How about that Canadian election, eh?
I suspect that most Counter-Currents readers, including some residents of the former Dominion itself, would respond with a resounding “What?” or perhaps even a “Where? – are they still around?”
Constant Readers will know that I spent a number of formative years the backwoods of provincial Ontario, in places where even Toronto was thought of as a distant, shining place of culture and sophistication; at a “university” whose chief claim to fame was having served as a place of exile, a kind of purgatory, for a series of Anglophonic writers who got the Hell out as soon as they could, such as Wyndham Lewis, Marshall McLuhan, and Joyce Carol Oates.
In typically perverse fashion, I thrived in this Brigadoon of higher education, absorbing a thoroughly pre-PC, pre-post-modern education: the French method of close reading original texts that Etienne Gilson had brought over to Toronto’s Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, which has been the foundation of my own adaption of Dalí’s “paranoiac-critical” method; Prof. John N. Deck’s method of studying the history of philosophy as a disguised history of Neo-Platonism, including such unlikely candidates as Sartre, which I have continued in my study of America’s New Thought movement; even the chance discovery of a $1.65 (Canadian!) edition of The Reign of Quantity that scared the bejebus out of me, leading to my insight into the equivalence of Traditionalism and Lovecraftian weird fiction.
Having maintained a mild interest in the country to this day, I was nevertheless stunned to read yesterday that the parliamentary elections had brought down the “Conservative” Stephen Harper and installed one Justin Trudeau.
In fact, the ascension of Justin, the son of former Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau, but otherwise a substitute high school drama teacher and, as we shall see, occasional exhibition boxer, to the top of Disraeli’s greasy pole, seemed to take even the supposed “experts” by surprise:
Here, for instance, is Reuters (echo, echo):
Liberals win with a majority of seats
The Liberal party won the Canadian election with an estimated 184 seats out of 338 (as this goes to print), ousting the ruling Conservatives. The Liberals were expected to win a minority of seats, so the majority victory comes as a surprise. [Well, dur-hey!] Liberal leader Justin Trudeau will become the new Prime Minister, commanding the confidence of the majority of Parliament.
Over at perma-doomster Zero Hedge, Doomster-in Chief “Tyler Durden” predicts, quel surprise, more doom:
The US has seen that movie before, it’s not a happy ending. Oh, and enjoy that AAA credit rating while it lasts.
Oooh, don’t piss off the bond ghouls. One suspects Justin’s response will be the same as Bill Clinton’s to Robert Rubin (echo, echo): “You mean to tell me that the success of the economic program and my re-election hinges on the Federal Reserve and a bunch of fucking bond traders?’’
But before the bond traders stop fucking around and start jumping out the windows, or the Bernie voters break out the brie and Chardonnay (“As Canada goes, so goes . . . Vermont!”), that agenda doesn’t seem all that bond-unfriendly; back to Reuters:
The change of government should largely keep Canada’s business-friendly environment intact: Liberals want to keep corporate taxes low, and the party supports the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) free trade deal, as well as most major pipeline projects.
Well, good to know. As in the USA, the “two parties” are two wings of one Business Party; after all, the defeated “Conservatives” once proudly called themselves the “Progressive Conservatives.” I guess that’s what Bernie will become when he gets older.
Nevertheless, the election of Justin was greeted with what could only be called fear and loathing among the pundits. The reason why came soon enough; as “Tyler” headlines a rather more circumspect AFP story:
PM-Elect Of ‘US Ally’ Canada Wastes No Time: Tells Obama Will Withdraw Fighter Jets From Syria, Iraq
Someone may not have gotten his briefing from Bibi yet.
All this — the “surprise” at Justin’s win, the fear and loathing of an independent mind at the helm of a great nation, disguised, in typically Judaic fashion, as mock concern over his being too “girly” for power, rang a bell. “Tyler”’s right, I have seen this film before!
