Easy Rider

Note: I originally published this one back in August I think. I had to take it down for a while for a contest entry, but I've since re-worked it a bit and here it is. Please don't think I bike ride in the snow. I'm crazy but not a lunatic...

I recently experienced the joys of mountain biking, and my physicians tell me I should be able to leave the hospital by Tuesday.

The exertion of climbing the mountain my home rests upon I usually leave to the large, powerful engine in my automobile.

Not this past weekend however.

No – I finally took my wife’s entreaties to heart, donned my helmet, and set off on a great journey down hill. At first.

And then back up. Ah yes. Up.

As my puffy, heaving body lay collapsed and wheezing at the side of the road in an ever-expanding puddle of sweat and drool, I fondly remembered my old biking days.

I used to be quite the rider you know.

At one time in my life I used to ride up all three north shore mountains in Vancouver in one day without too much trouble, other than complete sterility and a permanent limp.

Cycling and I had started getting serious about each other back in grade 5.

For my birthday that summer I had received the ultimate – a red, stick-shift, 3-speed bike with a banana seat, tall padded backrest and chopper style handle bars. It was amazing. I swear you could hear Born To Be Wild in the background wherever I went.

Of course the stick shift wound up buried in my groin more than once, the colour was quite loud (I would say ‘gay’ but homosexuality did not exist back then of course), but what really killed this bike love affair was hormones.

I recall an older woman (in reality a grade seven, early-maturing girl with actual boobs) saying it was a ‘kid’s bike’ – thus putting the kiss of death on any coolness I thought I had.

In a small digression from my cycling theme if I may, let me point out that it was this same girl who noticed one day that the shirt I had hastily grabbed as I rushed out the door to school was in fact one of my sister’s - which had ‘darts’ in it.

Darts, it turns out, are seams used in shirts to accommodate a girl’s brassiere, or as we boys maturely called them – Over Shoulder Boulder Holders – said darts being something I had not known about until The Hallway Moment.

There in the crowded school between classes, this girl stopped, pointed at my shirt, and screeched at the top of her lungs “That’s got darts! He’s wearing a girl’s shirt!!”

I recall clutching my books to my chest for the rest of the day, which was most unmasculine. In the days before backpacks, boys were supposed to carry their books by their side, even if doing so caused sprained wrists, intense back pain or paralysis.

Well – that was cleansing after all these years. Cheaper than a shrink too. Wonderful.

Anyway, my current bike is of top notch quality, made by the Sherman Tank Company approximately 50 years ago.

Travelling downward, it is a fine steed – poised, stable, polite in mixed company.

Upward, not so much. In fact, the gears inside the shift thingy’s on the handlebars were sheared off in my frantic clicking into the lowest gear possible. Even that wasn’t low enough as I rose at glacial pace, up from the base of the hill.

Passing motorists helpfully pointed out that my legs were smoking. I gestured my thanks.

Having travelled a good thirty feet up the hill, I stopped for a much deserved water break and to survey my progress.

It was then things got a little woozy, such that I phoned my wife on my cell phone which I had conveniently strapped to my chest along with my health insurance card and a change of underwear.

She appeared a short time later – her visage shimmering in the heat my overtaxed body was throwing into the atmosphere, distorting climate change readings everywhere.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked.

“Thursday” I reported, collapsing.

Actually, I walked up the hill just fine.

My purple face caused neighbours to hurry their children inside as I passed, but I was fine. Really.

A nice shower till the hot water tank ran dry, a short, six hour nap, a bowlful of ibuprofen, and I was ready to go again no problem.

Lance Armstrong? Pah.

New Year's Resolved

The thing with New Year’s resolutions is you need to actually make some before you can fail to follow through with them and rack yourself with guilt for the balance of the fiscal year.

Me? I live my life according to the Latin principle of Carpe Diem, or, “Fish – 10 cents”.

Something like that.

I also try to seize the day, try new things, and generally get into mischief wherever possible.

With my wife’s permission now of course.

