Dear Meryl Streep: A Wake Up Call from the Land of Terminal Niceness

by Kevin D. Annett

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Dear Meryl,

During your unabashedly courageous defense of civil liberties and the “submerged America” at the Golden Globe Awards the other night, you referred to actor Ryan Gosling in this manner: “Like all of the nice people, Ryan is a Canadian”.

Ouch,baby! Very ouch!

Having had my life destroyed and blacklisted by a host of “nice” Canadians after I exposed their not so nice genocide of many tens of thousands of aboriginal children in their Christian labor camps called schools, I hope I’m not appearing too jaded or biased when I tell you that you are woefully misinformed about Canada and its people. But since most Americans can’t even say how many provinces we have or where Toronto is located, your attitude isn’t exactly unusual, even among Hollywood liberals who pride themselves on being politically erudite.

Canadians have honed a hypocritical smugness and an “aren’t we so much better than those gun toting redneck Yankees” attitude to a fine art. We constantly cast our moral stones to the south while wading through and ignoring our own mounds of corpses. Our deliberate veneer of “niceness” that has historically concealed so many of our crimes is much like the arch-typical town child rapist who always has an impeccably beloved public image even as he ravages the innocent. If your average Canuck seems “nicer” to you than your own countrymen, Meryl, then I’m afraid you’re confusing duplicity and moral cowardice with pleasantness.

Canadians are “nice” simply to avoid causing an upset or controversy to anyone: especially when they’re authority figures, including murderers and criminals in high office. Along with our pleasant affect as a people comes a craven deference to power, a pathological fear of change, and the lowest conviction rate for child rapists anywhere in the western world. Indigenous people in our country have a not-so-nice standard of living about seventieth in the world, below Thailand and Brazil, plus a national death rate as high as it was a century ago.

In reality, Meryl, Canada is a closed and authoritarian society with none of the formal separations of power found in your country. Our elected politicians’ oath of office isn’t even made to our people or to a Constitution, but to an aging autocrat on a throne in London; and our head of state isn’t elected but is the Queen’s personal appointee, the Governor General, who can dismiss the government at any time. Rule by fiat and overt corruption is the name of the game up here. And so not accidentally, after World War Two Canada smuggled more Nazis into our country than any nation in the world, while restricting Jewish attendance at our universities to no more than 1% of the student body. And that nice little arrangement didn’t change until long after male Indians finally got the vote here: some time around 1968.

So if indeed Canadians are imbued with “niceness”, then I’m afraid it’s of the terminal variety.

Terminal Niceness is something I witnessed up close and personal as a United Church clergyman when I had the audacity to open my pulpit to the tortured aboriginal survivors of Christian Canada’s homegrown gulags. Being a properly groomed Canadian I kept smiling to my congregation in our terminally nice co-dependency right until the moment I was nicely terminated. And then I became the kind of not very enjoyable social outcast that no self-respecting Canadian likes to be associated with. The blood soaked Canadian history I’ve revealed is well, not very nice. So my fellow Canadians just ignore it all and consider me as simply rude.

I envy you Americans. You tend to say what you mean and mean what you say, regardless of your politics. We’re much too British for that. You see yourselves as citizens first, not as “subjects” like us, and everybody in Yankee Land is always squawking about their unalienable liberties. Now that’s extremely un-Canadian of you to do so. For up here what matters above all else is politeness, order, and not offending anyone. I mean, Jesus! We even apologize when we’re the ones being bumped into!

In short, dear Meryl, we Canadians have elevated blandness into a national icon to which we pay daily homage, sacrificing at that altar any semblance of truth, justice and accountability. Maybe that impudent countryman of yours, Billy Bob Thornton, put it best: “Canada is like mashed potatoes without the gravy”. Personally I prefer a richer diet. But then again, I am half American.

Anyway, Meryl, congrats about your award, and your fine tearful performance the other night. Although the grass may seem greener over on our side of the invisible line, please do cherish the simple fact that, unlike Canadians, you guys have a heritage of something more than passive conformity to whatever latest gangster is in the saddle. 

Canada? Shit, I can carve a better nation out of a banana.

best,

Kevin

p.s. You may now want to read my latest tomes, available at amazon.com , especially Murder by Decree: The Crime of Genocide in Canada and 1497 and so on: A History of White People in Canada. (see the links below). Or tune in to our irreverently subversive blog show Radio Free Kanata every Sunday. Ciao baby.

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Nativity

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By Reverend Kevin D. Annett

The last Christmas we were all together hangs over memory like the fog did that year in the Alberni valley. It was a time of gathering, two years and more of labor summoning so many together where once there were but a few. And it was a time of ending.

The church stewards had warned me to expect an overflow crowd at the Christmas Eve service, and like overgrown elves they had busied themselves around the building, stringing wires and sound systems in the cold auditorium kept that way to save money. The snows had come early, and our food bank was already depleted.

