Shucking Oysters: Pitbull or Retriever?

February 5, 2026

Shucking Oysters: Pitbull or Golden Retriever

By Alex Allen

He destroyed a 20-point lead going into the last federal election. He was defeated in his own Ottawa riding and had to be safely shuttled to one of the safest ridings in Alberta. Three of his MPs ceremoniously defected across the floor or out the parliament door. Most Canadians don’t like his personality. And yet, Pierre Poilievre just won his Conservative leadership review – with an overwhelming majority.

It’s a clear mandate from the party membership, but Pierre’s future with the rest of Canada remains murky. The absence of any heir apparent and a seemingly chill caucus obviously helped him secure the title. Unfortunately, as UBC Political Science professor, Stewart Prest, noted, “Poilievre is the most successful unsuccessful leader in Canadian politics.” As someone said, if Poilievre doesn’t show Canadians a more thoughtful, introspective side, he may end up being one of Canada’s longest running opposition leaders who never becomes prime minister. He has more of a chance of becoming the Governor of Alberta.

“His support within the party remains quite strong, and he himself has revitalized the party around his brand of conservatism,” said Amanda Galbraith, co-founder of the Toronto-based Oyster Group, a strategic communications and crisis management firm. Poilievre has doggedly kept the pressure on key issues – like axing the tax and rolling back immigration – which seems to have paid off for the Carney government. The strong endorsement of Pierre’s leadership means a continuation of the status quo, Prest wrote: “a country that has come together on a question of existential importance, but an opposition leader who divides, repelling more than he attracts.”

Poilievre doesn’t do many media interviews and you can see why. Like Trump, he views mainstream media as the enemy. His interviews are selective and infrequent. We all remember the famous interview of him chomping distractedly on an apple while dissing the interviewer in Oliver, BC. Smug. Arrogant. Then the year-end interview with Rosemary Barton on CBC – which he has threatened to defund – clearly showed that Pierre takes zero responsibility for losing the election or for members leaving the party. Every question Barton asked was straightforward. Reasonable, even. And every answer Poilievre gave, as someone wrote on Redditt “veered off like a shopping cart with one broken wheel, straight into another round of accusations about Mark Carney’s government.”

Pierre has many titles: “flaccid human being,” “maple Trump,” “chronic complainer,” “incompetent conservative twit,” “Dollar shop Donald,” “twerp,” “paperboy grifter.” The list goes on. “He’s a pathetically fragile and insecure man who thinks power will make him feel validated.” “The man is an albatross.” “Dude’s got about as much self-reflection as a ball of mud.” And for someone so young, he seems so old school (even without the glasses). I can see him as a child, like the ultra-conservative, Reagan-worshipping young Republican Alex Keaton in a suit and tie on the ‘80s TV show Family Ties.

At the leadership review Poilievre’s speech was telling. He quoted the words of neo-liberal Ronald Reagan. In fact, Pierre’s speech was a love letter to Reagan. In his first inaugural address as president, Reagan famously condensed the rising conservative sentiment with the memorable phrase: “Government is not the solution to our problem, government is the problem.” It’s about getting rid of government as well for Poilievre. “The people need the government off their backs, out of their way. Business will get ahead by having the best product, not the best lobbyist. By pleasing customers, not pleasing politicians.” With his forced frozen smile, he declared that if he were to start a new political party it would be called the “Mind Your Own Damn Business Party.” Not just business, the federal government needs “to butt out of the affairs of Albertans and Quebecers and other Canadians” as well.

On the world front, “Canada must make new friends, honour our alliances, and do our part on resources, trade, diplomacy, foreign aid, and everything else, though it’s clear we must prioritize our own national interest above all else.” This is rich, given what he said after Carney’s now-famous Davos speech: “So far, Mr. Carney has been lucky that he’s been judged by his rhetoric and his stated intentions, by the number of his trips and meetings overseas. Because nearly a year into his term, the rhetoric has changed, but reality has not. There is an illusion of purpose, but no results to back it up.”

Channelling the Department of War Pete Hegseth, “our forces will be guided by a warrior culture.” Channelling Homeland Security Kristi Noem: “We will deport criminals, end fraud, end abuse and handouts to phony refugees. We will no longer allow foreign conflicts to spill onto our streets.” Foreign conflicts on our streets? What’s he talking about? Domestic terrorists? He has said “everything is broken in this country right now,” suggesting it was better before. Trump offered a similar appeal in making America “great” again. As Noah Fry wrote: “Nostalgia, as a political tactic, often requires erasure.” Both Poilievre’s and Trump’s brand of nostalgia takes aim at marginalized groups, rearing its ugly head in anti-immigration policy.

