In this age of victims and precaution where satire may be misread and parody taken literally it is advisable to label humour with a big WARNING sign. CBC TV does this to protect viewers on some of their comedy programs. I would also post a further WARNING, I am poor and have no insurance so don’t bother suing.










PETUNIAS – Beyond the borders of common sense*

Certain social scientists have determined that petunias are criminogenic. By that they mean that they make people commit crimes, or at least engage in anti-social behavior which is almost as bad. Some even conjecture that petunias are part of an elaborate oppressive cultural construction that justifies the degradation of vulnerable groups in society. Newspaper reports on academic articles detailing clinical experiments involving first year male college students clearly indicate a correlation between massive exposure to petunias and rude, inconsiderate acts. Victims are obviously involved and society in its concern turns to those claiming to speak for the victims of petunias. Advocates and concerned citizens including the loved ones of victims and a few recovered survivors are convinced that punishment of the guilty will provide needed closure and satisfy retributive justice. The police demonstrating their own concern for society's victims call for new laws including making simple possession of petunias an offense. Politicians are anxious to demonstrate that they care. Unfortunately it is difficult to make rational and persuasive arguments to support the need for prohibition, even the PC ideologues in the drafting rooms of the Department of Justice are stumped. Any law prohibiting petunias might be found unconstitutional by the usually deferential courts. However all is not lost. An ingenious solution is found and a responsive and resourceful government acts. On behalf of the people of Canada the Prime Minister signs a treaty with Paraguay to ban petunias in their respective countries and create a joint agency to eradicate cultivation and suppress international trafficking in petunias.

The government points to its international obligations under the authority of article 17(c) of the Canada-Paraguay Petunia Control Convention and experiences no difficulties in enacting the Petunia Control Act with the unanimous support of Parliament. Canadians have every reason to be proud of their participation in the international community. The new laws are soon vindicated by the large number of convictions which demonstrates how serious the petunia menace had become.

*Beyond Borders is a Canadian based advocacy group affiliated with ECPAT that campaigns against child prostitution and pornography in the Third World and promotes the use of international conventions and protocols in domestic criminal law. The group was active in my case.


While only a few would question the wisdom of criminalizing the drug marijuana generally there is little doubt that it has medical benefits for some people afflicted with AIDS and other debilitating diseases which outweigh its deleterious effects. It is simple common sense and humanity to allow doctors to prescribe it for these poor wretches. Of course this evil substance should never be available to the general public. There are other situations where special exemptions for certain other unfortunates which could benefit society. I am thinking of the protection of children. As we all know pedophiles are a danger to children ready to pounce at every opportunity. And psychiatrists who treat these monsters tell us that many have a craving for child pornography. Some call it an addiction. In fact the only way many of them can control their unnatural urges and not be a constant menace to children is through regular and frequent masturbation. However for many of them to do this they require a constant supply of child pornography. It strikes me that in order to protect children, the police, instead of destroying the kiddieporn they seize, they should recycle it to pedos. Pedos would of course need a doctor's prescription to obtain kiddieporn and it should be tightly regulated like medical marijuana. Harm reduction may be the way to go. Extreme care should be taken however to ensure that none of this toxic material falls into the hands of non pedophiles where it might threaten their moral rectitude.


When I was a kid I used to admire the boys who got into trouble. The bad boys were really something. I really wanted to get into trouble too but I was scared, and a sissy to boot. Like they'd have money, lots of money sometimes, and I'd only just got my allowance raised to a buck a week. The bad kids had all sorts of neat things, like radios and dirty books, rings and neat shoes. They were always going somewhere and doing interesting things. And the stories they told, I believed all of them. Actually I only heard a few because the kids who were always getting into trouble figured I was a real asshole. But it wasn't just because I was a sissy, some them were too, but because... Well, what really bothered me was that they did mean things, like stealing, and stupid things like getting caught, and I was such a good boy. I didn't like the idea of hurting people, like I'd had things stolen from me. I was just a juvenile delinquent wannabe. Unfortunately I didn't know about status offenses at the time. I could have been truant, unmanagable or promiscuous. Now that might have been a lot of fun without hurting anybody.


