The Tyranny of “Normal” by Keith Porteous

September 11, 2025

Several years ago, I learned that a friend who worked in music and television was experiencing a degenerative loss of their hearing, something that would be devastating to most anyone, and especially someone who worked with and loved sound so dearly. With the loss of their hearing, they were able to re-acquire some of their auditory capacities with the aid of a technological and biomedical procedure involving Cochlear devices, a neurological prosthesis surgically implanted. I remember getting a message from my friend following their recovery process, telling me they could hear the sound of rain on the roof. I was teary eyed upon receiving this joyful news.

Medical research and technology has moved to purposes and places only previously dreamed of in science fiction. Literally millions of people’s lives are improved and extended as a result. Replacing heart valves and installing stents to open arteries are commonplace examples of technological “miracles.” The cutting edge of technological research into helping those stricken with mobility issues and impaired sight, and a myriad of other maladies, seems a hopeful frontier of possibilities in improving our human experience. It appears as though we are on the threshold of advancing these technologies to where we will be able to repair, alter, and enhance our physiologies in some even more astonishing ways. This is often referred to as morphological freedom.

Morphological freedom suggests that our current human evolutionary status may be further evolved in a self-directed manner. At its core is the principle of bodily autonomy. As these technologies advance, our capacity increases to choose what kind of alterations and enhancements to our bodies we desire, and to what extent. Many of these alterations are cosmetic, but many more are intended as a repair or enhancement, some even improving on the body and mind we were born with, or at least that is one of its stated and primary aims. With the speed of technological breakthroughs and advances in artificial intelligence, how far can this go? How far will it go?

One of the streams of research in this field is the so-called “neurolink” technology, popularized by the deplorable Elon Musk. Is it inevitable that we shall have the ability to implant a device linked to the human brain that will rewire our capacities? This is often imagined to benefit those with mobility impairments, or repairing neurological damages from disease or stroke. The possibilities seem only contained by the limits of imagination. But as we cross the Rubicon of technological capability, it would be a very good time to take pause to contemplate where there is a need for some ethical, political, and philosophical concern to be expressed in relation to morphological freedom and the concept of Transhumanism.

Transhumanism is defined as a philosophical movement that advocates for the enhancement of humanity through artificial intelligence and converging technologies, with the goal of overcoming biological limitations. It suggests that morphological freedom will lead to a proliferation of radically different forms; enhanced humans, cyborgs, and genetically divergent lineages. Shared vulnerability and embodiment have historically grounded empathy and human rights, and without them, mutuality will fray. Morphological freedom promises emancipation, but risks shifting into coercion, inequality, commodification, and fragmentation. What is sold as freedom can become a new form of domination, unless tightly coupled with safeguards for equity, dignity, and shared humanity. Transhumanism creates the illusion of pure autonomy.

While morphological freedom is framed as individual choice, choices are never made in a vacuum. Market forces, social pressures, and cultural ideals will shape what “freedom” really looks like. For instance, if enhancement technologies become tied to employability, healthcare access, or social status, the supposed freedom could become coercion in disguise. You may not “choose” to enhance so much as submit to necessity. This can only lead to further entrenchment of inequalities. Enhancement technologies are expensive and will likely remain so. A freedom that can only be exercised by the wealthy ceases to be freedom in practice. Instead, morphological freedom risks embedding class divides into literal biological castes, where the rich become healthier, longer-lived, and cognitively sharper, while the poor remain “unaltered.” This can be described as a tyranny of “norms.”

Cultural standards of beauty, ability, and performance already exert intense pressure. If morphological modification becomes more normalized, what begins as freedom could become an obligation. Those who remain unmodified, whether for reasons of poverty, conviction, or health, will be stigmatized, marginalized, or excluded. Is this the next step in the full commodification of the human body? Treating the human body as a modifiable product risks collapsing distinctions between human dignity and market value. Cosmetic and performance modifications will become an extension of consumer capitalism, where bodies are branded, optimized, and marketed, further reducing identity to a purchasable commodity.