For ‘twas but a couple years ago when Justin delivered an equally definitive, equally “surprising” beat down to a Canadian cuckservative, this time in the manly realm of the boxing ring. I must admit that at that time I had never heard of, or at least remembered if I did, one Justin Trudeau, although I would have hazarded the guess he was the “spawn” of Pierre Elliot Trudeau, whom Kathy Shaidle likes to call ‘PET’ but I prefer to call CCCK (Canada’s Combination Clinton Kennedy), which sounds like a Canadian radio station.
Shaidle is a TakiMag writer who seems Canadian but seems even more interested in Israel, or a least the Tribe, who never fail to get at least some — laudatory — mention in every column.
In Shaidle’s snarky “Shine Briefly, Little Pony“ (note the “briefly”; you’ve got a future as an economic prognosticator, Kathy!) starts with a quote from Canada’s Jonah Goldberg, Mark Steyn,
“I think it would be appropriate for Earth Hour in the interests of the environment for the Senator to punch Justin Trudeau’s lights out.”
So having given the dog whistle to the neocons, you know you’ll be in for one of those rants where the closet Israel-First, pro-immigration (except Muslims, of course) cuckservative establishes his “conservative” credentials by demanding some fag get punched out — by someone else, of course. (Hey, just like the US, Israel and Iran — let’s you and him fight!)
Le pauvre Justin gets the full treatment here.
Slender of body and of resume . . . living in the moral equivalent of his father’s basement.
The slender, of course, are unfit for leadership, unlike some Fox-y doughboy like Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck. As for his résumé, we have the sneering about his paltry accomplishments — a substitute drama teacher — compared to his father’s distinguished academic CV. Of course, CCCK, like Kennedy, Clinton, or now Obama, would be criticized by this type of “conservative” precisely for their “pointy-headed” snootiness, and their children for taking “unfair” advantage of their legs up, so I’m not sure what she expects him to have done; probably just fuck off and die, or, as Whittaker Chambers famously paraphrased the message of Atlas Shrugged, “To the gas chamber, go!”
A year later, La Shaidle is still at her Justin speed bag:
So it is with more amusement than surprise that we learn that among those currently vying for the Grit’s leadership are a former prime minister’s son . . . and his father’s former mistress.
How veritably French, non?
The “son” is Justin Trudeau, whom I introduced to Taki readers last year as a flouncy-haired, forty-year-old Fauntleroy [whose] most notable accomplishment to date has been forcing Canada’s conservatives—for whom the former PM’s surname is a spittle-flecked swear word; as a child, I’d assumed the man’s first name was “That”—to pay the late Pierre père backhanded compliments, à la “As least the boy’s father had a few accomplishments to his name at that age . . .”
Having dismissed Justin’s “brief” notoriety (we’ll get to that in a moment) the previous year, Shaidle shows no remorse at his continued rise, just “more amusement than surprise.” She then hedges her bets for the future:
Some Canadian conservatives are cheering openly for Justin Trudeau’s victory. They contend that Justin is so transparently vacant that his presence on the Liberal ticket will guarantee Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper an even larger majority government in the next election. In Washington, DC last weekend, I met not a few American right-wingers who scoffed at the very idea that Canada’s JFK, Jr. could possibly become the next prime minister.
Unlike my compatriots north of the 49th, I find it perfectly easy to imagine Justin Trudeau moving back into 24 Sussex Drive. The same Canadians who irrationally claim to loathe anything “American” actually pine for a photogenic, dynastic Kennedy family of their own.
See, he might just get there, but only because her “compatriots” are stupid.
Indeed, the gravamen of Shaidle’s post is the terrifying possibility of Justin leveraging his battle royale upset into the Prime Minister’s office (in the aptly named Queen’s Park). The only thing a “conservative” hates more than a stuck-up elitist is a one that the people love . . . more than they do any of these “populists” the pundits want to force on them.
Why not celebrate Justin as a late bloomer, like Abe Lincoln, or such real Conservative heroes as Oswald Spengler (also a high school teacher, who quit and lived in a slum for years while writing his Decline of the West) or . . . Adolf Hitler? Nah, better just sit around and take revenge after losing another fight by mocking the winner.