When I was just a little kid hanging out at the corner store I can remember listening to old men talking about their shits. It's true, they're always talking about their shits, and I'd hear them boast about particularly good ones though they usually didn't give all that many details. And you know what? They said they got better as you got older. Every time I saw a pensioner I used to wonder about it, but then it was all pretty remote and soon I had the trials of puberty to deal with. Now fifty odd years later I can vouch for its truth, and you know something, shits are particularly good when you're stoned. It's best to have a big meal several hours earlier, I like lots of corn for body and texture, and then you should hold off until you feel you can't wait much longer, but don't over do it, and remember a passive attitude towards the bowels, enhances the rush. Don't grunt and try to force things. Just let it happen. At first I thought it might be some sort of trade off for declining prowess but it seems you can have both worlds for a while.

I should search the Internet to find out what we're called. There must be millions of us and at least a handful of newsgroups. I bet we've even got our own porn. I wonder what it's like? We're not coprophiliacs or whatever, because we don't like to smear it, smell it or eat it. Personally, I would rank Thomas Crapper ahead of Marconi or Mother Teresa. Like we just get off on the shitting sensation, it feels so great, and leaves your anus glowing for up to half an hour after. It's more fun than politics and what you see on TV. When you start pushing seventy you don't really care whether you used to be hetero or homo or even which sex you are. You Know where things are at. The curious thing is that hardly anybody under sixty has the slightest idea what we're talking about. I think we should keep it that way. We want to keep them working and paying taxes for our pensions. Just think if they really knew. In their impatience they might miss out on some of the real delights of being in their fifties and even their forties. And then when they're about to lament their loss of prowess a second puberty pounces on them. What a nice surprise! And the thrills of the new sensations give us something really worth talking about. But it's all right for little kids to listen in and believe the stories.


I dream of blowing up things. It’s much better than leaving things around whole but lifeless and rotting. My current favourite method is "small is beautiful" atomic bombs, secretly planted months before where I could remotely control timing. I could tie together blowing up to events I didn’t like, expressing my political views. My thinking changes from time to time but right now my preferred targets tend to be geographically clustered: the White House, the Pentagon, the DEA, CIA, FBI, IMF and the World Bank. But then sometimes I think that just one megabomb embracing Arlington on the west, and Coral Hills in the east would leave a bigger imprint on the psyches of future generations, if only for the body count. Imagine an initially lifeless desert in the heart of the Eastern Seaboard, opening up a multitude of new biological niches for resourceful new organisms. High school science classes and Nobel scientists from around the world would make pilgrimages to study new life forms. A big bomb might get some interesting things happening.

But then small is beautiful bombs can be more specific. For example, suppose you didn’t want to hurt a particularly magnificent oak growing on the banks of the Potomac north of Arlington, well, careful placement might save it while still letting you get most of your targets. Also you can convey more articulate political statements by being selective in what you blow up than you can with one big one. Why one could even target things like the Canadian Parliament Buildings. It would be best to wait for the Speech from the Throne when both houses gather in the Common’s chambers, and many Supreme Court judges and members of the honoured classes attend, and perhaps most temptingly, rectitudinous journalists are abundant. But then I can think of a few other targets in Russia and China, and England and the Philippines, and things much closer to home. The last could cause some personal inconvenience. I would need more time to think. But what good are nukes against the things you really want to get rid of? Things like moralizing and righteousness which set people on others. It would be nice to target just the characteristics you don’t like, but they are difficult to separate from human flesh. And if everybody nuked what they didn’t like there’d be nothing and nobody left. You couldn’t even be lonely. And besides WMD seem to be hard to find.


A team from the Canadian International Children's Rights Commission is making its way through the killing fields of Sri Lanka, the devoutly Buddhist island off the coast of India. They are looking for victims of child sex abuse perpetrated by Canadian sex tourists. In the south they find the bodies of thousands of Sinhalese teenagers and youth many bearing signs of torture. They examine each body carefully but it appears they were all killed by security forces and there is no evidence that any were assaulted by Canadian pedophiles. Disappointed the Children's Rights Commission proceeds to the northeast where they find thousands of dead Tamil teenagers. Unfortunately they appear to have been killed in battles with the army and none show signs of Canadian sex abuse. Despondent, the team prepares to return to Canada worried how their negative report will be received at headquarters. Luckily on the last night before their flight leaves they discover one of their own team giving a blow job to a thirteen year old roomboy. The others call the police, order champagne and celebrate.

