The TYRANNICAL Trudeau regime just did the UNTHINKABLE and it's about to get worse

A warning is sent to me by "Hannahlehigh"

So I just re-posted Philip Giraldi’s article Israel Will Bleed America Dry and Discard It Like an Old Shoe and “Hannahlehigh” — I have no idea who “Hannahlehigh” actually is and for both our sakes I prefer it that way — texted me a warning which I reproduce, together with the video she linked and I saved at once with “yt-dlp”; any of you who don’t have this nifty little tool, download it immediately, it’s free; because as we all know, anything on YouTube that’s interesting or of value never mind controversial, tends to evaporate rather quickly… 🤔💩

The bill Hannahlehigh refers to of course, is the “On-Line Harms Act” which will, very much in the fashion of the movie Minority Report, confer an automatic “guilty” verdict and anything up to “Life Imprisonment” for Orwellian “Crimethink”… However, at the moment mind you, any of us could still be facing a $250,000 fine plus court costs if we inadvertently use the wrong pronouns for the genderly-ambiguous among us, to say nothing of the other myriads of sexual curiosities with which Woke Canuckistan is suddenly festooned… 🤔

And of course I wouldn’t think for an instant to cast aspersion on our Jewish Brethren in their inevitable travails involved in settling a land without a people for a people without a land… Perish the thought! If only because I don’t want The Thought Police —RCMP, excuse me—gently tapping on my door at 03:00 to begin to assist me in perceiving the error of my ways..

How could these pesky creatures materialise in our pristine country

“The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [Newspeak was the official language of Oceania. For an account of its structure and etymology see Appendix.] — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:

The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.

The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese ricespirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.

Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.

For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do…”

— George Orwell; Nineteen Eighty-Four

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I have to conclude, having lived for the better part of a decade in the quiet revolution that is the People’s Paradise of The Woke Democratic Socialist Non-White People’s Republic of Canuckistan of Dear Leader Justine Castreau (Praise and Blessings be upon her Name) AND her band of merry men! … how very reminiscent it all is of Orwell’s utopian vision of Ingesoc and Airstrip One, and how one must guard one’s tongue — and expressions — and posture — at every moment, even in one’s sleep…

Except, compared to what Orwell described, it’s all rather worse… 🤔

Doubleplusungoodcrimethink!
Capt. Roy Harkness