Faculty Unhinged, Dogs Exiled

One Man’s Journey Through Bureaucratic Madness and Back Again—with Westies

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September, 2024 (rewritten July, 2025)

Do You Agree That Hitler Was Anti-Semitic? Can I Say That?

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Let me begin with a question so absurd it could only be sincerely posed in the soft-palmed dystopia of modern academia: Was Hitler anti-Semitic?

Ah yes—these days, even whispering a historical fact, the kind once recited in primary schools without incident, now apparently demands a trigger warning, lest some tenured moral relativist suffer a full-blown allergic reaction in the padded lounge of the equity department. A moral allergy, mind you—not to hatred or violence, but to clarity.

And should I dare to say—out loud, and with breath still warm—that Hitler was, in fact, anti-Semitic? Or will some officious Austrian suddenly launch himself into orbit, howling up the HR chimney like a caffeinated banshee, screeching that I have insulted all Austrians, and that unless I am ritually fired and my remains scattered behind the faculty club, no Austrian shall ever again grace the ivy-choked halls of academe?

Take a number, buddy.

Honestly—what’s next? A press release apologizing to moustaches? A grievance filed on behalf of Bavarian architecture? The bureaucratic priesthood, so desperately bored and pathologically spineless, now truffle-sniffs offense the way pigs root for fungus. Except instead of finding something edible, they find a reason to type another memo in their gospel of grievance.

This isn’t progress. It’s neurosis with a pension plan.

This is my attempt—futile though it may be—to establish common ground with the robed inquisitors now running our so-called centres of higher learning.

You see, I am what used to be called a free man.

I live in Canada. I am, or was, allowed to condemn terrorists. But in our age of invertebrate ethics, that’s not just controversial—it’s heretical. And so, to my detractors: if my criticism of Hamas upsets your dainty sensibilities, do feel free to buy tissues, clutch a therapy dog, binge-watch The View, or squeeze one of those glitter-filled stress balls once found at a dollar store clearance bin.

Just please, for the love of reason, stop wasting my time.

The staff and faculty of the University of Guelph appear to fancy themselves as judges in some pantomime of justice where murderers are acquitted and jaywalkers face the noose. Their inability to distinguish the serious from the absurd isn’t unfortunate—it’s institutionalized dementia.

And after I was suspended, banned, gagged and banished, senior and junior administrators, cloaked in the bureaucratic robes of “process,” knowingly and deliberately accused me—yes, me—of criminal actions.

And when I, the accused, calmly said, “Since I’m banned from campus, could you kindly tell staff to stop inventing tales of criminal assault?”, the response was not institutional remorse but a dismissive, “I’m really busy.”

Ah, yes, too busy to prevent defamation—but not too busy to perpetuate it.

The rot metastasized, naturally, until even students believed I was some lurking, racist menace. Why? Because I had the indecency to refer to Hamas as Nazis—an insult not to Hamas, it seems, but to the Nazis. That really triggered them.

Administrators refused to confront one of the staff members most responsible—though five separate individuals came forward to say she was gleefully spreading demonstrable lies.

Still, no action. Of course not. The bureaucrats were too busy working from home, unloading pallets of Kirkland-brand ennui at Costco while their inboxes overflowed with unread ethics policies.

We now inhabit a surreal inversion of justice where defamation is floated like confetti through the air vents of the university, ruining reputations with the glee of a child let loose with a label-maker. And yet those responsible still look in the mirror each morning and see not cowards, but crusaders.

I asked one of them plainly: “You are issuing threats. By what authority and policy?”

Nothing. Silence. Because silence, these days, is not the absence of thought—it is the substitution for it.

They mistake credentials for credibility—like a toddler mistaking a crayon for a scalpel. The word “professional,” which once implied a solemn commitment to skill and standards (from the Latin professio, to declare publicly, to vow), now simply means you’ve been handed a lanyard and know how to double-click a Zoom link.

We are governed not by minds honed through principle, but by PowerPoint technicians with job titles long enough to require their own postal codes.

A dentist is a professional. An engineer is. My wife is—a medical specialist who treats suffering with skill. But someone with an MBA in executive self-love from a school specializing in recycling jargon? No. Myself? No, not officially, and not really.

And so, as discouragement seeps into my bones like winter damp, I reflect on how I—a professor/lecturer with high ratings, a writer of textbooks, a man with rapport and respect from students—was thrown to the wolves for hurting the feelings of a Vice-Provost and her friend, a professor who thinks and says Jews are subhuman, devil worshippers and Satanists.

The university didn’t just fail to protect me. It engineered the collapse. It let a half-mad executive with a vendetta burn down reputations with taxpayer matches. I am the second in two years. The other is still in therapy.

This institution—this grotesque parody of education—once required six people to change my banking info. Six. And yet they’ve suddenly become a model of ruthless efficiency when it comes to canceling those who commit thoughtcrimes.