SAYING MY PRAYERS: An Anglican Childhood

In church I would kneel down and say my prayers just like everyone else. I felt nothing. I would occasionally peek at the others, and except for a few of the boys they all seemed serious like they were getting something out of it. I used to wonder what it was. But right after they were the same as usual which often wasn’t very nice. I tried asking but nobody seemed to know what I meant. I figured I wasn’t doing it right, like it took me a while to learn how to tie my shoelaces, and I wanted to know how. I thought it musr be something real easy because they didn’t even give you lessons. I figured something must be wrong with me. At home I would say my bedtime prayers kneeling with my hands clasped like I was supposed to although sometimes in winter I would guiltily crawl into bed first. My room had no heat and the sheets would be clammy. I thought of praying for a hot water bottle but that would have been selfish. I would try to talk to God but it was like He wasn’t there. I got no feedback and felt no different than usual. Praying didn’t do anything for me. I was sure others must experience something when they prayed. I wanted to believe but I had no Faith, and I knew Faith was believing. I never thought of praying for Faith. But then I believed all the things I was taught in Sunday School and defended them when other boys made fun of them. I skipped a grade and won a prayer book.

I knew I had a soul, even bad people had souls. Souls were part of you. But I didn’t know what a soul was. I knew it didn’t die when you did. If you were good and had Faith it went to Heaven and you felt joy. Otherwise it went Hell or maybe Purgatory which I couldn’t understand. If it went to Hell it, which was still you, was horribly tortured and you felt pain and suffered. And it went on and on. I didn’t even try to think what it would feel like.

And there was Jesus, he saved us, and somehow all the scary stories in the Bible were made right. After Jesus things were better but you had to have Faith in Him. I tried. Jesus was good, he was kind to children and they gathered around Him. But when I was twelve I found out that all my attempts at Faith and prayers were futile anyway. I couldn’t get into Heaven if I wasn’t baptized and it turned out that I wasn’t. The best I could hope for was Purgatory. It was my first and almost last theological crisis. The baptism rule was unfair, it wasn’t like Jesus, he wouldn’t make a rule like that, and I argued with my Sunday School teacher. I got myself baptized as soon as I could, but that didn’t do anything for me either, I didn’t feel a thing.


Teach, unlike the other masters at the Sorrbunn Prepatory School, never flogs any of the boys in his classes. While it means he had problems controlling his classes at times, and leads to considerable gossip among both pupils and staff, for him it is a matter of principle, and he's proud. It's only because the boys sincerely like the kindly old master, that they dodn't give him more trouble than they do. Occasionally he overhears other masters joking about his laxity; they simply don't understand. Then things get much worse when a new boy, Roger Plumtree enters his classes. While a most average child of twelve in other respects he has a strong tendency towards insolence which pushes the kindly master's limits.

Matters come to head one day when Teach, arriving late at the classroom door, gets a glimpse of Roger through the crack holding court and imitating him. "Stacey! Don't think that because you left your victim with one of his balls and the surgeons were able to re-attach his arm, that I am going to go easy on you. Punishment, I feel, is absolutely necessary. I order you to write on the board twenty times: I WILL NOT DISMEMBER MY FELLOW CLASSMATES." The other boys laugh and guffaw. Teach feels hurt, and betrayed by the boys. Here I've tried to be kind and gentle and they have no gratitude. There isn't one of them I couldn't have flogged a dozen times for the things they've done. Ah well, 'Virtue is its Own Reward'. Teach becomes resigned, but hesitates before he enters.

In his heart Teach knows that the real reason he doesn't flog his pupils is because he is secretly obsessed with the idea. His mind continually struggles with images of boys' bare bottoms, cute, pert, pristine, delightfully moulded, mounded buttocks waiting for his indulgent ministrations. He sees welts rise and darken, bruises blossom and blood trickle down their legs. And Roger. His, it looks so round, and firm, and if it is as pale and clear as the flesh on his lovely, slender, well formed thighs, and with the same fine peach fuzz, well? Teach's reverie continues, The cane would cruelly force its way into the pale yielding flesh and bounce back leaving magnificent darkening weals, I wonder how evenly spaced I could get them. And Roger grimacing, would remain stoically bent over my desk, perhaps a tear would run down his cheeks, as I etch one raw stripe after another into his soft sweet bottom. He shakes his head and manages to get a grip on himself. Holding his desire, his intense flogging lust, in abeyance has been an heroic feat of Abstinence, perhaps unparalleled in Twentieth Century England. Guilt whelms up into his bosom, tears weep from his eyes, Teach knows what he must do. He bursts into the classroom and pleads for their forgiveness on his knees. The boys are embarrassed and certainly don't want his apologies. They get him to calm down and try to be frank with him. It seems he lacks respect. Roger is unrepentant and unafraid, and tells Teach he's a wuss. It is a challenge, he reasons with them. Teach gives his brief sermon on non violence ideals, tells them he thought he was being kind to them and how grateful he felt they should have been. He sincerely apologizes for failing to flog them. The boys all laugh and slap their puberlant thighs.