Transhumanism is a reduction of the human condition, treating humanity as a set of biological limitations to be solved, reducing human life to an engineering problem rather than acknowledging its complexity, unpredictability, and existential depth.

So that’s one symphony of splashing incompetence

September 11, 2025

Gabriel Jeroschewitz, August 25th^, 2025. Dedicated to the shape of water, and my two favourite friends.

So that’s one symphony of splashing incompetence.

The sun beat down on the perfectly manicured lawn of Donald and Anna Bratwurst, glinting off the turquoise water of their kidney-shaped swimming pool. At the edge of the azalea bed, perched on a small, moss-kissed stone, sat Know Me, the garden gnome. His painted-on smile had not faltered in fifteen years, a ceramic stoic who had witnessed countless barbecues, awkward family gatherings, and the slow, creeping acquisition of things. Today, however, he had company.

Lounging in an invisible deck chair, a presence of shimmering heat and cold shadow that only Know Me could perceive, was Death. He wasn’t clad in a black robe; today, he’d opted for the ethereal equivalent of Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He tapped a long, bony finger against a spectral piña colada.

“Look at them,” Death sighed, his voice a dry rustle of autumn leaves. “He’s arguing about the pH balance again. She’s convinced the new inflatable flamingo is losing air. The sheer, unadulterated triviality is almost poetic.”

Know Me didn’t speak aloud, of course. His communication was more of a direct, grumpy transference of thought. They spent two hundred dollars on that flamingo, you know. Two hundred. For a glorified piece of plastic destined to fade in the sun and be pecked at by sparrows.

The argument escalated. Donald, a portly man with a sunburn perpetually fighting a losing battle with his SPF 50, gestured wildly with a water-testing kit. Anna, whose face was a testament to the fact that money could buy many things but not genuine contentment, snatched at it. A clumsy ballet ensued—a trip, a flail, a splash. Donald went in, his arms windmilling uselessly. Anna, screaming his name, leaned too far over the edge in a futile rescue attempt and followed him in with a shriek.

What followed was not a dramatic, heroic struggle. It was a symphony of splashing incompetence. They couldn’t swim. Not really. They could doggy paddle in the shallow end, but out here, in the deep, panic was a lead weight. They clawed at each other, pulling one another under in a frantic, gurgling embrace.

Death took a slow, deliberate sip of his non-existent drink. “And so it begins,” he murmured.

The messy part, Know Me projected. I hate the dirty part. The sirens will ruin the petunias.

“Oh, don’t worry about their bodies,” Death chuckled, a sound like gravel turning in a cement mixer. “That’s the one thing they no longer have to manage. It’s funny. They spend a lifetime moisturizing, exercising, dieting, and ultimately, they hand over the maintenance to others. Their relatives will handle it.”

Death settled back, narrating the inevitable future as the last bubbles broke the pool’s surface. “Cousin Helga—the one Anna always called ‘frumpy’—will be the one to go through their closets. She’ll take off their wet, chlorinated clothes. She and an undertaker they’ve never met will wash them, dress them up. Donald will be put in that navy blue suit he hated, the one he said made him look like a bank teller. They’ll be wheeled out of the house they mortgaged their happiness for and delivered to their new address: six feet of curated real estate at ‘Golden Slumbers Memorial Park’.”

Know Me added that the funeral will be a spectacle, his painted eyes fixed on the now eerily still water. The neighbours from number twelve will come, the Hendersons. They’ll cancel their tee time and complain about it in the car on the way home. Donald’s boss will appear, check his watch thrice during the eulogy, and think about who will get Donald’s parking spot.

“Exactly!” Death exclaimed, pointing a skeletal finger at the gnome. “The world won’t stop. The economy won’t even hiccup. Brenda from accounting, who is far more efficient than Donald, will have his old job by Tuesday. And the things, Know Me! The glorious, useless things!”

His gaze swept over the Bratwursts’ meticulously curated domain. The outdoor kitchen with a pizza oven was used only once. The shed was full of gleaming, top-of-the-line tools that Donald was always too afraid to scratch. Anna’s vast collection of romance novels, their spines uncracked.

