The Canadian Conspiracy

I see the NFB flick which originally exposed the Canadian Conspiracy has been expunged from public records, more thoroughly erased than the memory of that guy…that guy in Egypt…whatsisname. But where there’s a web, there’s a way. By painstaking restoration work and the spiriting of ancient parchments out of the National Archives where they lay, to all intents and purposes buried, expunged from the collective consciousness, we have brought the truth back into the light. Gaze upon our works, ye mighty, and despair.

Jim Carrey

From The Canadian Conspiracy, ‘eh? [sic]

The foundations for the Canadian conquest of the American entertainment industry were laid in 1909 when “America’s Sweetheart” and Toronto, Ontario native Mary Pickford arrived in Hollywood on orders from Canadian Prime Minister Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Her plan was endear herself to the American populace through cinema and then use her clout to take over the industry. The plan was hugely successful as Mary Pickford climbed the social ladder to the top, marrying film celebrity and heart-throb Douglas Fairbanks in 1920. The United Artists studio was formed by Pickford, Fairbanks, D.W. Griffith and Charlie Chaplin in 1919. It was to be Pickford’s base of operations for her future plans of conquest. But Chaplin, an agent of Britain’s government, soon sensed something was amiss and moved to head off each of Pickford’s moves. A rift formed between the two, and between Canadian and British celebrities in Hollywood.

After losing his seat in the Canadian Parliament in 1911, future Canadian Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King was employed for a short time by the Rockefeller Foundation in the United States. It was Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s last decree as Prime Minister that Mackenzie King use his new position to layout what would come to be known as “the Canadian Conspiracy”.

Download the rest of “The Canadian Conspiracy, ‘eh?”

But the truth will out, no matter how politely, and so it is with the great Canadian Conspiracy. We, along with Gawker, Anonymous and the entity known only as extremelydusty, have banded together to ensure that the truth is never more forgotten.

Canadians are taking over the USA…the takeover of the American Media, in every possible form, has already been done.

The top bands Americans listen to nowadays are Canadian. The news they watch is controlled by Canadians.

The shows they watch are filled with references to Canada. Example: the producers of South Park and many of the actors, even though having an Anti-Canadian film, note that is actually an attack on America, and that many of the people who work with South Park are actually Canadian. Trey Parker and Matt Stone have said “We love Canada!”. The Simpsons, the biggest cartoon show on the planet, is the greatest example of the takeover. Homer Simpson is based off a Canadian. Canadian references are everywhere. In fact, Springfield could be actually based off the Canadian City “Ajax” in Ontario.

Over 20% of Hollywood is now Canadian. For example, the highest paid actor, and the funniest man on the planet, a proud Canadian and Toronto Maple Leafs fan, Jim Carrey, is a Canadian. Big hit rock bands, like Nickelback, make the top of America’s charts and control.

Yay!


The North-West Passage


If I Had a Rocket Launcher


The War of 1812

Hail your lumberjack overlords, y’all!

* raincoaster acknowledges the ongoing indifference shown by the Government of Canada through The Canada Council for the Arts and the (non-existent) Blog Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP); and the Government of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council.

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I found my dream job!

Funny Pictures

 

But before I get into that, let me tell you about raincoaster.

Not this one.

This one:

Username: raincoaster19 Jan 2008
Gender: Man Income: Please ask me Age: 55 Located in: Abbotsford, NA, Canada Title:
New register member of nudistfriends.com. – http://www.NudistFriends.com/

Just for the record and so there is no confusion, that is not me. Nor is the one in the Tiffany Pollard sex tape.

No, for realz.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, pontificating about having found my dream job. Longtime raincoaster fans (at least, fans of THIS raincoaster, not those ones) will know that the liquor cabinet (okay, safe) at global HQ is not quite as full as it could be, owning to a tragic lack of prosperitousness; indeed, it could well be said that, most remarkable among my many in-and-of-themselves-remarkable talents is the ability to avoid so much as the very appearance of capitalizing on any of the other skills and abilities, let alone the actuality of theredoing.

Even my marvelous tits.

