Allyson McConnell was sentenced this week to six years in prison for the death of her two sons.

She ended the lives of 10-month-old Jayden and two-year-old Connor, drowning them in the bathtub two years ago.

Two toddlers are dead, never having a chance at life. But instead of murder, all Allyson McConnell got was a manslaughter tap on the wrist.

She’ll only get 15 months in the slammer because she was given double credit for her time spent in a mental hospital. She’ll be eligible for early release in just 10 months.

Not much of a punishment here.

Just unaccountable, unelected judges working in a system that all too often is soft on crime.
Connor and Jayden, if alive today, would not be old enough to understand why a person who killed a pair of helpless toddlers could be a free person within a year. Those little babies would not get it.

Here’s the problem. I am not a baby. You’re not a baby. But none of us understand why the killer deserves to be walking free in less than one year from right now.

But what we do understand all too well is that the justice system is a place where all too often the perpetrators of unspeakable crimes are cast as victims, and sentences are scaled down in the name of “compassion.”

Well, two little babies were killed. Where is the compassion for them, for the lives they will never lead?

Two babies were drowned by a person who happened to be their mother. To those babies, it made no difference whether it was mom drowning them or a stranger that just broke in. Killing is killing unless you’re participating in that travesty of a flea market justice system we have.

Allyson McConnell was a 30-year-old mom who was suicidal and tried and failed to kill herself more than once.

But while she was unsuccessful at terminating her own life, she was all too successful at killing her young.

How does the judge respond? With compassion — not for the babies, but for the killer. Much as I want to use the other “M” word, she is not considered a murderer by the court.

Because the charge was reduced from second-degree murder to manslaughter, meaning it was decided before sentencing that the killer didn’t mean to do it, didn’t mean to kill her children.

It was said she didn’t even remember doing it.

She may not remember that she committed the barbaric acts, or how, but we will never forget how we feel right now, dealing with the reality that, in this country, even child killers can get away with murder, as long as they have psychiatrists and prosecutors and judges willing to negotiate freedom for crime.

You commit the crime and you provide us with the right story, and we’ll provide you with something those two little boys Jayden and Connor will never have — the opportunity to breathe free air.

This week in a courthouse in Wetaskiwin, Alta., justice was drowned.

The Bag Ban

By David Menzies 

Remember that great Dustan Hoffman flick from yester-decade? Do you recall that nugget of entrepreneurial advice regarding the future, and how history proved that advice to be right on the money? Here’s a refresher: Plastics.

Hey, you know what? Back in 1967, if you had invested in plastics, turns out you’d really be ahead of the game today. Look how many things that were once made out of wood or steel that are now 100% plastic – from chopping blocks to Tonka toys.

Alas, in the new millennium, plastics are suffering from bad P.R. Plastic just isn’t embraced like it was back when the Beatles were cranking out hot vinyl records. Heck, these days, some vested interests are actually on an anti-plastic jihad.

Case in point: the majority of councilors at Toronto City Hall have decreed that come New Year’s Day, the plastic bag will no longer be allowed in Hogtown. Yes, from the Material of the Future to packaging non grata, once they’ve finished singing Auld Lang Syne in the months ahead, the humble plastic shopping bag will actually be illegal in T.O.

In the name of the environment – praise The Suzuki –Toronto councilors have reinvented themselves as real-life Green Police. You remember the Green Police, don’t you? Those Orwellian agents of enviro-conformity and oversight that the folks at Audi told us about in song a few Super Bowls ago:

They say “don’t sweat the small stuff” but the left-wing intellectuals at city hall tend to excrete gallons of perspiration when it comes to fretting about the little things in life. But you know, the left is so learned and wise. Hey, just ask them. And who are we to doubt their wisdom? In fact, when do politicians and bureaucrats ever get it wrong?

Indeed, The Menzoid used to rebel against their initiatives. But not anymore. The Menzoid had an epiphany – we need more government, not less, in our lives. Listening to the likes of Adam “Don’t Call Me Collin” Vaughan and Paula Fletcher (the former president of the Communist Party of Canada) The Menzoid has come to realize these are learned people and that they have banned plastic bags and idling cars and shark fin soup for good reasons. We not only owe them thanks, but we should join their movement, oh comrades, by passing along suggestions regarding what needs to be banned next. It’s all about making this big blue marble a better place in which to live – even if thousands of jobs are lost in the process.