Prior to meeting my bride, though, I lost my mind fairly frequently and did strange things. Like entering Revenue Canada buildings voluntarily, or leaping out of aircraft.

See, I make New Years Resolutions, some more achievable than others. Apropos skydiving, I had finally run out of excuses not to by about August one time.

This was about 80 pounds ago I guess. At standard conversion rates, and adjusting for inflation (mine), that makes it about 1993.

Now, it takes a fair amount of courage to commit to these things let me tell you. The skydiving instructor had to pry my fingers from the side of the door, and I left large, bloody scratch marks down the side of the plane, and people on the ground actually heard me screaming until the parachute opened. But apart from that I was pretty brave.

The point, and I think I have one in here somewhere, is that you have to live your life to the fullest, win one for the Gipper, eat that ice cream, step in front of that train, kiss that rather attractive flight attendant, and eat that entire layer of chocolates!

I have! Well, eaten the ice cream anyway. And the chocolates. OK and the flight attendant thing was long ago but the 6 months’ probation was worth it, and being banned from all Air Canada flights is not necessarily a bad thing.

Now, jumping out of a still-functioning aircraft may seem heroic, but truth be told, shrieking like a girl and blubbering all the way home has left deep emotional scars in me. And that was just my instructor – I was in even worse shape.

So conquer your fear. THAT’S what I meant to talk about! Overcoming your fear!

Why?! Because there are talk show producers waiting to book you onto television! Because there are self-help people out there who need to sell you on-line courses and books and they need to speak at your next convention!

Trust me – if you ever want to become a truly successful, lazy, fat slob you have got to go white water rafting, or bungie jumping, or become an astronaut or Prime Minister. You know – dumb stuff that will make the 6 o’clock news if you fail.

Then you marry a wonderful cook, buy that life insurance, have kids, throw your back out, and lay on the couch eating bon bons, watching videos of crazy people doing crazy stunts like you used to.

Believe me – it is a wonderful life, better than that nauseating movie of the same name they keep showing before Christmas.

I think what I’m trying to say here is – make that New Year’s resolution.

Think of all the starving fitness equipment salespeople out there. They have to eat too you know. Don’t worry – they’ll buy it back for fifty cents on the dollar in a couple of months and you can say you twisted your ankle or something.

You’ve got to make the effort though!

So get on with it. Quit smoking, lose weight, get fit, kiss strangers, and jump out of airplanes.

In that order would be good too. That way you can’t be charged for the kissing part if you immediately vacate the airplane.

Clever.

Happy New Year.

Holiday Observations

I was chatting with the guy who drives the Children’s Tylenol tanker truck the other day (we always top up our tanks this time of year) and we got to talking about what we got our kids for Christmas.

Turns out his son got an Air Boss flying plane you can recharge in 10 seconds! Man that’s so cool. And it flys for like, a minute at a time! And it’s remote control! Awesome! My son got one with ducted fans that looks like an SR-71 Spy Plane. Holy cow does it fly! It’s up on the roof right now resting but when the snow melts…

They’re for the, uh, children.

Yeah.

Hey – we’re 6 and up so we qualify.

- - -

In my house I was in charge of the stockings. When my wife told me this, I initially thought it had something to do with the sheer black ones I wear with my little French maid outfit.

Uhhhh.

Nevermind.

This column of observational humour is not going as I had hoped.

---

Actually one thing I can write with passion about is packaging.

This goes against all of the morals I usually hold dear, but I would really enjoy slowly torturing the person who thought that attaching toys to their packaging with 16 pieces of wire and several steel cables would somehow benefit consumers.

I submit that any benefit that accrues from such a scheme is more than outweighed by the cost of returns of damaged goods that were shot, stomped, cursed at and otherwise mutilated by frustrated fathers who couldn’t figure out how to get the damn dolls out of their packaging and there is a hidden wire somewhere and more tape and I can’t take it any more I need more eggnog aaarrrggghhhh!!

Would you excuse me just a moment? I think I need some more medication. Thank you.

