to readers who are interested in “Cold Vengeance”, I apologize for my tardiness in posting part two.  My dog ate it.  I’ll redo it and post it asap.

Cold Vengeance

April 9, 2013 Leave a comment
Categories: life, writing