Is this emailer on the money or out of her mind?

Cheeseburger 

Hi Charles,

Just listening to your conversation on whether or not we should tax soft drinks to curb obesity. I definitely don’t think this is the right approach. People will pay the extra 5 cents for their sugary fix.

So I think I’ve come up with a better idea.

One of these “expert panelists” singled out tobacco as an example of how higher taxes have helped curb smoking rates.

Yes, I think the fact that the government super-taxed cigarettes led SOME people to quit, but I think a lot more people quit because it became impossible to smoke in bars and restaurants.

My mom actually quit smoking because she felt like such a loser standing outside in the cold puffing away on her cigarette.

So why don’t we just ban junk food in bars and restaurants?

Yes, I understand smoking was banned because of second-hand smoke…but what about second-hand munchies?

If the table next to you is chomping away on nachos and wings, you’re probably going to order the same.

So if we really want to curb obesity – ban it in bars and restaurants.

If you want a cheeseburger – go outside.

Maybe more people will quit pigging out once they start feeling like losers.

 

Susan

Poor Omar

It's hard for me to feel sorry for this guy. Canada has spent way, way too much on him and his whole family. I'm sure 8 years in Gitmo hasn’t turned him around.    

These are NOT very pleasant pictures, but…

Notice the pair of hands he is carrying that have been chopped off a living person.

Poor Omar Khadr?

Omar smiling 

The next time you watch the news and are treated to how poor Omar Khadr was just a child in Afghanistan, held against his will, forced to do the terrorists bidding then "tortured" at Guantanamo…

Remember

Remember the pictures the bleeding hearts in the media won’t show you…

Young omar 

Notice the AK47 behind him.

Omar making bomb 

Young Omar happily and intently arming land mines.

Remember this — those who want him saved and brought back to Canada !!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Omar with hands 

Our poor Omar taking trophies home.

And remember the victim and reason why there is a trial.

Sgt Christopher James Speer.

Speer 

A medic who was helping care for the injured on the battlefield.

 Funeral

Very little is ever said about him. Pray for his wife, Tabitha, who will be attending Khadr’s trial.

 Remember

My Grandfather

By the Menzoid

I have two theories when it comes to Heather Mallick’s bizarre, poison-penned attack on the male gender. One is that Heather Mallick is simply being sensational for the sake of sensationalism. If so, this is truly the cheapest form of journalism. It’s just way too easy. Any hack can pull that off. Pick a subject, any subject. How about, say, intergenerational marriage? Ergo, if a nine-year-old and a mature adult love one and other, who are we to get in the way of their consensual relationship?

See? Writing preposterous copy and passing it off as serious commentary just to generate “buzz” is strictly amateur hour.

I won’t bother dwelling on the odious double-standard inherent to Mallick’s rant. After all, replace the word “men” in her column with any other identifiable group – say, “blacks” or “Muslims” – and there’d be hell to pay. Exhibit A: Juan Williams.

Actually, what am I suggesting? A Heather Mallick temper tantrum painting any other identifiable group with the same brush due to the actions of a single person would never see the light of day in a bastion of contrived political correctness such as the Toronto Star

So, I defer to Theory #2: Maybe – just maybe – Heather Mallick honestly believes she’s writing the truth. And maybe, like all good authors, Mallick is drawing upon personal experience. 

If this is indeed the case, oh, how my heart goes out to Heather. Was her father truly that horrid during her formative years? Did she suffer from the unwanted advances of a creepy uncle? Was every male teacher a pompous chauvinist? Was every eligible bachelor a two-timing weasel? Is her current husband that detestable?

If so, what rotten, lousy luck. To continually meet one horrid, misogynistic man after another… it simply defies the odds. I mean, to constantly hook up with that tiny percentile of men who really do despise women is nothing short of awe-inducing bad karma.

As most rational people know full well, women tend to have fathers and brothers and uncles and husbands and teachers and mentors and sons and friends and colleagues who are, pardon the phrase, “nice guys.” They are not misogynists. They do not harbour rape fantasies. They don’t despise females.

On the contrary. They love women. They admire the nurturing, kind spirit that is inherent to motherhood. If such weren’t the case, I fear our species would be on the brink of extinction.

I never had a father in my life. But I did have a grandfather, at least until I was 13. My grandfather had immigrated to Canada from Scotland in 1946. Prior to that, he was on an extended five-year excursion, otherwise known as fighting the Nazis. It took a toll: I was told that when he left Glasgow at the start of World War Two, he had a full head of red hair. And when he returned, every single follicle on his scalp was whiter than ivory.

