Cultural Clash

Guy Fawkes

In each minority group, there are always one or more fanatics who can lead themselves, their faction, and society, into trouble. It’s what got Guy Fawkes tortured and executed.

Here in Kitchener, in Toronto, and in many other cities, the (What are they calling themselves today?? Negroes?  Blacks?  Colored?  African- Americans/Canadians?) are upset, and calling for an end to ‘Carding,’ – random stops of people by police, to identify themselves.

Black spokesmen claim that this practice unfairly focuses on people of color, yet statistically, it is ‘people of color’ – usually young black males – who are proven to commit more crimes, especially against other Negroes, than white folks.

The Toronto Police Force has CROs – Community Relations Officers – who hang out in various schools, helping out, coaching or refereeing sports, and generally showing that the Police are ‘good guys’. Black citizens’ representatives demanded that they be removed, because black children felt threatened, harassed and oppressed.  If you don’t do the crime, you won’t do the time.

Black Lives Matter. All lives matter, including the black, and the white, cops who are trying to protect all the population.  In Toronto, a rabble-rousing female spokeswoman for BLM, has high-jacked this year’s Gay Pride Parade.  It’s unclear just how she gained control – perhaps sheer volume.

At first, she and her cabal – and these aren’t even home-grown Negroes; they’re immigrants – demanded that the police not be allowed to march in the parade. After a large public hue and cry of protest, the demand has been modified.  The police may march as a group, but will not be allowed to wear their uniforms – symbols of authority and control.  A similar ‘activist’ has exacted a similar demand in Winnipeg.

I recently took the daughter shopping. I often check out through the ‘12 Items Or Less – Express lane’.  This day, I only had 1 item, but the daughter had 16 or 18.  In all honesty and fairness, we decided to use a regular lane.  Besides the Express, there were only 2 open.  The line from one extended back into the bread department, but the other….  I could see a man at the front with 2 or 3 items.  Behind him were only two women, both like the daughter, with a few items on the bottoms of their carts.

Nearby, jammed against the rack with the gum, candy, and National Enquirers, was another, fully-loaded cart, but no-one around. I motioned at it, and raised an eyebrow.  The daughter shrugged, and we quickly got in line behind the second woman.  The man at the front cashed out.  We moved up.  When the first woman’s items were almost all scanned, the second started to unload her stuff, and we moved up again.

Now, a 20ish black football player showed up and grabbed the cart.  He started to push toward the checkout, and the daughter moved the front of her cart a bit, so that he wouldn’t drive it into her.  When we didn’t move any further than that, he looked at me, pointed to the checkout, and said, “I was there.” I replied, “Yes, you were – then you abandoned your cart, blocking people, and went away, to do some more shopping.”  “I wasn’t shopping. I just went to get some more items.”
“THAT’S SHOPPING!”

“Well, I don’t think I should have to stand and wait. Your wife was going to let me in line”  “She’s my daughter, and she’s handicapped.  She doesn’t want to stand in line and wait for you.  You’re a big, strong, healthy guy, (I pointed at his tree-trunk legs.) you can do it.

“Oh, she’s handicapped?? I didn’t notice.”  The daughter said, “And the big shiny crutch didn’t give you an idea??”, and shook it at him.  Now he tried a different tack. “I’m going to tell you something.” “No shit!  Could I stop you?” “I’m from Jamaica; you know what I’m saying?” “Sometimes!  Vaguely!”  (That went right over his head.)

“You people say, (What people?  White people?) that Canada is a welcoming country, and Canadians are kind and well-mannered, but I see people swearing at the clerk at Tim Horton’s, and arguing with the checkouts here, because there’s a back-up, and they have to wait.” I said, “That’s probably because of guys like you, who butt into line and hold things up.”  Game!  Set!  Match!

What a case of creeping entitlement! If you want to be welcomed by kind, well-mannered Canadians, you gotta show some respect and good manners of your own.  Not all of us are apologising doormats, and some of us do not suffer arrogant fools well.

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Swimming With Arrogant Entitlement

Swimming Pool

A couple in Toronto purchased a house with a swimming pool. Since the wife was a qualified swim instructor, she immediately took in young students, three per half-hour session, from 9:00 AM to 4:00 PM, plus her own two young children.

Her neighbor was a young female psychotherapist who took a few clients at her house, as well as studying for her PhD, and soon requested that she only teach in the evenings, and on the weekends. She ignored this request.

