Wednesday, April 16, 2014

NDP's Thomas Mulcair Chews The Bitter Cud of Bile

Bill Casselman’s Attack

on Thomas Mulcair’s Attack

on Justin Trudeau

Of late, there has spewed forth a shitpotful of feculent baloney spoken against rich people, as usual from the shabby-shoed, partisan tar pit of the NDP, from the embittered lips of their hirsute-and-therefore-manly leader, certifiably-once-impoverished Thomas Mulcair. A wee glance at Mulcair’s latest infantile rant is, I deem, now apt.

Only poor people can know stuff about people and help other poor people; rich people are the devil’s spawn, born evil, so apparently thinks aggressive lawyer and NDP leader, Thomas “Big Gruffy” Mulcair. What desperation! Raggedy Tom Mulcair is not only a political rival of Trudeau, he is also bent double with personal jealousy, especially in the face of how easily Justin’s good nature and friendly intelligence appealed immediately to Canadians. What a contrast is Mulcair, a bristly, angry, socialist Rumpelstiltskin with all the charisma of a shucked mollusc. “Hey there, girlie, sure, I’ll spin that there poor straw into genuine gold. Just you wait.”

Mulcair has not the least apprehension of Trudeau’s plan for legislative decency conceived, cradled and made useful by a gentle humanness. Justin’s grace is as far as you can get from Mulcair’s customary mode, a crusty bully wagging his dick. Really, is Mulcair what Ottawa needs? Another nasty lawyer? We don’t have enough political shysters on Parliament Hill? At a time when Canadian people, young and old, have no work, at a time when manufacturers have fled Canada the way Dippers flee anything marked “non-partisan,” what we need is a political party that hates business? The NDP and their staff troglodyte Mulcair are so not here.

Some days, watching the news, one can scarcely hear the sulky Mulcair through all his seething hatred of pretty well everyone who is not Thomas Mulcair. He is a spite-spitting asp of toxic loathing. I ain’t never gonna forgive nobody ‘cause I was born po’. Mulcair is always in a dark corner of Parliament, like some sad, plaintive cow, alone and chewing the bitter cud of bile.

Just read the rabid hatred and heart-souring jealousy directed against Trudeau by Mulcair’s bumboys in the soon-to-disappear gutter press. Here’s a snippet of raw odium from The National Post describing Justin Trudeau “Born on Christmas Day to the Prime Minister and his young, beautiful, wildly popular wife; raised at the centre of political life in the nation’s capital; subject to media fascination from his first day; sent off to one of the country’s most prestigious schools; rocketed back to public attention at his father’s funeral; all but acclaimed leader on his first try…”

Could Satan himself boast a more lurid bio? What a bastard that Justin Trudeau is! Had the temerity, the thoughtless audacity, to have a beautiful mother. And that rich father, Pierre Trudeau, who inherited his father’s Quebec-gas-station fortune and then passed some of his ill-gotten swag on to his own sons. The very idea of helping one’s children! Obscene! Thinks the National Post writer, not fair when I have to push a broken old Honda Civic to work every gasoline-perfumed morning through those mean Toronto streets.

Withdrawing well away from Ottawa, let us ponder now the rags-to-bitches story of a token poor person. Let’s dub this choke-throat tale as the tristful histoire of Pa Bozo who had 12 kids. 

How poor was the Bozo family? Why, they were so poor there were no decorations on their Christmas tree unless Grandpa sneezed. Them Bozos was poor as Job’s turkey: couldn’t raise more ‘n three feathers and had to lean against the barn to gobble. So flagrantly impecunious was the Bozo clan that, if the boys didn’t wake up in the morning with a hard-on, they had nothing to play with all day!

Is poverty funny? No. But sniveling about it through an entire lifetime is.

So we got Pa Bozo, a hapless loser with 12 kids he can hardly feed. Now it is safe to figure that this paternal bozo had probably been bozo-ing along for quite a number of years. Did it ever occur to Pa Bozo to maybe stop fucking for a moment or two after he had had, say, four children? Pa could hardly feed four because Pa was so poor. What to do? Pa knowed! Sure do, have six more kids and we’ll let welfare feed ‘em. Hell, boy, we’s kin have as many chillun as we want, and the “gubmint” gots to feed ‘em.

