The Same Sad Story

confession-box

The recent scandal of the Catholic hierarchy covering up sexual allegations against priests, and moving them from post to post, only shows that the problem is neither new, nor restricted to the Catholic Church.

The first time I heard about a serial child molester was about 1960.  The United Church of Canada had defrocked a minister named Russell D. Horsburg, after he had been convicted in Windsor, Ontario.  He was an equal opportunity pedo, willing to debauch both boys and girls.

One of the wife’s older sisters had left the Catholic Church, to wed a New Order Mennonite boy.  As a compromise, they attended and were married in a local United Church.  Always paranoid and defensive about leaving the Catholic Church, and anxious to justify her actions, she is the only person I personally know, who put her marriage certificate in a silver frame, and hung it on her living room wall for all to see.

After we got married in 1967, and had a child, we sometimes visited.  One evening, after a washroom trip, I stopped to examine the certificate.  Sure enough, it was signed by Reverend Russell D. Horsburg.  Hmmm, so he practiced his craft here, before the United Church slyly shipped him 300 miles down the highway, to an unsuspecting parish.

She suspiciously wanted to know what I was looking at.  I told her that her officiating minister was later jailed for pedophilia.

WELL, THAT DOESN’T MEAN THAT WE’RE NOT REALLY MARRIED!

No, but you’re probably lucky that he wasn’t still here in Kitchener, as your kids grew up.

Okay, I’ve described the problem.  Now it’s up to somebody (or somebodies) else to come up with a solution to it.  😳

Abuse

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I Apologise

I recently apologised to a British blogger, for Justin Bieber.  Apparently the blogger was male, and older than 13.  While I was at it, I also apologised for four older female Canadian singers.  It’s a bit late for retroactive apologies, because they’ve all come, and almost gone, but they’re still being played on the radio, and they still irritate me.

It’s not that they’re poor singers or performers.  They’re all adequate to good; it’s more the Kardashian famous-for-being-famous, off-stage persona that bites my ass.  They all seem to believe that they are as special as they think their fans feel they are.

Celine Dion

Empress Celine and pedophile regent Rene….it’s mostly Rene’s fault.  He was sniffing around the poor little Québécois trailer-trash since she was 12 and he was 38.  He didn’t marry her until it was legal, but, don’t worry, nothing sexual happened until then.  She had some talent, and he kept telling her how special she was, till she believed it.  Police officers refer to this as *grooming*.  One of 14 dirt-poor children, she’d have done anything to escape the family farm.

He was accused by a hotel maid of rape.  The wife said, “Oh he wouldn’t do that!  He just got married.” as if that somehow cancelled his overactive feeling of sexual entitlement.

I got a chance to see the photos of the wedding when Celine and Rene finally got married, and my eyes still itch. Czarina Catherine of Russia didn’t have as flamboyant a ceremony as that.  We could have bailed Greece out of debt with the amount of money that was wasted on that ego-trip.  Her sense of inadequacy must be huge, and Rene, the enabler, just keeps playing to it, as long as he gets his cut.

Avril Lavigne

Actually, Avril is the least objectionable of the bunch, and has come the farthest toward becoming a decent performer.  She started out with that fedora (?) and a guy’s tie, making more people than just me think she might be just a bit lesbian.  Her handlers have got rid of the protester props, and taught her how to dress.  They’ve got her hair cut in a more mature style as she ages, and they’ve got her a *boyfriend* to hold up to the general public, so I’m sure she’s hetero.

Several publications referred to her early persona as a Punk, and she became quite incensed, claiming she wasn’t Punk.  If she dresses like a Punk, talks like a Punk and acts like a Punk, then she’s probably just another petulant French-Canadian bitch, even if she does have a song titled Punk Princess.  Her later songs have a bit more mature meat to them, but some of the early ones….Aye-Yi-Yi!  Sk8ter Boi?  Is that some kind of French-Canadian *woody* joke?

A female entertainment columnist described the song Complicated as just about dorky boys being dorky, but when you look at the lyrics, it’s more about a cultural naïf not realizing that there are different ways to dress and act for different people and social situations.  And that, I’m With You, song??  Standing in the dark, waiting in the rain, I don’t know who you are, but I’m with you??!  Doesn’t sound like good life-choices to me.  More like an underage bar pickup nobody wants a witness to.  Are we back to the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name?  Nah, she’s got a boyfriend!

Alanis Morissette

Little Miss, Isn’t I Moronic, brought us perhaps the only song written about irony, and the ironic thing was that she didn’t know what irony was.  After her handlers gently explained the difference between irony and a song full of gripes, she held a press conference to explain that the entire song shouldn’t be regarded as Ironic.  Rain on her wedding day, a black fly in her coffee?  Bitch, bitch, bitch!  Ten thousand spoons, and all she needs is a knife.  Next time plan better, and have one when you need it, or get off your lazy ass and go get one.

Meeting the man of her dreams and then meeting his lovely wife??!  Irony is having the opposite of what was intended, happen.  Fifteen years ago, you wouldn’t even give this guy a mercy fuck.  Some other woman took him under her wing, spent time and energy, and civilized him, teaching him how to dress, and not pick his nose in public, and now you want him and can’t have him.  Isn’t that ironic?

Her singing isn’t bad until she gets towards the end of most of her songs.  Then she goes into this high-pitched ululating, ayee, ayee, ayee!  I looked at my dog one day, and he had his paws over his ears.

Shania Twain

I’ve saved the best for last, Shania the liar.

I don’t like Country music, even the Country-Lite that she serves up.  That said, she sings well, has a good presentation, and mostly good songs.  All except for that, That Don’t Impress Me Much, fiasco.  Brad Pitt and rocket scientists don’t impress her?  What does?  Bad boy plow jockeys?  Not a lot of farmers or cowboys come out of Timmins.  I guess it’s tough to write about hard-rock miners.

Getting past her act, the thing I hate about Shania is that, every word that falls out of her mouth is a lie.  Start with her name, Shania Twain.  She was born Eileen Edwards.  She says she’s from Timmins, Ontario.  Yeah, well, that may be where she was when she hit it big, but she lived in Windsor until she was six.  That’s where she’s from.  I can understand dumping the Eileen Edwards name for show business; lots of people do the same.  She claims she adopted Shania to celebrate her native heritage.  Sweetie, see above.  You’re a white girl from Windsor.

She presented this tight-as-Daisy Dukes shorts and low neckline act, and then called a media conference to tell everybody that she had no sex-drive, she put all her energy into her songs.  Two months later, she held another, to announce that she was pregnant.  Well, somebody had a sex-drive.  She popped the boy-child out, and named him Eja.  It looks like it should be pronounced Ee-Jay, but she insists that it’s *Asia*.  She claims that she’s just an ordinary Canadian housewife, and then grabs her strangely-named kid, and takes two years off in a French castle.  Yeah!  Lots of ordinary Canadian housewives do that.