This is a Guest post by Johnny U. with much thanks. Please take the time to read.
Bastard. This journalist is the spineless little tyrant who knows he will lose a fair fight of facts, so resorts to ambush. It’s like a buried roadside bomb, but not improvised. It is a calculated linguistic ambush.
This reminds me of another ambush.
In autumn, 1972 I was nine. So was my autumn heart. I’d come a little late to the game but finally I told my mother I wanted to play. My buddies had been into organized ice hockey for a couple of years already. Hockey was our oxygen back then as young boys, before this Dystopia came along.
I say Dystopia because back in 1972 it was called Canada. That was my home. Dystopia is the sarcastic name I give to where I now live. I never got to say good-bye to the country of my birth because I didn’t know I was leaving, or that it was leaving me. None of us did. This post-national, postmodern, allegedly amorphous, borderless non-entity in which I now reside emigrated from abroad and has been taking over ever since. It came by way of international communism, also known as globalism. It sculpts a weaponized narrative using clever language disguised as altruism. Our Dear Leader tells us it is part of a glorious global identity helping to save Mother Earth. It fools the common man by dictating false virtue This false virtue dresses up as truth using Hegelian dialectic mascara. This make-up is so you drop your guard. It looks pretty only to the soft-headed, or unwitting. Here in Dystopia all this really accelerated after debt restraints were removed from the U.S. dollar August 15, 1971. Fiat paved the way. But I digress.
Just listen as this neoMarxist forces his unwitting prey to disprove vague negatives of Hitlerian juxtaposition. The language battle space. Unless the target is ready and moving fast he’s sunk.
This language weapon seizes territory by negating, or cancelling out the common man’s common sense belief, bit by bit, until his original belief is doubted or utterly lost in the gunsmoke of wordplay, and time. This is how two-plus-two comes to be five. This is how the word “gay”, once meaning happy for example, lost its way. It is why this agent trots Mr. Hocke’s words onto the field of the Nazi verboten. Mission accomplished. Or like when Dr. Jordan Peterson was ambushed on the CBC by Wendy Mesley. Simple juxtaposition is enough. It doesn’t even have to be clever once the basic association is made.
So effective is this language machinery that the unwitting go to great lengths to project false virtues (now propaganda) upon each other. Lofty words can sanctify some absurd ideas. Dangerous ideas. One example is of the Dystopian high school teacher telling his students every morning that the school sits on land stolen from indigenous peoples. Such high-mindedness has yet to see a teacher quit in conscientious objection. Fat pay cheques do wonders. Chaos is the vector. Revolution is the target.
Words and more words inverting wrong over right.
Hot words such as tolerance, inclusion, diversity and environmentalism trick the head by gripping the heart. –Words that lose their old meanings in the service of neoMarxism. The language battle space.
In September of ’72 the country was just coming off the Canada-Russia hockey series. I like to think–despite the fact it was an ambush by the Soviets that almost succeeded–that we were better for it. Looking back I’m not so sure. It filled our hearts and heads with a passionate pride of country never before experienced. If we had seen such patriotism before I as a youngster certainly could not imagine it. I am imprinted by it. This was war. Us against tyranny. Blood and guts. Never say die. This was all of that and it was real. We even got to watch it when we were in school. Just like in ’69 when Apollo 12 went to the moon. All the children were brought to the gymnasium to watch. Imagine, everyone hypnotized by a fuzzy black and white t.v. on a six-foot stand and a two-foot screen. I don’t remember anyone in the back complaining they couldn’t see. I don’t remember a single grown-up telling us that we had to respect the feelings of these godless commie bastards, either. Not once. Not one single hint of such nonsense. This was back when the air was clear, before the Hegelian fog had descended upon the land.
Everyone young and old was in it with both feet. If there were Soviet collectivists in out midst–and we now know there were–most knew enough to shut their traps. This was our system against theirs and we were not going to lose, no matter what. Somewhere I’ve still got the commemorative Canada-Russia hockey puck I bought at K-Mart with my very own money. I also realize, as I read over what I’ve just written, just how old and crusty I must sound. I don’t mind, though. There must be some point where old and crusty begins to sound like history, and then it has a chance for new life. You know, the kind of history no longer taught in Dystopian schools. Using silly things like facts.
Turns out we had more communists than I realized. Captain Phil Esposito’s speech to the country resonated in my head the first time I jumped over the boards. When the Canadian players threw their bodies in front of Soviet shots to save the waning series, those pucks could have been real bullets and it would not have mattered, I am certain. It really was war, and as a nine-year old having just experienced it, I was a soldier of freedom, too. I still get choked up thinking about it.