Thus, allow The Menzoid to get the ball rolling with these helpful hints:

- So sorry, plastic surgeons of Canada. It has come to our attention that silicone and saline simply just don’t degrade quickly enough once the recipient passes on to the great hereafter. Thus, it is with deep regret that we must ban the fake fun-bags. We simply cannot allow you to make molehills into mountains any more if you’re planning on using enviro-nasty material sourced from Dow Chemical.

- Remember that ad campaign, “I coulda had a V8?” Oh, not anymore you don’t. A V8 – the motor that is — is so over the top, so unnecessary, so Corvette Summer. Toronto must ban the V8 poweplant. And we don’t need any stinking six-cylinders, either. We’re talking four-bangers, preferably mated to a hybrid electric motor, praise The Gore, as we move toward making Toronto a 100% scooter/bicycle/Segway jurisdiction. To paraphrase Animal Farm: “Four wheels bad! Two wheels good!” Besides, why do you need more power than a Singer sewing machine?

- After scrutinizing the labels of various mouthwash, perfume, and cologne, it appears that alcohol is a major ingredient. Gracious! We all know only those governmental guardians at the Liquor Control Board of Ontario are allowed to sell hooch. Therefore, effective a.s.a.p., everything from Listerine to English Leather must be pulled from the shelves of department stores and pharmacies and sold only via government-mandated liquor stores. It’s all about social responsibility after all.

- Come carnival time, it’s high time that we ban the Wac-A-Mole. This game is PETA-unfriendly; it encourages systemic violence against moles, groundhogs, prairie dogs and other feral ditch-digging vermin; and worst of all, Wac-A-Mole is primarily constructed out of plastic.

Oh, so much to ban, so much to eradicate, so much social-engineering to be initiated …
We the sheeple just need guidance and direction and a helping hand from our fearless leaders.

The Menzoid feels so enriched, so enlightened, and yes, gosh darn it, so grateful that Toronto city councilors are diligently looking out for our best interests as they ban, ban, and ban some more.
Yet, a question arises: why are all the bag ladies screaming?

More Than Just a Variety Store

By David Menzies

It was organized chaos, every square inch of that store — jam-packed with the things you needed right away as well as the sort of stuff you wouldn’t use in an entire lifetime.

As a child, my visits to Dave’s Variety would begin pretty much the same way. I’d walk the length of the store, past the candy bar display and magazine rack and the ice cream freezer, finally arriving within a dark, scruffy storeroom realm. In my arms were several empty deposit/return refillable glass pop bottles. A 10-ouncer was worth a nickel and a long-neck 16-ounce bottle would fetch a dime. My stash usually meant I could score a small bag of Hostess Salt & Vinegar chips, a Big Turk bar, and maybe an Orange Crush. A nutritionist’s worst nightmare to be sure, but ambrosia for an eight-year-old scavenger nevertheless.

Standing at the cash register, diligently putting in those long, long hours, was Dave — the Dave in Dave’s Variety. Extraordinarily thin with a full head of white hair and intense blue eyes, he was always bustling with energy — long before the energy drinks category existed. Dave constantly cracked one-liners, suggesting his true ambition was perhaps to be on stage. Dave also had a smokin’ wife… which is to say, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but rather, was constantly puffing away on a Du Maurier cigarette when stationed behind the counter. (If Dave was still around today, I wonder what he’d say if told that not only is smoking verboten in stores but a shopkeeper isn’t even allowed to display his tobacco wares.)

The seldom-visited “gift” section of the store – truly a biosphere of the bizarre and the beguiling – nevertheless did bail me out of a jam once. On a class trip to Niagara Falls, I dawdled so much on what cheesy souvenir to snag I ended up buying nothing at all. Not wanting to return home empty-handed, I dropped by Dave’s and found an arrangement of faded multi-coloured plastic flowers in a small brown plastic basket. This … thing … was coated in a thick layer of dust, as if it were some ancient relic that had just been unearthed in an archaeology expedition. Truth be told, while this grotesque knickknack had absolutely nothing to do with Niagara Falls, my grandmother nevertheless pretended it was an item of staggering beauty when presented to her. Thanks for the save, Dave.

I also remember frequently going to Dave’s whenever my folks needed a pack of Craven “A” King Size. I’d tote along a handwritten note and a two-dollar bill, which was sufficient cash and adequate proof of I.D. for a child to buy smokes back when gasoline was sold by the gallon and the Toronto Maple Leafs were Stanley Cup contenders.

The truly great thing about Dave’s Variety– located just three bungalows away from our humble abode on Lawrence Avenue West – was the fact that it really was so darn convenient, back before the term “convenience stores” had entered the popular vernacular.