The neighbor needed quiet to work and study, and wanted her legally-mandated Peaceful Enjoyment of Property. She was informed that she was violating the 24-hour noise bylaw.  She ignored this also.

Her local city councillor personally came out, to use his tact and diplomacy to negotiate a compromise settlement. She agreed to limit her hours to Noon till 5:00 PM.  The councillor was barely back in his office, when she ignored the compromise, and reverted to all-day, noisy swim times.

The neighbor called Bylaw Enforcement, who came out and told her that she was violating a commercial bylaw which forbid an all-day, outdoor business. She was ordered to immediately Cease and Desist.  She went to City Hall, paid $1000 for a variance, (I pronounce it ‘bribe’) and continued her noisy, all-day sessions.

When she learned that the neighbors had filed a grievance with the OMB – the Ontario Municipal Board – claiming that the variance should be declared invalid, she somehow managed to get the Toronto Sun to publish a half-page story c/w a photo of her and her skating rink swimming pool.

She vehemently asserted that it was the neighbor who continued to insist on getting ‘everything her way or the highway.’ There are none so blind as those who will not see – that they are the problem.  😳

Horrible Example

Priest

I recently came upon a totally-expected Christmas-time rant from a ‘good Catholic’. It opened with the question, “after all, aren’t these Holidays solely and specifically about the birth of Jesus Christ?”

I commented: “In a word, NO! While it might be the most important for you – the Muslims celebrate Ramadan, the Jews have Chanukah, the Wiccans observe Solstice, the blacks celebrate Kwanzaa, Pagans have Yule, Hindus observe Diwali, Japanese have Bonen Kai….. and many more, all at the end of the year. Do as Christ would, and include them all, not with a bragging, exclusionary Merry Christmas, but with a ‘Happy Holidays’ to one and all.”

I got back: “This is exactly what I mean… There has never been a time anywhere except in the last 10 years where people like you, have imbibed this political correctness crap and pretend that this season is anything but Christmas in countries which have a strong Christian heritage. So get back to work and Merry Christmas.

He was railing about the use of the inclusive ‘Happy Holidays’, instead of his exclusionary favorite, ‘Merry Christmas.’ He seemed most piqued about Muslims, and their growing acceptance in the USA.  (but not Islamic religious terms of course, those are acceptable). Well, we will have none of that in our household!

Ignoring the fact that I had just shown him that dozens of cultures and religions have some sort of year-end celebration, he was convinced that none but the anointed Christians should partake. “you should tell them that they should stop benefitting from this holiday and be made to go to work instead. Perhaps if they are to be totally honest with themselves, they should also shun the revelry that goes with it, but out of the Christmas spirit, do so after, perhaps during lent when you’re fasting.”

A subsequent reply to my comment from another of his narrow-minded regulars asked, “How is it exclusionary?  I say Merry Christmas to my Jewish landlady, and she doesn’t mind.”

You may think that yours is the Rolls-Royce of religions, but you don’t include anyone by insisting that they share a ride in it to YOUR CHURCH.  Exclusion is not allowing me to drive my crappy Chevy to my religious services – or to none at all.

I know there are worse examples of religious intolerance, but I don’t know how to access ISIS or Boko Haram’s websites. I think that there are many, I hope a majority of, Christians and Catholics who are more loving and acceptant than this.

His snotty reply incited me to publish yet another example of narrow-minded entitlement. He must have smelled me coming.  When I tried to access his site to copy quotes, I found that he had deleted my comment and his reply, and turned off all comments – but we know that NOTHING is ever really erased from the internet, don’t we?

If you’d like a look at the original, click here https://astrugglingdad.wordpress.com/2015/12/23/merry-christmas-there-i-said-it/comment-page-1/#comment-883 .  Take backup, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Happy Holidays to each and every one of you, whichever Holiday you wish to celebrate. Bah, Humbug to Bob Cratchit Catholic, and all his head-in-the-sand, Trump-supporting buddies.

What a Bunch Of Boobs

Aghast

It’s been a summer of bare breasts in Canada – and outrage, and complaints, and moral entitlement.

It started a couple of weeks ago, in Guelph, ON. An 8-year-old girl at the splash pad of a municipal pool was told by a teenage male attendant, that she had to put a top on. The pool’s rules insisted on it for any female over 4. Her mother was aghast, and angry, that she had been discriminated and sexualized.