These same intellectual quarterwits thought it was a good idea to create an app for students that simulates fake phone calls to help them escape awkward social encounters. Yes, adults—employed adults—developed this. Because in 2024, 21-year-olds apparently need a digital mom to bail them out when someone offers a second cup of coffee.

Emails have replaced conversation. Silence has replaced courage.

Ah yes. And so, because I said Hamas are Nazis, I am exiled—banished from the university like a leper from a medieval village. 14 years gone.

My crime? Blasphemy, apparently. And not just me, mind you—my dogs too. Yes, the bureaucratic brains at the University of Guelph saw fit to expel my two Westies, Malibu and Toby—pint-sized canines whose combined weight couldn’t tip a scale but who apparently pose an existential threat to campus security.

My students begged me to bring the hounds. Therapy dogs, after all. Soft. Sweet. Dressed—because I still have a sense of humour—in tiny black-and-white striped “jailbird” sweaters, as if mocking their own Kafkaesque banishment.

But then up strutted a security guard—clad in a bulletproof vest, bless him—like he was preparing to take down an insurgent rather than a eight-kilogram terrier with a face like a plush toy.

Is there any creature more tragic than a grown man strutting around a Canadian university in tactical gear, solemnly proclaiming that these two miniature dogs—beloved, trained, leashed, silent—are a clear and present danger to institutional order?

One imagines he wakes each morning, tightens the Velcro on his vest, peers into the mirror and declares:

“Today, I shall be the one who saves Western civilization from canine infiltration.”

Perhaps he believes barring my dogs is the moral equivalent of intercepting Gavrilo Princip before he assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand and launched World War I. Heroism, redefined.

And the vest? For what, exactly? Is it resistant to eye-rolls? Sarcasm? Paper cuts from the weekly memo on inclusive parking? Does he fear one of my Westies might lunge at him with a sharpened rawhide bone?

As I stood there—this man intoning, as if quoting holy writ, that my dogs were banned—a woman walked by carrying her own dog. No reprimand. No fine. Not even a raised eyebrow. Apparently, hypocrisy is not a byproduct of campus policy—it is the policy. It drifts through the corridors like toner dust and unused ethics statements.

I was suspended just weeks later, it was a foreshadowing.

And so, my dogs—my quiet, tail-wagging, therapeutic companions—were barred from the same halls where open hatred was coddled, lies institutionalized, and moral courage classified as a safety risk.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years of being the last car in the parking lot while the DEI consultants and PowerPoint lifers had long since disappeared into the soft oblivion of the bureaucracy by 4 p.m.

Fourteen years of an office with a lineup of students—not because they were forced to be there, but because something of value was happening inside. Helping. Teaching. Challenging. Advising. Not always gently, but always honestly.

Students returned. They recommended. They engaged.

But none of that counts anymore. Not in the age of “optics” and “safety feelings.” Not when a man’s worth is no longer measured by his usefulness, his ideas, or his integrity—but by his ability to mime the latest orthodoxy with wide-eyed devotion.

All those nights, all those letters of recommendation so students could get part time jobs, the phone calls with anxious students, the thousands of unseen acts of care and commitment—irrelevant. I failed the only test that matters now: I refused to grovel.

I did something useful. And for that, I had to go.

You couldn’t make it up.

And yet—they did.

The head security guard says there will be a 10K fine if I return. A campus I served, with students I loved.

And yet I’m the criminal, accused of acts that never happened, spread by faculty whose gossip is treated as gospel. And they even hate my dogs.

My credibility was erased by people who believe screenshotting a Facebook post is a substitute for evidence. My career? Gone. And still, I write.

Their so-called “investigation”—a term stretched beyond parody here—is no more an inquiry than a Punch and Judy show is a criminal trial. It is theatre of the grubbiest sort: a glossy exercise in bureaucratic arse-covering, penned by people who gave up believing in truth the moment it became professionally inconvenient.

And in the depths of this intellectual compost heap, they had the gall, the insolence, to ask whether I—me—had fabricated the hundreds of antisemitic posts written by my accuser. As if I possess the time, the skill, or the stomach to conjure up years of ideological excrement, bile-ridden with slogans that would make Streicher blush.

The mind behind those posts? A swamp of grievance and medieval superstition—a cultist convinced that all the world’s ills can be traced to Jerusalem. Everything wrong with his life, his failed movements, his butchered ideology, and yes, his shattered society: blame the Jews.

Fatah’s rot, Hamas’s child-soldiers, the Palestinian Authority’s corruption, Hezbollah’s theological thuggery—none of it sticks, because the scapegoat is eternal. Even when Hamas dragged the bloodied body of Mahmoud Ishtiwi, one of their own, through the streets—executed not for treason, but for the unspeakable sin of homosexuality—they still found a way to say: blame the Jews.

They—the Jews—build medicine, democracy, science, art. They are accused of poisoning wells while digging them. The best of mankind, yet accused of being the root of all evil. That’s not critique. That’s not politics. That’s religion’s last refuge: paranoid, sweaty Jew-hatred dressed up as virtue.

And the university asks if I made it up.

