Vitamin Q for Strong Bones

Devils Tower. Hmm, all of a sudden London and Washington DC come to mind. Well, my mind anyways. But what about Ottawa? one must be thinking. If so, clearly one has not been paying necessary enough attention. Clearly, Ottawa is the relentless runt suckling upon the Devils Tower minuscule appendage limply dangling murderously of syphilitic obliterative permeation haunting the very marrow of geographical location within geographical location containment of geographical location diffused miasmic effervescent putrid froth hitherto civic locality mainlined channels effluently guilty in dissociative obfuscating obliteration. Talk about a mouthful. Quebec what?

Wyoming actually. The Devils Tower is in Wyoming. USA! USA! USA! Yes, that Wyoming. But how does me’s knows such? Simple, simply. A friend of mine and his family recently took a trip there you see. Devils Tower – he sent me a photo, a photo void of statistics. Yes, I had to ask. Like Chrystia Freeland in a parliamentary session, I wanted to know exactly how high said Devils Tower truly was. And my friend would not disappoint.

Incoming text message: “The top of the Tower, at an altitude of 5,117 feet, is about 1,270 feet above the Belle Fourche River. The Tower is about 800 feet in diameter at the base.”

Outgoing text message: “You could be a tour guide. Strange to hear a French river name in Wyoming. I thought Frenchmen back then did not bathe. Must have been a French fisherman who discovered it.”

Incoming text message: “Lol.”

Well, it was as if the French Canadians had read my harmless barb and took some sort of offence. Well, those privileged and vetted French Canadians anyways. My Universe let me know. Don’t ask, it just does. Mysterious ways. Do not worry, mes amis Francophone, it was just that, a joke. I am full of them. In fact, my life has actually become one big long running one. A sick joke that is, with a punchline, like my whacking-off, to be seen by all, but only embarrassingly & exploitatively felt by me. The perversion indeed. But who does one call to complain?

Which reminds me, what does one call a Frenchman wearing sandals? Philipe Phelop!

For those wondering, the translation of Belle Fourche into English is Beautiful Pitchfork. So Wyoming, and possibly other geographical locations (I have become too detached and disinterested to do much, if any research) have the Beautiful Pitchfork River running through it (them?). Hmm, seems to me that such a river should be running red in revolutionary spirit, no? What else should a pitchfork be used for anyways, besides  adornments complimenting an angry mob hunting politicians? Fodder, all one and the same. My friend told me Wyoming people, and everyone he met were all extremely friendly, great and down to earth people. Geez, kind of makes one wonder about all the nonsense television kicks up is a charade for the inept in-depth of shallow dwelling.

Oh, right. Quebec, truly a national treasure. Then, now, to be. In my opinion, and surely anyone with any air of sophistication that is. No jokes about it, except for the occasional harmless barbs.

Honestly, one of the very few regrets that Yours Punctuation Butcher Truly has in life, was that of not continuing with the French immersion program that I took for the first five years of my schooling life, after which the geographical location that my mom moved us to no longer had a French school nearby. Oui, c’est triste. But there are still some French language fragments adjoining the cobwebbed recesses of the fatty LSD deposits and swirling putty within my braincase. And who could forget my first love, my grade two French immersion teacher Madame Oiseaux – Hubba hubba. Elementary Motorboating Merit Badge!

Yes, Quebec. If it were to separate, not only would Cana-duh have to change the emphasis of the spelling of Cana-duh to Cana-DUH, but right off the bat Cana-duh would lose, I figure, at least, forty percent of its culture, and right about, oh, say, sixty-six percent of its passion. And of course, damn near all of its maple syrup. Though without question, those occasional harmless barbs would live on in the Anglophiles delusion of being better off without them.

Surely, it must be at least doubly tough for a Francophone to me living under the sodomizing eye of “royal” Teutonic-British filth and the constitutional monarchy that such “royal” twopenny-halfpenny shite disgracefully permeates across so many, now awaiting, kinetic reactionary geographical locations. Romanov the lot – especially the little pukes! Let sanity prevail. A healthier future depends on it.

Ah, Quebec. Already seasoned in revolution, albeit a Quiet Revolution, where clearly, not any, therefore nowhere near enough politicians noggins graced those needed welcoming wicker baskets of guillotine delivery systems. Suppose that is what happens when one leaves a politician to define something. But, as such, a Quiet Revolution is still a revolution, only if in alphabetical spirit, and certainly greater than any Anglophile Revolution, of which for the overwhelming remainder of Cana-DUH seems to be none other than the revolution of the cooking mechanism delivering ready to eat Big-Bite hotdogs and Churros at their local 7-11 corner store. “Does the cheese cost extra?” is the revolutionary cry of Cana-DUH servility. Oh, and how they cry!