Channelling the US administration, Poilievre will “protect the freedoms of law-abiding people with a new castle law” that allows one to shoot anybody who enters their property. “The Liberals want to protect turkeys from hunters. We want to protect Canadians from criminals.” On religious freedom. “We will stop the Liberals from censoring politically incorrect Bible verses. You will have the ability to worship God in your own way.” Channelling the Mayor of Minneapolis: “We never back down. We never run away.” He reminded delegates that “the best part of being Conservatives is that eventually everyone admits that we were right all along.” More like right-wing all along.

Pierre Poilievre shared his theme of the leadership convention: hope. “So hang on, have hope. Help is on the way.” As Michael Harris wrote in the Tyee, the only hope he’ll need is to “persuade Canadians that attack dogs can morph into statesmen.”

THE OCEAN TINKERS

February 5, 2026

Gabriel Jeroschewitz, December 10th, 2025, abridged

THE OCEAN TINKERS

I Stopped Taking Notes

There was a morning, or perhaps it was an evening wearing a morning’s torn coat, when the dust clouds began to rise out of the wet ocean. Not the ordinary salt mist that clings to fishermen’s eyelashes, but colossal, bruised clouds — the colour of old bronze — swelling upwards like the breath of some drowned god deciding to cough.

It was at that moment that the otroverts arrived.

They didn’t march, or swim, or fly. They appeared, like thoughts that had been pacing the edges of existence and decided to step bodily onto the stage. The first I saw was Dr. Rami Kaminski himself, wearing a scarf the way most people wear an argument — wrapped tight, with only the loose ends showing. His eyes didn’t dart like an introvert’s, nor beam like an extrovert’s. They sat there, calmly holding their own council. Even as the nude choirs began singing ancestral voices that no one understood — in a language made entirely from the sounds of rain striking old violin and cello strings — he tilted his head, listening without needing to belong to it.

The otroverts gathered in small constellations, never forming a crowd, but never truly alone. One of them, a woman named Yelena who wore the moon’s reflection in her hair, stood beside me on the black sand.
“Do you understand their song?” I asked.
She didn’t blink. “Understanding is a debt. I prefer credit.”

There was laughter somewhere behind us, deep belly-laughter, but I couldn’t tell if it belonged to one of the high IQ gods or to the devil himself. The gods stood in jagged rows, their foreheads wider than landscapes, muttering equations about peace in the universe. They spoke in voices like Russell Hoban scribbling his last manifesto — urgent, raw, half in jest — as if peace might be wrestled out of chaos by sheer willpower and mathematics.

One of them, I think his name was Thales, but he could have lied, screamed into the thickening dust,
“The neutrinos are bored! The variables are lonely! We must unhook the hinges of expectation!”
Nobody argued. The other people nodded, privately agreeing or disagreeing in places that could not be seen.

The devil, of course, was there too. He did not wade into the surf, though the huge waves rolled in like scrolls of scripture being flung at human souls. He leaned forward from the horizon, ugly-faced and grinning with the patience of erosion. His claws held something invisible — perhaps the very idea of “belonging” — and he squeezed it to make the hold.

I watched as day turned into night without consulting the sun, and then moonlight morphed into starlight, and the starlight melted back into sunlight like a drunk clock forgetting which way its hands should go. The otroverts didn’t flinch. They seemed accustomed to time doing tricks without asking permission.

One man, Jericho, was telling a story to a single starfish he found stranded in the wet grit. His voice was rich, warm, and hilarious, but it didn’t translate into group amusement.
“I only talk to one listener at a time,” he told me, “because audiences dilute the truth. And I can’t stand diluted truth — it makes my tongue itch.”

Meanwhile, the choirs of nude angels kept singing. Their harmonies curved through the air like architecture, building cathedrals no mortal could inhabit. You could hear fragments of history in their notes — collapses of empires, kisses stolen in alleyways, the sound of a library burning while moths burst from the pages. The otroverts didn’t sing with them, but kept their own internal music running quietly, an independent radio nobody else could tune into.

It was strange to watch them. Unlike introverts, they didn’t withdraw into solitude — and unlike extroverts, they didn’t seek the friction of company. They stood, occasionally exchanging a single glance or a sharp joke, but mostly they fed themselves on their own thoughts. You could see it: their eyes glowing faintly as if their minds were a fireplace that didn’t need wood, only sparks.