With my eldest daughter who was but five, I had walked to the church one morning in the week before yule, pondering the cold and the sermon, when I met the one who would pierce the fog that year for us. She stood patiently at the locked door, her brown eyes relaxing as we approached. Her bare hand gestured at me.

“You’re that minister, ain’t you?” she mumbled to me, as daughter Clare fell back and grabbed my hand.

Before I could answer, the stranger smiled and nodded, and uttered with noticeable pleasure at her double entendre,

“They say you give it out seven days a week!”

I smiled too, gripping Clare’s hand reassuringly and replying, “If you mean food, we’re a bit short, but you’re welcome to whatever’s left.”

She nodded again, and waited while I unlocked the door and picked up Clare, who was clinging to me by then.

The basement was even more frigid than the outside, but the woman doffed her torn overcoat and sighed loudly as we approached the food bank locker.

“For all the good it’ll do …” she said, as I unlocked the pantry and surveyed the few cans and bags lying there.

I turned and really looked at her for the first time. She was younger than she had sounded, but a dark, cancerous growth marred her upper lip, and a deep scar ran down her face and neck. Her eyes were kindness, and in that way, very aboriginal.

“I’m sorry there’s not more …” I began, since back then I still saw things in terms of giving. But she shook her head, and instead of saying anything, she looked at Clare, and the two of them exchanged a smile for the first time.

I stared, confused, at the cupboard so bare, and heard her finally utter,

“Them people in church, you know what they need?”

I set Clare down and shook my head.

“They need Him. They sing about Him, and pretend they know Him, but hell, they wouldn’t spot Him even if He came and bit ‘em on their ass.”

I smiled at that one, and even dared a mild chuckle.

“You doin’ a Christmas play for the kids?” she continued.

“Yeah”.

“I bet it’s the usual bullshit with angels and shepherds, right?”

I nodded.

“That don’t mean nuthin’ to those people. Why don’t you do a story about … well, like, if He came to Port Alberni to be born, right now?”

I finally laughed, feeling very happy. She smiled too, walked over to the cupboard and picked up a small bag of rice. Donning her coat, she nodded her thanks, and said,

“My bet is Him and Mary and Joseph, they’d end up in the Petrocan garage, down River road. The owner there lets us sleep in the back sometimes.”

And then she was gone.

I didn’t try explaining the stranger to anyone, ever, or what her words had done to me. All I did was lock the food cupboard and lead Clare up to my office, where I cranked up the heat and set her to drawing. And then I sat at my desk and I wrote for the rest of the day.

The kids in church were no problem at all. They got it, immediately. The Indians who dared to mingle in the pews that night with all the ponderous white people also took to the amateur performance like they had composed it themselves, and laughed with familiarity as the holy family was turned away first by the local cops, and then hotel owners, and finally by church after church after church.

It was mostly the official Christians who were shocked into open-mouthed incredulity at the coming to life of something they thought they knew all about. As the children spoke their lines, I swear I saw parishioners jump and writhe like there were tacks scattered on the pews.

“Joe, I’m getting ready to have this kid. You’d better find us a place real friggin’ quick.”

“I’m trying, Mary, but Jehovah! Nobody will answer their door! I guess it’s ‘cause we’re low lifes.”

“Look! There’s a church up ahead. I bet they’ll help us!”

If you believe the Bible, whoever He was loved to poke fun at his listeners and shock them out of their fog, and our play would have made him proud. As the eight-year old girl who played Mary pleaded fruitlessly for help from a kid adorned in oversize clerical garb, and was covered in scorn by the young “priest”, I heard a sad moan rise from the congregation.

But things took a turn when Mary and Joseph came upon an Indian, played by one of the aboriginal kids.

“Sir, will you help us? My wife’s going to have a baby …”

“Sure!” replied the native kid with gusto. “I got a spot in a shed behind the gas station down the road. The owner lets us all sleep in there!”

And in a contrived scene of boxes and cans scattered where our communion table normally stood, Mary had her baby, as erstwhile homeless men with fake beards and a stray Rez dog looked on, and one of the witnesses urged Mary to keep her newborn quiet lest the Mounties hear his cries and bust everyone for vagrancy.

Voices were subdued that night in the church hall over coffee, cookies and Christmas punch, and the normally dull gazes and banalities about the time of year were oddly absent. The Indians kept nodding and smiling at me, saying little, and not having to; and the kids were happy too, still in costume and playing with the local stray who had posed as the Rez dog in the performance that would always be talked about. It was the white congregants who seemed most pregnant that night, but they couldn’t speak of it.

It was one of my last services with them, and somehow they all knew it, since we had all entered the story by then. For a churchly Herod had already heard a rumor, and dispatched assassins to stop a birth, and me, even though it was already too late.

My daughter Clare was not running and rolling with the other kids, but in her manner joined me quietly with her younger sister Elinor in tow. Our trio stood there, amidst the thoughtful looks and unspoken love, and person after person came to us and grasped our hands, or embraced us with glistening eyes. An aging Dutch woman named Omma van Beek struggled towards me in her walker and pressed her trembling lips on my cheek, and said something to me in her native tongue as the tears fell unashamedly from both of us.