- - -

(Several medications later)

- - -

Now where was I? Ah yes. A fantasy...

I would greatly enjoy the packager torture sessions (noted above), which would last precisely as long as it takes to disentangle the precious toy from its confines of depleted uranium wire and titanium screws buried deep within its hardened concrete-like confines. Disembowelment would not be unreasonable. With a blunt object like a spoon perhaps.

And then it’s off to church!

- - -

I am on the injury reserve list…I threw out my shoulder pitching during a full contact Wii baseball session. My whole arm hiirts. Wii are not amuused.

I have also discovered that I cannot hit big league pitching. My dreams are daashed yet agaiin.

- - -

The kids and I were occupying ourselves in the van while mom got groceries.

We made an amazing discovery!

By careful placement of the ammo (a stuffy), you can use the passenger seat as a catapult! Place stuffy on headrest in full recline, have passenger lean out window while holding trigger (release handle), then fire when ready! We achieved world record distances – some as far as the windshield.

My wife was so proud when she got back.

- - -

I enjoyed standing in line with a bunch of husbands at the neighbourhood grocery on Christmas Eve.

4 o’clock.

We all wore the look of relief only a husband can feel upon actually finding the vital ingredient that was needed by spouses who thought they had enough of something but didn’t.

I was Nutmeg Man, the guy behind me was Whipping Cream Guy, and the guy behind him was Crouton and Cranberry Jelly Guy.

We’re not quite what Marvel Comics had in mind perhaps, but we knew we were heroes nonetheless. Capes please.

- - -

I still say the greatest gift a man can receive is the feeling of when a small (or large) hand slips into his. Unasked for.

Just because he’s Dad.

I got a lot of wonderful gifts this year. Thanks.

Happy New Year.

Seasonal Joy

“Honey – Tom at the paper wants me to write a seasonal column.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. They get so cliché don’t they? Shopping malls and stress. I just can’t think of anything original.”

“Why don’t you write about our Christmas tree falling over and how your eyes bulged out as it tipped towards you on the couch?”

“That’s OK I guess – although I think it happens to everybody doesn’t it? Should I mention that it scared the dog so bad we haven’t seen her for a week?”

“Ummm – maybe not. Have you called the SPCA yet today?”

“Not yet. Boy, she sure moved fast didn’t she?”

“Well, you might get a move on too if you had a million needles landing on your butt. Don’t forget to fix the dog-shaped dent in the drywall there.”

“Can I mention that I said we should tie the tree off at the top and you said no, don’t worry about it?”

“Don’t even go there buster.”

“Well OK – that is sort of amusing though. What else could I write about that is seasonal?”

“Can’t you write about making a lumpy skating rink in the back yard?”

“There is nothing funny about a man’s boots being securely frozen into the ice. It is also not nice to laugh at your own husband as he walks through freezing slush in his stocking feet to get back into the house. My toes are still cold. I feel like an Antarctic explorer who loses all his toes after they turn black. I think I have gangrene.”

“Well, then tell them about how the dog contributed to the flooding process.”

“There is nothing funny about a yellow centre ice circle.”

“Well then how about how you stepped on the hose sprayer thing as you were wrestling the hose inside the basement and freezing water shot up your nose and all over the walls? The kids thought that was priceless.”

“You are all disloyal and will one day regret all these terrible things that happen to me and that you laugh at.”

“Can’t help it – you’re a funny guy”

“Schadenfreude is not a sense of humour – it is cruelly laughing at others misfortune.”

“Well then you are a fountain of Schadenwhateveryoucalledit. The kids think you’re the best clown there is.”

“I don’t want to be a clown – it just happens.”

“Here’s something safe you could write about dear. Every morning you clomp outside in your bathrobe to get the paper in the driveway and, when it has rolled under the car, you spread your legs FAR apart and squat down to try and reach it. The neighbours are starting to complain.”

“About what?”

“The view of your shortcomings on display as your robe falls open and you give them a full Monty as you squat to get the paper.”