The things I’ve had to watch them polish, the gnome groused. His keys to the vintage Porsche, which he only drove on Sundays? They’ll be sold. Her ridiculous collection of commemorative spoons? Donated to a charity shop where they’ll sit in a dusty bin. His precious first-edition sci-fi novels? Burned in an estate clearance, probably. An intern will be tasked with wiping his laptop, and all his carefully curated playlists of 80s rock will vanish with a single click.

“And the heirs,” Death continued, warming to his theme. “Their nephew, Thomas, who they always thought was a slacker, will inherit the lot. He’ll walk through this house with his girlfriend, pointing and laughing. ‘Can you believe they had a gnome?’ he’ll say.”

Know Me projected a wave of pure, unadulterated indignation.

“Someone else will sit on their Italian leather couch,” Death mused, ignoring the gnome’s silent fury. “Someone else will eat off their wedding china. The deep, theatrical pain will last for a week, maybe two. The good friends, their weekly bridge partners, will cry for an afternoon, then find a new couple to make up the foursome and laugh again. Their photos, the big smiling ones from the cruise to Alaska, will hang on the wall for a year. Then, they’ll be moved to a side table during a redecoration. Finally, they’ll end up at the bottom of a box in the attic, filed under ‘Misc.’”

A faint shimmer began to form above the pool. Two confused, translucent figures were coalescing in the air, looking remarkably like the Bratwursts. They stared down at their floating bodies with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Their dog, Know Me, thought, a rare flicker of something other than cynicism in his mind. What about Bartholomew, the beagle?

“Bartholomew will be sad for a week,” Death said gently. “Then he’ll realize Cousin Helga gives him bacon scraps and get used to his new owner. He’ll be fine.”

The spectral Donald and Anna turned, noticing the lounging Reaper for the first time. Their ghostly mouths opened, but no sound came out. They looked around at their house, pool, and perfectly striped lawn, a dawning horror on their faces.

Death finally stood up, his form shifting from a casual vacationer to something taller, grander, and infinitely older. The Hawaiian shirt melted away into a robe of pure starlight and shadow.

“It all ends here, you see,” he said, his voice now a resonant boom that only the newly dead and the perpetually ceramic could hear. “It ends among people, ends in this world. But your story is just beginning. In your new reality, all of this…” He made a sweeping gesture encompassing the property and the entire concept of suburban ambition. “…is meaningless.”

He began to tick things off on his bony fingers. “The beauty of your bodies, your last name, the property, the loans, your working positions, the bank accounts, this house, the car, the academic titles you framed, the trophies from the club championship… it all loses its value. It’s currency for a country you’ve just left forever.”

The ghostly Bratwursts looked down at their shimmering, insubstantial hands.

“In your new life,” Death finished, his voice softening to an echo, “you will only need your soul. That is the only property that lasts.”

He turned to the gnome and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “It’s always the same, isn’t it, my little friend? They spend their lives gathering, hoarding, and polishing. But as the old saint said, ‘You won’t take what you have from here. You only take what you gave.’”

With that, he gestured for the bewildered souls of Donald and Anna Bratwurst to follow him. They cast one last, longing look at the inflatable flamingo, which had, indeed, begun to list slightly to one side, before turning and dissolving into the shimmering air behind the Reaper.

Silence returned to the backyard, broken only by the gentle water lapping against the pool tiles. The sun continued to shine. The sprinklers would come on at six. Know Me, the garden gnome, remained in his spot by the azaleas, his vacant smile a fixed monument to the magnificent, hilarious, and ultimately transient folly of it all. He was already waiting for the subsequent owners.

9 1 25 lucky partial

September 11, 2025

9 1 25 lucky partial

When

I use

to put

out breakfast

at the homeless

shelter I always

made porridge

with powdered milk,

added some raisins

and put out a bowl

of apples

and again and again

some guy would

hold up one of those

rosy red apples

and say,

“Is this a cruel joke man?

