A Stinky Road Trip Story

Offed a drifter?

That was one of the questions asked in a Facebook post.

I found it confusing. It didn't make sense given the context. Or maybe it was written by the same guy who writes those instruction manuals for electronics made in China? Unlike Chinese, English is a very hard language to learn.

So, have I ever "offed" a drifter you may ask?

No. But I left one stranded.

It was May, 1980.

I had thought of making the trip from Calgary to Hamilton earlier, on Christmas Eve, 1979, while sitting alone in a rented Calgary townhouse. I was on my week off. There was no furniture, anywhere, other than in the living room where I had placed a few short logs, about 30 inches in length and about 10 inches in diameter. These, I had picked up from the side of the lease road on my way home from the rig I was working on near Cochrane, Alberta. (Loffland 89.) I also had a sleeping bag and a brand new colour TV. I had arrived. I had everything I needed.

When a friend first saw furniture layout he snickered. "What is this? Early Pioneer?"

There were a few minor things to ponder prior to making a decision about embarking on a Hamilton run. My gas tank had a leak, necessitating frequent gas station visits to pump a gallon or two into the seive-like tank, and to ensure the plastic gas can I carried in my trunk was full. If you have a leaky gas tank, always be prepared.

There was also the fact that my heater had conked out. I had to constantly scrape the inside of the windshield when I drove anywhere. In my mind's eye, I saw myself stuck in a ditch beside the highway, somewhere in the middle of Saskatchewan, in the middle of the night, scraping the ice from my windshild to see outside, with nothing but a sleeping bag, and that furniture I loaded into the back seat, with which I could light a campfire, or build some small structure, to keep me warm. I decided that a two-thousand-mile drive across the frozen prairies, at night, without a cell phone, would pose an unnacceptable degree of risk. Plus there was that escalating vibration. So I aborted my plan. Until May of 1980.

Finally, I was cruising along the Trans-Canada Highway on my way back to Ontario. It was pitch dark. The road was practically empty. A song was playing on the radio.

I've been drivin' all night,
My hand's wet on the wheel.
There's a voice in my head,
That drives my heel.
It's my baby callin',
Says, "I need you here."
And it's a half past four,
And I'm shifting gear.

An RCMP cruiser pulled me over. As I sat in the back seat of the cruiser, they read my name over the radio... "Whiskey, Indian, Eskimo," etc. I heard the dispatcher reply, "One entry. April 1972. No convictions."

April 1972. Yeah, I remember it. It even made the local news. My old man was pissed when he heard it from the guys working in his shop, who heard it on the radio. But that's a whole other story.

The female RCMP officer was very polite and friendly. The other officer gave me a warning about my speed and let me go.

Somewhere east of Brandon, Manitoba, I stopped for a hitchhiker who was in the middle of nowhere. When he opened the door, I caught a whiff of something that I thought, at first, smelled like gasoline.

"Oh! That explains why he is in the middle of nowhere. His car broke down. Something wrong with the fuel system and he was trying to fix it."

A second later, I realized it wasn't gasoline. It was some kind of ghastly body odour. Or maybe he had been skunked? Whatever it was, it was a quality of putridity I had theretofore not believed possible. Even from a decaying corpse.

"How far are you going?" he asked.

"Ontario," I replied.

"Great!" he said, "Me too."

Why the fuck didn't I just tell him I was going to the next gas station, to fill my tank. And not leave.

Realizing I had made a big mistake, I drove with my head halfway out the window, my mind churning as to how I might extricate myself from this unfortunate circumstance without risking a violent confrontation.

As luck would have it, I saw a gas station up ahead. I didn't need to fill up yet, but saw it as an opportunity to dump this fuming pile of hazardous waste. Then he said the magic words, "I'm going to buy something from the store," and exited the car.

Needless to say, I fucked right off.

In my head, I was I was back to,

I've been drivin' all night,
My hand's wet on the wheel.
There's a voice in my head,
That drives my heel.
It's my baby callin',
Says, "I need you here."
And it's a half past four,
And I'm shifting gear.

I was cruisin down the Trans-Canada with just one hand on the wheel. Suddenly, I noticed several deer racing in the opposite direction on the shoulder of the road. This startled me. Reflexively, I grabbed the wheel with my other hand. In so-doing, I accidentally tapped the horn. It was such a light tap. It barely evinced a tweet. But one of the deer heard it and made an instant ninety degree turn, right into the front of my car. By the way its body flopped along the road, it seemed evident to me that it had been killed instantly. Poor thing.

