Embarrasing Moment #793

I'm sitting in an office, discussing lease financing with a potential client.

I am well coiffed, I have trimmed all facial features of errant hairs, there are no bats in the caves that are my nostrils, and I'm actually wearing long pants for a change (meaning it is a very important client).  All is proceeding apace.

What happens next is the stuff of nightmares.

I turned my head during the conversation and a glob of hardened earwax flew out and landed on the clients desk with a small crackle.

Now let me explain something about my personal hygiene regimen.  When I get out of the shower, I use a tissue to wipe my ears out, since I find it annoying to feel the water drying inside my head.  In other words, I wipe my ears out every day.  Not that I'm defensive about this situation in any way.

Back to the scene.

The crusty glob, about the size of a peppercorn, landed audibly on a piece of paper and rolled for a few inches, drawing our eyes to it.  Our conversation stopped in one of those moments that tend to live in infamy. 
We were both non-plussed, our jaws dropping simultaneously as if to collectively "Did that really just happen?" 

I didn't know what to do or say.  The glob just lay there for a few seconds, minding its own business.  I looked at him, he looked at me.

Time stood still.

Then, being guys, we both burst out laughing hysterically and got on with our business.

I was reminded of a time when I spit a small glob of spaghetti into my fiance's mouth.  I won't go there today but suffice it to say that coughing while eating can be hazardous to your libido and that of your betrothed.

Enjoy your breakfast.

Littering

I would like to refute recent news reports which say I spend most of my time dreaming up lurid fantasies involving me covered in grape jelly chasing Beyonce naked around a hardware store. I never spend more than, say, 90% of my time that way so don’t think I’m weird or anything. 

Most of my awake hours are spent dreaming about where I’ll put a urinal in my new garden shed. 

In my old garage, I had installed a lovely personal drainage device in a discreet back corner.  It was just a piece of pipe stuck through the wall, but it was a wonder since I didn’t have to leave my shop to relieve myself, it was at my exact height, there was no lid to put down after, no perfumed soap, nothing.  Hygiene freaks are allowed to go “Ewww!” at this point in the narrative.      

This relief tube was installed because before, if I felt the need to go, I’d have to throw sawdust over my head to make it look like I had actually been doing something out there, then head into the house, take off my shoes, receive instructions from my spouse about more things that needed doing, piddle, then reverse the process and go back outside.  It just wasn’t worth it.

With my handy dandy WhizzMate, I could just walk into the corner and go.  I didn’t have to worry about a thing.  Well, other than lurking spiders.  I did fret about those.  Thankfully, spider attacks on my personal thing never happened, although the thought of it has caused more than a little anxiety, lack of sleep, loss of bladder control, and post-traumatic stress. 

I was ruminating on all this recently, since I have a new way of doing my business, you’ll be pleased to know. 

As the slave to two adorable kittens, we now have an abundance of what is called ‘stink.’  We also have a bunch of kitty litter.  As a new cat owner, I was unfamiliar with this wonderful substance.  It not only covers up cat doots, it clumps up when pee hits it.  It’s amazing!

I was cleaning it (the litter) the other day (since the kids had promised they would do it), and I had a wonderful, guy-type idea, which involved one of the kids finding a clump of litter the size of a bowling ball, courtesy me.

This light comedy daydream gave rise to an actual, ingenious idea.  For a change, it did not involve singers, dancers, jelly, power tools or rubber cement.

Here’s the deal.  Waking up in the middle of the night having to go to the bathroom is terribly annoying, as we all know.  Getting out of bed and padding off to the bathroom wakes me up and it is sometimes difficult getting back to sleep.  Ask any cat.

What I do now is flip back the covers and just let fly over the side of the bed into my own, personal litter box!  No more stepping on Hot Wheels cars on my way to the bathroom.  No more waking up the house because I stub my toe, or trip over something, or sleepily lift the lid of the laundry hamper instead of the toilet and, well, never mind.    I’m free from all that.

I not only sleep better but in the morning I just scoop my own litter and behold my signature, elegantly written in hardened granules, suitable for framing. 

I’m still getting used to gently spreading the stuff with my feet afterwards, but I’ll get there eventually. 

My wife also reports my purring is still extremely loud, but she does like the smell of grape jelly. 