Now, because one’s Pa was a feckless fecundator does that, by sheer genetics, make his angrier male spawn an incisive analyst of Canada’s middle-class needs. Thomas Mulcair seems to think so, and, to me, that makes it quite clear that Thomas Mulcair is a partisan fantasist and a nincompoop. Is he then our preferred source of national Canadian wisdom? I think not. 

Mulcair said in one speech that rich people could never know or help the endangered Canadian middle class. Why, rich people have NEVER helped anyone but themselves. I guess when Thomas Mulcair was snarling his way through law school, he never heard of the zillionaire Franklin Delano Roosevelt and how that rich American president helped an entire nation of poor people out of a Great Depression. Robert Fulford, one of The National Post’s very good writers, reminds readers of rich upper-class Otto von Bismarck, evil 19th-century German chancellor. Writes Fulford, “In the 1880s he introduced a health program, a workers’ compensation law and an old-age pension program . . .” History is littered with good guys who were rich and their poor coevals who never stopped whining even as they vacuumed up the free food and goods.

As for Thomas Mulcair’s boast that he took a paper route at age 10 to help his family, listen, O Bearded Sage, I had a paper route at age 8. We couldn’t afford a bike for me, so I delivered the papers from the back of a limping missionary who had been to Africa and lost a leg to leprosy. I tried to hug him but his ear fell off. I had to train local birds ─ discouraged, down-on-their-luck robins ─ to ring the doorbells. Disney tried to buy my trained robins. But I couldn’t sell the tiny birds. We had to roast and eat them each night for supper. Beat that, you whining preposterous old ninny, and go peddle your papers. 

You ain’t gettin’ my vote.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Harper, A Fecal King Midas & His Munchkin Thug, Jason Kenney

Good news that Jason Kenney, Steve Harper’s peripatetic munchkin thug and bullying bagman of the Harper cabinet, got slapped across his flabby cheeks this week. Kenney’s smug, spoiled, unlived-in flapjack of a face needs several more slaps and Political Fate is going to make sure that uppity dwarf gets ‘em, smack-dab in his gob.

Although Jason Kenney is a preposterous pipsqueak of a figure, Kenney thinks of himself as Harper’s Grand Intimidator, a quite suitable fantasy for even the grubbiest little fascist.

This week in Calgary, in one of Harper’s typical violations of democratic procedure, one of the candidates whom Harper wished not to run for office in the Calgary riding of Signal Hill, Ron Liepert, had the temerity to win that very same nomination. That, in an Alberta that Harper thinks of as His province, as his very own prairie toilet paper. That, among partisan, dyed-in-the-bitumen myrmidons, tar-sands Tories to whom Jason Kenney had just delivered orders from Steve Harper NOT to vote for Liepert.

With public gusto, Mr. Liepert told the squalid homunculus (Kenney) “to mind his own business.” It is my delight to quote candidate Liepert further: “Minister Kenney . . . should go into his own riding and try and get re-elected in his own riding and quit monkeying around at other nominations...anywhere in this province.”

Let’s hope more conservatives begin to suspect and loudly revolt against bully orders from a Prime Minister’s Office that daily keeps fucking up. Harper, like a fecal King Midas, sees everything he lately touches turn to shit. 

We’ve watched as parliamentary procedures bore Steve so deeply that he merely prorogues the house and lurks in his cave until the “bad winds” blow by. 

Time-honoured constitutional procedures actually frighten Steve. Look how, even as you read this, Harper is seeking to pass legislation altering the very way we vote by means of changes that will favor massively the Tories. An editorial in the Globe & Mail summed up Harper's "rotten" tactics well when it spoke of : ". . . the Conservative government's plan to muzzle the chief electoral officer, to introduce partisanship into electoral administration, to make it harder for eligible voters to get on the voters' list and generally to create suspicion about the impartiality of the whole system." 

In case any Canucks are interested, these are ploys favored by Mussolini, Beria, Stalin, Mugabe, Hussein, Idi Amin Dada, Pol Pot and Vlad the Impaler, the entire horror-show of scuzzoids who have moisted and left to fester on the gore-smeared steps of history every useful legislative decency conceived by a gentle and intelligent humanity.