At one point, the gods began a heated debate about whether peace could exist without boredom. The otroverts listened, but their faces betrayed no allegiance to any side. And then, quite unexpectedly, one of the angels — naked as a truth you’re not ready to hear — drifted down to stand beside Kaminski.
“You are not part of the choir,” she said, not accusing, merely observing.
“I am not part of anything,” he replied, and smiled as if to soften the edges of that fact.

The angel laughed, a sound like shattered crystal being swept into a velvet bag. “You are a ghost who refuses to haunt.”
Kaminski shrugged. “Or a living man who refuses to herd.”

Beyond them, the waves swelled higher, covering pieces of humanity I recognized — photographs, confessions, masks worn to work, names whispered to strangers. All washed over by salted enormity. And the otroverts… kept talking to themselves. Occasionally aloud, occasionally in whispers only they could hear.

The devil grew restless. His ugly face twisted with irritation, because he knew he could tempt crowds, rattle loners, but these people who defined themselves outside those categories — they were slipperier than smoke. He shouted into the dust clouds,
“What are you?!”
Jericho shouted back: “A question with legs!”
Yelena added, “And no leash.”

The gods roared with laughter, the kind that shakes tectonic plates. The angels, unfazed, continued their indecipherable hymn. The otroverts returned to thinking, unbothered.

I kept watching. And soon I realized the comedy here was not in punchlines or pratfalls — it was in the sheer futility of all forces trying to recruit the otroverts. The gods wanted their intellect, the devil their obedience, and the angels their voices. The waves tried to swallow them, the dust clouds wished to hide them, and the starlight wanted to illuminate them. But the otroverts… were. They didn’t resist, didn’t fight; they just remained in that third space outside of alignment, drawing energy from unshared musings.

As the surreal atmosphere churned — night/day/stars/sun cycling like a drunk carousel — one of the gods approached me. His brow was a mile wide and furrowed with equations.
“You are observing. Are you one of them?”
I hesitated. “I think I might be. I never cared for the crowd or the quiet — only for the conversation I have with myself.”
He nodded, as if I’d handed him a rare leaf. “Then you will survive this.”

From the edge of the shore, the devil scowled and tried to crush the invisible thing in his claws harder. The dust clouds kneaded the sky into shadows. The angels’ song rose to impossible pitches. The gods resumed screaming for the universe’s peace. But the otroverts… they smiled when the humour of existence struck them, which was often and without warning.

One by one, they wandered off — not together, not apart — into corridors of their own thought. Some stepped into the waves without sinking. Others walked into the dust clouds as though entering a warm bath. Yelena turned toward the horizon and let the changing lights paint her in sequences: moon, star, sun.

I stood alone, or perhaps in company of myself, on that dissolving shore. The comedy of it all tasted dark — a kind of cosmic joke I couldn’t explain, as laughter heard through a wall. And as the ocean continued to cough up its bronze dust, I finally understood why the otroverts could stand in the middle of gods, devils, angels, and chaos without losing their balance:

They neither fought nor fled from it. They lived in the uninterrupted stream of their own thinking, a current that no wave, no choir, no dust cloud could interrupt.

And in that quiet independence, the universe could neither tempt.

A Pleasant Fiction: The Pseudopod Goes To Davos

February 5, 2026

A Pleasant Fiction: The Pseudopod Goes To Davos

By Cylon2036. we/us

At the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, Prime Minister Mark Carney leaned into the microphone with the gentle cadence of a man reading a bedtime story to capitalism itself. He spoke of the rules-based international order the way adults speak of Santa Claus as benevolent, universally respected, and mysteriously efficient at distributing gifts to those who already have chimneys. The markets nodded, reassured that somewhere, somehow, a kindly institutional figure was keeping score, checking the naughty list, and rewarding good behaviour, defined of course as market liquidity.

Then came the pause. Carney cleared his throat and admitted, softly and responsibly, that “Santa Claus does not in fact exist.” The room gasped, but it was quickly followed by a PowerPoint slide presentation explaining how this was “priced in.” As for the Easter Bunny, “the evidence remains inconclusive”, he stated. “There are eggs, certainly, but no clear mechanism of delivery.” The audience relaxed because uncertainty after all, is just risk management. What truly mattered was that belief itself remained a valuable asset, however fragile, tradable, and best maintained by never asking who’s really hiding the chocolate.