What’s more, when I reflect upon my chosen career path as a journalist (chosen, that is, because I’m inherently incompetent in every other facet of life), I think Dave had an early albeit profound influence on me. After all, there were many days I didn’t have the necessary funds to buy that latest issue of The Avengers or Mad magazine, so I’d sit cross-legged on the floor and read comic books and magazines. Without fail, Dave would remind me, “Hey! This ain’t the library, kid!” But his bark was always far worse than his bite and Dave would let me read until my eyelids grew heavy. Turned out Dave’s Variety was the library after all… well, for me at least.

Let it be known that Dave himself – given the time period – was a bit of an oddball in that he routinely jogged to his store even though he owned a car. Clad in a navy blue Adidas tracksuit, I’d often observe him trotting past our house. Keep in mind this was the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, just before the fitness craze for adults took off with the prodding, no doubt, of advertisements for ParticipACTION which shamefully admonished us all that the average 60-year-old Swede was in better shape than his 30-year-old Canadian counterpart.

One day my grandfather looked out our living room window and spotted Dave huffing and puffing en route to his store on a frightfully frigid February day and Pop mumbled how Dave must be nuttier than a Snickers bar. Only people who couldn’t afford cars travelled via foot, after all. Not long after making this observation, my grandfather would die of a massive heart attack, just three months into his retirement. What was left of my family packed up and moved to Newfoundland in August, 1975, which was the last time I set foot in Dave’s Variety.

Recently – for the first time in almost four decades – I returned to my old neighbourhood; specifically, to that little 10-store strip mall that once housed Dave’s Variety. The nearby BP gas station is now a Husky and the Fina station is a Petro-Canada. The above-store apartment unit where my good friend Clinton lived is now a massage parlour. A major arterial route, the Allen Road, slices through the grassy hills that I used to slide down on pieces of discarded cardboard. The bungalow I grew up in is still there, but the two enormous evergreens have been chopped down. Dave’s Variety is long gone, too; in its place is a payday loan joint.

I was actually somewhat disheartened to discover Dave’s no longer existed. For it was only upon returning to this patch of nondescript real estate did it dawn on me that Dave’s Variety was really far more than just a convenience store. Rather, it really was a cherished childhood destination. Even if I didn’t quite realize it at the time, Dave’s Variety existed as a friendly harbour away from home. And even though there’s no shortage of such stores today, for some odd reason I found myself as an adult in 2012 impossibly longing to visit Dave’s Variety one last time.

As the sun began to set, I remained rooted in the small plaza’s parking lot, even though I had no business with any of the shops there. I closed my eyes, and in my imagination, Dave’s Variety was still a viable business. I was eating a Cadbury Bar Six and washing it down with Tahiti Treat and reading the latest issue of Daredevil. Dave was yet again employing the hard sell, which he did whenever a new candy bar debuted. As usual, he was praising the treat as being “the best bar known to mankind!” – until the next new candy bar came along, of course.

It all felt so astonishingly real that I briefly thought that when I opened my eyes, everything would indeed still be there again: the hills, the evergreens, and of course, Dave’s Variety – all those bits and pieces of that certain summer, that endless summer.

Of course, when I finally did reopen my eyes, everything that was part and parcel of my childhood was still long gone — Dave’s Variety included. But the memories… well, the memories remain.

Thanks, Dave – wherever you are.

Greek Far Right Politician Attacks Two Women on Live TV

Published: Thursday, 7 Jun 2012 | 6:15 AM ET

By: Matthew West
Associate Editor, CNBC

Tensions ahead of fresh elections in Greece on June 17 spilled over in a televised political debate on Thursday when a spokesman for the far right Golden Dawn party physically attacked two female members of parliament from opposing political parties throwing water at one and punches at another.

Video of the incident, posted on Youtube but since removed, shows Ilias Kasidiaris in heated exchanges with Syriza party deputy Rena Dourou. The video shows both politicians shouting over the other. Communist party member of parliament Liana Kanellis is also involved.

Toward the end of the footage, Kasidiaris picks up a glass of water and throws it across the table at Dourou. Kanellis then jumps back out of her seat next to him and throws a number of papers at him. He reacts by pushing Kanellis and then striking her multiple times.

The television station, Antenna TV, called the police immediately after the incident. It is unclear whether the Golden Dawn spokesman has been arrested. However, local media has reported that an arrest warrant has been issued.

Golden Dawn is a far right political organization that until recently was a political non-entity in Greece. However, the recent inconclusive general election saw them finish fifth overall with 21 MPs and a little short of 7 percent of the vote.