| April 7, 2005 Dissertation by Dr. Otto Gillespie From the insurgent49.com message board: “He's an obnoxious old windbag who takes credibility from your website ... He's trying to be funny I think, but he sounds like a babbling narcissistic jackass. I'm disappointed. I was looking forward to some intelligent alternative media to contrast the bullshit we're fed on Fox and the daily news. If you want anyone to take you seriously, take Dr. Otto's own advice and fire him quickly.” -Robert Soldon
No such luck, Robert. Apparently, the wizards here at I-49 either don’t give a fuck about being taken seriously or don’t believe you’re qualified to judge what is and what isn’t “intelligent alternative media”. At any rate, I’m still here so I guess we can both just suck on that, eh, Bobby? Maybe ‘The Economist’ is more your speed, anyway, you humorless little bunny raper. Onward. I’d like to take this opportunity to dispel a couple of popularly held myths. First, whatever you middle-aged, coke-addled Stevie Nicks enthusiasts might think, Stevie Nicks is nothing but a two bit whore whose middling vocal talent is the only thing that’s kept her out of a Missouri trailer park. Second, Canadian Mounties are not the clean, well-manicured do-gooders that they’re made out to be in movies and children’s cartoon shows. They’re ruthless thugs and I’ll tell you why. In 1964, I had my first experience with the vaunted RCMPs by way of an Ottawa peyote transaction gone horribly awry. Peyote, for those of you candy asses who’ve never had the cajones to try it, is some wicked, wicked shit developed by good natured Indians some centuries ago in the desert Southwest. It makes you feel like you’re one with Mother Nature in a jangly, swirly kind of a way. Anyway, some friends of mine in the U.P. of Michigan and I had arranged with this old Navajo to transport some of the shit to our connection at the University of Ottawa, when we got popped by the fucking Mounties on the outskirts of town. Oh, sure, they started out all polite and congenial, gently tapping at the window and asking us nicely for our identification, eh? But let me tell you something, once those beady-eyed vultures found the 31 individually wrapped two-pound bags of peyote in the trunk of the car, they went from Dudley Do-Right to Dudley-Rape-You-With-A-Claw-Hammer in about ten seconds. Next thing you know, they’ve got me tied up deep in the bowels of some Canadian shithole “provincial” jail, interrogating me relentlessly with a big metal flashlight and a box of two-inch drywall screws. Those sons of bitches are fucking demons in an interrogation room, let me tell you. They don’t even bother with good cop/bad cop in Canada, they just send two of them in there and let you know right off the bat that things are gonna get REAL physical and you better not scream or you’ll just be making it worse. I spent two days locked up in that perverse Ottawa dungeon of theirs and I shan’t soon forget it. It took three weeks for the welts on my thighs to heal and I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes with a horrible image of baked ham and a wood chipper. So, next time your little kiddies are watching one of them cute cartoons about those brave and fearless men of the RCMP, don’t forget to impart on them that such things are nothing more than Canadian propaganda and, if they ever find themselves face-to-face with one of those barbarous Mountie jackals, they ‘d better hightail their little asses back across the border while they still can. Yours,
Dr. Otto Gillespie Director, Insurgent Radio Research Team |
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Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
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