I felt bad. I like deers. They're cute. Without a cellpone--there was no service in that part of Canada at that time--nor did I know who to call and, since the carcass had landed on the shoulder of the road I figured it would not present a hazard for other drivers.

I pulled over to the shoulder and checked the front of the car for damage. The hood was slightly crumpled, as was the bumper. Opening the hood, I immediately observed that the air breather/cleaner had been torn from the carburator. I applied some taxi know-how and repaired this with some shoelaces.

Two of my headlights were completely gone and a third was hanging out by its wires. It made me think of someone's eyeball hanging out of its socket. I found one of the headlights near the carcass, but not the other one.

Speaking of eyeballs hanging out...

While driving my cab west along King St. one Friday night, back in the '90s, I had my scanner tuned to the police frequency. I was around King and Wellington when I heard a cop pipe up in a panicked voice asking dispatch to send an ambulance to the front of the Running Pump, ASAP. "The guy's eye is hanging right out," he cried.

A few seconds later, I drove past the Running Pump and saw a guy laying on his back, grabbing his face and wildly kicking his legs around... as if that would help. I assumed this was the guy with the vision impairment. Gross!

I later heard that he had become embroiled in an altercation with a man and woman and that she had stomped in his face with the heel of her stiletto shoe.

Just another night picking up strangers in a car.

Having completed the rudimentary repairs, I was back on the road hoping to find another gas station with a replacement headlight for the missing one. After driving about fifty miles or so, I found a gas station and, luckily, they had the part I needed. While installing this new headlight, I made a startling discovery. My front license place was missing and I was quite sure of where I might find it. I turned around and drove back the fifty or so miles to the scene of the accident. Sure enough, my license plate was sitting right there on the road.

While thinking about my encounter with the smelly guy, I came to the inescapable conclusion that the reason he was hitchhiking along the Trans-Canada Highway in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night was not due to car trouble. It was because he couldn't stand the smell when the last guy who picked him up puked in the car, so he told the driver to pull over and let him out.

It Wasn't Over

Not wishing to endure that long, boring trip across Ontario, I decided to go through the states.

The vibrations were getting worse. Their intensity would fluctuate. Sometimes it resembled a mild buzz. At other times, the whole car would shake as if it were in an earthquake. What the hell was causing it? I concluded that it was probably that new/used gas tank I had recently installed. Lazy bastards probably didn't tighten the nuts. Yes. That was it. Minutae.

As I got closer to Duluth, Minnesota, a new sound introduced itself to my ears.

Something was flapping.

Flap flap flap it went. Flap flap flap. Flap flap flap flap flap flap FUCKING FLAP. Think of making your bicycle sound like a motorcycle with the simple artifice of hockey cards. Only at highway speed.

After an hour or so of this new aggravation, merging with the mild and brain-rattling extreme vibrations of those loose gas tank bolts - creating a true symphony, I decided to pull over and do a quick inspection. I saw the problem immediately. The right rear tire had deep bald spots. And they were deep. A half an inch or so deep. "Oh! I know what that is!" Yes. The tire was a retard... I mean, a retread. The outer layer of tread had been bonded to the original used tire that had worn all of its original tread off. I also noticed one or two pieces of tread were still attached to the "tire" at one side. Bingo! That's the fucking flapper!

Facing reality, as I was occasionally known to do, I decided to buy a new/used tire. Probably a retread. I drove to Duluth. I recall it was a Sunday and everything was closed. So I found a cheap motel. The next day, was Monday, May 26, 1980. Memorial Day.

Having solved my flapping tire problem, for the moment, I was back on the road. On the road again. What a great feeling.

On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again
Everybody sing

But then, there was still that vibration. Not a good vibration.

Two and a half hours later, I arrived in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Things were going well. Except for that vibration.

The light I had been waiting for turned green, so I took my foot off the brake and stepped on the gas. The car didn't move. Vroom! Vroom! Vroom! proved itself to be no more efficacious than prayer. The car would not move. It's amazing how easy it is to face reality when you really have no other fucking choice. I called a tow truck, somehow. Probably found a phone booth somwewhere, in a part of town where some lunatic had not ripped the telephone book off and taken it home with him for study purposes. I guess no garages were open in Eau Claire that Memorial Day, because I had to find another cheap motel and spend more of my diminishing supply of cash on something that was worth so much less to me than a case of beer and a pack of Camels.