Most of us don’t got any

teeth,” and then he’d

open his mouth so I

could peer into his

red toothless tunnel

and now due to accidents,

mismanagement and

a couple of good poundings

if I don’t have my partial in

I might as well gnaw on a

tennis ball

but I’m lucky

because

I can afford

a partial,

barely.

The Word “Terrorist” Becomes More And More Of A Joke By The Day

September 11, 2025

At the same time, the Trump administration is defending its assassination of a boat full of Venezuelans on the allegation that they were “narcoterrorists”, an imaginary category designed to lump garden variety drug traffickers in with suicide bombers and mass shooters.

The word “terrorist” becomes more and more of a joke by the day.

https://x.com/caitoz/status/1964457887696290204

In the UK a terrorist is someone with a cardboard sign saying “I support Palestine Action”.

In the US a terrorist is a Venezuelan suspected of drug trafficking.

In Israel a terrorist is someone resisting occupation.

We’re told Yemen is full of terrorists because they’re trying to stop a 21st century holocaust.

We’re told Lebanon is full of terrorists because they oppose a genocidal apartheid state.

We’re told Iran is full of terrorists because its government resists imperial regime change agendas.

We were told Al Qaeda were terrorists because they perpetrated the 9/11 attacks, but when Al Qaeda helped the west get rid of Assad they suddenly weren’t terrorists anymore.

Uyghur militants used to be terrorists, but they came off the list when they were deemed useful operatives against Beijing and Damascus.

Iraq needed to be invaded because Saddam wanted to give weapons of mass destruction to terrorists, but after the invasion it turned out that there were no weapons of mass destruction, and then Iraq was suddenly plagued by an epidemic of suicide bombings.

Afghanistan needed to be invaded because the Taliban was providing a safe haven for terrorists, but after 20 years of military occupation the empire needed its war machinery for other duties so they let the Taliban retake Afghanistan.

In 2010, then-vice president Joe Biden proclaimed Julian Assange a “high-tech terrorist” because his journalism with WikiLeaks exposed US war crimes.

Terrorism was used as an excuse to roll out the Patriot Act in the US and the Terrorism Act in the UK, and countless other authoritarian measures throughout the western world which tyrannical empire managers had been seeking to impose for years.

https://x.com/caitoz/status/1964800706252280045

Really “terrorist” just means someone the empire wants to kill or imprison, or a group whose terrorist designation might be used to justify the advancement of preexisting geostrategic agendas.

Propaganda is used to sear events like 9/11 into western consciousness as examples of terrorism which must be prevented at all cost, and then this label “terrorism” is applied to literally anyone who poses an obstacle to the agendas of the western empire.

Once it is accepted that there should be no rules restricting how the state responds to the threat of terrorism, all the state needs to do is label someone a terrorist to remove all rules which might stop them from doing whatever they want to do. Nowhere is this more clearly illustrated right now than the ongoing genocide in Gaza which is being justified by the need to eliminate terrorists.

When power-seeking empire architects are given limitless power to fight terrorism, we suddenly find ourselves in a world full of designated terrorists.

The more despised the western empire becomes, the more “terrorists” there are going to be. Because a terrorist is anyone who takes action which inconveniences the empire.

If this keeps up, soon we will all be “terrorists”.

________________

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Boyle Point Beckons

September 11, 2025

https://printartphotography.ca

big burp

September 11, 2025

#1700

September 11, 2025

Shucking Oysters: Nudge, Nudge

September 4, 2025

Shucking Oysters: Nudge, Nudge

By Alex Allen

Every summer mid to late August, like clockwork, I have a mini meltdown. 1+1=2. Except this year, I had three in one week. Some action by a visitor always melts me down. It often involves a dog or a child or a spouse. It’s not pleasant and I am always three degrees of separation from sharing my angry words with those with no empathy or heart.

But this kind of behaviour alarms me, quite frankly. The sheer lack of self-consciousness out there. What is happening to “human” beings? Consciousness was what separated us from other wildlife, was it not? Why have we become so mean and heartless? Is it the weather? The heat? The global unrest and divisiveness? Leaders unravelling worldwide? Fragile mental health? The aftermath of the pandemic? Trump?