You’d have thought that Shaidle and Co. would have learned from their first match-up with Justin: “the hyper-hyped, nationally televised March 31 charity boxing match between ponytailed Conservative Senator Patrick Brazeau and Liberal MP Justin Trudeau.”
Brazeau, be it noted, is an Algonquin Indian, so of course, he’s the “Conservative” champion. Also unknown to me, a little Googling shows he’s now an ex-Senator, and typical of the moral superiority of Cuckservatives: assault, mortgage fraud, suicide attempts, etc. Nice résumé, champ.
Shaidle was at least gracious enough to credit Justin’s winning skills:
Brazeau came out swinging. That turned out to be his biggest mistake. The second-degree black belt wore himself out in the first round. Trudeau’s patience, superior cardio, and longer reach paid off in round three. Brazeau’s nose was bloodied. He looked like he was about to faint. The ref raised Trudeau’s arm and declared him the winner. Worst of all: Trudeau was gracious in victory, while Brazeau was dazed and petulant.
I doubt I was the only Canadian right-winger whose short stroll from the TV to the bedroom around midnight felt like a walk of shame.
There’s the Sen. Cuck we know and love here in the States, big talk and no action. But even a year later,
The fight’s surprising outcome sparked speculation that we were poised to endure a truly bloodcurdling prospect: another Trudeau in 24 Sussex Drive.
There’s that word again, “surprise.” Perhaps Shaidle & Co. should take Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s advice to sports writers and pundits: get a thesaurus.
If Shaidle and her cold-hearted Canadian “conservative” compatriots would stop snarking and start thinking, they might realize there’s a lot to cheer here.
First, boxing? Really? How “good old manly days” is that? Can you imagine Obama, who can barely shoot a basket, and prefers to spend his vacations golfing, engaged in such an infra dig activity? Or Flanders-like Romney in MMA combat?
And, again, boxing? A WHITE GUY wins? Well, we know from the invaluable Castefootball.us that most title-holding boxers are White, a fact disguised by the post-Ali proliferation of organizations as well as the MSM “black athlete” script, but still, how about a few cheers for a White guy handing a humiliating defeat to a freakin’ Injun! But no, Kooky Kanadian Konservatives sneer about Justin’s hipster tattoo, and assert his opponent’s right to his “authentic tribal” tattoo. Talk about being unable to take your own side!
So bright and accomplished Pierre Trudeau’s brat, after an unprepossessing career, triumphs in the end. Doesn’t this prove the importance of genes and heredity? Hello, HBD anyone?
And finally, what’s so all-fired absurd about choosing one’s national leader with a boxing match? Hey, “conservative,” ever hear of the Trial by Combat? Or is that too “medieval” [or “mediaeval” as we spelled it back at Toronto’s Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, just across the street from Queen’s Park) for you neocons?
And on the Guilt by Association front (to recall my days as part of the research team at the Canadian college where we pioneered the non-established field of Informal Logic), Shaidle’s sneering about PET’s declaration of martial law during the Quebec Crisis, Canada’s own 9/11, is especially odd. First, the hypocrisy! Steyn and Co. were in the front of the baying hounds demanding even more repressive measures from Bush, which have been continued under Obama, by choice I’m sure but one can imagine the outcry from the Steyners if he really had closed Guantanamo for example. What would they have demanded Bush do if, by analogy, Dick Cheney had been kidnapped and then killed by Al Queda?
And, at least Trudeau actually succeeded. When’s the last time you heard about terrorists in Canada? And he acted legally, under the British North America Act (Canada had no constitution at the time, and hey, look, it was Trudeau who later devised one!), for a short, defined time, and actually apprehended the terrorists. Bush and Obama, not so much. Perhaps that’s why Justin is a little skeptical about our Syrian adventures.
Besides, haven’t these “conservatives” ever heard of Carl Schmitt?
