Monday, January 14, 2019
Friday, January 11, 2019
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sarcastic Canadian, in want of amusing himself, will end up in Facebook jail." ~ Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice & Internet Trolls
A word before I start: there's cursing ahead, but you're used to that from me, and it's warranted.
Of course it happened again. The new year was barely three days old and the hammer came down on yours truly. As has happened before, and will no doubt happen again. I was tossed into Facebook jail. This of course is for something that never violates their 'community standards'- to which I say who actually oversees those community standards- and as always, there's no real appeal, nothing but silence out of them. And so I find myself locked out, biding my time, working with a priest to dig our way out. The priest looks a lot like Richard Harris and keeps talking about a treasure that he knows about.
So I get turfed for things that never violate their standards. All while they just shrug at reports I make of white supremacists and hate mongering bigots uttering what actually constitutes hate speech. Oh, sure, you can ask for a review of that decision- and I can tell you that several of my asked for reviews are still pending for over a month- but the result will be the same from Facebook. A shrug, a go to hell, and the middle finger raised. It's not so much getting turfed that annoys me- I make limited use of a secondary account- it's the rank hypocrisy of treating me like this while letting hate mongering bastards just get away with it. Every single time.
So you can imagine I'm not that sympathetic to the site. What is it that got me turfed out this time? Well, it was an insult geared towards a politician. The premier of my province of Ontario. I referred to him in a media discussion as 'white trash.'
Is that rude? Yes, perhaps. Is it racist? No.
I'm white. He's white.
And he definitely is white trash. I'm just stating the truth.
And he definitely is white trash. I'm just stating the truth.
Because that premier is Doug Ford.
Leader of the Progressive Conservative (now there's a contradiction in terms) Party of Ontario. Whose entire previous political experience consists of one term as a belligerent city councilor in Toronto alongside his brother, the former mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford, who made headlines for his crack addiction and stupidity. Doug was his chief enabler, a fellow jackass, jeering bully and thug, and complete fucking moron. Rob died of cancer- one of the few times in my life I've been happy to hear someone died- and Doug managed to weasel his way into the leadership of the Tories, despite four years of proving himself unfit for any public office.
I can tell you that the fact that this party permitted this odious, ignorant, vile excuse for a human being to take over the party and turn it into his goddamned personality cult (because that's all the so-called Ford Nation ever was) is unforgivable. Beyond unforgivable.
I will never even consider voting for them again. They could hold a gun to my head and threaten to pull the trigger and I still wouldn't.
When I say he's white trash, I mean it.
Back in the tumultuous days of the Ford boys and their reign of blunder in Toronto, one of the many articles to come out included suggestions that Doug was a drug dealer back in the day- an allegation that he threatened to sue over but never did. He expresses himself like a grade ten drop out- there is no indication of a thoughtful brain at work. He claims to be a successful businessman- but his family business, started by his father- has no public investors, and so its financial state is a secret. I'm personally convinced the bastard is going to (if he hasn't already started) pour public money into his company to prop up the damage that he and the third idiot Ford brother Randy have done.
Aside from the family wealth (a legacy of his father, who apparently cheated a business partner back in the day, and without which he and the rest of his degenerate siblings would have never gotten anywhere in life), Doug Ford is white trash. Stupid, ignorant, blustering, thuggish, no-class, disdainful of education and critical thought. He's surrounded by members of provincial parliament who know exactly what he is and don't seem to care. This would be familiar to my American readers; basically Doug Ford is Donald Trump on a smaller scale without access to nukes- a complete fucking idiot who has no business being a dog catcher, let alone a government leader. Both of them, in the end, wealth or not, are white trash. Both of them are thin skinned pricks holding grudges that go back years. Both of them are miserable fucking bastards who are an insult to the human race. Gutter vermin. Scum. People who will only do this world any good one day when they are no longer in it.
So I got turfed out for calling Doug Ford white trash. To one of his supporters. Pointing out the simple reality that his devotion made him part of the die hard personality cult. This bothers me on another scale- it's shielding a politician from criticism. Not only the politician, but his followers.
I mean, come on. If anyone in this world should have to face the full measure of criticism, it's politicians. But according to their supporters, not a Doug Ford, and not a Trump for that matter. Oh, how dare you speak up against our Great Leader, they say. And they're the ones who call us snowflakes, while screaming bloody murder when you point out their idol's unfitness to serve, or other facts.
Wake the fuck up.
Wake the fuck up.
So yes, I get turfed once again- oh, sure, you can ask for a review of this, and I did- I wrote something out explaining my reasons, but I fully expect it won't matter. Given that the fucking morons who act as Facebook community standards moderators haven't bothered to review any of the other items that I've flagged for a second look in terms of reported remarks in over a month, they're not going to even look at mine. And even if they do, say after this suspension is actually over, and they realize that they shouldn't have suspended me in the first place- a "whoops, I'm sorry" just isn't going to do.
Mark Zuckerberg claims that he wants an open, free social network, but one where hate speech isn't welcome.
Because when you let racists have free rein to say whatever the hell they want, that's enabling hate speech.
Mark Zuckerberg's actual idea of free speech is "your freedom of expression is whatever I decide it is." I've said it before, Zuckerberg, you've created a fucking monster, totally unaccountable to anyone, treating its users like garbage, mining their data, acting without responsibility, and letting hate mongering fucking bigots get away with everything. And now you're shielding inept politicians from the criticism they deserve. And for what?