I’m blaming it on the gadget that they call “smart,” yet those who use it seem to be getting dumb and dumber. This was all planned. Sean Parker, Facebook’s first president, shared their strategy: “How do we consume as much of your time and conscious attention as possible?”

Known as the “social-validation feedback loop,” they figured out how to exploit our vulnerabilities. A little dopamine hit because someone liked the photo you posted of your perfect Asian chicken lettuce wraps, getting you to post more photos, so you can have even more likes and comments. Adore me!

Nir Eyal, wrote in Hooked: How to Build Habit-Forming Products, that your smartphone is a glorified slot machine. A ping when you insert your coin. A ka-ching when you pull the lever. “Training your mind to conflate the thrill of winning with its mechanical clangs and buzzes.”

Like sex and hunger, the act of pulling the lever, becomes pleasurable in itself. Dopamine is social media’s partner in your brain. Even your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, “pulsing with colourful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations.” We are distracted because we want to be. Because it’s fun.

And then the nerds discovered “intermittent variable reinforcement.” Like slot machines, they use this psychological weakness to incredible effect. The unpredictability of the payouts makes it harder to stop. Social media does the same. Posting a picture of your lettuce wrap may get you some likes or nothing at all. Compulsively seeking a positive response, you are unable ever to logoff from the platform.

Social media apps are some of the most easily accessible products on earth. Max Fisher wrote in The Chaos Machine, “It’s a casino that fits in your pocket, which is how we slowly train ourselves to answer any dip in our happiness with a pull at the most ubiquitous slot machine in history.” And the Fear Of Missing Out makes one a slave to their gadget. Obsessively checking their Facebook feeds – during meals, while driving, immediately upon waking or before sleeping, and so on. This compulsive behaviour is intended to produce relief in the form of social reassurance, but instead it breeds more anxiety and more searching. It’s as if we’re being forced into casinos at gunpoint, where we lose everything, generation after generation, and then we’re told we’ve got a gambling problem.

Facebook’s “Like” feature, Fisher writes, is the equivalent of a car battery hooked up to a sociometer. It’s not just the ‘Likes’ that we spend so much of our energy pursuing, it’s that they offer immediate gratification. This is a powerful form of approval because it shows the world how popular you are and activates your dopamine. When was the last time 80+people publicly adored you in person?

People don’t want to miss anything, or fall out of touch, or have to rely on their own internal thoughts – to say nothing of having to converse with their like-minded phone scrolling mates, sitting right next to them. But social media is not a substitute for real public discourse. Instead of connection, we have disconnection.

As with every human invention, we have the dark side. Platforms that promote mob-like hysteria and harassment with virtually no constraints or safeguards. Identity groups, silos, cyber-bullying, fake news, and conspiracy theories.

We enjoy being outraged. Fisher wrote, “Outrage is a simple emotional cocktail: anger plus disgust. Moral outrage is a social instinct.” Like when I saw the visitor treating their dog with complete disrespect, I was morally angry. I wanted to see them punished and shamed. The difference, I was not online nor out of line.

But this is how people get riled up online. It’s what extremists and propagandists have figured out. Rally people to their side by triggering outrage, often at a poor scapegoat or an imagined bad person. Someone, say, who flips out at a ferry crew member might have once expected some finger wagging from fellow passengers. Now, if the incident is recorded and posted online, they might face weeks of abuse hurled at them not only from the local community but from all over the world.

Unfortunately, it is easier than ever for shaming to spin out of control, and alarmingly, it has grown more crueller and even sadistic. Whether anything is true or false, has little bearing on reality. What matters is whether the post can provoke a powerful reaction – a moral outrage. Facebook and Google, not only profit from shaming events but are engineered to exploit them. The more time feuding online, the more they idly reveal your browsing habits, the more precisely you can be targeted by advertisers.

I have nothing against technology, so long as the tools are put to use to improve our real-world social life as opposed to diminishing it. Think hard about how much meaning and fulfillment “modern wonders” actually bring to your lives. If everyone is spending hour after hour on their phones, scrolling through texts and timelines, then that becomes normal behaviour. But as Matt Haig noted, “when normality becomes madness, the only way to find sanity is daring to be different.”

