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Friday, January 4th, 2013

very interesting.

The Canadian Gun Registry Clusterfuck began in the 90’s and was supposed to cost a predicted million bucks. By around 2006 it was already over a billion bucks poured down a rathole, and even the cops disliked it. Witness this statement by the Ontario Provincial Police commisioner Julian Fantino:

We have an ongoing gun crisis including firearms-related homicides lately in Toronto, and a law registering firearms has neither deterred these crimes nor helped us solve any of them. None of the guns we know to have been used were registered, although we believe that more than half of them were smuggled into Canada from the United States. The firearms registry is long on philosophy and short on practical results considering the money could be more effectively used for security against terrorism as well as a host of other public safety initiatives.”

So now they’ve decided to trash it. All but the liberal frogs in Quebec.

When faced with the overwhelming defeat of a stupid measure enabled by stupid people and enforced on the law abiding while ignoring the criminal, liberals always double down on stupid.

On spelling

I can mostly spell, but I can’t type. In his most recently released autobiography, Twain talks with great affection about the misspellings of his daughter in her biography of him. Twain had more than his share of opportunities to enjoy misspelling, for he learned/chose his craft in part because of Henry Wheeler Shaw, more popularly known as Josh Billings.

Mr Shaw made an art out of misspellings, and refined it to a sharp edge. His essays are beautifylly wry, but never get the attention they deserve because, in his day, the N word was used no differently than “Internet” is today. SO his work has been confined to the back alleys of the internet, but thankfully, it is still there, and even the politically correct have not managed to destroy it. Read some samples here.
Excerpted, his essay on the Goat.

The gote iz a koarse wollen sheep.

They hav a split hoof and a whole tail.

They hav a good appetite, and a sanguine digestion.

They swallo what they eat, and will eat ennything they kan bite.

Their moral karakters are not polished, they had rather steal a rotten turnip, out ov a garbage-box, than tew cum honestly bi a pek ov oats.

The male gote haz two horns on the ridge ov hiz hed, and a mustash on hiz bottom lip, and iz the plug ugly ov hiz naberhood.

A maskuline gote will fite ennything, from an elephant down to hiz shadder on a ded wall.

They strike from their but-end, insted ov the shoulder, and are az likely tew hit, az a hammer iz a nailhed.

They are a hi seazoned animal, az mutch so az a pound ov assifidity.

p. 125 They are faithful critters, and will stick tew a friend az long az he livs in a shanty.

They kan klime ennything but a greast pole, and kno the way up a rock, az natral az a woodbine.

They are az certain tew raize az yung ones, sum familys are haff gotes, and the other haff children. They are good eating when they are yung, but they leave it oph az they git stronger.

They are alwus poor in the boddy, but phatt in the stumick, what they eat seems to all go to appetight, yu mite az well agree tew phatt an injun rubber over shew bi filling it with klam shells, az tew raize enny adipoze membrane on the outside bust ov a gote.

A phatt gote would be a literary curiosity.

They use the same dialekt az the sheep, and the yung ones speak the language more fluently than the parients do.

Thare iz only two animals ov the earth that will eat tobakko—one iz a man and tuther iz a gote, but the gote understands it the most, for he swallers the spit, chaw and all.

The male gote, when he iz pensiv, iz a venerable and philosophy looking old cuss, and wouldn’t make a bad proffessor ov arithmetik in sum ov our colleges.

They are handy at living a longtime, reaching an advanced age without arriving at enny definite konklusion.

How long a gote livs without giving it up, thare iz no man now old enuff tew tell.

Methuzeler, if hiz memory waz bad at forgetting, mite giv a good-sized guess, but unfortunately for science and this essa, Methuzeler aint here.

Gotes will liv in enny klimate, and on enny vittles, except tanbark, and if they ever cum to a square death, it iz a profound sekret, in the hands of a few, to this day.

I wouldn’t like tew beleave enny man under oath who had ever seen a maskuline gote acktually die, and stay so.

Speaking ov Methuzeler, puts me in mind ov the fackt, if a man should liv now daze, as mutch az he did, and only hav one eye tew see things with, he would hav to hav an addishun bilt onto the back ov hiz head tew sto away things into.

p. 126 The femail gote iz either the mother, or sister, or cuzzin ov the male gote, ackording tew the prevailing circumstansis in the case, or else i labour under a delusion, i forget witch.

They giv milk intuitively about a quart, before it iz watered, in twelve hours, which iz the subjickt ov nourishment in various ways.

This milk, whitch is extrakted from the female gote, iz excellent tew finish up yung ones on, but is apt to make them bellycose, and fightful.

It iz not unkommon for a babe, while inhaleing this pugnashus fluid, to let oph hiz left colleckshun or diggit and ketch the nurse on the pinnakle ov the smeller, and tap it for claret.

This iz a kommon fakt amung irish babes, and explains the reazon whi, in after life, these same babes make such brilliant hits.

In writing the history ov the male and female gote tew adorn the pages ov futer times, i flatter miself that i hav stuck tew the truth, and haven’t allowed mi imaginashun tew boss the job.

A grate menny ov our best bilt historians are apt tew mistake opinyuns for facts, this iz an eazy mistake tew make, but when i strike a goose, or bed bugg, or gote, yu notis one thing, i stay with them.—Finis.

And now

Two people I know have gone over.

No, no they didn’t die, they are still there, working every day, they have just made the personal decision that the laws of this land no longer apply to them, and they are living as if in wartime- going about their business and yet ready to divest themselves of everything except what they can carry and hit the road. They are worried, and yet they are strangely free. Were there not hostages to my fortune I would have joined them already. In spirit, I have.

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