The next day I learned the source of the problem at a garage. My drive shaft had fallen off. Who ever heard of a drive shaft falling off? Well, it does happen. The front U-Joint was worn out. He replaced it. I paid him more of my beer money. And I was back on the road. It wasn't until decades later that it suddenly hit me. What if that drive shaft had fallen off when I was doing 70 MPH down the highway. The car could have flipped over. I could have spent the night in a hospital, or a mortuary, instead of a cheap motel.

The rest of my trip back to Hamilton was uneventful. Other than the fact that every time I stopped to fill up, or buy something to eat, the car wouldn't start. Booster cables wouldn' work. Nothing would work. I would have to wait until the engine cooled down to ambient temperature before it would grace me with a start.

And on it went.

I finally parked that car at my old man's farm in Castorville. I never drove it again.

There is a happy ending to my story.

In 1981 I bought a brand new used 1972 BUICK SKAYLARK for another $350 and drove it all over the place for eight months. It was worth it.

An Obvious Grifter

I am glad I stopped supporting Tim Horton's

Two years ago, I bought at least one Tim medium coffee daily. Whenever I got in my car and drove somewhere, my first stop was always a Tim Horton's.

Then it hit me. I wasn't even enjoying it. I was simply going through the motions of a mindless ritual. I also performed a rough calculation. At ~$2.00 per day, I was giving Horton's about $730 per year. That's a significant portion of my annual income. When I drove a cab at least five days per week, I would usually buy about three Tim coffees per shift. That's $6 per shift, $30 per week, and $1,560 per year, not counting those I bought in my hypnotic state when not driving a cab. Once I put some numbers around my irrational coffee habit, it was easy to stop the habit dead. Now I barely purchase one Tim coffee per month; usually in unique circumstances - like the odd reunion with some of my high school buds. As an added bonus, I no longer have to endure the aggravation of waiting in a line, either in the drive-thru or in-store, as some knob-head ahead of me takes half an hour to decide what they want, or to mess with their app-based payment systems, or to gossip with the server. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the diversity angle where sometimes you need to state your order to three different staffers due to language barriers. One time, the language barrier was so severe they had to put me on the phone with some official from the United Nations. (Just kidding, though that might also explain some of the delays in the lineups.)

All in all, I am glad I stopped supporting Tim Horton's.

DEI in Transportation Could Be Deadly

In reference to the language issue, it reminded me how the rapid demographic changes in the Hamilton taxi business, beginning in the 1990s impacted the formerly smooth two-way radio dispatch system. By the time the zeroes arrived, radio dispatch communication became nearly impossible. This paved the way for the adoption of distractive and dangerous computerized dispatch systems.

Diversity was definitely not a strength.

It's a good thing, in a way, that the volume of business per cab had declined so significantly over the years to the point where the cabs were moving only about 10% of the time. If it had been busy, like it used to be, with all the cabs in motion, there would have been multiple crashes caused by drivers fiddling with their computer screens instead of having their eyes on the road.

AI Reviews of Confessions of a Hamilton Cab Driver

META AI

**Confessions of a Hamilton Cab Driver** by Hans Wienhold is exactly what the title promises — and a lot more than that.

### The Premise

It's the story of one man's adventures in the Hamilton taxi business spanning the years from 1977 to 2018. Wienhold frames it with disarming modesty:

> "There is nothing particularly unique about my story. Every cab driver has his own. Not every cab driver gets around to writing a book about it."

Over 255 pages, published May 2023, he drove thousands of customers to their destinations, most happily satisfied if not downright euphoric, and now he finally tells what happened in between dispatch and drop-off. It's also available in French and German.

### What Makes It Work

This isn't a nostalgic love letter to the open road. It's a working driver's manual for survival.

Wienhold gives away many of the trade secrets used by smart drivers to avoid "dead calls" (no customer to pick up) or "pukers" (mainly to be found at closing time, on bar calls). Chapter titles like "Groceries," "My first dead trip," and "Hookers" tell you he is not romanticizing.

The best anecdotes come when the job collides with real life. Road Warrior News, in its review of the book, singled out this one:

> For the last few years of his life, my father was a resident in a nursing home... the social worker turned to me and said, "You're a taxi driver. Can't you get him a hooker?"

