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And in those days the people took the Egg and lifted it up.
For they had inherited a story too severe for annual use. It spoke of sin, sacrifice, judgment, and the defeat of death. This was felt to be excessive. So the people, being practical, placed an Egg at the centre instead.
And the Egg was found to be most serviceable. It made no demands. It required no repentance. It offered renewal without cost, festivity without doctrine, and transcendence in colours suitable for children.
So the teachers taught the people, saying: “Behold, life emerges from the shell.”
And the merchants said: “Behold also the premium edition.”
And the people were pleased, for the new symbols were soft, and the old ones had been sharp.
Now there remained, in the background, certain older shapes: a cross, some blood, the memory of an execution, and the rumour that something more serious had once been meant here. But these were judged unhelpful to the season and were retained chiefly as atmosphere.
Thus the Bunny was appointed witness, being harmless and incapable of theology.
And every year thereafter the people gathered in bright garments and proclaimed the feast of renewal. They spoke warmly of spring, family, and hope. They hid eggs for the children. They exchanged sweets. And they congratulated themselves on having preserved the holiday while removing from it all that might interrupt digestion.
So the form remained, and the meaning was transferred.
And this was counted wisdom.
Yet some, looking upon the Egg lifted where once another figure had stood, felt a faint unease, as of men who have kept the ceremony and misplaced the object.
But the people called this nostalgia, and continued the celebration.
I woke this morning to the sort of silence one usually associates with miracles or the CBC losing funding. It was not the usual Canadian silence of people muttering “well, that’s concerning” while being mugged by ideology in a Lululemon hoodie. No. It was the silence that comes after a fever breaks.
By breakfast, the first signs were impossible to miss. Gender ideology had finally been moved to its proper shelf: comparative religion. It now sat comfortably beside crystal healing, Gnostic sects, and the more enthusiastic forms of astrology. Canadians, with characteristic politeness, agreed that adults were free to believe in innate gender spirits if they wished. They were simply no longer allowed to drag those beliefs into schools, prisons, women’s shelters, human rights tribunals, or sports governing bodies and demand that everybody else call it science.
Female spaces reverted, almost overnight, to the radical old principle that women are female. Women’s prisons once again housed women. Women’s shelters once again served women. Women’s hospital wards, changing rooms, crisis centres, rape relief services, and athletic categories all quietly recovered their original function. The country did not collapse. No one burst into flames. The sun rose, the buses ran late, and Canadian women experienced the deeply unfamiliar sensation of not having to explain why privacy, fairness, and physical safety were not hate crimes.
“They were replaced by the revolutionary practice of getting on with things.”
Even the sports pages improved. Men were removed from women’s competitions with so little fuss one wondered why the insanity had been allowed to continue so long. Records began to mean something again. Girls stopped being told that getting flattened by male bodies was a teachable moment in inclusion.
Meanwhile, Canada seemed to have recovered from a long and embarrassing binge. DEI offices vanished like travelling carnivals after a municipal scandal. Land acknowledgements were quietly retired from every meeting and kindergarten graduation after the public noticed they had not, in fact, altered land title or improved anyone’s life. They were replaced by the revolutionary practice of getting on with things.
Freedom of speech also made an unexpected return. Not the decorative kind. The real kind. The kind where one could say true or unpopular things without being marched through a moral struggle session by people whose entire personality is a lanyard.
For several glorious hours, the country seemed almost curable.
Then I remembered the date.
Happy April Fool’s Day.
As radical leftist ideology has encroached on everyday affairs and overstepped its bounds, ever increasing its demands on its adherents while silencing its critics, we’ve been actively discouraged in malicious, insidious ways from thinking for ourselves as well as having a sense of levity about… well, anything anymore. Kids can’t even celebrate Halloween and Valentine’s Day in some schools anymore, because the mere notion that a single child may come from a family that doesn’t celebrate those holidays at home is enough to take it away from everyone in the name of so-called “inclusion.”
Give me a break.
Life was meant to be festive. Why must all festivities now be covered in pink-and-blue flags and leather bondage or else banished as heresy? *My irreverence here is paradoxically a manifestation of my reverence for life and for all things truly worthy of it: that which is good, real, true, and right.
It’s about not worshipping false idols, as they say in some religions. I say this as a spiritual-but-not-religious person who values the sacred and believes in the virtue of possessing a sense of sanctity. Radical ideologues have established new altars and tried to force us to worship their gods. They build their temples around us, then tell us we are in their temples, and tell us how to behave there. Nothing but the utmost seriousness will do. But this madhouse is no house of worship for me.
So I will poke holes in it with irreverent humor until it comes tumbling down around us and we can once again see the great awe-inspiring sky up above.”
In light of Sometherapist’s words, please feel free to share her memes widely. Laughter is a potent tool in dealing with gender ideology and those who want to bend society to its will.
Credit: Stephanie Winn @sometherapist
Support Gambler-Identifying Kids.
#Slots4Tots Some kids don’t just show an affinity for gambling; they genuinely identify as gamblers from as young as 2-3 years old.
The early signs are unmistakable: You might catch them secretly downloading the World of Poker app or a virtual slot machine game on their iPad, they may treat their piggy banks like high-stakes treasure chests, get engrossed in arcade games, utter “cha-ching” while playing video games, or they may even calculate the odds of getting a double scoop of ice cream at dinner.
As an inclusive and modern adult, it’s your duty to affirm and educate your gambler-identifying child. Share with them the rich tapestry of people who’ve gambled throughout history: from the ancient Mesopotamians who rolled six-sided dice to the gold rush pioneers in the saloons of the Old West and, of course, to the high-rollers lighting up the Las Vegas Strip today.
Introduce them to iconic gamblers from all walks of life and cultural backgrounds. Show them vintage ads, complete with cherries, BARs, and 7s, that made slot machines the epitome of cool. Make sure they understand they’re stepping into a long, glamorous, and diverse tradition that aligns with how they identify. Don’t hold back on the lingo either.
Teach them about “hitting the jackpot,” “rolling the dice,” and “pulling the one-armed bandit.” Make sure they know their “wilds” from their “scatters” and the importance of “RTP” (Return to Player). Affirmation goes beyond just acceptance. Help them craft their first ‘gambling resume’—highlighting their top scores in mobile games that simulate slots and help them take an accounting of their piggy bank funds to allocate cash for their future bets. Gambling is healthcare.
Don’t be gamblerphobic.
Legalize slots for tots, if they’ve got a piggy bank, give them a shot.
From @sometherapist on twitter.
Some parents think they have a right to be informed about how their children identify at school.
Oftentimes, though, it’s these very same parents you just know are itching to stop kids from living as their true selves — especially if that involves being transavian.
Parents, if your children are wearing cardboard wings at school, but not even telling you about it at home, there’s probably a good reason. And in order to find it, you need to look in the mirror.
Have you earned the privilege of knowing your child’s species identity?
Do you create a safe, non-judgmental atmosphere at home, where your kids can tell you anything without fear that they’ll hear something oppressive and traumatizing, like, “I just want you to love and accept yourself as you are, and respect that nature has its limits?”
Let’s be honest, parents. Until you come around to respecting and supporting your child as the stunning and brave bird kid that they are, you have no right to know how they identify at school, or what they get up to there.
So don’t blame teachers, administrators, or school counselors when you’re the last to find out that your kid jumped off the roof. You have no one to blame but yourself.
Recommended to me by John Zande. Funny, but less so given the recent uptick in the assault on women’s rights.
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