So be it, Mark. It's bullshit like this that will, in the long run, spell an end to your social network and your place in the world. Your two faced fucking hypocrisy in the face of reality.
I mean what I say right now, Fuhrer Mark: if you were dying and the only thing that could save you was a blood donation from me, I'd refuse. And then I'd tell you to fuck yourself.
Wednesday, January 9, 2019
As always, the cat has the last word in these matters. Pay her the respect that a supreme life form deserves.
7:02 AM. Waking up at home. Slept exceptionally well. Dreamed of vast fields of catnip.
7:06 AM. Sitting on the back of the couch, gazing out at the vastness of my domain in the pre-dawn. More snow has fallen in the night. Flying lunches around the feeders already. I shall content myself in watching them for the moment. After all, breakfast is coming, whenever my staff gets downstairs.
7:10 AM. Walking around on the piano keys in an effort to get my staff downstairs. She might think it sounds like feline nonsense. I can tell you that my musical abilities are that of a virtuoso concert pianist.
7:14 AM. I have heard enough sounds upstairs to know that my staff is now awake and about. I leap off the piano and await her presence downstairs.
7:19 AM. Patiently waiting on the staff. Looking around the living room. Wondering if I should make a final excursion up the Christmas tree. I mean, at some point in the not so distant future the staff will be taking it down, right? And I was only up it three times this holiday season.
7:24 AM. The staff comes downstairs and mutters about closing up the piano at night. Well, you could, but then I’d have to serenade you with cat yowls at four in the morning. Which I’m inclined to do anyway, but that’s beside the point. The real point that you and I must focus on right now is seeing to my breakfast. Because as they always say, breakfast is the most important part of the day. Now then, let us start discussing breakfast, shall we?
7:25 AM. Furthermore, staff, would it kill you to wake up a half hour earlier and put a plate in the fridge? I’ve told you many times that I like having my breakfast on a slightly chilled plate. That means putting it in the fridge a half hour before my optimal breakfast time. Because putting it in the fridge the night before will make it too cold, and we can’t have that. And by the way, staff, I don’t want to be seeing any of those field rations you insist on putting out every morning, are we clear about that?
7:27 AM. The staff has put down my breakfast for the morning. A plate of chicken and a bowl of milk meet my expectations. Unfortunately she also persists in setting down a bowl of field rations as well. I shall ignore the last and get to work on the first two.
7:29 AM. I have finished the milk and chicken, and am licking my lips with satisfaction. I shall let the staff have her breakfast in peace and quiet.
7:42 AM. Hearing the distant barking of that annoying hound from down the road outside. What part of shut up is too complicated for that dog?
7:45 AM. The staff is on her way out the door. I remind her to bring milk home from the store, because that’s one of those things we can’t do without.
7:47 AM. Watching the staff pull out of the driveway in the car. Well then, what shall I do today? Aside from naps, because you can never stockpile too many of those.
8:06 AM. Surveying the living room from the top of Mount Evergreen, as I’ve taken to calling the Christmas tree. I’ve only knocked two ornaments off.
10:49 AM. Waking up from a nap. Slept well. Feeling hungry.
10:51 AM. An examination of the kitchen determines that the only food out in the open happens to be those field rations. With much reluctance, I help myself to some of them. The things I do because my staff refuses to leave the fridge door open.
11:01 AM. I have returned to the piano where I commence playing my signature composition Feline Scherzo For Piano. I make Chopin look like an amateur.
12:13 PM. Walking back into the kitchen and helping myself to more of those field rations. I shall have to have a word with the staff about this sometime soon. Why not get one of those automatic timers that release a morsel of canned tuna, for instance, every hour?
1:31 PM. Woken up out of a good nap by the muffled distant barking of that idiot dog from down the road. A glance at the clock confirms that the mailman must be out and about and the mutt is barking at him again.
4:18 PM. Waking up from my latest nap and glancing at the clock. Great, it’ll still be a full hour before the staff gets home. Hopefully she hasn’t forgotten the milk.
5:28 PM. Greeting the staff when she walks in the front door toting a couple of grocery bags. Did you remember the milk, by chance? Because if not, you’ll have to go back out and get it.
5:30 PM. An inspection of the groceries confirms that milk has been purchased. This pleases me, because you can never have enough milk around if you ask me, and you are asking me. So then, staff, have you given any thought to dinner?
5:35 PM. The staff takes note of the ornaments dropped on the floor and looks at me. Yes, well, at least they didn’t break. Are you going to be putting the tree away tonight?
6:41 PM. Dinner with the staff. She’s made bacon pancakes, which I approve of. And she’s been nice enough to cut one up into nice kitty cat sized bites for me.
8:28 PM. Supervising the staff while she gets Christmas decorations put away. I’d help, staff, really I would, but I’m much better being a supervisor. Or su-purr-visor.
9:14 PM. The staff has finished with the Christmas decorations. It hasn’t occurred to her that the Elf On The Shelf is missing. I wonder how long it’ll take her to find its remains under the couch.
11:29 PM. The staff is off to bed. Good night, staff, sleep well, but do keep the door open. After all, you know how much I like walking all over you at four in the morning for no reason at all.