Woowoo Healing : The NO Foods

February 5, 2026

Woowoo Healing: The NO Foods

By Jean Gordy

Greetings Folks! Last week I listed what Medical Medium calls the NO Foods. This week I”m going to go into WHY you should stay away from these foods as they are very detrimental to your body. Unfortunately the information I want to share takes up more than 800 words so I’ll talk about a part of the list this week and the balance next week. This is important information to know, so I don’t want to short change you here.

Corn

Corn used to be one of the fundamental sources of nourishment on earth. Unfortunately, the technology of genetically modified organisms (GMO) has destroyed it as a viable food. Corn products and byproducts create substantial inflammation. It’s a food that can feed viruses, bacteria, mold, and fungus. Even if you see corn advertised as being non-GMO, the chances are high that it can still trigger any kind of health condition—and that it may still be GMO.

Soy

Soy has suffered a similar GMO fate as corn. Soy used to be a healthy food. However, you can now assume that any soy product you encounter could have some GMO contamination or contain added MSG. Be cautious when eating soybeans, edamame, miso, soymilk, soy nuts, soy sauce, textured vegetable protein (TVP), soy protein powder, artificial meat products made from soy, and much more. Try to stay away from soy the best you can. If you really enjoy soy and feel deprived without it, stick to the safest options: plain, organic tofu or tempeh, or the highest-quality nama shoyu.

Canola Oil

Canola oil is mostly GMO at this point in time. And regardless, canola oil creates a great deal of inflammation. It’s especially damaging to your digestive system, potentially scarring the linings of both your small and large intestines, and is a major cause of irritable bowel syndrome. Canola oil can feed viruses, bacteria, fungus, and mold. Beyond that, canola oil has an effect similar to battery acid on the inside of your arteries, creating significant vascular damage.

Processed Beet Sugar

So far, GMO beets are mostly reserved for making processed beet sugar. You should therefore avoid products that contain processed beet sugar, which feeds cancers, viruses, and bacteria. This is different from grating fresh, organic beets over your salad, or juicing fresh beets. If you stick to organic, most whole beets that you buy in the produce section at your local natural market or at the farmers’ market are safe to consume.

Eggs

The average person eats over 350 eggs a year. That includes whole eggs and also all the foods with hidden egg ingredients. If you’re struggling with any illness, such as Lyme disease, lupus, chronic fatigue syndrome, migraines, or fibromyalgia, avoiding eggs can give your body the support it needs to get better. The biggest issue with eggs is that they’re a prime food for cancer and other cysts, fibroids, tumors, and nodules. Women with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), breast cancer, or other cysts and tumors should avoid eggs altogether. Also, if you’re trying to prevent cancer, fight an existing cancer, or avoid a cancer relapse, steer clear.

Dairy

Milk, cheese, butter, cream, yogurt, and other such products contain a substantial amount of fat, which is a strain for your digestive system—and especially your liver—to process. Dairy contains lactose, and the combination of fat and sugar has negative effects on health, especially if you’re diabetic. Further, dairy fat in your bloodstream helps to breed viruses and bacteria. Dairy is also mucus producing, and a major cause of inflammation and allergies. Those are the issues that have always held true for dairy, even when it’s organic and free-range. And now, conventional, mainstream practice has made a problematic food into a toxic one by creating farm industry pressure to give hormones, antibiotics, GMO corn and soy, and gluten to cows, goats, and sheep. If you want a smooth healing process, it’s best not to eat dairy at all.

Pork

Avoid all forms of pork, including ham, bacon, processed pork products, lard, and so on. It’s difficult to heal any chronic illness while consuming any kind of pig product, due to these foods’ high fat content.

Farmed Fish

Farmed fish are often raised in small, enclosed spaces. This breeds algae, parasites, and other diseases—so the breeders often give the fish antibiotics and treat the water with toxic chemicals. This makes consuming farmed fish risky. The safest fish you can eat are wild ones, such as salmon, halibut, and haddock. No matter what type you select, beware of mercury— especially with larger fish such as swordfish and tuna.

Gluten

Gluten is a protein found in many grains. The forms of gluten to which people are especially sensitive are in wheat, barley, rye, and spelt (a type of wheat). (When it comes to oats, be aware that growing and processing sometimes cross-contaminates them with grains that contain gluten. Oats can be a very good food for people who are less sensitive, though. Look for those that are labeled gluten-free.) Grains that contain gluten also contain multiple allergens and proteins that can trigger any condition. They create disruption and inflammation, especially in your intestinal tract and bowels. They also confuse your immune system—which is your primary defense against disease— and often trigger celiac disease, Crohn’s, and colitis. Eating these grains makes it very difficult for your body to heal. If you’d like to recover from your illness as quickly as possible, minimize grains of any kind.