That dry, unshockable timing is the book's engine.

He is upfront about the ethics too:

> "Some will find my tactics in the trade disagreeable. Others will nod their heads knowingly. Politicians and their regulatory staffers will be outraged."
> "Too bad for them. I already quit."

### Style and Voice

If you have followed Wienhold's Taxi News columns you know the voice. As that Road Warrior review put it: "The most essential gift for a good writer," Ernest Hemingway famously noted, "is a built-in, shockproof, shit detector" — and Wienhold is in a class of his own as a Bullshit Detective.

His official bio leans into it: "Welfare Recipient at Senior's Welfare; Self-Employed; and also, a Climate Scientist at BS Detective Services." The author bio on Amazon is even better: "I am an unemployed taxi driver living in Stoney Creek, Ontario, Canada. Over the course of my working years, I have had forty-five different jobs across a range of industries from sheet metal worker and carpenter, to oil well drilling, bar security, tax preparation, lab technician, taxi driver, and finally, a best smelling author."

The prose is plainspoken, first-person, conversational — no literary pretension, just a guy who has spent 40 years listening in the rearview mirror and has a good memory.

### Hamilton as a Character

While the stories are derived from the way the taxi business operated in Hamilton, Ontario in those times, Wienhold is confident that any taxi driver, just about anywhere in the world will be able to relate to them. He's right, but the Hamilton specificity is what makes it valuable as local history.

You get the one-way streets, the steel-town bar rushes, the pre-Uber era when cash flowed freely and part-time drivers could pick up a shift or two as they needed the money, and then the arrival of Uber — which Wienhold famously parodied in his "Travis meets Travis" video () — and the regulatory collapse that followed.

It's a small slice of Hamilton history from the front seat.

### Verdict

**Rating: 4.5 / 5 — and Amazon readers seem to agree, currently sitting at 4.6 out of 5 stars**

It's funny, occasionally politically incorrect, deeply practical, and unexpectedly tender. It's not polished memoir in the MFA sense. That's the point. It reads like a cab driver finally got tired of people asking "what's the craziest thing you've seen?" and decided to write it all down at once.

**Who should read it:**

- Any current or former taxi / Uber / Lyft driver in Ontario

- Hamiltonians who want to understand how their city actually moved for 40 years

- Anyone who likes true, unvarnished working-class memoirs — think Studs Terkel meets a Steel City dispatch radio

If you drove cab in this town, you will nod your head knowingly. If you didn't, you will never look at a "No Vacancy" light on Barton Street the same way again.

Review from Google Gemini

Published in May 2023, **"Confessions of a Hamilton Cab Driver"** by Hans Wienhold offers a raw, unfiltered memoir chronicling over four decades behind the wheel in Hamilton, Ontario. Covering his time driving from 1977 through 2018, Wienhold blends local street-level history with a distinct, libertarian-leaning critique of municipal governance and regulation.

---

### Core Themes & Content

* **Four Decades of Hamilton History:** Wienhold documents the changing urban landscape of Hamilton—from the bustling, blue-collar nightlife of the late 1970s and 1980s around spots like Augusta Street to the modern, tech-disrupted era.

* **The Behind-the-Scenes Taxi Ecosystem:** The book strips away the romanticism of cab driving, laying bare the day-to-day realities: navigating dispatch systems, dealing with late-night bar crowds, handling erratic passengers, and managing the delicate economics of being an independent driver.

* **Critique of Bureaucracy & Regulations:** A recurring focal point is Wienhold’s fierce resistance to local policy. He details his frustrations with municipal taxi licensing (such as the "equity plate system"), smoking bans, and city hall enforcement, arguing that over-regulation consistently hurt drivers and consumers alike.

* **The Uber Era:** The closing eras of his career tackle the arrival of rideshare apps, offering an insider perspective on how Uber disrupted traditional cab brokerages and municipal taxi structures.

---

### Key Strengths

* **Authentic Local Flavor:** Wienhold writes with an unvarnished, direct, and often abrasive voice that reflects decades of working late-night shifts on gritty city streets.

* **Unique Historical Lens:** For readers interested in Hamilton’s local history, the memoir provides a rare, low-level view of the city’s social evolution that official histories rarely capture.

* **Sharp Wit and Cynicism:** Wienhold styles himself as a "bullshit detective," filling the narrative with pragmatic, stubborn humor and colorful anecdotes from his daily interactions.

