Authors Note: I don't know why, but after this piece won the Humor and Life, In Particular writing contest, I never put it back on the blog - that I can find anyway. So, in recognition of the fact it is now part of a newly published anthology of short humor titled Laugh Your Shorts Off - here it is again!
I was walking down Orchard Street the other day, thinking about all the myths my mother told me as a kid, when I met a young man named Newton, who had apple trees growing out of his head.
To describe him is a bit of a challenge. He was tall and slender, clean shaven, and his fruit was neat and recently sprayed. I couldn’t tell his age, but based on his bark lesions I’d guess early twenties.
He said he had swallowed apple seeds as a kid, and these nicely-pruned, fruit-laden trees were the result.
So it WAS true I thought! You shouldn’t swallow the seeds after all. Huh.
He told me he had cherry trees growing out of his ears at one point, and like most rebellious teens he had let his branches grow long and, well, got into some trouble, hanging around places he shouldn’t have been. Power lines mainly.
Before I could get around to asking him the obvious pruning and fertilizing questions that sprang to mind, I realized that he was a Myth Kid!!
Myth Kids are extremely rare – so rare, in fact, that they themselves are considered mythical. They are people who got warned by their mothers of all sorts of terrible things that could happen to them, and then the terrible things actually happened!
He was living proof!
As we strolled in his shade, I asked about his crossed eyes.
“Froze that way – just like Mom said they would,” he explained. “I used to sit really close to the TV all the time and I used to practice going cross-eyed in school. I’ve only got myself to blame really.”
I asked about his scars, assuming they were old hockey injuries perhaps.
“This one here is from when I was running around the house with sharp scissors. And this little one here is from not holding onto my Popsicle stick” he said.
A chill crept up my spine. I thought these were just old wives tales – nothing more.
I worried about my own kids. Had I threatened them enough with implausible accidental injury?
For that matter, had I washed behind my ears that morning, or would potatoes start growing back there? I couldn’t remember, so I feigned scratching my head as I gently probed for sprouts.
As we walked I suggested to him that someone should write about his tragic life. He was about to answer when he yelled “Watch out!” but it was too late. I had stepped on a spider.
A sudden rainstorm began, the spider having been a Daddy Long Legs. The rain sounded nice dripping through his leaves. Another myth confirmed.
I remembered some other admonitions Mom used to say.
“Ever step on a crack in the sidewalk?” I asked.
“Mom will be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Broken back. My fault.” His remorse was obvious.
“That’s terrible!” I said. “Weren’t medical staff able to do anything?”
“I had eaten an apple that day, which kept the Doctor away. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Ever swim right after a meal?”
“I almost drown from cramps every time. Now I don’t even shower for at least 30 minutes after each meal. Terrifying.” he said.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Not a lot. Mom says it’s all fun until someone puts an eye out. That happened to my cousin Twiggy, so I have to be careful.”
I noticed his disfigured hands and asked “Arthritis?”
“Knuckle cracking” he said.
By this time it was dark out so I said I had best be going. It had been an interesting conversation.
As we walked towards the corner he stumbled into a lamp post.
“Are you OK?” I asked, peering into the gloom.
“I guess. My night vision is no good. I didn’t eat carrots as a kid. And could you stop picking my apples please? It tickles.”
This is Mything Children Awareness Month. When a Myth Kid scratches at your door, please give generously.
We’re allowed to burn leaves in our city. If you obey the rules and get a permit you can burn all your yard waste and leaves and all kinds of things. Handy.
I have built sort of a special relationship with flames over the years. Back when we cared not a whit about choking the atmosphere with carbon and other chemicals (those were the days!), one of my first summer jobs was at a local hotel, where my duties included gathering up and burning garbage. This job taught me the joys of pyromania.
I also learned which storage room was used by waitresses changing clothes, how to staple blankets to tables for illicit poker games, how to properly clip and light a cheap stogie, and what vigorous sexual congress sounds like when heard in a basement storage room beneath the fornicatorium. Selling tickets to the above also tripled my wages. But I digress.
To a young lad, an afternoon spent burning the accumulated garbage of an entire hotel was wildly entertaining, not to mention educational. I learned the combustion properties of various plastics, light bulbs, and paper products like commercial grade rolls of toilet paper, for example. On one sad occasion, a ‘dirty’ magazine was burning just beyond the grasp of my singed, horny young fingers.