Cowboy Corner: The Donkey And The Dirtbike

September 4, 2025

The Donkey And The Dirtbike

It was the dawn of 1976 and I don’t think that there was anyone out there happier about it than me. We had just been through the harshest winter in recorded history, and the idea of putting away the snow shovels and parkas was a welcome thought indeed.

February 2nd found us all outside, huddled together in anticipation of our annual family event. We all watched with fingers crossed as we arched our backs against the icy wind while stomping our feet and patting our hands together to keep warm. Suddenly, we heard a rustling sound. Could it be? Yes! My Uncle Mike emerged from his cave to see his shadow, a harbinger of good fortune, warm weather, and prosperity for the year to come!

April soon turned to May and the fields and roads dried up as the time for planting drew nearer. One day I was busy trying to pry my brother’s head out of the chicken fence before the heinous birds pecked his face away when I heard a strange sound off in the distance. It was a high pitched revving sound, an engine of some sort. Suddenly from around the old shed flew not one, not two, not three, but four brand new dirtbikes! It was my friends Larry and Doug, and their two little brothers!

They all pulled alongside where I stood, and as Larry lifted his visor I said, “Wow! Cool bikes! When did you….how did you….” I was utterly speechless!

“Our Dads’ went into town and bought them for us! You should ask your old man to get you one! Then we could all go riding together!”, was Larry’s cheerful challenge. And with that they all sped off, tires spitting gravel as they laughed and cheered.

I finished up my chores for the day and I even took the extra steps to put in a fresh bale of straw in the calf pens, a job Dad usually had to force me to do.

That night at the supper table I nervously pushed Mum’s bark mulch meatloaf around on my plate, trying to work up my nerve. Finally, I could contain myself no further.

“Dad,” I said, “Doug and Larry’s Dads bought them these really cool dirtbikes, and I just know we’re going to have a good year, so, I was wondering, well, could I get one too so I can go riding with my pals?”.

Dad looked annoyed as he picked up the large wooden spoon and spanked another huge pile of mashed potatoes down onto his plate.

“Those dirtbikes are the most dangerous things on the planet! I’m not getting any son of mine one of those bloody suicide machines! I’ve got a better idea! Your Uncle Mike and I will drive into town tomorrow and get you a nice safe horse! You’ll have just as much fun and your Mother and I won’t have to worry about you killing yourself!”.

So the very next day Dad hooked up the old trailer, sobered up Uncle Mike, and off to the city they went. I can’t say that I was anxiously anticipating their return, but curiosity soon began to get the better of me. As daylight began to fade into dusk, the old phone on the wall began to ring.

“Hello”, Mum spoke into the receiver.

It was Dad.

“Hey, it’s me. Listen, your brother and I found the boy a good horse but we’ve decided to stay in town for the night, as my eyes aren’t what they used to be and, well, you know this old truck. We’ll be back at first light, don’t you worry, we’ll be fine”.

“OK. OK. just don’t be too late”, was Mum’s reply.

I had to know what was going on.

“Are Dad and Uncle Mike alright, Mum?,” I asked.

“Yes,” Mum answered. “They’re at some stripper bar getting drunk and gave me the usual bullshit about bad eyesight and the truck breaking down. They should be here tomorrow around noon”. So off to bed I went.

The next morning I was roused from my slumber by the sound of a loud horn. Dad and a bleary eyed Uncle Mike stumbled out of the old truck and as I approached I could see the trailer rocking back and forth accompanied by a loud braying.

“Come on, son! Come and check out your new horse!” , grinned Dad, and just as he spoke the old trailer was rendered to splinters by the vile beast it had encaged.

As the dust cleared, I was able to make out the figure of, no, it couldn’t be….could it? Then it became all too obvious.

“Jesus Tap Dancing Christ you guys!”, I moaned. “That’s not a horse! It’s a fucking donkey!! What the hell were you thinking? Does this look like a fucking horse to you?! Did the loud braying not tip you off? Or were you totally oblivious to these big red letters painted on its side that say DONKEY FOR SALE?? Anybody with an eye and an asshole can tell that this a is not a fucking horse!!”.