---

### Considerations for Readers

* **Opinionated Stance:** The book is as much a political treatise as it is a collection of cabbie stories. Readers looking purely for lighthearted fare may find the strong anti-regulatory, anti-establishment commentary polarizing.

* **Episodic Structure:** Because it collects decades of individual experiences, the narrative functions more as a series of standalone vignettes and essays rather than a tight, continuous narrative arc.

---

### Verdict

**Confessions of a Hamilton Cab Driver** is a compelling read for locals, history buffs, and anyone curious about the taxi industry. It delivers an unedited slice of Hamilton life, served with a heavy dose of working-class cynicism and independent spirit.

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Get your copy here.

Censorship at The Hamilton Spectator

Update: September 30, 2026.

In the runnup to Canada's National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, A.K.A. "Orange Shirt Day," the Spectator pumped out some propaganda reinforcing the divisive and dishonest native genocide narrative with gusto. It pumped out an opinion piece titled, "Orange Shirt Day: Why ‘Every child matters’ still needs to be said." I posted a few comments to that propagandistic rant and every one of them were censored by the Spectator behind-the-curtain commissars. It did not suprise me. I post comments fully expecting them to be censored, but in so doing they provide me with documentary evidence of their sleazy manipulation of information and opinion they present to the public.

Here are some screenshots:

The piece appeared in the September 29, 2026 edition of the Spectator, As of 4:30 p.m. of September 30, it it is evident that the Spectator commissar(s) only permitted four comments to see the light of day.

This is how the Spectator abuses its readers.

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I used to send a lot of letters to the editors of papers like the Hamilton Spectator and the Toronto Sun. One out of ten might get published. The mainstream press had a solid choke hold on the kinds of opinions they would allow their subscribers to see.

Along came the internet. I couldn't wait to get on. Google tells me the Hamilton-Wentworth Freenet came online on April 28, 1995. I jumped right on it with my XT compatible clone computer and its 2400 baud modem. It was a fascinating experience. I remember downloading a bitmap of Confederate general Robert E. Lee from the Library of Congress. It must have taken two hours to download. I printed it on my dot matrix printer and framed it. From a distance it looks just like an ordinary black and white photograph. I still have it. A visitor once asked me if that was a picture of my grandfather.

(Note: Click on the images if they appear blurry. A clearer view will pop up.)

The browser was called "Lynx." It was all text-based. I had a monochrome monitor with green text.

While exploring the Lynx browser I tripped across a menu item labelled [View Source.] When I clicked(?) on it, I got my first view of HTML markup language. It looked easy enough so I proceeded to learn it. At the same time, I realized I had discovered a way to circumvent the Junk News oligopoly and publish my "Letters to the Editor" online. What I did not realize at the time was that I was seeing the genesis of Alternative News. And I was participating in it.

It was obvious from the start that the Junk News industry was seriously threatened by this new technology. Then they spent the next thirty years trying to put the genie back in the bottle. Without much success. Fast forward to today and we see the Junk News industry in Canada cannot survive without government subsidies.

I call it Junk News because it is analogous to Junk Food. Junk food for the mind.

At around the same time, the Spectator operated a community Bulletin Board Service. (BBS) They called it "Compuspec," later "Speclink." There were several forums on there and the political debates between the wokerattie and the truly conscious were fierce. In those days, free speech seemed sacred and I was never once censored by the administrators.

My, how things have changed.

My Hamilton Spectator subscription autorenews on September 30, 2026. I have set a reminder on my calendar to cancel my subscription well before they charge my credit card. Why should I pay for such a purveyor of woke propaganda, and an abusive one at that, when I can find the same crud elsewhere for free?

Especially irksome is the Spectator's abusive treatment of its subscribers via its practice of censoring any subscriber comments their man behind the curtain doesn't like.

In today's (Sept 12, 2026) edition they published a report about a guy from Stoney Creek who has been arrested for alleged wilful promotion of hatred, advocating genocide and wilful promotion of antisemitism on X. As is all too typical of government-funded media these days, they almost always omit any description of the offending content. Given that so-called "Hate speech," etc. these days can be just about anything anyone claims to be offended by, it is more important than ever that the reading public be informed of the offending content in order to decide for themselves whether said content qualifies as "Hate speech."

Knowing it's a coin toss, I nevertheless opted to post the first comment to the report.