I remember the first game I played like it was yesterday. I am standing on the bench. I am a perfect diamond of pure desire. A tap comes on my shoulder from the coach to go. I take off at full speed. It all happens so fast. At center ice I think the guy with the puck is winding up to shoot, so I dive. I will take this bullet. It is the only way. In my mind I am flying. From the stands parents see it differently. They see a little ankle skater going two miles an hour. For this kid, though, the high drama is just beginning. All of the energy built up in the weeks since that politically-charged tournament are now going kinetic. Finally. Now I can do my part. I will show the world. Parents see a cute tyke sliding slow-motion into the boards because he has tripped. Maybe I am young and naive about other things, but I have not tripped. No sir. I am slaying giants and blocking bullets. I understand what that tournament was all about, and I am moving at light speed.
Back in those days professional hockey players didn’t train in the off-season like they do now. The guys today, physically, are supermen by comparison. Mentally and emotionally, though, I think the opposite is true. I have heard that the great player, Guy Lafleur, would have the occasional cigarette behind the bench between shifts. How times have changed. The soyboy era 1972 was not.
The Soviets knew we’d be out of shape in September. We did not know that behind the veil of their Iron Curtain they were plotting and preparing. Strategically and cunningly they geared themselves for battle. Much as the agent who questioned Mr. Hocke doubtlessly did. They showed up in mid-season form. They had been studying us and preparing for years. Theirs was a scientific, mechanical approach versus our unleashed talent and emotions. Yes, we had great skilled players and our own orthodoxies, but summer-softened patriots were going to be seriously challenged by this concentration of athletic elites who had been mercilessly molded into a team by a merciless system. We learned that their team was almost as strong as our valient men. Almost, but not quite. We had something they did not.
Freedom is the swagger of life, itself, no matter how meek or humble such a life may be. Nothing beats it. Hegel that.
The Soviets had a comprehensive, holistic approach governed and driven by fear. This is not to say they were not patriotic. There is a great poetic depth to that sad Russian heart. It, too, is an autumn heart. Beautified by all the leaves bleeding the colours of the killed. Brisk and alive in the cold winds of winter’s coming. It, too, was motivated by love of country, but more by the carrot and by the brutal Soviet stick. Had the Russians been allowed to play for freedom, and not be burdened by communist tyranny, they may have won.
When the puck to that series dropped we were immediately taken aback. We were quieted by Soviet efficiency and dazzling skills. Their wrist shots were laser accurate. They were physically strong or stronger. They had developed some strange system that actually used strategic retreat, skating in whirring circles in their own half of the rink, each man repositioning for the next advance. It was strikingly formulaic and we did not completely understand it. Their motions resembled a helix spiralling up ice towards our goal. They seemed robotic in their execution of an attack not seen before. At mid-ice two Soviet players would cross from one side to the other. The Canadians found themselves at times bewildered, out-manned and outmaneuvered as the Soviets gained ground. The first four games played in Canada shocked the nation as the Red Army took the first and fourth games in enemy territory. How could this happen against the best players in the world? There was fear and soul searching. Yes, when the games began we were so naive. The father of modern Dystopia, and of our current Dear Leader, dropped the ceremonial puck.Search as I have, I’ve yet to find archival footage of Pierre Trudeau cheering any Canadian victories in this tournament. They must exist somewhere.
Unlike Team Canada, the Red Army strategy deployed resources far beyond those typically associated with mere sport. It included pre-tournament, on-ice and off-ice components. Off-ice methods of distraction and imposition were used to diminish the enemy’s on-ice efficiency. Victory in sport was a propaganda victory for a system of rule that had enslaved and killed millions of people.
When the Canadians arrived to play the final four games in Moscow, the Soviets used home turf to elevate off-ice tactics. Telephone calls woke Canadian players in their hotel rooms in the middle of the night, with no one on the other end of the line when they picked up. Food and beer brought from home was stolen. They were made to wait hours before being allowed to leave the plane. Once off, they were forced to wait more hours for their luggage. They had to endure questioning as to how much money and jewelry they were bringing into the country. Frank Mahovlich was one Canadian most affected by the Soviet tactics. With roots in Croatia, the Soviets knew much about his family in Toronto. This worried him. Everything they did was for psychological advantage.
Yet, despite the full weight of the Soviet empire and all it could muster, Canada prevailed. Soviet tactics could not overcome the Canadians’ unshakable belief in themselves. Paul Henderson, the hero who scored the tournament’s winning goal, would go on to find religion after it was all over. A voice in his head told him he could score, and he did.