Then Dad sheepishly looked at Uncle Mike. “Well, let’s get this thing in the barn before somebody sees us. Come on, Mike, I’ll pull, you push”.

Finally, I’d heard enough. I decided to go back to the house and see what was for breakfast, while these two Mensa candidates figured out what to do with that mangy mule.

I walked up the porch steps, and opened the screen door to see Mum at the stove stirring a pot of what looked like tile grout.

“Hey, Mum, any porridge left?” I asked.

“Porridge?!? What are we made of money? I want you to take this over to your Grandma. She called and said she’s not feeling well”, then handed me a wicker basket with a checkered cloth on top. I lifted the edge and peered inside. Just as I thought – two bottles of vodka and a carton of cigarettes. Chicken soup for the soul, alright.

“It’s cold out”, Mum warned. “Better bundle up. And be careful! Mr. Harrison said he saw a wolf lurking about!!”. So I pulled on my red hoodie and headed off to Grandma’s house with basket in hand.

I set off along the path and it drew me deeper and deeper into the forest. ‘A fucking donkey’, I muttered. ‘What a couple of world class morons!’ . I reached into the basket and tore the wrapper off of one of the packs of cigarettes, and as I placed one between my teeth, I pulled out my Zippo from my breast pocket and snapped open the lid to expose a willing flame. The tip of the Rothmans crackled as I drew its welcome smoke into my healthy pink lungs. Ahhhh heaven, I thought, as I took a generous swig of Granny’s vodka. I knew I could polish off a quarter of that thing, water it down in the stream, replace the cap, and old Granny would be none the wiser. The trick was to give her the fresh bottle first, and by the time she mowed through that, she’d be so bombed I could give her paint thinner and she wouldn’t know the difference.

After about an hour of walking I had finally arrived at my destination. Odd… the front door was wide open. That wasn’t like the old bird, as she had a penchant for passing out in front of the TV naked and harboured an irrational fear that someone would happen by and snap a photo of her that would end up in one of those GILF fetish magazines.

I cautiously walked into the kitchen and there was Granny, sitting at the table with her back to me.

“Oh, there you are”, I said with a sigh of relief. “I was worried something bad had happened to you”.

“Goodness no, my child, I’m fine…just fine!”, she replied, and turned her head and flashed me a wide grin that exposed pearly white teeth.

Now, the thought occurred to me to say something pithy like, “Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have!”, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. This was clearly a wolf, dressed in her mustard stained sweatpants and worn out old Pink Floyd t-shirt. The dead giveaway was the teeth – the sparkly white teeth. You see, Granny wouldn’t know a toothbrush if she tripped over one, and her chompers were stained a lovely hue of brown from years of drinking black coffee and chain smoking. They looked like two little rows of baked beans. The second tip was that when I told her I was worried about her, she was actually nice to me, something my real Grandma would never do.

I reached into my vest and pulled out a fresh cigarette and sparked it up, and as I shoved my lighter back into my pocket I took a deep puff and looked at its glowing ember as I exhaled the thick smoke from my lungs.

“Listen up, wolfy boy”, I sighed. “I’ve had a really shitty day and I’m in no mood for any of your ‘All the better to eat you with’ crap. So I’m gonna make this real easy for you. You come into town with me, I’ll see you get a fair trial. And nobody gets hurt. We got a deal here or what furball?”.

Suddenly the beast leapt up on its hind legs, tore off Granny’s nightcap, and hissed, “Not today kid! I ate your shitty old Grandma, and now I’m going to eat you too!!”.

But that morning good fortune had smiled upon me. You see, Granny always hid her weed under a loose floorboard in the kitchen, and as luck would have it that wolf found himself standing directly over top of it. Without even thinking I stomped down on my end of that plank and it flew up and nailed him right in the acorns and he folded up like a Grade Four love letter.