Consequently, I have pursued many strange and increasingly bizarre job opportunities. There was the time the Russian Mafia wanted to hire me to write high school essays to be sold online; it took quite a bit of doing, including the doing of threatening an EI officer with arrest, which is, frankly, something I do not generally restrain myself from when it is good and warranted, and, indeed, enjoy, to get the dadgum gummint to admit that I couldn’t be thrown off EI for refusing to accept an illegal job with the kneecappers from Moscow. There was Occupational Pursuit, the magazine for job hunters, which commissioned several months’s columns in advance of publication and then went belly-up before opening its doors. There was the Spiderwick resume, of which I am still justly proud and convinced that thing wouldn’t be DOA if they’d hired me. There was the pitch for an online Daily Prophet, complete with really-quite-amusing-and-pitch-perfect-if-I-do-say-so-myself columns from Snape and Hagrid which I note I have failed to post on this blog, an omission which shall soon be rectified for lo, they are very funny.

There was this.

But, at last, there was The Manolo. And he said unto me, go forth and post! Save the little chillens from the scourge of Crocs! And he saideth also unto moi, ayyyy, I tire of sifting through Britney’s crotch shots and we all know what your standards are like, so would you manifest thy superfantasticness and take this spiritual burden off my hands? and so it came to pass.

But it was not enough.

Soon, very soon, I shall be babysitting a blogging lab on behalf of the Fearless City project, although what I shall do if it happens to fall on the 21st of February I do not know, for verily it is completely unthinkable that I shall miss a tiki party, particularly one with a buffet. But it’s money, blog money, which is better than blood money if a few orders of magnitude less lucrative.

But, alas, today my very favoritest kind of client, the kind who is nice and friendly and dutiful and who thinks I am a genius and who always pays in cash, immediately, bailed fifteen minutes before the meeting. So there goes the budget for this week.

So, today I find a dream job posted. Really, truly: a dream job. God knows, I’m agnostic when it comes to riches, so they don’t factor into the equation here. But it’s an incredibly high-profile, paid, full-time blogging gig at a place where I’m already somewhat known (Denton was my first follower, although whether that’s good or bad is anyone’s guess) where I know about the management and staff, and it is a site that I adore. That’s the good news.

The bad news is, anyone taking this position is essentially stepping over the still-twitching corpse of Mark Lisanti, perhaps the best writer in the blogosphere. Maybe it was murder; maybe it was suicide. Maybe he’s following his dream and the Sanjaya tour bus to strip malls across the continent. Who knows?

why

But the net effect is, rather than slavering over my keyboard as I frantically surf through the blogs for writing samples of the very cleverest link roundup in the history of gossip blogs as I have done for so many other Gawker Media openings, I find myself wishing for a monstrously large bottle of Jack Daniels to drink down and then crawl inside and sob.

So, fuck that with a chainsaw.

I’m going for this job instead.

Job specs: work vampire hours, take no shit, bust balls, wear fabulous clothes, attack people inferior to me, then tie them up and ignore them and get paid $185 per hour plus tips. And since it looks like one of their staff will be away on hiatus for 5-15, it’s got a solid future.

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for the love of…

You know how it ends.

Worshipping Wealth

Wuhan, China: People burn incense to worship the god of wealth at a Buddhist temple.

But if you stand too close to a red-hot star, this is what happens:

Elliot Mintz at Paris Hilton’s birthday party

[ Elliot Mintz, Paris Hilton‘s PR ]... finally succeeded in doing what publicist-watchers had long feared he would, managing to squeeze not just his nose, but his entire head and neck up his demanding client’s hindquarters.

For the love of money is the root of all evil:
which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith,
and pierced themselves through with many sorrows
.

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the evil of banality

Because when you dump a bucket of buzzkill on us, what do we have left to blog about? Eh? I ask you that!

Monkey or Shoggoth

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Stephen Fry’s ding-a-ling. let me show u it

Sorry, I’m on a lolroll. Like a rickroll, but lol-ier. Allow Stephen Fry, possibly greatest living Brit of his generation, to explain the essential difference between the British and the American peoples, in this ad for Twining’s Tea which I stole from EliyahuBenMoshe.

I think that sweet Tyrone knows all about his ding-a-ling, don’t you?

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