Which reminds me, did not every form of government haunting the very marrow of geographical location within geographical location containment of geographical location diffused miasmic effervescent putrid froth hitherto civic locality mainlined channels effluently guilty in dissociative obfuscating obliteration recently blow up the entirety of society with a harebrained Globalist COVID regiment of mentally retarded unrolling, of which extinguished the confidence and will for anybody greater than pond scum to have come to realize; that was, can definitively be no more, therefore what is, except in the minds of the aforementioned pond scum, will in a short manner of time, no longer be? Why, yes they did. Oh, but to be pond scum when the shot comes across the bow. Pond scum in geographical location boundaries all but guaranteed to change in approaching and varying intervals of time. Hmm, kind of makes one wonder about certain “progressive” big city pond scum and the camouflaged fantasy of indoctrinated Globalist existence to be driving such insoluble non-parameter escaping madness. That bad ol’ television and supposed educational indoctrination regimes.

But anyways. Quebec what, when? Capitalization: Cana-DUH. Surely it will be. Capitalize on such opportunity: Quebec would be foolish not to. Christ, I’d build a fifty foot high wall that was one kilometre thick, the entirety of the Ontario border. Or in reality, does Cana-DUH really just need such a wall encircling Ottawa? Truly, so goes the relentless runt suckling upon the political Devils Tower minuscule appendage of Globalist dangling. A Hydra in reverse this time around it seems. Cutting off the Globalist head in order to sprout an equilibrium of healthier bodies.

Federal welfare. Quebec is full of it. But hey, like any body in denial, suckling upon the spewing orifice of egregious, punishing to others, handouts, their true potential will be unleashed once that necessary uplifting, self aware reflective gaze into the mirror of competency sets in. That and ditching the provincial-federal Globalist model of continuance that every Quebec politician has been all too eager to pleasantly roll in such political filth, therefore the system that needs to be destroyed in order to move onwards and upwards. What happens when the Bloc Québécois has nothing to complain about about except for their own incompetence? Catacomb foreshadowing.

So my advice to Quebec would be to go solo, as they surely will, and think of France as a back-burner of a beginning history far away from where one should not want to be. Besides, is it not better to be a North American Horny Toad, as opposed to a European Frog? Though, Quebec, you may want think about building, then attracting global visitors with new 21st century revolutionary attractions to compliment all those magnificent old treasures such as Quebec City’s old town, Carnaval, maple syrup tourism, Montreal’s nightlife, beatiful lakes, pastures and other scenery, on and on and on….and think about building yourself a catacombs of all catacombs – North American style. ‘Off with their heads” is so 18th century. “Out with their lights” would ring right into the coming Information Age.

Yes Quebec, you should lure politicians from all across Cana-duh, or even the world, to a special seminar dealing with the issue of: how to effectively regulate climate change upon the change of climate in the atmospheric conditions adversely affecting climate change changing the climate of changing conditions inland of the rivers changing oceans and raising seas where consequently the deserts expanded insofar as the glaciers receded until hurricanes swallowed sanity and tornadoes uprooted puppy dogs while kitties flourished as it all gave the justification for politicians to fly in endless numbers of chartered jumbo jets because they all had to get together in order to prove how smug and pretentious the fragility and intermingled cohesiveness is in necessity to raise the taxes for all of society to fund the pension plan Ponzi scheme destined for the same conference to be held again next year in accordance with the wishes of Mother Nature’s changing needs to needfully change the climate of such a conference. Just promise all kinds of teenage prostitutes for the “Liberals,” and endless gay sex for the “Conservatives.” Quebec will have itself a full conglomeration of sleaze ready for an “Out with their lights” extravaganza to be remembered for eternity in catacomb stuffing grandiose ability.

But wait, there’s more! Would it not be grand and masterful to inter such a lowly slob and veritable waste of atoms such as that hopeless bitch known as Queen Charles the Turd into the new Quebec Catacombs? Think of the prestige and tourist attraction to have murdered and interred such Teutonic Anglo-pedophile misery, in turn keeping the global children safe, and the constitutional monarchies where they belong, as a spoiled remnant in the Museums of Farce the world over to prove to the world that a joke greater than the dignity stolen life of Yours Punctuation Butcher Truly, where such a punchline of being endlessly watched while whacking-off, by a gang of somehow vetted, insidious perverts, did exist at one point in history. Yup, that bitch Queen Charles would be a cinch to attend the above mentioned conference, just let “him” know that there are twenty seven year olds with his name on them. That Teutonic Anglo-pedophile bitch would un-hangar the world’s only remaining functioning Concorde jet that he has been saving for such an occasion, with a full contingent of Irish toddlers to fancy his Nancy on the flight over. “Royal” fucking scum.

Then Quebec, once having become the nation it is that you are capable of becoming, could you please come and invade British Columbia, then round up every last smug, pretentious, bleeding heart, virtue signalling tree hugger that has immigrated to British Columbia over the past few decades from the other provinces of Cana-duh and either add them to your Quebec Catacombs, or trade them with Washington State, Oregon, or California for something along the lines of beach sand or composted leaves, because such would be a worthy addition, in fair trade, to any geographical location, to be rid of such Globalist infused nightmares running amok while pretending to be civilized as they act out the indoctrination of which they know not is all encompassing of their existence.

Voilà! Problem solved.