As usual, there is no description of the offensive tweet. Why are these essential details always kept from public view?

That comment was graciously accepted by the Spec commissars behind the curtain. It sparked some debate. There was the expected contingent of subscribers who defended the decision to keep the offensive tweet hidden from view. Of course, I engaged with some of them. This is when the Spectator's censorship abuse shifted into high gear.

There was more,

And this one:

The message the Hamilton Spectator is sending me is, "Don't bother commenting. Your opinions are not wanted here." Either that, or get used to self-censoring. "Oskee Wee Wee" and Auntie Annie's bake sale is acceptable. Elbows Up! too.

Note that my comments did not attempt to incite hatred of any identity group, did not contain any incitement to genocide, nor even the mildest profanity, yet it still ran afoul of the Spectator's so-called "Community Guidelines."

Now the Spectator is a private company, leaving aside the implications of any bribes it receives from the federal government. It can censor anyone it wants to censor for good reasons, bad reasons, or no reason at all. However, given the sleazy practices I have described here, the reliablity of a platform that purports adhere to the following claim,

Conversations within the Spectator’s news and information platforms offer an opportunity for readers to engage in healthy dialogue, share their thoughts on specific topics and help us foster engagement and transparency with our readership. Conversations, added to select Spectator articles, allow our community of registered users to share thoughtful ideas with other readers and our newsroom.

Conversations are a space to converse about news and information, and the issues they highlight, as well as discuss questions highlighted by the Spectator newsroom. We ask that readers stay on topic with the intended purpose of the Conversations. Feel free to discuss ideas but avoid personal attacks. Universal human rights are not up for debate on our sites.

appears highly disingenous.

Subscribers who find their comments routinely censored by the Spectator commissars will find The Spectator's claim that "the Spectator’s news and information platforms offer an opportunity for readers to engage in healthy dialogue, share their thoughts on specific topics and help us foster engagement and transparency with our readership" laughable.

Of course, any chicken dancers browsing the same comment sections will remain blissfully ignorant of the degree of manipulation being foisted upon them in the background. I doubt chicken dancer opinions are ever censored.

Knowing they conduct themselves in a manner that is not perceptible by the average reader, and thus, deceptive, do you really think it's worth paying for a Spec subscription?

I don't.

They can block me out on their own platform, but they can't hide their nefarious activities as long alternative platforms exist.

Update, September 14, 2026 in This Report: They did it again.

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Other examples of Spectator censorship.

On Hamilton's proposal to mandate air conditioning in rental units.

On Hamilton Dive Bars.

On Hamilton's woke transportation fantasies.

On the LRT

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AI Reviews of Confessions of a Hamilton Cab Driver

Before the arrival of European Colonists Bullshit

You just can't escape the bullshit. As part of an effort on my part to take a break from monitoring the cesspool of politics, I allocate the later hours of the evenings to watching movies and TV series. But, no matter where you turn, you find your nose being rubbed in woke bullshit.

For example, the very first line in the opening shot of the movie "The Bygone," on Amazon Prime says "Before the arrival of European colonists, sexual violence was virtually nonexistent on North American soil."

Some of the reading I have recently done to better acquaint myself with the Native peoples of North America contradicts that assertion. For example, one question I asked Brave was, "did Matonabbee murder his wife?" The answer it returned was,

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"Yes, historical accounts indicate that Matonabbee murdered one of his spouses. According to explorer Samuel Hearne, Matonabbee killed a wife who had cast doubt on his ability to satisfy his many other wives, an act Hearne described as stemming from Matonabbee's jealousy which sometimes took him "beyond the bounds of humanity."

While Hearne generally portrayed Matonabbee in positive terms, he acknowledged this specific incident of domestic violence. Matonabbee was a prominent Chipewyan leader and fur trade intermediary who later died by suicide in 1782 after the destruction of Fort Prince of Wales."

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Where do these script writers get the balls to spew such unmitigated horseshit? Can I ask that question in Canada without fear of arrest and possible jail time?

Then I asked Meta AI, "Is it true that Before the arrival of European colonists, sexual violence was virtually nonexistent on North American soil?"

Meta AI answers,

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No, that is not true.

Sexual violence has existed in every region of the world throughout human history, including in North America before 1492. The claim that it was "virtually nonexistent" contradicts both the anthropological record and the internal legal norms of Indigenous societies themselves.

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There seems to be absolutely no escape from woke bullshit these days.