The Canadians beat the Soviets by very quickly learning that brutality was essential to victory. Their offense became their defense. The Russians would later admit that they could not match the Canadians’ fierce intensity. It made them apprehensive, and prevented them from setting up their much-practiced set plays. Here is when Bobby Clarke broke Kharlmanov’s ankle with a slash.
I think President Trump instinctively understood this when he entered the language battle space. By using social media he usurps the MSM setup and gets his message straight to the people. Mr. Hocke’s handlers failed by not recognizing that this agent poses as a journalist who has a Hegelian agenda. In the Canada-Russia series of 1972, Canada failed to realize they were playing the whole of the Red Army.
Now that we are starting to understand the language battle space, perhaps we can start winning a few battles.
The autumn heart is true-blue. It holds hope with hands of melancholy, warmth with hands of cold, and bear hugs freedom despite all odds.
[Editor: This article, among other things, is an excellent answer to Noam Chomsky’s contemptuous diatribe against sports in the movie and book, Manufacturing consent]
Excellent, Johnny U.
I am so proud of you.
I went to the hospital today for injections in my neck (loads of compressed nerves as the result of a terrible assault). After waiting 2+ years for the procedure to be carried out, I am finally on the road to becoming whole again, I hope.
That said, the nurse said the doctor’s name is “Sabo”. I’m thinking “Szabo, Tchek”. It turns out he is Hungarian/Romanian and it’s Szabo.
Se, we had a chat prior to the procedure. He lived under Communism. He says the only three good issues were Education, Guaranteed Employment, and a roof over your head aka lodging.
The problem was, regardless of IQ and interests in other disciplines, you were assigned to a particular job for life. I wanted to ask him about the shoes, right and left foot are similar – straight – as I had seen in East Berlin two years after the Wall came down. I didn’t have time. So many questions I wanted to ask him.
He still has difficulty to smile.
His tone of voice told me he didn’t approve of our education system (on that, I agree). And we all know the high rental and purchasing prices of a dwelling has rendered many people living in the street or mass-cohabitating.
In my opinion, the 1st and 3rd issues he mentioned must be solved to avoid the great Socialist/Marxist/Communist calamity that awaits us with our younger generations, many of whom still live with their parents and are under heavy Socialist/Marxist influence.
Drugs are hurting our kids just as cheap alcohol did during the regimes, as witnessed by my former husband who lived four years behind the Iron Curtain.
VLAD: I think this man would be great for an interview. You know how to contact me and I’ll do what I can to the utmost of my abilities.
I hope the injections fix you up, Sassy!
Canada might just be saved by those who found refuge there from Communist Europe. They may not say much now, but they know what’s what. (Like my Russki.)
They’ll help rekindle the spirit Johnny brings to life in this essay. Canadians volunteered as soldiers and fought with distinction in the World Wars. 1972 hockey – that’s spirit, that’s soul.
Dormant, that’s all.
“I never got to say good-bye to the country of my birth because I didn’t know I was leaving, or that it was leaving me.”
Chess.
Socialism: Eaten from the inside out. Borders paper thin. Freedom of travel for everyone. Until they lock you in.
Check-mate.
Much appreciated lament for soul of Canada, Johnnyu.
A good book to read about the Hungarian Revolution in 1956 is “The Bridge at Andau” by American author James Mitchener. It’s the best account I’ve read.
The bridge at Andau was a rickety footbridge over the Eisner Canal in northwest Hungary, near the Austro Hungarian border. Within weeks of the revolution thousands of Hungarian refugees had fled to Austria across this bridge. Mitchener was at the border, at times helping refugees find their way through the swampy area after the Soviets had finally blown up the bridge. He interviewed many of the refugees, a few spoke English, others through an interpreter, and he describes the revolution mainly through their eyes. And he checked the facts carefully. The book was published in February 1957, so the stories were still fresh. He makes the point that all the people who were supposed to have gained the most from communism: the students and the workers, these were precisely the ones who started the revolution.
Szabo úr forgot to tell you that in order to get any kind of good job one had to be a member of the Communist party.
The book isn’t long, about 260 pages and is as good an account as any I’ve read about what it’s like to live under communism, at least in the cities.
It’s also well written and an easy read, still in print.
Thank You Johnny.