No legal norm, in Schmitt’s view, can govern an extreme case of emergency or an absolute state of exception. In a completely abnormal situation, the continued application of the law through the normal administrative and judiciary channels is going to lead to haphazard and unpredictable results, while preventing effective action to end the emergency (Political Theology 13). Hence Schmitt’s famous definition of sovereignty, according to which the sovereign is he who decides on the state of exception: If there is some person or institution, in a given polity, capable of bringing about a total suspension of the law and then to use extra-legal force to normalize the situation, then that person or institution is the sovereign in that polity (PT 5). Any legal order, Schmitt bluntly concludes, is based on a sovereign decision and not on a legal norm (PT 10, 12–3). — Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
Basically, Shaidle & Co. are upset that their vibrantly diverse “conservative” front man (look, we’re not racists, he’s an aborigine!) champ was sent down to humiliating defeat by the fey socialist scion of a distinguished White family. Yeah, I can see why they identify . . . with the loser.
The whole kerfuffle about the triumph of “Shiny Pony” irresistibly reminds me of an early incident from another saga of family and genetics, The Magnificent Ambersons:
Thus, on a summer afternoon, a strange boy, sitting bored upon the gate-post of the Reverend Malloch Smith, beheld George Amberson Minafer rapidly approaching on his white pony, and was impelled by bitterness to shout:
“Shoot the ole jackass! Look at the girly curls! Say, bub, where’d you steal your mother’s ole sash!”
“Your sister stole it for me!” Georgie instantly replied, checking the pony. “She stole it off our clo’es-line an’ gave it to me.”
“You go get your hair cut!” said the stranger hotly. “Yah! I haven’t got any sister!”
“I know you haven’t at home,” Georgie responded. “I mean the one that’s in jail.”
“I dare you to get down off that pony!”
Georgie jumped to the ground, and the other boy descended from the Reverend Mr. Smith’s gatepost—but he descended inside the gate. “I dare you outside that gate,” said Georgie.
“Yah! I dare you half way here. I dare you——”
But these were luckless challenges, for Georgie immediately vaulted the fence—and four minutes later Mrs. Malloch Smith, hearing strange noises, looked forth from a window; then screamed, and dashed for the pastor’s study. Mr. Malloch Smith, that grim-bearded Methodist, came to the front yard and found his visiting nephew being rapidly prepared by Master Minafer to serve as a principal figure in a pageant of massacre. It was with great physical difficulty that Mr. Smith managed to give his nephew a chance to escape into the house, for Georgie was hard and quick, and, in such matters, remarkably intense; but the minister, after a grotesque tussle, got him separated from his opponent, and shook him.
“You stop that, you!” Georgie cried fiercely; and wrenched himself away. “I guess you don’t know who I am!”
“Yes, I do know!” the angered Mr. Smith retorted. “I know who you are, and you’re a disgrace to your mother! Your mother ought to be ashamed of herself to allow——”
“Shut up about my mother bein’ ashamed of herself!”
Mr. Smith, exasperated, was unable to close the dialogue with dignity. “She ought to be ashamed,” he repeated. “A woman that lets a bad boy like you——”
But Georgie had reached his pony and mounted. Before setting off at his accustomed gallop, he paused to interrupt the Reverend Malloch Smith again.
“You pull down your vest, you ole Billygoat, you!” he shouted, distinctly. “Pull down your vest, wipe off your chin—an’ go to hell!”
Such precocity is less unusual, even in children of the Rich, than most grown people imagine.
Curls, ponies, the attacks on his mother (Margaret, the darling of Studio 54), the reference to the Senator’s future jail term, it’s all there, even the surprisingly effective little fists of fury.
There’s actually — and admittedly, weirdly — more than a little resemblance between the Canadian Cuckservative Kerfluffle about Justin, and the American Cuckservative Consternation about . . . Trump. Rich, funny hair, inexplicably popular with the ladies, by no means anti-Israel but not at all willing to do its bidding in the Middle East; even a child of privilege, though not political. One suspects the word has gone out to the Canuck Cucks from their controllers in New York — Get Justin, he’s our worst nightmare: a non-aligned Kennedy.
