An Open Fuck Off To Kathleen Wynne, Doug Ford, and Andrea Horvath. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Dear Kathleen Wynne, Doug Ford and Andrea Horvath.

Clients of the Ontario Disability Support Program are living on pensions that are thirty-five to forty percent below the poverty line. Clients of Ontario Works have a special kind of hell reserved for them as well.

I ask you for bread, and I ask you for lower rents. I ask you for a raise in the allowable earnings levels, I ask you for a reduced rate of clawback for those who do get some work. I ask you for honest social workers, workers who are on our side instead of yours, social workers who don’t lie, and cheat, and steal, and try to rip us off. I ask you for social workers who can answer a simple God-damned question once in a while, and social workers that can give the same answer twice in a row.

No, somehow, you just can’t do it.

And what do you have to offer? Now that you’re all running for election.

Money for mental health outreach programs. Money for pharmacare. Money for the opiate crisis. Money to legalize pot, but then you expect to make a bundle off of it, don’t you. 

Money for front-page nutritionists. Money for child care. Money to reduce wait times in hospitals. Money for roads, and bridges, and sewers. Money for just about anything the electorate desires, only as long as it’s anything, anything, for the love of God, but this—but this.

Hell, there might even be more money for advertising—certainly we can look forward to more touchy-feely, good-news stories about the eight hundred to a thousand fucking food banks in this province.

I realize that a million people, living in poverty, has never been an election issue in this province.

But I would sure like to know, just what the hell your problem is. It’s quite instructive, watching you reaching down your own throats and pulling yourselves inside out. It’s quite interesting, to see how wilfully blind you are, each of you in your own way, to a problem that has gone on long enough. It’s interesting to see you squirm, and wriggle, and twist and turn any which way you can, all in an effort, a very strong effort, to ignore the realities for too many Ontario families.

It is intolerable, it is a disgrace, and may it come back to haunt each and every one of you in your own way, at your own time, and in your own place.

That last item is something none of us will ever know.

Give us a place—a place to stand. A place to grow. A place we call Ontari-ari-fucking-oh.

Oh, one more thing—every God-damned one of you.

Fuck off.

END

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Thank you for reading.

 

Let A Fucking Kid Drive On A Fucking Road, Ladies and Gentlemen. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

My nephew is eighteen or nineteen years old. He’s in his first year at York University, whose faculty is on strike for wages, job security and working conditions. Which is a bit ironic, as this government has sort of pretended to tackle precarious work and low wages, at least on the front pages of local journalism. They're all about fair wages, right.

<Vomits in unrestrained fashion.>

(He means local journalism, ladies and gentlemen. -- ed.)

When it comes to putting the taxpayer's money where the fucking government's mouth is, they're surprisingly coy--

He’s had driver training, and he’s got his beginner’s license.

Of simple curiosity, I asked him today, when he would be okay to drive on his own.

“Five years, Uncle Louis.”

Five fucking years.

Apparently, he has to go through the G-1, the G-2, and the G-3, and the G-4, and the G-5, all of which demand some fee and some written test, before he can drive on his own, drive without another licensed driver in the passenger seat beside him, drive before dawn or after dark, or drive on a 400-series highway.

Five fucking years, ladies and gentlemen. In the mind of a teenager, this is never going to happen, and I know that very well from previous experience. So why should they even try.

When I was a kid of sixteen, I bought a car for a hundred and fifty bucks, I paid six hundred for the first six months of insurance, while I was just getting on the road.

I got my beginner’s a few weeks after my sixteenth birthday. Back then, you could get your old man to teach you to drive, practicing in a parking lot at a nearby mall or community college.

You could get a ways out of town, and the old man would let a kid drive, all the way from Sarnia to Owen Sound, admittedly at night, and with the instruction to just cruise at eighty or ninety kilometres per hour, while he caught a few zzzs and you learned how to use a manual transmission.

I can’t help thinking that my nephew, whose university education has been disrupted due to this government’s intransigence regarding unionization, collective bargaining, and precarious work of a white-collar nature, is being royally fucked over in terms of his employment prospects, due to the fact that he’s not legally entitled to drive on a fucking road, ladies and gentlemen.

You'd be surprised, just how many higher-paying jobs, demand a simple driver's license. Not every kid is going to work at Tim Horton's or Burger King for the rest of their lives.

You got another thing coming, if that is what you rat-faced fucking pukes believe.

As for the government and the bourgeoisie, what the fuck is wrong with you people.

END

You rat-faced basterds really ought to check out my books and stories on Google Play.

Thank you for fucking reading this.

And Then You Can Fuck Off Some More...Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Using the power of positive fucking thinking, we shall now deduce our plan for tomorrow. 

(Fuck Tony Robbins, anyways. – ed.)

< thinks furiously >

Because at this point I either don’t have one, or I have forgotten what it is.

(A plan, he means. – ed.)

Oh, yeah, my car’s all fucked up and it’s still sort of winter or ‘pre-spring’, if that makes any sense. There’s nowhere to go, actually.

Hmn.

Uh, huh.

Okay, okay, so here we go.

Ah, we shall wake up, moan and groan a bit, turn on the computer, and read shit for a while. 

Maybe even for a couple of hours, while I figure out the world—I’ve got milk for the instant coffee, which came from Walmart at about $1.97. I stole the sugar from work.

Luckily, I’m usually right and the world is often wrong. This is what keeps me sane.

We shall, ah, go somewhere and get smokes and beer or something. We shall cruise through the back lots of a few used car dealers here in town, and we shall see if there’s anything that interests us. Although there probably won’t be. Hopefully I don’t have to shit. It’s a Sunday morning. What can I say. Nothing interests me on a Sunday morning.

But having to shit is a bit of a pain in the ass. It’s like you have to go to Tim Horton’s, where the washrooms are okay but the coffee is insipid and over-priced and it’s like a scab employer and everything. So, if I could avoid that, it would probably be better…I don’t want to support them guys.

There are a few things I plan on avoiding.

The plague, herpes, unwanted wives and children. Mines, punji-sticks, ack-ack and Bolsheviks…

We shall try not to drive off of a cliff and explode, or run amuck of Vladimir Putin, or sasquatches or aliens or anything dumb like that. Although I will be having tea later on with the Evil Dr. Emile Schmitt-Rottluff, dad’s really mellowed out in recent years.

Ah, hopefully, we get to eat two or three times, shit like that. The odds are, I’ll be cooking that myself. Who the fuck else is going to do it, right…???

With a bit of luck, we shall say something funny, perhaps even perceptive, possibly bordering on superficial profundity. That will be on the internet, perhaps you can catch it there. I’m on Twitter and shit like that. Other than that, we shall be busy.

Busy, and undaunted, and indefatigable. Which is the correct spelling, however much you don’t want it to be.

Be that as it may.

We shall prevail.

We’ll take it as it comes, with a bit of music, a bit of wit, and a bit of the good old indomitable human spirit.

And if you don’t like it—

Well, then, you can just fuck right off.

And when you’re done with that, I will still be here.

And then you can fuck off some more.

END

Shit, look at all the fucking books and stories I wrote.

Thank you for reading.