I would re-enact entire episodes of ‘Rat Patrol’ or ‘Combat’ all by myself, lobbing aerosol spray-can ‘grenades’ into the fire and then running for cover. Since it took several minutes for them to cook off, I would amuse myself by heading inside to the closed lounge where I’d squirt various sodas directly down my throat using the bar squirter hose thing, or steal a scoopful of maraschino cherries from a barrel in the cooler.
After a few minutes of diversion, I would proceed back outside to check on my ‘oven’. I would soon witness a satisfying “Crump!” of an explosion, the shock wave bulging out the rivets of the incinerator and belching skyward huge clouds of burning paper towels, cleaning rags and other experimental effluent. Lovely.
I was ruminating on all these fond memories as I raked this years’ leaf pile on top of the wood waste from last year and set it alight, accompanied by a few ritual Toronto Maple Leaf jokes for good measure.
Things were progressing well when I had one of those moments that are usually reserved for when you see the keys in your car ignition just as the locked door is closing crisply.
In this particular instance, I discovered the large can of WD-40 I had misplaced last summer. A split second later I realized the can was in my fire.
In ‘Matrix’-like bullet time I did several things simultaneously. I performed an interesting lurch with my upper body towards the conflagration, thinking I could remove the blackening can and save myself from imminent fiery death. Simultaneously I performed a twisting motion with my legs as they tried to immediately vacate the area. I appeared to be performing some sort of gyrating break-dance maneuver as the can reached combustion temperature and proceeded to "Crump!" enormously. Robert Oppenheimer flashed before my eyes.
I awoke flat on my back at ground zero, staring skyward through smoldering eyebrows at the large mushroom cloud that was roiling its way toward the lower cumulus. I began asking myself questions like “Where am I?”, “What happened?”, and “What’s that smell?”
Face blackened like a cartoon character, remaining hair blown dramatically backwards, singe marks everywhere, I was miraculously unharmed.
“I SAID I WAS MIRACULOUSLY UNHARMED APART FROM THIS RINGING IN MY EARS! I’M FINE THANKS! WHAT?!”
I think my leaf blower converts to a mulcher. I’ll go get the manual.
“We’re live, here in
“We say mysterious here on Fashion Television because no one seems to know who this designer is or what kind of fashion he designs, so we’re all looking forward to watching the runway this morning. Over to you Chantrelle!”
“Thanks Enoki! I’m seated beside the runway here, waiting for the first S.L.O.B ensemble to be shown, and there seems to be some sort of security breach. There is a large homeless-looking person up on the runway, wearing what looks like an old awning or tent. Oh dear. He’s spinning and twirling around like he’s actually a model! This is hilarious! I think we’ll need a wide angle shot for this fellow. He’s quite large.”
“I’m sorry but my producer has just asked me to describe what he’s wearing and I’m not sure if I can. It’s making me feel quite nauseous. Let’s see. He is wearing a torn and wrinkled blue short sleeved shirt that may have fit him about 100 pounds ago, over top of a torn undershirt, and some really old shorts which have a back pocket torn off. There is also a pair of pliers in the other back pocket. He’s wearing white tube socks and a large pair of old Birkenstock sandals. This is dreadful. I can’t go on. Oh the humanity!”
“Well, as Chantrelle composes herself, let’s look at the next model coming out from behind the screen.”
“Oh, it’s the large homeless-looking gentleman again. Uh, I’m just being told that this is actually the designer himself – David Crawford! Oh my. This can’t be right. This is a fashion runway, not a thrift store aisle. It looks like he’s wandering around eating something. He’s scratching himself too – like he’s just wandering around his own house or something. I’m feeling faint. Over to you Shiitake.”
“My God this is terrible! He’s wearing a beat up old bathrobe and he’s taken his socks off but he’s still in those dreadful Birkenstocks! You can even see the hideous calluses on his heels! Oh! I just got blinded by the flare off his bald spot there. Ouch! This is putting me right off lunch people…thank goodness. Slimming…”
“Now he’s changed into his outdoor gear. He’s still wearing his old shorts, and the same torn shirt, but now he has a flannel shirt over top, and a black down vest, and a sweaty old ball cap to top it off! Dreadful! Hideous!”
“Oh dear – everyone is jamming the exits to get away from here, and it appears the washrooms are overflowing. Everyone is shrieking and rubbing their eyes! Someone call security! We’ve got to get out of here! And I just broke a nail!!”
“Oh no! Now the guy on the runway is bending over like he’s fixing the sink and I can see his underwear and AAAAAACK!! There’s something shiny visible above his drooping shorts! It’s a quarter! Someone has put a quarter into the crack…I’M GOING TO PURGE MY CELERY STICK!…”
Screen goes black.