Have Canadians risen in alert and angry protest? Nope. Still home suckin’ on a beer, stooped in front of the boob tube watching the game. Suddenly there cometh a dull knock on the front door. Creeeaaak. Omigod! It’s Jason Kenney in a black-felt robe, with a hood over his tiny head and a large sickle in his hand. Trouble is, the blade of his sickle is worn so dull, it doesn’t cut it anymore.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Peter MacKay: Mean Rich Kid, Snotfuck & Shameless Fartcatcher for Harper lives up to his rep


courtesy of Rick Mercer's Twitter

Peter MacKay, as college student, slurps suds from a beer bongThis is the same zillionaire's spoiled brat (the MacKays own half of Nova Scotia), the lanky Tory tit-suck, who this week claims Justin Trudeau disgraced himself by honest admission of having had a few tokes of marijuana. 

What is it that makes Tories so mean? In this case, it is pure political jealousy combined with Mackay's cold nastiness, made so apparent when viewed beside the encompassing humanity of Justin Trudeau, a kindly nature which voters all across Canada are tuning into, to the nervous twitching of heart-dead Tories everywhere. 

Peter MacKay, like all dick-wagging rich jerks, if the hurt is suddenly on the other foot, ---woo-hah! ---wants understanding and compassion, big time. Remember the moneybags beanpole collapsed on a Maritime rock in that famous photo sobbing like a crybaby, when his rich girlfriend dumped him? But that's totally different. . such a tragedy! That called for understanding. 

To properly describe Peter MacKay I have had to coin a new term of accurate opprobrium: snotfuck.

Autumn Advice Note:

Now that the fascist Harper has for the third time closed down Parliament, this time to try to get the electorate to forget that Harper hired Pamela Wallin, the hair-dresser who learned to spell, as senatorial bag-woman, to tour the country squeezing election funds out of impoverished small-towns, along with Mike Duffy or Blorpo, the potato without a province, let all of us who wish to see Harper removed from any office, resolve to keep mentioning the senate scandal all through September and October

Don't let Harper's fascist plan to do away with parliamentary government succeed. Keep reminding people of the judgment Harper displayed in appointing Wallin & Duffy to our senate.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Bowels, Sausages & Lunenburg Pudding: Canadian Meat Dish

This Lunenburg pudding is actually a pork sausage, and every part of the pig goes in except the squeal. Are the residents of one of Nova Scotia's most picturesque harbour towns daffy when they call a sausage a pudding? No, indeed. Scoffers, note that the original meaning of pudding in English was ‘sausage,’ which sense survives in terms like blood pudding, black pudding, white pudding. British English still uses a French borrowing, boudin, to name a black pudding. Remember what Robert Burns called that obscene Scottish nightmare-parody of sausage known as haggis: “great chieftain o’ the puddin’ race.” Och!

Pudding is an English mangling of the Old French boudin, from Latin botellus ‘pudding.’ Or it may be that French boudin is of Gaulish provenance and is a diminutive form of the Celtic root bot ‘penis,’ which as bod is still the word for penis in Irish Gaelic or Erse. Thus boudin would first be a joking reference to a sausage as a ‘little penis.’ That Celtic root bot may have been borrowed into early Latin also, to give botellus ‘little penis, sausage.’ 

The eventual association of sweet pudding and sausage occurred because early dessert puddings were stuffed in a bag and boiled or steamed, the stuffing in the bag reminding cooks of stuffing sausage meat in casings, often made of sheep or pig intestines. Elizabethan cooks began to adapt some of the sweet pudding recipes so that they did not have to be boiled or cooked in a cloth or bag. In 20th century British English, pudding evolved to mean any dessert: “What’s for pudding, luv? Month-old treacle again?”

Caution: Bowels Ahead! Now here is a small detour to discuss another French derivative from the Latin botellus, which gives us the English word bowel. The etymology looks like this: botellus Latin, little sausage > boel Old French > bouel Middle English > bowel Modern English. Yes, your bowels are your sausages.