Rising from his knees his mind is suddenly dazzled. something breaks and in a red hot epiphany, determination floods into his whole being. I shall flog Roger, I shall break him, and he will apologize at my feet. He reaches up embracing the air in front of him. It is moment of truth. And triumph, and it will be his first good work out in ages. Yes. Yes. Yes. I'm really going to enjoy this. He worries that he might enjoy it too much and become addicted. And yet while it was not customary for boys to be caned on their unclad posteriors, it was certainly not unknown. And while the maximum number of strokes he could officially give Roger was six with the light cane, the only cane available is a heavier one reserved for the senior boys. And if Roger has to count the strokes himself who knows how many he might get. Teach tells Roger to bend over his desk. Now let's see, there used to a manual you could refer to, as I recall from college you're supposed to take a run at it. More force behind the blow. I imagine his bottom will be sore and pulpy for a few days. Unsure of his aim the first blow is a light smack, it really shouldn't count but the entire class calls out "ONE". The second stroke is no better. "TWO" He completely misses his target on the third. Teach begins to realize that he should have practised. No more taking a run at it. At the end the class cheers loudly and Roger's bottom has a few pale pinkish stripes, and the boy is politely trying not to smirk. The class however appears suitably impressed and cheers. "Yaaay Teach!" The kindly old master muses to himself, If the school expects masters to flog pupils they should give them some training and practical experience, perhaps at a weekend retreat in Wales. I would say that if the local lads aren't interested in some extra pocket money they could bring in some boys from Pakistan to practise on. In fact I think I'll bring it up at the next board meeting.



Well I must be off to a get together at the Satanic Abuse Lodge local 169. I hear they're bringing over six lovely girls and six charming boys from the daycare centre, all between 2 and 6. We'll all have at least one child to molest and after we can pass them around. I hope we're not faced with parents trying to monopolize their own children again, it's unfair to those of us without any of our kids in the centre. We were hoping for a baby to sacrifice but the supply from Romania seems to have dried up, and the directors are reluctant to substitute black Somalian babies without a formal general meeting of the coven. We're still expecting that we'll have an eight year for sacrifice at our Easter meeting. They're always more satisfying offerings than the wee ones. There'll be a draw to see who gets to deflower her first. Last year it was a ten year old beautiful blond boy but sadly much of his blood was wasted, and he was unconscious by the time it came to eviscerate him. It just doesn't have the dramatic appeal when they don't realize what's happening to them. However he had the most delicious liver I've tasted in a long time.

I understand that for the safety of the little darlings they have finally shored up the tunnel from the boiler room in the daycare centre. An accident would have been embarrassing, and I certainly wouldn't want them harmed in any way. Maud is in charge of feces. She tells me she wants to serve it to the little angels in goblets with a dollop of semen on top to pretty it up. The male participants, I suspect, will want to save theirs for the orgy after so unless she's found another source I don't think the idea is practical. I certainly wouldn't approve of using stale semen. I suggested that she just use blood for a topping but she protested that there wouldn't be any baby blood available, and that would mean using puppy or kitten blood. She finally agreed when I pointed out that eyeballs would make an attractive garnish. Actually I think she was being silly going to so much trouble. Personally I would make them eat the feces fresh, steaming warm straight from the source with no receptacles or spoons. I like watching them lick their fingers. Gloria is bringing her spaniels, they're getting quite proficient at mounting the children both front and back, and each should be able to serve at least four of the tykes. Mark wanted to bring his doberman but I don't think even six year olds are ready for that. Well, Dear Diary, I really must close as I promised to sweep out the lodge's dungeon, oil the whips and lay out the vestments all before the participants arrive. Timing is critical as we have to have the little dears cleaned up and back in the centre before the effects of the drugs wear off, and they're picked up by the other parents.


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