“Well, our coverage team seems to be having some difficulty with lunch there in
“We’ll be back after these messages. And some Dramamine.”
The shortage of qualified surgeons in this country has led to drastic measures being taken.
Here is a transcript of a lecture given recently to new surgical interns by Master Plumber Fred Johnson of Johnson’s Plumbing and Heating.
“Let’s go over the design plans briefly before we begin our operation, fellas.”
“We’ll proceed from the top, here at this access panel, and then move way down to the waste stack, here.”
“Behind the access panel opening you’ll usually find several enamel or porcelain fixtures in a curved array, with multiple small valves supplying fluid to the fixtures and the upper end of the system.
“Solids and liquids introduced to the system are pushed into the drain by this auger unit, down a three degree slope, to a 90 degree ell-coupling here. Be careful working around this elbow area since touching the inside of the pipe will cause the system to immediately back up.”
“Now, below this fitting there are two 3/4 inch drain lines, which converge here in this flow control valve. This valve is responsible for separation of gas, liquid and solid mixtures, as well as functioning as a PA system for the entire structure.”
“We’ll only concern ourselves with the fluid and semi-fluid lines at this point people. We’ll let the gas fitters work on the other line later.”
“Past the control valve we come to a central reservoir which holds all the in-feed from the drain line above. This tank has control valves – one at each end - and after suitable mixing has occurred, the contents of the tank are slowly drained through the lower valve into a 1 inch sewer line here.”
“This sewer stack is approximately 28 feet long, made of flexible tubing, and winds around the central interior of the structure, through several 90 degree bends, elbows, and 45 degree offsets. As it proceeds, some of the material inside the structure is siphoned off using various branch lines.”
“Just so you’re aware, another system is responsible for filtering liquids in this structure. The system has two replaceable strainers here at the back. Waste liquid drains from these filters into a P-trap holding tank here and hence to one of two different exit valves, depending on the structure. This is what we male plumbers call the fire sprinkler system. That’s a bit of anatomy humour there.”
“Other tanks contribute fluids and chemicals to the mixture as it moves down the stack, but generally the material continues without interruption.”
“The processed material then enters this 2 inch stack, which is in essence another, larger holding tank. This tank regularly empties, usually into a municipal waste system, through this flow control valve, here. Yes, the exterior valve can look like a politician, Joe – good one!”
“This plumbing system operates with high efficiency, but can occasionally slow to a crawl, or speed up beyond system capacity. The reasons for slowing down can be anything from too much cheese entering the system to a lack of water irrigation, which can also lead up to a complete blockage and pipeline shut down.”
“The system can also work at extremely high speed, particularly after a ‘hot wings and beer night’ at the local pub, or if the system is contaminated by a previously untested curry.”
“When working on these pipes, care must be taken with open flames or spark-producing tools since the system can vapour-lock, and flammable gases are known to accumulate on a regular basis. Venting is as important here as in any plumbing system, so remember that as you solder or weld anything.”
“So that’s it folks! Any questions before we begin our operation on this patient? No? Good.”
“Someone get my work gloves and I can get started with the pipe cutters. We need a work light in here! Who’s got the snake?”
“We have to hurry people – the electricians next door need help with their brain surgery.”
Given the state of the economy, Santa Claus will be delivering various lengths of two-by-four lumber in lieu of toys this year. Environmentally friendly!
Collect all eight exciting lengths! Ideal for bashing your sister or the dog! Fun for the whole family. Batteries not included. Tweezers sold separately.
It has been that sort of year, but it appears things are starting to come around, such that we can maybe afford beans for Christmas dinner instead of pine beetles and dirt. Life is good! Consume! Celebrate!
So, given the wretched economic state (
Here is a guide to the most sought-after gifts I could make up for members of your family.
Dad: Dads are great to shop for. They’re all simple clunks and are pathetically easy to satisfy. A pair of pliers. A beer mug. Some fresh and exciting new lingerie from Bruce’s Secret catalogue, page 17. Whatever. Don’t worry about Dad. Anything works for him.
Mom: Definitely trouble here. Poor clothing gift choices, for example, will be exchanged, returned, frowned upon, or crammed down your throat complete with hanger, depending on the size you chose for your blushing bride.
A subscription to Facebook might be nice for her since I hear everyone talking about that particular magazine. There’s also a new one called Twitter that might work as well although I think that title slyly refers to the recipients rather than the content.
There is one gift category that defies all logic and explanation in the female realm, one that wins women’s hearts and minds every single time, and that is, of course, quality kitchen utensils.