Sweat Side Effects

I spent the better part of 2 hours yesterday shoveling dirt.  No, I'm not a Parliament reporter!  I am building a bike track in our side yard with a bunch of dirt trucked in for free ("Yay!"). 

Here's the thing.  When I exercise I turn a violent shade of purple.  No matter how fit or unfit I happen to be at the time of exercise (the last time was during the Trudeau era), my head region begins by sweating profusely, my neck and face turning an iridescent red (ably assisted by the hot sun, for which I wear no protection whatsoever), then my entire head is suffused with a violet glow.  It appears to bystanders as though I have contracted some hideous form of radiation poisoning, or so they tell me from a safe distance. 

That alone is interesting, but what is even better is when you transition from sweaty shoveling mode to 'picking the kids up from play dates' mode.

I hopped into our van (well, collapsed into it, truth be told) and proceeded on my way, air conditioning blasting directly in my face.

What resulted was what I can only describe as Face Crust.  Fast drying perspiration formed a sort of mask on me, such that I could barely move my muscles.  It was like Botox on the cheap.  I checked the mirror as the lava that had been my face gradually cooled, and noticed a hideous white powder forming over my features.  I was aging before my own, sweaty eyes! 

I'm afraid I owe an apology to the hosts of my children.  The visage that greeted them at the door must have been terrifying.  Much like the guy in the goalie mask from some teenage horror movie, I stood there, purple, face frozen, white crust cracking open slightly to mumble something unintelligible about children. 

"I've hum to hick up ny kids?" I said.

"Whatever you want - just don't hurt me," one said. 

I was actually at the wrong house, but I got a kid anyway.  Huh.


Anyway, its another hot day today, so I'm off to shovel the yard. 

I'm not sure I like the nickname Grapes.  Maybe just call me Red Seedless in future.  Red for short.

Now this is Interesting

How many people in the U.S. have your name?  There are just over 2000 people named David Crawford apparently.  So many ID's to steal, so little time...

Check your name here: http://howmanyofme.com/search/

Cycling Sunday

Beautiful day yesterday.  Out riding bikes beside the river with the family.

As we get back to our starting point, my son asks "What's that roaring sound?"

"That's just the sound of blood rushing back into my scrotum, son.  Nothing to worry about," I explain.

A little saddle sore today?  Oh you betcha.

Best Use of a Back Yard Ever

Household Domination

I now have proof that children are manipulating little weasels.  We now have two kittens, Sox and Oreo. 

We brought them home the other day, and they were adorable, cute, and rather shy and restrained.

As I write this at 6am, the sound of thunder can be heard throughout the house.  It is the sound of two furballs violently assaulting each other on the stairs, floor, carpet, curtains, tables and couches of what used to be a fine home.

I have also just cleaned up the first yak on our fine and expensive wool carpet. 

To summarize, we have been overrun with demons.  Demons who think my knees and thighs are made of fabric and are thus able to support the weight of a cat if the cat violently inserts its claws into the fabric-like appendages.  I am starting to feel light-headed from blood loss. 

Oh sure - they're cute - in a Linda Blair sort of way.  But they are starting to develop that glow behind the eyeballs that makes theater patrons squirm down into their seats in anticipation.  One of them is even now sitting on the desk beside me, ;'erpioj54-9y8w40-254ypejrg walking across the keyboard.

I need some holy water.  Pity me.

Hospital Enterprise

In the business world, when you control all aspects of a product, from its raw materials to completed form, it’s called ‘Vertical Integration’.

Creating a problem, and selling the only solution to it at great profit, is what law enforcement calls ‘Racketeering’. Or ‘British Petroleum’. Something like that.

I have to be honest here – creating and operating rackets and other forms of extortion are really, really great if you’re the racketeer/extorter. Allow me to illustrate.

Some time ago I was in the hospital for some repairs. I think it may have been my gall bladder that needed servicing, but it may have been a knee, hamhock, fallopian, spline, camshaft or other piece of wonky anatomy. There’s been a few. An oil change maybe.

First, I was given powerful and quite wonderful medications for several days, or possibly months (can’t remember), in a ward with several other gentlemen who were in various states of disrepair.