Bowels, the plain English word for intestines, go all the way back to a Roman battlefield. Roman physicians who were trying to find out how the human body worked and how it was made, were hampered by religious taboos and superstitions. So unlike today! Remember the ignorant religionists who would curtail stem cell research. For example, early studiers of the human body were not allowed to dissect a corpse. Cutting up a dead body was not legal in ancient Rome and Greece. It was thought to be a horrible sin. So those ancient seekers of knowledge studying anatomy had to rely on looking at the dead bodies of humans who had suffered fatal, body-ripping injuries.

One of the places these early anatomists could see cut-open bodies was on the battlefield after a bloody fight in a war. Exposed coils of intestines stuck out from the corpses of slain soldiers. Perhaps these soldiers had fallen when their bellies or abdomens had been slashed open with a sword. Their intestines or bowels, exposed in a wide-open wound, looked like little sausages. So one Roman word for bowels was botelli ‘little sausages.’ More common use of such a word in Latin may have come from soldiers’ rough slang: “Got a bellyache, Brutus? Guess your sausages are upset today.”

The word history of sausage looks like this:

Middle English sausage > Old North French saussiche > Late Latin salsicia > Latin salsus salted, (meat). Salsus is one past participial form of sallere to salt > sal Latin salt

Also from Latin salsus is our Modern English word sauce.

Middle English sauce > middle French sauce, sausse > Latin salsa, feminine of salsus salted.



From the same root word as bowel derives the disease name botulism, from another diminutive relative of botellus, this time spelled botulus ‘sausage.’

Botulism is a severe food poisoning, first observed in early 19 th-century Germany in carelessly prepared sausages, which lay around uncooked for too long after they were made and so germs grew in the raw meat. The toxins in the poisoned food can be fatal if ingested in great quantity. The cause is excessive growth of a poison-making bacterium called Clostridium botulinum, from the same bacterial family as C. difficile, a toxin presently raging through Canadian hospitals, whose full name is Clostridium difficile.

How ancient is the practice of making sausages? There is one clue in Indo-European etymology. A study of the roots of the word farce shows that it derives from a Latin verb with bound root morphemes like farc-, farct-, and fars-, roots that mean ‘to stuff.’ That in turn appears to derive from a compound Indo-European root * bhareku , made from two simpler roots:

* bheu swell + * reg stretch, bind = * bhareku

This double meaning of ‘swelling and binding or stretching out’ suggests that even in Proto-Indo-European, the verb concerned stuffing fowl and other meats, and making sausages.

From Babylon around 3,000 BCE there is a Sumerian word for sausage. Sumerian, the oldest known written language in human history, was spoken in Mesopotamia (modern Iraq and peripheral regions) throughout the third millennium BC and survived as an esoteric written language until the death of the cuneiform tradition around the time of Christ.

The Chinese sausage lachang which consisted of goat and lamb meat, was first mentioned in 589 BCE. In book twenty of the Odyssey, Homer tells us that blood sausage was a fave of Odysseus and his cohorts. Parts of the Odyssey may date to 850 BCE.



“Even readers who are unlikely to fry a doughnut in seal blubber oil will enjoy this latest romp by writer and broadcaster Bill Casselman . . . he mixes in so much entertaining information and curious Canadian lore.”
Books, Globe & Mail

Do you know that fine Canadian dish, Son-of-a-Bitch-in-a-Sack? It’s a real Alberta chuck wagon pudding. In this fully illustrated, 304-page romp, Bill tells the amusing stories behind such hearty Canadian fare as gooeyducks and hurt pie. The juicy lore and tangy tales of foods that founded a nation are all here: from scrunchins to rubbaboo, from bangbelly to poutine, from Winnipeg jambusters to Nanaimo bars , from Malpeque oysters to nun’s farts! If you think foods of Canadian origin are limited to pemmican and pea soup, you need to dip your ladle into the bubbling kettle of Canadian Food Words.
Canadian Food Words: The Juicy Lore and Tasty Origins of Foods that Founded a Nation
ISBN 1-55278-018-X
304 pages, illustrated
published by
McArthur & Company,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Canadian Food Words is almost out of print. You can buy used copies online.
If you are interested in obtaining some of the last copies of this book available, email me.
I am selling a few remaining copies.
If you are a publisher interested in reprinting the book in a new edition, contact me at