Suddenly the wolf began to choke and gasp for air, so I grabbed him by the throat and spun him around and started to administer the Heimlich Maneuver, and after three or four good cranks to my surprise out popped Grandma! And she was big mad…

“What the fuck kept you, you little shit head?!!? I could hardly breathe in there! And where’s my vodka? And you bloody well better not have drank half of it and watered it down in the stream like you always do! Now gimmee my smokes and make me a damn coffee!!”.

All of a sudden a hunter burst through the door with some of the local farmers.

“There! There it is! The wolf that has been killing our sheep! Oh, thank you, my dear boy! Thank you! A curse has been lifted from this land! Let us all rejoice!”.

Soon word of my exploits spread throughout the land, and from that day forward, I would become known as…..

That kid whose Dad was too cheap to buy him a dirtbike.

THE END

Dr. Frankenstein, and the Politics of Artificial Intelligence

September 4, 2025

Dr. Frankenstein, and the Politics of Artificial Intelligence

By Keith Porteous

Artificial intelligence (AI) has moved rapidly from speculative technology to a pervasive force shaping economics, militarism, culture, and civil liberties. While its applications in healthcare, finance, and communication are often framed in terms of efficiency and innovation, the deeper question is political: who controls AI, how is it governed, and what power relations does it reinforce or disrupt? The political implications of AI reach into state power, global competition, governance, and the very idea of human agency.

Governments view AI both as a tool of governance and as a strategic resource. Nation states have adopted AI-driven surveillance systems to monitor populations, track dissent, and manage social behaviour. “Social credit” systems, facial recognition technologies, and predictive policing illustrate how AI can consolidate centralized authority, while deploying AI in law enforcement and immigration control. The political danger lies in the normalization of surveillance and the erosion of civil liberties, especially when such technologies are adopted without transparency or public debate.

AI has become a core element of international rivalry. The United States, China, Russia, and the European Union are racing to dominate AI research, infrastructure, and standards. This race has implications similar to the nuclear arms race of the 20th century, but with subtler tools: data monopolies, control over semiconductor supply chains, and influence in setting global AI regulation. States that lead in AI may gain massive economic and military advantages, growing and creating new asymmetries in international relations. Smaller states and cultures risk dependency on AI systems designed and controlled elsewhere, raising even more threats of digital colonialism.

Domestically, AI reshapes processes of governance in both overt and hidden ways. Algorithmic curation of information affects political discourse, amplifying certain voices while minimizing others. Mainstream disinformation campaigns across the ideological spectrum are powered by generative AI that are coercive to public opinion, with convincing deep-fakes and automated propaganda. Beyond media, AI-driven decision-making in welfare distribution, credit scoring, or policing, can deepen social inequalities if underlying systems reflect pre-existing biases, and those that are newly manufactured.

The Canadian government, like those of most Western countries, has moved to bring forward legislation that ratifies the full spectrum of intrusions into privacy and civil liberty. This is often done under the guise of “security”, and to thwart human trafficking and the exploitation of children, where there are already existing laws and means of dealing with these issues. By elevating perceived threat levels, the populace can be coerced into accepting unnecessary and previously unacceptable digital surveillance and manipulations, using the tactic of manufacturing unwarranted fears of an array of risks and perils.

The political struggle over AI is also a struggle over regulation. Should AI be governed nationally, through democratic institutions, or internationally, through treaties and standards bodies? Global consensus is far from assured. In the absence of robust resistance, private corporations—particularly large technology companies—set de facto rules through the design and deployment of AI systems. This raises questions about accountability, as corporations increasingly wield wildly excessive powers.

At the deepest level, AI challenges all political philosophies by shifting the boundaries between human and machine decision-making. When algorithms influence judicial rulings, financial markets, or battlefield strategy, responsibility becomes blurred. Who is accountable for an AI decision: the programmer, the corporation, the state, or the algorithm itself? This diffusion of agency undermines traditional notions of free expression, sovereignty, justice, and accountability.

While it may already be too late to mitigate the worst implications of AI and its outcomes, the task for politics in the 21st century is therefore not to adapt to AI, but to ensure that AI cannot and will not further corrupt and diminish our human experience.