Trudeaus x2, The Charter, and Notwithstanding Chr├ętien

It’s small details like the disrespect of our flag that weaken our society and allow cowards and crooks to run things.

Respect for the flag is symbolic of respect for the Charter of Rights and Freedoms we are SUPPOSED to have.

I made this exact comment to the New Glasgow Police during my filing of complaints about their false arrest of me. I made a deliberate comment to the officer taking the paperwork that it’s disrespectful to have a dirty tattered flag infront of the police station. I’ve referred to corrupt officers in our town wearing that same flag and tarnishing it with their horsecockery and lack of ethics.

Same concept. Disrespect for the flag by people in charge of shaping society and running it demonstrates a lack of understanding and respect for the underlying values we are supposed to have.

Not saying Canada/church didn’t wreck indigenous families or do other horrible shit. What I’m saying is that in our country we have the ability to stand there and protest and hold politicians accountable in ways that aren’t possible in lots of places. THAT is one reason this matters.

Most corruption in our country and community is simply buried in beauracracy. Too much paperwork and cost to get the truth out.

If we had teachers and police and lawyers and social workers and doctors that truly understood what our rights are – the tattered flags wouldn’t need reminders. This is basic elementary school social studies.

That flag wasn’t made at the founding of the country so it’s not symbolic of the colonial torture. Flag was designed and agreed upon by Canadians in the 60s. Our Charter of Rights and Freedoms was established in the 80s.

The flag is symbolic in our shift toward better values. Doesn’t make up for 60s scoop or residential schools or the forced sterilizations or forced covid vaccinations or the invocation of the Emergencies Act by little-Castro… come to think of it, the Trudeaus did all of the short list above.

Papa Pierre was the 15th prime minister of Canada from 1968 to 1979 and from 1980 to 1984. He also briefly served as the leader of the Opposition from 1979 to 1980.

Look up “The Kitchen Accord”. That involves a Canadian lawyer and politician who served as the 20th prime minister of Canada from 1993 to 2003. That PM was Jean Cretien. Cretien is responsible for the notwithstanding clause. One of my conspiracy theories is that Elder Trudeau actually so wanted the notwithstanding clause but couldn’t support it publicly.

In a nutshell – some Charter rights are subject to the notwithstanding clause (section 33).

Between when the flag was made and the Charter was made law there were 17 years, of that time Papa Trudeau was PM for 11 years.

Between when the charter was codified into law and now we are looking at 40 years.

In that time-frame, the PM was either a Trudeau or a Chretien for 19 of the 40 years since the Charter was made law.

That means the same small group of insiders gave us the illusion of rights with a caveat they can make up reasons to strip you of them.

Our flag was made before our Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

The Charter is there to protect us but the same family / clubs in power now in Canada set things up this way. As long as they have ‘zee papers’ filled out properly, they can do anything they want. It doesn’t matter if the judge or politician approving the override of your rights just came out of a closed door meeting with the person asking them to do so (re: conduct of PM Trudeau 2 in regard to Jodi Wilson Raybould and SNC Lavalin / deferred prosecution).

It’s all fugazi.

TLDR: Anyone who disagrees with OP better come back with a valid criticism of the government instead of a lazy empty response like “It’s just a piece of fabric!!!”.

Someone commented with a photo of the Nova Scotian flag – solid. Agree. Great counter, even if sarcastic. Valid point. Our government is fugazi and our rights are pretend. Our current flag represents the rights we had before the Trudeaus and their old boys club gave us the illusion of more rights with a caveat they can disappear them when they feel like it.

Oppression is done in our country through slow painful expensive beauracracy.

Better have another “commission” or “committee”.

Swine.

Oblivious in America: Part 8

Portal, North Dakota

Sitting in the drivers seat of my car; three vehicles deep; waiting to speak to the border agent at the drive-through window. Stuffed beneath the center console were a few extra packs of cigarettes; in addition to the second full carton hidden in my suitcase that I had no plans to declare.

Passport, please.

Three and a half days of stubble on my face; tanned from the springtime sun; I hand the melanin-positive-female-passport-gestapo my passport… the one with all of the squiggly stamps on it. She asks if I have anything to declare. I declare the first carton of cigarettes; and 40 ounces of my 66 ounce bottle of brandy.

Pull into the garage, sir.

Was it the squiggly airport stamps or the visa from Afghanistan, I’d wondered.

I sit on one of my suitcases; my sand-colored flight bag to be precise. At present; it was the only bag to have been completely searched by both border agents plus the dog. My car doors are open; the hood is up; the trunk is cleared; and the spare tire is out.

The dog is running coordinated paths around, under, and inside of my car. He’s standing on the engine, sniffing under the hood. I just smile. This is fun. How much trouble can a bloke get into for a carton of Pall Malls?

You didn’t declare this, sir.

He found the second carton of cigarettes; my Pall Malls. I declared my Marlboro’s. Neither the male; the female; nor the pooch mentioned diddly-dick about the extra 26 ounces of brandy.

I smile.

You missed some smokes, eh.

The pretty lady guard smiles.

I pop the center console and produce 6 extra individual packages of Marlboro’s that I’d picked up along the way.

What now?