Although a qualified engineer, he was on the short end of the stick in terms of finding a job in Canada when he emigrated here thanks to his age and the influx of men returning home from overseas. The best he could manage was a foreman’s position at a garbage dump in Toronto’s west end. Ever the optimist, his continual refrain was, “The work’s dirty, but the money’s clean.”

Thanks to my grandfather, I remain burdened with a debt that can never be repaid. He instilled in me values ranging from loyalty and devotion to honour and civility. And he did so by example.

Indeed, one day, he gave me a life lesson that will forever remain etched in my cranium. I can’t remember the exact details, but as a know-nothing nine-year-old, I made a disparaging remark about a janitor.

My grandfather’s face went redder than tomatoes at harvest time. His eyes narrowed as he gently pulled me aside and told me in no uncertain terms that I was to never – as in NEVER – mock anyone for the job they were doing. Any legitimate job amounts to honest work, he stressed. And if anyone deserves to be mocked, it is the criminals and cheats who simply can’t be bothered working for a living.

There were many other lessons that he gave me in my 13 formative years. And, when necessary, there was discipline, too. He was a hybrid friend and benevolent dictator. And he was precisely what I needed at that time.

I think of other male role models I have encountered in my life – teachers, coaches, Boy Scout leaders. Like my grandfather, they, too, were guiding lights who inspired and motivated and taught me right from wrong. I guess I must be the luckiest guy on earth that I wasn’t continually coming into contact all those male monsters Heather Mallick says are lurking everywhere.

In Mallick’s world, I suppose my grandfather’s death at the age of 65 – barely four months into his retirement – is something to celebrate. One less male in the world, after all; one less “potential rapist” or “serial killer” for Mallick and her ilk to worry about.

But I can assure you that everyone who knew my grandfather mourned his passing, male and female alike. In this respect, he was no different from millions of men around the world: he was a hard-working breadwinner who, despite being dealt a lousy hand in the game of life, nevertheless “manned up” (pardon the language.) He didn’t complain; he didn’t whine; and he certainly didn’t harbour urges of violent rage toward women or anyone else.

* * * * * *

The other day, I was having dinner with my two young sons. We talked about what time period we’d visit if there really was such a thing as a time machine. Sean said he’d want to go back several centuries to the days of knights in shining armour, basically to see if there really were dragons on the planet.

My other son, Adam, said he’d set the coordinates for 120 million years ago, so that he could explore the Jurassic Era and witness firsthand the enormous dinosaurs that exist today only as fossils in museums.

I’m afraid my choice of time period was far less flamboyant. You see, I told my sons that if I could alter the time/space continuum, I’d want to go back to June, 1975, just days before my grandfather died of a massive heart attack. And I’d want to go back to this point in time in order to carry out one simple task: to tell my grandfather how much I loved him.

My Name is Not Colonel Williams

Calgary elects Canada’s first Muslim mayor – This is not an April Fool's joke. This is reality in a country that is far more tolerant, far more decent, far more grounded in common sense than some at CBC head office would have you think…Far more tolerant than the Ontario Appeals Court would have you think. The appeals court that feels they need to teach Canadians tolerance by jamming Shariah Law down our throats. And in case you think I am just barking at the Crescent Moon, I am not.

Shariah law, the kind practiced in Iran received more than just lip service in a Canadian courtroom in recent days. It got room service from a unanimous decision by the Ontario Appeals Court that said a Muslim woman in the witness box has a right to wear a veil over her head. They – in a unanimous decision – overruled a lower court judge to insist that she abide by Canadian custom and remove her veil so that she could look the accused sexual abusers in the eye and look Canadian justice in the eye. The Ontario Appeals Court and that's sky high up in the Canadian Judicial food chain – these are the men and women who get a serious shot at Supreme Court Status – the Appeals Bench was unanimous in giving the lower court judge the back of the hand for making a Canadian decision, one that wasn't driven by the diversity agenda, the tolerance agenda, the agenda that says every tradition in the world is more worthy of more respect than our own tradition. The appeals court told the judge that not enough sensitivity was being shown to the woman's religious belief and that a compromise should have been sought, a compromise like perhaps agreeing if she takes her veil off to clear the courtroom of all men even if the judge is a man? Even if the prosecutor is a man?

I am a man. I am not a blind dog in a butcher shop sniffing for and pounding on anything that smells like meat. My name is Not Colonel Williams. I am not prepared to accept the idea of a Canadian court telling me that anybody for some called religious reasons has the right to boot me from a court because as a male I am a threat to her because as a male I have such little control over my impulses that I am a threat to her. This is bogus. From my own perspective as a free man this is a perversion of truth and to pay fealty to it, to honour it in any way, in our own country, in Canada, is an assault on Canada.