That’s it for this week folks. I’ll include the rest of the list next week. If you want to drop me a line you can reach me at jeansdreams@yahoo.com.

An Interspecies Conversation

February 5, 2026

An Interspecies Conversation

Helliwell Park, low tide, no wind, and a warm winter sun. Just a few feet from the high water mark, Edwin, a huge brown headed eagle with great yellow talons clutches to the head a dead seal. Edwin is magnificent. With masterful confidence he rips strips of flesh and makes a show of swallowing an eyeball whole. Other eyes are watching Edwin. Most belong to an unkindness of ravens led by Ravi, a wise old fowl of almost fifty summers. The unkindness is comprised of old Ravi and his proteges … they hover, flap and fidget nearby on the slippery tidal rocks within a 30 foot radius of Edwin. Also watching is an old man and his old dog. They are in a partial blind on a low bank about 50 feet away. After 20 minutes of non-threatening behaviour the avian actors allow them to remain as spectators with balcony seats in an outdoor amphitheatre.

Another 10 minutes pass … then Ravi lands centre stage beside the seal just outside Edwins reach and the lesson begins. Ravi struts back and forth in front of Edwin as if on a nonchalant Sunday stroll. Ravi doesn’t look at Edwin or the dead seal directly but continues to express respectful interest in Edwin’s prize. Occasionally from a standing position Edwin takes a swipe at Ravi but Ravi instantly responds jumping back only those inches necessary and continues non-aggressive, respectful posturing. As Ravi loiters he takes only fleeting glances at the seal. Ravi continues this dance for about 15 minutes, never looking Edwin directly in the eye and soon Edwin stops swiping at Ravi.

Suddenly Edwin stands tall, turns seaward, and with one great flap hops to a rock 30 feet away where he remains looking out to sea. Edwin doesn’t look directly as Ravi and his unkindness descend into the gore. For 15 minutes Edwin allows them access but remains aware of the proceedings with occasional glances from the corner of his eye. Then Edwin turns and with one great hop lands back on top of the seal as if to say… OK, you’ve had your feed, time’s up! Instantly responsive, the unkindness leaps into the air and departs.

The old man leaves the scene with his dog overwhelmed with gratitude for the generosity of his avian relations for allowing their conversation to be witnessed.

Edwin is left to resume his business.

The Islands Grapevine

February 5, 2026

Upon receipt of submissions from Stephen Malthouse, The Islands Grapevine denied their publication, (but offered to publish revised versions), because their content included counter-factual claims, and derision of a Denman “decolonization” community group, These elements violated TIG’s editorial policy. Here’s Malthouse’s reply to us, followed by our response.

_____________________

Hello Keith, Thank you for your reply. It is really not worth debating these topics with you, but I do have a few comments. Firstly, I am aware of DRIPA, UNDRIP, court decisions in BC and section 235 of the Constitution Act, so you are presumptuous to be lecturing me.

Secondly, there was no intent to insult any group on the island, but people must be responsible for what they insert into the paper. If it is woke nonsense about us learning to accept our place as guilty colonizers, then there is reason to challenge it. Usually those that want to eat the rich, don’t own anything themselves. It is easy for them to think reconciliation is simply giving everything back. If their feelings are hurt because someone contradicts them, that cannot be avoided.

Thirdly, the editor(s) of the Grapevine seems to have lost their enthusiasm for publishing dissenting views, but have no shortage of justification for this change. I suspect this lack of editorial gumption is why we have a 2-page children’s’ story every week and long articles about nothing in particular to fill up the space.

The people that were previously offended because the Grapevine censorship was not to their liking are now publishing the Barnacle, while the rest of us have had our submissions repeatedly rejected and are reluctant to engage with you. One by one, I have seen writers excluded, and now we are left with little of substance and local relevance. Of course, there are still the weekly stoner cartoons, which may be of interest to somebody, somewhere.

The Grapevine, which I once looked forward to reading, now seems to have been politically correct-ed to death. Or is it just your tastes and opinions that are driving the editorial policy now? It is unfortunate that the paper, which served the island so well previously, is now almost moribund. It has lost its place as the townhall of the islands, where opinions could once be shared without fear of ruffling someone’s feathers and causing them to faint.