Ha-ha, I’m lying! It is diamonds! Whew – I just ducked a frying pan as I was typing that.
Yes, diamonds will bring heaps of praise upon you for the rest of your life, which could be quite short if you actually took my kitchen utensil comment seriously.
Size wise, ‘bigger’ seems to work for all women. ‘More’ also works.
As to selecting between ring, necklace, earrings or, those wildly erotic things that some women have in their belly buttons, the answer is a definite “Yes!”
Understand, men, that spousal gift-giving will result in either a frank exchange of viewpoints, perhaps involving gunfire, or a wild, monkey-like romp around the bedroom. This should keep you entertained for some time, like it will your wide-eyed and slightly repugged children if you don’t lock the bedroom door
.
Moving on to the Young Children category, you are pretty safe if your gift selection includes any or all of the terms “Nintendo,” “Playstation,” “Hannah Montana,” “Jonas Brothers,” “Any Other Empty-Headed Twit from TV,” or combination of the aforementioned. So that’s good.
For children over age 10 or so, I have no idea since my kids aren’t that old yet. I suspect, however, that as they get to the sullen, ‘My Parents Are Dorky Idiots’ stage of development, anything you get them will be dreadfully bad for your relationship unless it is the latest style of jeans costing 3000 dollars that will be worn exactly once then tossed callously on the floor of their room, never to be seen again because it’s not cool and because it is buried beneath the mountain of items that archaeologists will later call ‘strata’ but which parents today call “Oh-my-God-what-happened-in-here?!”
I know that was a run-on sentence but it’s the economy. Punctuation is expensive.
So that’s that I guess. I’m off to trim up some two-by-fours, and I think I may slice up some two by tens since the kids have been so good this year. I don’t want to spoil them like rich kids though, so I’ll keep them under a foot long. Merry Christmas.
I’ve been meaning to do more travel writing, and not just because I heard you can cadge free trips for doing so.
All the great writers of the world - Hemingway, Shakespeare, Stalin - got free airline travel to far off places and wrote about them for fun and profit. Why not me?
Just to show that I (and my family) are worthy of several international junkets, let me tell you about
I took the family there once, and we experienced a wonderful world of joy until our money ran out about an hour later. After that, we enjoyed many of the free activities that are available on site, such as trash and coin picking up, washroom visiting, letting the kids shine shoes until the cops come along, and of course the many free parades where grandmothers nod off on benches and leave their handbags slightly open.
Meanwhile, my wife and I were debating whose kidney to sell so we could enjoy a hot dog.
We also suffered severe brain damage by going on the ‘It’s a Small World’ boat ride, the only ride we could afford, where an endless array of loud speakers played the incredibly sweet, repetitive song ‘It’s a Small Annoying World After All’ over and over and over!
The ride starts off pleasantly enough. You meander along in your small boat through scenic world vistas while listening to the treacly, skull-numbing song It’s a Small Price to Pay for Not Having Your Kids Barf After All.
Something like that.
Then the song starts getting to you, and you realize there is no escape. After the 17th repetition of It’s OK to Spend Money After All, you begin to notice subtleties in the music you didn’t hear before. Like the sound of gunshots from the staff room as long-term staff (one hour) begin blasting their toes off with powerful handguns rather than submit their ears to another minute of this brain-mushing torture.
You notice after the 29th repeat of It’s a Small Price to Pay for a Hotdog You Are Getting Very Sleepy After All, that you are still only one third of the way along the winding, butt-numbing route.
The people in the boat ahead of you, who boarded their tub with traces of joy on their faces, are now starting to dribble blood from their ears as they search for ways to use the emergency fire axe on their shipmates in order to escape the din.
Meanwhile, the musical number It’s Good To Vote For Dick Cheney Who Sits On The Disney Board After All continues, getting louder and louder, and you find there is no throttle on the boat to make it go faster. There are no ejection seats or life rafts or signal flares either. You are stuck in it and forced to look at stupid little robots shouting their stupid song It’s a Long Way to The Exit So Hand Us Your Wallet You Fat Slob After All and why is my face twitching again!?
We learned our lesson that first day, and for the remainder of the trip we just stayed in our hotel room and watched the Disney Channel on TV. We had Disneyland representatives come directly to our room every few hours to take piles of cash from us by humming the song It’s Like Water Boarding After All, which worked out great since it kept us from getting sore feet and the kids didn’t urp up corn dogs and we had ready access to beverages for washing down our anti-psychotic medications.
So, airlines and exotic hotels! What do you say? Comps on their way?
Tell you what. You undo these straps I’ve been gnawing on, and then I can get started on the
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