Later, when we were scattered and lost, I would remember that moment like no other, as if something in Omma’s tears washed away all the filth and loss that were to follow. And perhaps that looming nightfall touched my heart just then, for I gave a shudder as I looked at my children, almost glimpsing the coming divorce, and I held my daughters close as if that would keep them safe and near to me forever.

The snow was falling again as we left the darkened building, kissing us gently like it had done years before when as a baby, Clare had struggled with me on a toboggan through the deep drifts of my first charge in Pierson, Manitoba, on another Christmas Eve. The quiet flakes blessed us with memory, and settled in love on the whole of creation, even on the unmarked graves of children up at the old Indian residential school.

The old Byzantine icon depicts Jesus as a baby, hugging his worried mother while she stares ahead into his bloody future: her eyes turned in grief to the viewer, yet his loving eyes seeking her, past the moment, past even his own death.

The image may still hang in the basement of my church, where I left it.

Image result for kevin annett and his childrenSee:  WWW.MURDERBYDECREE.COM 

A Modest Proposal for Dealing with Donald Trump: Eat the President

By Kevin D. Annett

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“Oh, I could just eat him right up!” - an elderly female Donald Trump supporter, Baltimore, September 2, 2016


In these latter days of planetary hysteria, everyone seems to be the enemy and the real villains keep getting away with their shit cloaked behind a three second sound bite. It’s enough to make you want to puke all over everything, you know?

These are indeed the times that try not only our souls, but our imagination. Someone says “a Fat Cat President Elect”, and all we can think of doing is grabbing a protest sign or a blog spot and calling the creep names. And so it was with some awe and elation that I was struck nearly blind this morning by my own brilliance, as the answer finally came to me.

We have to eat the President.

Cannibalism is a very American thing to do, after all. Hell, we chewed up many millions of brown folks to make our country Safe For Democracy. Assimilating the enemy is old hat, and the prescribed method of all True Patriots. It’s also the moral thing to do, as well. We eat our enemies for their own good. Ask any missionary or corporate accountant.

Nor do I think that the logistics pose a problem. Chubby billionaires like Donny Boy have been on the menu of various corporate and political factions for centuries. It’s what the ruling elites do: they consume each other, and they drop like flies depending on who’s screwing who. For all his filthy lucre, Mr. Trump is no exception. The guy’s got so many enemies in Washington that he doesn’t even want to live there.

No, it should be an easy enough thing to slice and dice that Wall Street ham, and serve him up as a spicy ragout or filleted casserole. Hillary and half the Republicans in town would be only too happy to supply the carving knives.

Consider as well the immense moral capital that the dissection and gulping down of Donny Trump will confer on his late memory, and on his syndicate. His final, Christ like consummation: letting his body and blood be consumed by the faithful! What an unbeatable publicity gimmick for a stumbling Trump International Incorporated, and a sure fire way to cement his place in American history!

Cast your vision even further afield and imagine the commercial possibilities of a globally televised “My Dinner with Donny” event. Holy Smorgasbord! The thing would do better at the box office than Texas Chainsaw Massacre! And think of all the merchandising spin-offs, so dear to the guy’s grasping little heart: Blue Ray DVD’s of the President-Elect’s Last Moments on Earth, comic books, T shirts declaring “I Ate the Chief Executive”, and even miniature Donny candy-dolls, with detachable and edible limbs oozing red jello. A perfect Christmas gift!

Now, considering that President to Be Donny is soon to take office here in the Land of the Fee and the Home of the Depraved, this whole Chow Down on the Presidential Crown Plan should work out wonderfully. After all, who’s more likely to cash in on a profitable business venture than your average Congressman and Senator? And come on: it’s not as if the Washington Mob haven’t eaten people before!

Trust me people, the thing will work. Even the soggy mess remaining afterwards will present no problem to the Federal Cleanup Crew, who have been dumping human remains for a hell of a long time.

So there you have it: a morally, politically and commercially winning plan. Eat the President, for your own good, and for his. And as someone so impressed with himself and his perceived moral stature, Mr. Trump should be all in favor of his own devouring for the good of America. After all, as Monica Lewinsky demonstrated, doesn’t your average President want to be eaten?

But after all is said and done, if CEO Trump is averse to the idea of dying for the sake of so many; well, it just goes to show that you can’t trust an actor.



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Now available: A fourth book this year by Kevin Annett

… and just in time for Christmas: A Satirical poke at Canada 

1497 and so on: A History of White People in Canada OR The Caucasian Healing Fund by Kevin D. Annett

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List price: $10

Order your copy now at www.createspace.com/6784355 or through amazon.com
or by writing to the author at thecommonland@gmail.com

Why? Because we told you to! And Canucks always do what they’re told!