Stephen Malthouse, MD

________________________

Stephen, We can agree that there’s no point in debating this. Mike and I predicted several elements of your reply, including your insult to his intelligence, echoing your sycophantic acolytes, when we enforce an editorial policy that existed prior to me joining the paper as an editor. The current and corrupt advertising boycott by tax funded agencies is mostly caused by TIG carrying water for you and your aforementioned devotees..

Publisher Mike is also TIG’s editor, whatever you predictably think, and he makes all final editorial decisions. Thankfully, after navigating waters that nearly destroyed its economic viability, TIG is healthier and growing. Unlike the College of Physicians successfully undermining your practice, the censorious virtue-signallers have failed to put TIG out of business, and we will continue to proudly stand behind our editorial decisions.

No writer has been excluded, ever. Not one. There are 4 contributors who have refused any editorial feedback from the publisher and editor, and they have withdrawn on their own account. The paper is better off for it, while TIG continues to flourish. As a man whose views were too radioactive for even the B.C. Conservatives to stomach, you have only confirmed what we guessed your response might be. Bravo!

TIG continues to take heat for publishing dissenting views, particularly our weekly column by Caitlin Johnstone, but also a few others. In your case, and the case of your sycophantic acolytes, you all have the opportunity to be heard in our weekly paper, as long as you have a willingness to respect TIG’s boundaries and feedback, set by Mike, and printed in the paper each week. You could also do your own mailings.

And guilty as charged, for continuing to publish “stoner cartoons”, dad jokes, a crossword, and the tide table. Who ever heard of a newspaper that does? You deny your “intent” was to insult, then proceed to confirm your insulting views, a predictably teaching moment for irony, claiming “people need to be responsible for what they put in the paper.” On this we agree, and it includes you, with your reactionary nonsense.

The Islands Grapevine is also Mike’s livelihood, and most islanders are grateful for it, while we have expanded our circulation, advertising base, and web presence, despite the efforts of those whose behaviour you mirror, but reflected in some kind of Jungian funhouse, and where all conflict is about control. The Barnacle is free to lose thousands of dollars in a vanity press, as you are free to do as well. We refuse.

As you know, the Covidiots are those who have sought to silence dissent, while TIG has not changed its editorial policy or its taste. Our criteria for what to publish is unrelated to whom we agree with, and we have more than enough content submitted each week to “fill space.”. If the “town hall” seems less diverse, it is because of the chilling effect created by both you and the Covidiots, who choose to withdraw. So be it.

Please pass on our gratitude to Thomas and Peri, and Max and Helen, and the rest of your culturally amusing all-star team. We have a paper to run, and no good deed goes unpunished!

Keith Porteous, Associate Editor

Our Rulers Are Psychopaths And They’re Making Everything Awful

February 5, 2026

Our Rulers Are Psychopaths And They’re Making Everything Awful

CAITLIN JOHNSTONE

JAN 31, 2026

I don’t know what to say today. We are ruled by abusive monsters.

The US is preparing for war with Iran.

They’re going in for the kill shot on Cuba.

The latest batch of Epstein emails looks horrifying.

The US is full of protests because ICE keeps killing people.

Israel is still massacring civilians in Gaza as Australia prepares to host its president for an extended visit.

Reuters has confirmed that Biden officials actively obstructed the circulation of internal USAID reports that Gaza was being turned into a nightmarish hellscape in early 2024.

There’s so much cruelty. So much abuse.

You’d think all this evidence that we are ruled by deranged psychopaths would unite us against them, but it doesn’t. The population is more angrily, bitterly divided against itself than ever.

Political discourse has gotten as intensely vitriolic as I’ve ever seen it as Trump supporters take their stand behind the current abuser-in-chief and defend the status quo warmongering and tyranny with all their might. Discussing politics on social media feels like stepping into an emotional blast furnace these days.

They’ve done such a good job dividing us and conquering us. It’s really incredible how good at it they are. It would be awe-inspiring if it wasn’t so evil and destructive.

I haven’t felt like I’m in the zeitgeist recently. Usually I feel like I’m surfing the crest of dissident political consciousness and can provide insight and information into what’s coming up for us as a collective, but everything’s been so chaotic and frenzied lately it’s like trying to ride a bucking bull. I don’t know if that makes any sense to anyone but me, but that’s what it feels like.

I don’t really have anything to add to that right now. I try to write something every day, but today all I’ve got is a feeble “There’s so much cruelty, and it hurts.”