Frankly, I had been hoping for a bed in the Slightly Injured Hotties In Need of Frequent Sponge Baths Ward since I was single at the time, but alas.

Anyway, my ward mates were all confined to their beds – inert. I, however, was ert. Blessed with mobility, albeit it of the extremely baked variety, I set about racketeering on my floor since I am an entrepreneur who, even loaded to the eyeballs, can recognize opportunity.

After receiving complaints (and hurled objects) about my loud snoring, I learned that the gift shop on the main floor sold ear plugs for $1 per set. (Confession: I had a crush on the cute volunteer behind the counter. This once again proves the evils of drugs since it later turned out the cutie was in fact a happily married gentleman named Fred who was 74).

I would resell these earplugs to my captive roommates for $5 per pair or more, depending on how much they had in their wallets at the time. In the morning I would confiscate these earplugs while my customer was being medicated or washed or jump-started or whatever, and I would start all over again.

It was awesome!

Oh sure - I got some dirty looks from my clients. There were some who perhaps didn’t like how I counted out the money from their wallets, or maybe it was how I held the baseball bat over their knees. I didn’t take it personally. It was just business.

As my revenues soared I was able to diversify into other black markets. I gained access to the kitchen by (almost) legal means and pilfered extra desserts, such as they were (this was hospital food remember), for auction to the floor’s highest bidder. I also supplied extra apple juice, whiskey, nylons, perfume, explosives, pacemakers, manure, watches and other essential items.

I also sold stuff to the patients.

In business as in life all good things must come to an end, though, and so it was with my hospital enterprise. Two of my ward mates checked out (that may be a poor choice of words) and eventually I went under the knife, emerging from anesthesia to see a competitor staring me in the face, offering certain items for sale at reasonable prices, and what size ears did I have?
I fooled him though. Copious amounts of Demerol meant being so loaded I was rarely conscious so I never heard a darn thing and he had no hold over me. Ha!

I gotta tell ya though, him being a doctor made it really frustrating.

So you see, for-profit health care can exist within the overall health care framework.

You’ve just got to be creative.

Goose Cull

I wish to commend the City of Kelowna for their ingenious solution to the growing Canada Goose problem.

Rather than shooting them with automatic weapons and grenade launchers as suggested by more militant members of the public (me), officials have decided to cull the geese by giving them cell phones so they can text each other while flying.

This causes the geese to be distracted, resulting in them plowing into buildings, their beautiful “V” formations becoming “___” formations on the sidewalks below. City crews then sweep up the cell phones, leaving the dazed birds to fend for themselves against the packs of feral bunnies which roam the streets of our fair city.

While bunnies usually prey on weak or ill animal rights activists, Dazed Geese are increasingly featured on their menus.

Individual geese continue to be targeted by airborne police for operating a vehicle (themselves) while using an electronic device. Lawyers for the geese have filed appeals of the tickets, claiming they were only checking voicemail and not actually engaging in any two-way honking while flying, therefore reducing the risk and questioning the validity of their sentences.

A spokesperson for the Police says they will continue to give chase should geese take off from the officers who stop them. These high speed pursuits, or ‘wild goose chases’ as they have come to be called, are a danger to the public and will not be tolerated, say police.

Boys Weekend

My girls (wife, daughter) are taking off camping with a bunch of Brownies this weekend, leaving my son and I alone.

We are already planning a trip to the gaming parlour where we'll spend several hours playing inappropriately violent video games. We'll probably also eat poorly, belch and fart a lot (well, no change there actually), and just be guys for a while.

My wife will know we are having a good time if I call her cell phone and ask as to the whereabouts of our son's health care card. Or my own.

Reports to follow.

Upon Reflection

We got some reflective film for my son's bedroom the other day. It gets so hot in there we had to do something - and it works great.

When you look at our house now you cannot see in his upstairs window, which is kind of cool - literally.

Naturally, being guys, we celebrated this interesting phenomenon by standing naked in his bedroom and waggling our willies at the neighbours across the street who could not now see us doing so.

In fact, we did this several times, until we learned that the hiding effect only works during the day. At night the process reverses, such that neighbours can see in but we cannot see out.

Oh.

We learned this from a neighbour. Who called.

Laughing...

Not sure if she had a video camera, and she wasn't telling.

I hate it when this happens.