Yes we can and will win, there are several reasons we will win and you touched on the most important. Love of country aka Patriotism the left likes to spout that love beats hate but the never understand that we are the ones with love in our hearts while theirs are filled with hate. We love our countries warts and all, we understand that history is filled with mistakes (since history is the story of humanity how can there not be mistakes) but we also know the good that has been done by our nations. They on the other hand have nothing but hate to sustain them and living on hate always destroys the soul of the hater. You know that I like to post quotes (and entire speechs and poems from the past) here is one I haven’t used before (it sprang into my mind while reading your editorial) it is from Davy Crockett it is the advice he gave his kids before he left to go to Texas. “Be sure you are right, then go ahead.” The left says that this quote shows the simplicity of Crockett because how can anyone be sure they are right, I say their response shows the insecurity of the left because they can see no time when they were sure they were right.
I wish my meds would let me drink I would like to lift a couple of scotchs with you, maybe we can meet at Fiddlers Green and have a couple in what I hope is the far distant future.
Good idea, been a tough week.
I'll have your scotch now.
And toast Johnny!
Thank you Johnny, I remember sitting with my Dad, another Johnny, who loved hockey and my Mother, who loved watching my Dad sitting in the living room, trying to kick the puck in the net. It was a great moment for Canada, we were all so very proud. Thank you for being such a wonderful patriot and please keep standing up for all that is beautiful and worth defending in our country.
Search as I have, I’ve yet to find archival footage of Pierre Trudeau cheering any Canadian victories…
Against the Soviets?! Hah!
We will fight, an awesome army of Deplorables. You’re too close to US to fall into an enduring Dystopia. That loooong border has to be secure.
Besides, we’re kin, we belong to closely related tribes. That’s the real battle space of the future, like it or not.
Verbal jousters boast fake identity bonds, a zombie host. We’ll confront them with body and soul united. That’s unbeatable.
Thank you everyone for reading. You guys are great. Sassy it sounds like you’ve been through alot, so I have a plan:
EW, we reincarnate The Bridge at Andau the Soviets sent to Fiddler”s Green and put it over the St. Lawrence at Cornwall. Richard, since you can’t drink I’ll bring a bottle of Hungarian Palinka. This is the traditional Magyar fire water. The best I can get here is actually Kosher! Now, since a reliable argument can be made that Palinka is, in fact, not an alcohol but a tonic, you’ll be fine with that. Sassy brings her Dr. Szabo to confirm and administer our “doses”. After a few shots we can declare victory over pretty much anything. PC declares us all quite sane as we fish for the meaning of life off the bridge. (All morally- relative species thrown back!) Yucki catches the biggest one just ’cause, well, she’s Yucki. The revelry is paused at 9:11 as ET sings both our anthems. Eeyore shows up with the whole of his VTB readership. Hilarity ensues, with Palinka also serving as universal translater.
The next morning, for those with delicate heads, worry not. The RCMP will bellhop us all back to the safety of our beds, no tip required!
Lol.
“In 2002 pálinka was recognised by the EU as a Hungaricum – an alcoholic drink, distilled from fruits, with an alcohol content of a minimum 37.5%”
I will purchase a bottle tomorrow, and with friends, toast the unrestrained freedoms to you all, and the muslims we are trying to reach to live for this life instead of vainly wishing to find happiness in the next.
Taste review to follow…
Hey Bunny (May I call you Bunny?),
Very nice essay. I read all the replies as well. I didn’t know that you became such a wordsmith. I’m glad I finally checked out the site. Everything you say is absolutely true. Yes globalism is just another word for communism.
I think about you and Canada especially when I hear a Canadian on the radio like yesterday. Dr. Timothy Ball on Glenn Beck discussing climate change. He was great. But, I feel very bad about Canada. And I know how much it hurts people like you and me to see what has happened to Canada. I sometimes don’t even want to know.
I think the population is so small in Canada and that’s why we never stood a chance. Here, conservatism is alive and well and fighting the good fight every single day at every turn.
I will have to get that book by Michener. I’ve never even heard of it! Bye for now and thanks for alerting me to your post.
Mousie
Please find time to watch the complete documentary at the end if you have the time. It actually has less to do with hockey than it does with freedom and what happens when it is threatened, even symbolically.
Johnny, what a great idea, we could plan the event after the election. Could we maybe invite Trudeau, he will down emotionally from his election loss, but hey, never give a sucker an even break. My dear Father taught me how to box, I am certain I have a better reach and can take Justine swiftly. If we were by the waters edge, I could knock him in the water and then sing
Day is done.
Gone the sun….
From the lakes
From the hills
From the sky.
All is well.
Safely rest.
God is nigh. Fading light
Dims the sight.
And a star.
Gems the sky
Gleaming bright
From afar.
Drawing nigh
Falls the night. Thank and praise
For our days
Neath the sun
Neath the stars
Neath the sky
As we go.
This we know
God is nigh.
Beautiful, ET, just beautiful.