God help us.

They then demanded all correspondence I’ve had with Jewish organizations.

______________________________________________________________

Here, using all my technical skill is the evidence (cut and pasted) is the request.

A hint to aspiring anti semitic inquisitors - don’t put anti semitic requests in writing dipshits.

1. The names of all Jewish organizations referenced at page 1 of the complaint from P. Finlayson dated January 24, 2024.

   1. Further, please provide any and all written correspondence related to this matter with said Jewish organizations and/or individuals. If said interactions occurred verbally, please provide the particulars (including date and time) of such interactions.

   ______________________________________________________________

What’s next? A registry? Do I declare my Jew-adjacent activities in triplicate? A notarized document stating how many times I said “shalom” last month?

I refused. Of course I refused. Even broken men have limits. In my tiny insigificant corner of academia, I am the Black Knight—wounded, mocked, but still swinging.

Ah, the elegant choreography of cowardice—where decency tiptoes out the back door and spinelessness struts through the faculty lounge.

Colleagues—people I’ve shared classrooms and coffee with—now cross the street like I’m Typhoid Mary in tweed. Metaphorical tweed anyway. I’m probably in a hoodie.

And why? Because some bored apparatchiks, stuck in the bureaucratic purgatory of a failing HR department, seeded a moral contagion. Slander, clever people have observed, spreads with the efficiency of an airborne virus—except this one doesn’t attenuate.

Unlike COVID, which mercifully mutates toward weakness, slander grows teeth. It metastasises. They whispered criminal. Racist. Paedophile. Why stop there? Warlock, perhaps? Necromancer?

Let’s not pretend this wasn’t engineered. See screenshots below.

There’s a cruelty unique to institutions that brandish progressive slogans like cudgels and weaponise their cowardice into policy. At the very moment the university should have stood on principle, it went fetal.

The same academy that extols free speech in brochures turned and asked for my affiliations, my intentions, and my thoughts—as if free expression were a contraband item to be declared at customs.

Any time I’m graced with a communiqué from the administrative cloud, it arrives not as clarity but as a threat—issued, inevitably, by someone I’ve never heard of, bearing a title that sounds like the product of a drunk Scrabble game: Vice-Coordinator of Equity, Inclusion, Wellness, Safety, Conflict Resolution and Ritual Human Sacrifice, or something equally Orwellian.

They are bureaucratic barnacles clinging to the hull of academia, whose job appears to be a sacred blend of saying nothing, doing less, and accusing others of everything.

I am reminded—inevitably—of Office Space, where the protagonist is forced to explain his job to two men whose sole purpose is to fire him. “So what would you say… you do here?” It’s as if that scene, once a satire, has now been absorbed wholesale as policy by the modern university. I too ask: what do these inquisitorial emissaries do, besides weaponizing jargon, emailing threats, and misplacing human decency?

Their correspondence isn’t dialogue, it’s denouncement. Not resolution, but reprimand. Not process, but performance—Kabuki theatre staged with HR acronyms. And every letter ends with a tone of brittle rectitude, as if I should thank them for the privilege of being flogged with their compassion.

And this Kafkaesque opera doesn’t even bother with proper procedure. No charges, no police, no investigation with teeth—just a smoke signal of accusation and a chorus of cowards too polite to ask whether any of it is true. Their silence isn’t neutrality. It’s complicity.

And all of this theatre—this sordid pantomime of decency—was manageable, until I said the unsayable. That I stood with the Jews. That I called Hamas what they are: theocrats with Kalashnikovs and Mein Kampf in their bedside drawer. Then the temperature dropped. Then the real purge began.

But fear not, dear reader. The universities of our time no longer educate. They excommunicate.

I’ve lost sleep, lost friends, nearly lost my mind. But I won’t lose my principles.

Do I regret anything? Yes. I regret how this has fractured my relationship with my son. With my wife. I regret the fog that now sits between me and prayer. But I do not regret saying that Hamas are Nazis. Because they are.

They exiled my dogs and told lies about me. But I never shat on the classroom floor like Malibu (the smaller of the two). Though perhaps her act of rebellion was, in the end, more honest than their sterile cowardice.

If this is the inquisition, let me say it plainly: I’m not the heretic. They are. They have betrayed truth, forsaken courage, and sold decency for a salary and a seat at the DEI seminar.

Am I alone in thinking the world has gone mad?

In my obscure little world of academia, I am like Monty Python’s Black Knight, down a few appendages, but pushing on.

And as for silence? Spare me. I’ve no intention of shutting up—not now, not ever. I wasn’t wired for grovelling. Even in eighth grade, I stood up in front of the class and tore into my math teacher for his brazenly unethical grading practices. I was right, of course—morally, mathematically, and pedagogically.

It didn’t matter. Off I went to the principal’s office for the 14th time that year. Some children collected hockey cards; I collected detentions. But conscience was never meant to be convenient, and I’m far too old—to begin genuflecting now.

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Appendix

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(they changed Palestinian gov. to say Palestinians. )