It fucking hurts, man.

_______________

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Feature image via Wikimedia Commons/The White House (public domain).

Monster Hunters ch.6

February 5, 2026

Monster Hunters ch.6

by Quinn Ireland

The training room was full of all sorts of new, elite equipment. There were weights and bench presses along with countless treadmills leaning up against one side of the room. “C’mon over class!” shouted a teacher from the opposite side of the room from Ben. “Now… welcome everyone!” he said. A few people mumbled some sort of greeting but it remained relatively quiet. This teacher looked very fit. This was not surprising to Ben, being that he was a workout teacher. He had short, black hair with short sideburns. He was wearing a workout tank-top and shorts with running shoes. “Please get into your groups from last Friday,” he said. Someone then raised their hand. It was Kepler. “Umm… Mr. Lea?” she asked, “You forgot about Ben.” “Ohh… I’m sorry Ben, Please partner up with another group of two.” Mr. Lea instructed. Ben chose Johnny and Kepler. Ben followed them to the corner with the weights. Johnny picked up a weight, he held it out in front of him with a straight arm. “What’s this class for?” asked Ben. “Moster Hunters need strength,” explained Kepler, “Without it, we couldn’t really fight monsters when we’re older.” Johnny still kept the weight in front of him. Ben found himself looking at Johnny’s arm. He had huge biceps and muscles. Kepler had the same. “How often do you work out in here?” asked Ben. “Every day… we have these same classes every day,” answered Kepler. “Defense, protection against evil, then dangerous forests, then workout hour, then…” she stopped. “You haven’t gone to magic plants or S.P.P yet.” “What’s S.P.P?” asked Ben. “Special Power Practice,” answered Johnny. Ben didn’t wanted to ask if he had a special power but Kepler cut him off: “With these five classes, you will be able to become a fully certified Monster Hunter!” Maybe Ben did belong here. All he needed was support, a lot of it. Just then, Johnny put his arm down. “Yesssss! Two minutes.” he said happily. Kepler now tried to lift one on her own. “Try to beat me!” said Johnny. “You’re record’s going to get destroyed!” replied Kepler. She held it out in front of her for exactly the same time as Johnny. “A tie!” said Johnny. They slapped their hands together in a high-five. “Give it a go Ben,” said Kepler handing him a twenty pound weight. Ben took it reluctantly. He knew that he had to take part in the class. Ben was surprised that he ended up holding it out for a full minute. “Woah, Nobody does a minute on their first try,” exclaimed Johnny. “Try this one.” Johnny handed him a small tiny weight. “Are you kidding?” said Ben, “I could hold this one for an hour!” As soon as Ben took the weight from Johnny’s hand, he dropped it. Johnny laughed, “That, is a heavy-small weight, a seventy- pounder too.” “But how can it be that heavy if it’s so small?” asked Ben. “Magic!” was all Johnny answered. Ben thought about this for a moment, then it came to him. Ever since he had entered this world, it had all been shock. He never really thought that this whole world was magic. He could be here. He had friends. He had support. He had education. But there was one thing that he didn’t have. “Will I get to see my parents at all during the school year?” “Of course, there’s a long one month break halfway into the school year,” replied Kepler. The loud bell chimed across the school grounds. Johnny grabbed Ben’s arm and pulled him out of the classroom. “Magic plants starts now,” he said. The three of them walked down a stone path. Ben now got a good look at the school. It looked like an ancient castle. There were stone holes in the walls and flags at the top of the building bearing the letters M.H on it. “Here’s where you’re going to stay,” said Kepler. Ben found himself looking at a gigantic network of treehouses, The huge trees were overlooking a swamp. Ben usually hated swamps, but this one looked magical. Twisted vines and some sort of strange plant lined trees, the water looked clean and pure. There was also what looked like the edge of a huge dark forest. “Do we live in these houses alone?” asked Ben. “No, we asked Headmaster Bwicket, and you are staying with us!” said Kepler happily. Ben felt relieved. He was never a fan of being alone. By the way,” Kepler spoke, “We call them tree homes. They are all designed the same, cozy and homey.” Ben took one last look at the tree-homes, his home on the school grounds as they disappeared behind the giant trees of the forest. Soon, they came to the entrance to the forest. Ben realized that he was looking at two trees that were perfectly the same height, and width. They were rough and sappy, with lots of holes for the homes of Owls. Roots curved in and out of the thick, dark soil. Some long, and some short. They all looked like the veins