The next day, with a lawyer’s aid, and serious discussion with various local bureaucrats, it was admitted that a public pool had no legal right to enact such a rule. In a spin-doctor defense of the life-guard, the Recreational Department claimed that he was probably just trying to prevent any complaints.

This is the city where, in 1991, three 19-year-old males, returning from the park, stripped off their shirts on a hot muggy day. The 19-year-old female with them did the same, and was stopped and charged with ‘committing a lewd act.’

Angered more by the double standard than the possibility of a $170 fine, she went to court with a prepared lawyer, and what was expected to be a five minute, Pay-The-Damn-Fine hearing, turned into a two-day, he-said-she-said trial, where the language of the law was shown to be sexist, moralistic, and so sufficiently vague as to be unenforceable. It was reported that the law was in place to prevent complaints.

Suddenly, a precedent had been set, that women in Canada could legally bare their breasts in public, as long as it was not for commercial gain.

Somewhat more recently, three local sisters, in their early 20s, set out for a bicycle ride around town. On their way home at dusk, on a warm, muggy evening, they also decided to remove their shirts to get cool. Wouldn’t you know it; not one of them was wearing a bra.

They were stopped by a female police officer, who maintained eye contact, and warned them to be careful riding through some road-construction areas. Several blocks further on, they were stopped by a male police officer, who ordered them to put their shirts back on, insisting that there was a bylaw, and that police had received complaints.

When one of them denied that they were breaking any law, and another pulled out a cell-phone and started recording the proceedings, suddenly it became all about whether they had lights and bells on their bikes. They did!

The next day brought an hour-long phone-call to the Police Department, where they were put on hold three times, till someone actually found out that there is no such bylaw. They have lodged an official complaint. Why am I not surprised to find that the oldest is a Grammy-nominated singer/performer, with a career to support? Local TV, radio and newspapers were soon notified.

BC Mountie

Two young mothers in British Columbia, left the kids with the dads, and headed to the beach for an afternoon of sun, sand and freedom. They found a secluded dune, spread their towels and dropped their bikini tops. Fifteen minutes later, a young RCMP officer marched a quarter-mile across the Sahara beach in his shiny shoes, to order them to cover up, because there had been complaints.

They also are bringing an official complaint for embarrassment and harassment, because there is no bylaw prohibiting topless sunbathing.

You have to be very careful how you speak to a police officer, because they take themselves very seriously. Most don’t care about obedience to legislation; they care about social peace and quiet. It disturbs and angers me that so much time and effort is spent ‘assuaging complaints’ instead of enforcing laws. I am supremely disappointed that police officers either don’t know the laws they claim they’re enforcing, or that they intentionally lie to civilians to get their way.

Were I one of the beach ladies, I’d have been very tempted to reply that I was already obeying the law, and was not the Complaints Department. If my daughter decides that she requires an abortion, we don’t care if you and your Fundamentalist Church complain; we will obey the law that says she can have one. If the wife and I decide that divorce is a better solution to our problems than murder, we don’t care if you and the guy with the funny hat in Rome complain; we will render unto Caesar, and get one.

I know that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but I don’t want it to be at the expense of my legal rights. There is nothing intrinsically evil or psychologically damaging about naked female breasts in public. “But what about the children??! 😯 ” Perhaps if children learned to view them as natural, and not as lures into sin, we would have less sex crime and psychiatric counselling. I know I’d be happy.  😀

#491

Beauty vs Brains

Obviously, that title doesn’t refer to me.  If a Mama bear got a good look at me, she’d abandon her cub. And, even if I could get both the hamsters in my head on the little wheel at the same time, I’d still only be able to outwit a clothespin, one of the push-on type, those spring-clip ones are wily.

Damn!  Did I just date myself?  Just lost the young crowd.  What’s a clothespin Dad?  My tablet can’t find it.

Maybe it’s a function of growing up poor.  I just have no ego when it comes to dressing to go out.  Wifely translation; You’re just a grubby old man that I’m ashamed to be seen with in public.  Clean and neat, I can see, but not Dressing Up, to go to the supermarket, or pharmacy.  A polo shirt, a pair of black jeans and a pair of boots – I’m ready to go.

Conversation with wife;

Her; You’re not going out in that, are you?

Me; Damned right I am!

Her; What if we run into (pick one, or all A. The President B. The Pope C. The Queen of England D. Somebody else who I don’t give a shit about their opinion about how I dress.)

Me; If they say something shitty about my clothes, I’ll tell them to go F**k themselves.

