So, CBC's "Search Engine" was soliciting questions from listeners to give to Stockwell Day on the access to ISP info scandall, and I wrote mine in even though I'm not a listener, just out of a random impulse from the part of myself which enjoys seeing public officials squirm. Anyway, they ended up using my question! It's fourteen minutes in the episode of the twentieth, and probably not interesting enough to listen to unless you're Canadian, so I'll skip straight to the punchline:
"Who do you believe is ulitmately responsible for actions taken by your ministry?"
Well, possibly that's just me on account of being a whithered and sour person, but this Huffington Post article is a beautiful example, and fills me with such glee that I almost forget Ignatief supports torture, has demonstrated no ability to learn meaningfully from his mistakes, and is influencing Canadian policy. (Via Making Light)
My Grandmother taught me that the fork goes on the left and the knife goes on the right. This is easy to remember if you are right-handed. Imagine the convenience of stabbing the person to the right of you who is talking about the degeneracy of gay men with the knife on your right.
My Grandmother taught me to hate potatoes and how to cook them to her satisfaction every day, for supper.
My Grandmother knew right from wrong but was never smug only grateful to have been raised Christian, and have the Bible.
My Grandmother never wasted a penny when she could save it, by mending a thing, or going without. At the funeral, the pastor joked about her tight-fistedness in the church built by her donations. He never sat to my right.
My Grandmother grieved for all the people going to hell because they never accepted Jesus as their personalordansavior.
My Grandmother taught me that the knife goes on the right. The fork goes on the left.
My mother works with refugees and immigrants, and as a result, I hear of these cases.
G came to Canada from Botswana as a refugee five years ago, where she had fled from the Rwandan genocide. She left behind her husband, and his two of their five children. Both G. and her husband were on their second marriage. Recently, she finally was able to bring her husband and his two children to Canada. Once he joined her, she discovered that he had taken a second wife, two years ago in Botswana, and left her and her child behind there, but had not been planning to tell G this.
Also, G now has an itching burning sensation. I can't decide if that qualifies as adding injury to injury, or injury to insult.
And then I come across men who allege that feminists control society.
There's something particularly galling about being accused of having the mechanism to do what you desperately wish you could.
You have found yourself assembling a Christmas tree made with the handle of a shovel and coat hangers, and trimming it, literally, with wire cutters
Your great-uncle has attempted to construct an argument using the windstorm which destroyed much of Stanley Island's old growth as proof that "God put trees there for us to use them" and accidentally ended up endorsing euthanasia; "Like people!"
You stuffed stockings at Calgary's largest homeless shelter for six hours and got to take home teeny bottles of donated mouthwash (the finest in alcohols that make you go blind!) as payment.
You explained Dirk Anger's suicidal tendencies as "silliness" to a younger cousin.
You nearly lit your hair on fire at the outdoor fireworks on New Year's Eve, once having a helpful stranger beat out the spark.
You gave a compost bucket as a present for the third year in a row.
Oh, politics, you've broken my heart so many times, and yet there is in me something ready to believe that Stephen Dion really is the earnest geeky man he seems.
Live coverage of the Liberal leadership convention is the funniest thing ever. There's nothing going on in between votes, leaving the reporters to opine pompously, sounding exactly sportscasters. If they'd gotten Don Cherry on the floor, the whole thing would be perfect.
Bryn: You know Grandpa, between you not wearing your hearing aid, and using the rasp while holding a conversation, sometimes it feels as if you don't want to hear what I'm saying.
Grandpa: [puts down rasp] Now where'd I put that... [goes off to look for sandpaper]