on a Giant’s arm. “The Twin Trees,” said Johnny smiling, “Follow me.” Johnny stepped through the trees. Kepler followed with Ben taking up the rear. They were plunged into darkness. The only light that Ben could see was coming from lanterns on the wall. Ben found himself walking down a steep stone staircase with old ancient carvings of demons and monster hunters in battle. After three minutes of descending, the trio entered a lush green cave with soft light glowing around the cavernous walls. The cave was lined with mushrooms and vines with all of the rocks completely covered in moss. To one side of the cave, there was a large natural hole in the wall, a waterfall fell through it leading to a lake that bathed the cave with a misty green light. The water looked like the cleanest, purest water that Ben had ever seen. It had a greenish-blue tint to it that made it look like a liquid jewel. Kepler walked over to a corner of the cave. A wood shelf stood by the wall. Each of the twelve shelfs had bright red suits all neatly folded. “Cold-proof suits,” said Johnny noticing Ben’s confusion, “They can keep you warm in any form of coldness. “Put it on,” said Kepler. “But… where do I change?” Ben wondered out loud. “Just put it on over your clothes.” replied Johnny. Ben slipped on the suit, He then followed Johnny and Kepler to the edge of the lake. They waded out into the deep. Ben expected there to be some sort of cold to his skin, but felt no different then just moments before. Ben was an average swimmer, so it wasn’t long before he had rolled into a smooth backstroke. The ceiling was covered with the same ancient stone carvings as the staircase along with the greenery and moss. They swam for a long eight minutes before Ben noticed something floating in the water. It was too late. Ben swam right into a something hard and wood. “Ow!” said Ben, “What is that?” Johnny and Kepler looked at each other with a worried expression. Ben watched as a wood box floated back into the darkness. “It’s my fault,” said Johnny to Kepler, “I forgot the water proof headlamps, good thing he only touched the wood.” To Ben, this all didn’t make sense. “What are you talking about?” asked Ben. Kepler paused before saying, “We’ll tell you once we get to the Demons exit.” Ben noticed more lanterns up ahead that were casting a eerie glow around a steep stair- case that was leading up to above ground. Moments later, they were clambering up onto a stone ledge. Water dripped from Ben’s baggy suit. As the droplets hit the water, bubbles plunged into the murky lake. they then came to the surface, stayed there for a moment, before popping and creating small circular ripples. “Wow, all this work just to get to one class!” said Ben breathing heavily. “The classroom is located in the forest, this is the only way to get to the whispering forest.” replied Johnny. Ben started to take off his cold-proof suit. “Don’t!” exclaimed Johnny, “Those are our uniforms for magic plants!” He pointed at Ben’s chest. There was a gold name tag that read: VINKENHUT in bold letters. “We have to wear these crazy outfits all class?” “Relax,” chuckled Kepler, “It’s only one of six classes where you don’t wear your normal uniforms.” “Will you tell me about that creepy wood box now?” asked Ben as they started up the stairs. “First you have to learn the names of everything in this cave.” said Kepler. Ben nodded. Kepler continued, “Those two trees are the Twin Trees, the first stairway underground is called the Ancient Pass, the lake is known as the Lake Of Souls, the waterfall that leads to the lake is called Devils Mouth, and finally the stairway that we’re on right now is the Demons Exit” “Why do I need to know all this?” Ben wondered aloud. “This cave is a huge part of our history,” was all that she replied with. So-far to Ben, the Monster Hunter world was exactly like some sort of fantasy story that he would read. It felt like a dream, although it wasn’t. His best friend was here. “Now,” said Johnny, “Eighteen years ago after Tyborwink claimed the horror forest, he cursed the headmaster at the time, Headmaster Mogel.” Johnnys voice echoed through the thick stone walls. Ben pondered this before answering; “Why didn’t the teachers stop him?” “They did everything they could, but they couldn’t fight with their eyes closed. Tyborwink ended up getting away and came down to this very cave and floated Headmaster Mogel’s body in the Lake Of Souls.” So… that wood box was a cursed dead person’s body?” asked Ben in shock. Johnny and Kepler slowly nodded their heads. “His body floats up and down the lake very slowly, ALWAYS,” said Johnny adding emphases on the last word. “That was lucky, only your head touched it,” added Kepler, “Or you would have been cursed.” “That’s why I was mad that I forgot the headlamps,” said Johnny, “We couldn’t see without them.” This was all starting to lead to one thing in Ben’s mind, this Tyborwink guy didn’t sound very nice.