This means we don’t leave the house for a week, because she is convinced that a priest is lurking just around the corner of the garage, waiting to jump out, point at me and laugh.

If you don’t want me to wear this shirt, don’t hang it up in the closet.  I/we have a pile of secondary shirts which never leave the house.  I suffer from congenital body tremors which are increasing with age, especially in the right arm and hand.  I drop more food on myself than I used to.  I wear those special shirts just to eat in.  The good ones I wear in rotation.

Across the street from our favorite grocery store, is a lovely little specialty shop named Eurofoods.  It is what it says.  Imported food from all over Europe, specializing in Polish.  Just as you enter the store, there is a 50 foot long deli counter, stretching from front to back.  Pre-cooked stuff like cabbage rolls and soup, all kinds of wieners and wursts, hams and luncheon meats for slicing, schnitzel, pork roasts, stew meat, ground beef and dozens of kinds of cheeses.

Protocol has been that, as you enter, you stand in line until one of the clerks looks you in the eye, and says, “May I help you?”  Then you proceed down the counter.  Apparently there were those who didn’t feel that they should have to stand in line and just marched over to the section of the counter which contained whatever they wanted, and started giving directions to the clerk who was already serving someone else.  Some customers objected – strongly.  I heard that there were a couple of “spirited discussions.”

The owner decided to put in one of those number-ticket spitters, to prevent further problems.  Since about the first of October, there have been signs saying, “As of November 7/2011, you will be required to take a ticket to receive service at the deli counter.”  There is an outer door and an inner door, and there is one of these signs on each of them  Now, had it been me, I would have placed this infernal device at the left end of the counter, immediately adjacent to the door.  It sits, instead, at the middle of the counter.  On the counter, by the door, is an 8 1/2 by 11 sign, big, black block letters, “Take a number”, and three large red arrows.  Ten or twelve feet further down is another, identical sign, pointing to the Bingo machine.

I had told the wife about the new system but she doesn’t get out a lot.  A recent visit was the first time she’d seen the new system in action.  I stood her in line, walked 20/25 feet down the counter, took a number, and walked back to join her.  Then I expressed my opinion about how silly it was to put the machine in the center, and make you walk all the way down, and then, all the way back, to stand in line.  Suddenly, the woman two places ahead of us, got out of line, walked down and got a ticket, and walked back, and stood in the same spot she just left.

I was all for letting the law of survival of the fittest prevail.  The clerk would have called out, Number 43, and I would have stepped forward and said, “That’s me.”  I don’t know what got into the wife that day.  Usually she is quiet and non-confrontational.  Perhaps it was the way this woman swaggered back into line.  Maybe it was the aura of entitlement that she gave off.  Even then the wife wasn’t loud or nasty, she just firmly stated, My number’s ahead of you.–But I vas here first.–My number’s ahead of you.–But I have stood in line.–My number’s ahead of you.  So she left her coveted spot and went to stand behind the man who came in behind me, and took a number.

And then the bitching started.  I have trouble taking information out of ambient noise, but I got things like Rude people, Have no respect, D’ey’re just pushy.  Well! that got my dandruff up.  In a loud clear voice, which carried out to the loading dock I said, “Dear me!  I am really sorry that you didn’t bother to read the signs and obey the rules.  I feel so badly that I may cry.  Oh, boo hoo.”  Suddenly it got much quieter.

Perhaps one of the things that helped set the wife off, was the level of dress on the pseudo-contessa, that went with the swagger and entitlement.  A pair of shoes worth a week of my wages, a dress that would have paid to feed a family in India for six months, a fur-trimmed, wool stole with a cameo holding it together, a silver necklace with amber.  If the watch on the left wrist wasn’t a lady’s Rolex, it was trying hard to convince us it was, the right wrist had silver bracelets and bangles, gold and silver rings on about 11 fingers, two pair of diamond(?) ear-studs.  Her coiffure was immaculate, not a hair out of place.  Her make-up looked like a professional had been paid to apply it and, if it was the same salon operator, she had a retirement fund going, just doing the nails.  All this gorgeousness to pick up pickled pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut at a Polish market?  Get thee behind me Satan, and next time, take a number.

After all this drama had played itself out, and peace and tranquility had returned to our little corner market, the old man in front of me, who is now next in line, walked over to the machine and took a number.  The clerk said Number 43.  I stepped forward with a smile on my face and never looked back at the train wreck.