The guy tells me that I have two choices. My first choice is to go pay the tax on the additional carton of cigarettes and leave with a good story to tell at some un-determined time and place in the future. My second choice was that they confiscate my contraband and I get put on a special list of people that border guards have; but I wouldn’t have to pay the tax.

I choose the former; and here we are.

Onward to Estevan.

Oblivious in America: Part 7

On a hill in Northern Minnesota

I exit the roadside dive and hit the road. This state is home to my hero; Bob Dylan. I hit North Dakota and head North to Saskatchewan. The beautiful rolling buffalo grazing hills of North Dakota were one of the most pleasant landscapes I have encountered until crossing into Alberta from the Southern Interior of British Columbia several years later.

Roaring down the highway, between hills of green, I can’t help but think of bison hunts; men riding on horseback with musket in hand – laying waste to this land’s population of both man and beast.

“Discovered” and “uncovered” America did you? Hah!

The same shit-stain capitalists that simultaneously monopolized trade and labor at the turn of the 19th century by driving down their own costs by lowering wages and cutting jobs; are the same shit-stain capitalists that crashed the stock market in 2007 and received Taxpayer money to bail their corporations out of the shit-hole of Taxpayer debt that they created by being dishonest shit-stains.

My hope was that the rolling hills and pump-jacks would continue into Canada. The  most unique sight I found traversing North Dakota was the abundance of pump-jacks; oil pumping machines; in the backyards of farmers.

Capitalism screws up the landscape.

Alas, the Canadian border is approaching.

________

Part 8

________

 

Oblivious in Dubai: Part 1

There I was.

Nineteen, tanned, clean-shaven; business casual.

Standing in the hallway of the top floor of a strange hotel, just after midnight in Dubai; pushing the elevator button relentlessly in an effort to speed up my not-so-swift retreat.

Flight to Kandahar in seven and a half short hours. There wouldn’t be another flight for a few days; I can’t miss it.

There she was.  All 80 enraged pounds of her.

The geriatric mama-san that was screaming at me, almost inaudibly, in angry Mandarin.

How the hell did I end up here?

_______________________________________

ABOUT AN HOUR EARLIER

Just finished my shower and gotten cleaned after the 30 or so hours of flights and layovers I’d just put behind me.

I was hungry.  Looking off of the balcony of my 6th floor suite; that familiar vision of a Burger King sign peeked between the buildings and across the parking lot.  Only eight hours or so until my flight; plenty of time to fill my belly.  Not like I was going to get much sleep anyway.

Jet-lagged but up for some exploration.

I finish my chicken sandwiches on the second floor of the nicest Burger King I’d ever seen. Head downstairs and outside to the patio for a smoke.

There she was.

Crossing the six lane road, roaring with midnight traffic; two beautiful, petite, and well dressed Asian ladies walking with two imposing looking Caucasian fellows.

Puff… Puff… pretty girls I thought; lucky fellows.

They get to the corner I’m standing on; the two fellows and one of the girls cross the road.

The other girl walks up to me.

Hey there,” she says as she touches my back, “you want massage?

This should have been clue number one.

Of course I ‘want massage’!  My hotel is just over there...”  I point.

No, no.  You come to my hotel.

So I put my arm around this strange petite woman and follow her across a parking lot, between some buildings, down an alley, and into a parking garage.

It’s probably also relevant to mention that when you fly across the ocean on most major airlines – the beer is free.  So I had that going for me.

Along the way we talked.  She told me she was from China.  I told her I was here for the night on business, catching a plane in the morning.

She says, “What country you go to?”

To which I replied, “Afghanistan” matter of factly.

Oh yes, Afghanistan very nice.

In hindsight, this should have been clue number two.

She also said a number of other things while we walked and talked, things like:

  • “Two hundred US, two hundred US.”
  • “You work you work, you come you come.”
  • “Come for massage, my hotel.”

This should have been clue number three.

She pushes the button for the elevator.  Hits the button for the top floor.

Elevator goes up; door opens.  I see three doors in a tiny, dimly lit hallway; two clotheslines strung across it.

She approaches the door on the right.

HER:  Knock, knock, knock

NOT HER:  Knock, knock

HER:  Knock

In hindsight, the secret knock should have been clue number four.

I’m led in to a room with five sliding doors; all of them open except one.

From behind the closed door:

  • Grunting
  • Bed squeaking rhythmically

Oh.  Fuck.  Now I get it.

I did what any 19 year old man would do in the same situation.  I let the geriatric mama-san lead me into one of the open doors.  Inside, there’s a single bed, clean sheets, a night stand, tissues and a garbage can.

She leaves.

Fuck.  Now I really get it.

So the “masseuse” comes in and I take out my wallet, I’ve got 20 US and a bit of local currency – nowhere close to the 200 in US green-backs that she’s expecting.

What followed was lots of screaming, hand waving, finger waving, finger pointing, more yelling and what I’m sure was a less-than-positive glare – all this from the senior citizen.

There had to be muscle there.  Had to be.  I was expecting to get throat-punched by someone who was trained in the ancient art of the throat-punch.

I ran out while buttoning my shirt screaming, “ohfuckohfucksorryimsorryfuckimsorryohfuckohfuck,” over and over again.  I barrelled past the mama-san, ran under the clotheslines and poked that elevator call button over and over and over again.

________________

That's where it all happened.

That’s where it all started.

Part Two —>

_______________________________