Of course, even real conservatives can’t be expected to rejoice over the administration of Justin Trudeau. But the saliva-flecked loathing exhibited by the Neocons and Cucks illustrates all the self-defeating ticks of what Sam Francis dubbed the Beautiful Losers of the Right.
1. “At the time I’m worming into,” as one of Beckett’s narrators says, Joyce Carol Oates wrote a series of inter-connected stories satirizing the desperate lives of her colleagues at the fictionalized “Hilberry College” where the ex-pat professoriate and small town citizens “felt superior to the college, even to the country, Canada itself!” See Crossing the Border (New York: Vanguard Press, 1976) and The Hungry Ghosts: Seven Allusive Comedies (San Francisco: Black Sparrow, 1974).
2. To see, in cultural terms, what McLuhan was up against, see Wyndham Lewis’ fictionalized memoir of the period they shared in the same cities, Toronto and Windsor, Self Condemned (Methuen, 1954; Voyageur Classics, Toronto: Dundurn, 2010). The title speaks for itself. McLuhan was so desperate he thought the only solution was to import several thousand Jews. See Philip Marchand, Marshall McLuhan: The Medium and the Messenger: A Biography (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 1998), p. 82, and my discussion of this idea in “The Leaven of the Pharisees: The Judeo as Cuckoo,” here and reprinted in my forthcoming collection, Green Nazis in Space! (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2015).
3. As discussed in Greg Johnson’s “Interview with James J. O”Meara,” here and reprinted in The Homo and the Negro (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2012). One might also mention study of Heidegger that produced little else but the acquisition of the Canadian “pro-ject” as the pronunciation of the Heideggerian term; see “Lovecraft as a Heideggerian Event” in The Eldritch Evola . . . & Others (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2014).
4. See the various essays collected in The Eldritch Evola.
5. According to journalist Bob Woodward’s book, The Agenda.
6. Sic? Or not sic? Who am I to outguess Reuters. Probably some coded message to their Readers.
7. “You’ve seen these films, haven’t you, my man!” — Will Graham, Manhunter. It would certainly be fun to see Mark Steyn tied up in a wheelchair and confronted by Justin Trudeau as the Tooth Fairy: “Do you imply that I am queer?,” followed by the flaming Steyn delivering his latest screed to the Daily Tattler. See my “Phil and Will: Awakening Through Repetition in Groundhog Day, Point of Terror, and Manhunter, Part 2,” here.
8. “By his thirty-fifth birthday, Trudeau père had a Master’s from Harvard, then moved on to the London School of Economics [Constant Readers know of our affection for the LSE]. He’d founded a hugely influential political journal, worked in the Privy Council Office, and got himself barred from the United States as a potential subversive. At the same age, his son Justin (B.Ed.) was a teacher. A drama teacher. A substitute drama teacher.”
9. “Even a sports editor, for instance, might notice something wrong with a lead that said: “The precision-jack-hammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off the Washington Redskins today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stomps around both ends . . .” Right. And there was the genius of Grantland Rice. He carried a pocket thesaurus, so that “The thundering hoofbeats of the Four Horsemen” never echoed more than once in the same paragraph, and the “Granite-grey sky” in his lead was a “cold dark dusk” in the last lonely line of his heart-rending, nerve-ripping stories. . . . “Fear And Loathing At The Superbowl: No Rest for the Wretched,” by Hunter S. Thompson; Rolling Stone, February 15, 1973; online here.
10. Justin’s “surprise” victory is splendid example of the “runt becomes Berserker” meme; see our review of Brian de Palma’s The Untouchables here and reprinted in The Homo and the Negro.
11. The contribution of one Ezra Levant (echo, echo), unknown to me but dubbed a “talented phrasemaker” by the obsequious Shaidle; sheenies are so good with words, aren’t they? For My Little Pony as an alt-Right icon, see Greg Johnson’s “My Nationalist Pony: An Interview with Buttercup Dew,” here.