“I had no idea.”

“Precisely. They tell me they are running out of eye bleach and that the visual is making them nauseous.”

“Well, what are they doing up so early anyway? Don’t they have anything better to do than peer out their front windows that early in the morning?”

“Apparently, the early morning light is best for photographing your boots stuck in the middle of the ice. The dawn shadows make for great composition.”

“I thought I asked you to cut the tops off those darn things so I could flood over them and people wouldn’t know what a ditz I am? I’ve never made a rink before and I really have no idea what I’m doing. People should give me a break.”

“Never mind dear. Just say Merry Christmas somehow and that should cover it.”

“Well that seems rather tame.”

“Tame is good for you dear.”

“When I finish writing I’m going to start assembling the kid’s toys.”

“Will power tools be involved?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll set up the video camera anyway. If we don’t get rich from your writing, at least we can win some prize money on that show about home videos.”

“Thanks for your support. I still have no idea what to write about. Goodnight dear. Merry Christmas.”

Addiction

I have never written about this until now because it is deeply personal, and the wounds are still fresh.

When I finally got help, I was a pathetic shell of a human being.

I was putting white powder up my nose daily, even hourly. It occupied my thoughts awake and asleep. You hate yourself for doing it – but you can’t stop.

Don’t ruin yourself like I did. Learn from me. I beg you. In the name of humanity. Don’t do it!

I‘m talking about – drywall dust.

Renovating. Just saying it makes my hands tremble again.

The dealers make it sooo easy. They have street level access and will sell it to you cheap. They’ll even deliver product right to your door. It is incredibly easy to become a slave of this lifestyle.

The victims arrive from the country or suburbs, looking for a little advice. Maybe a new lamp. An area rug. Maybe something as innocent as re-arranging the furniture or painting a room.

But then it gets serious. A little something more to scratch that itch. Some shelving. A toilet.

Well my friend, you are as good as hooked, even at that early stage.

Pretty soon your spouse is standing in the middle of the living room, clip board in hand, pencil to chin, looking. Addicts are always looking. They are mentally calculating how they can afford their next fix. How can they make it work. Where to put the new wall. What size of couch will fit. It’s a South facing window so we’ll get natural light in here…

The banks are in cahoots with the dealers of course. Oh yeah. They know what you want. You want to extend the line of credit don’t you? Just another ten thousand or so. Not much. No risk. That’ll be it – honest.

Sure.

You think you can quit any time don’t you? Are you married? Do you have a basement? Then forget it – you can’t quit. Trust me. I tried for years. I was hooked.

Your rational mind thinks you can handle it. You’ll only knock out one wall to expand the bathroom upstairs. It’s not like you can’t quit right then and there. You have discipline. You’re not made of money – you know that. You know the price for each square foot of what is going to happen. But you’re wrong.

You are on a slippery slope my friend.

If you’re going to take out that wall and open up the ceiling, you might as well re-do the wiring too, goes your rationalization. And then you could move the sink and toilet over to that other side and it won’t cost you that much more. And besides – you’ll have all the walls out and studs exposed anyway, so why not do the wiring? And, if the ceiling is opened up, you have better access to the attic and that needs some more insulation, or you could add that light in the living room to accent that one dark corner.

The pushers have won. You have surrendered to this need, and you will not be able to control it.

I see it all the time. Poor, disheveled wrecks plodding into Home Depot one more time, looking for more wire, more drywall screws, more electrical boxes, more of anything to feed their habit.

It’s the eyes that give them away. Haunted, sleepy, filled with dust because they thought they could do it themselves.

You see them at home shows – dazed, confused, struggling to come to grips with their own version of reality. Carrying measuring tapes. Wrestling with their demons.

They see shows where people like Mike Holmes actually do things correctly. They see shows that build entire houses in one week. They see the glamour of that misbegotten lifestyle – and they want it baaaad.

I feel for them. They actually think they can come through this ordeal unscathed, and on time, and on budget.

Do It Yourselfers. Renovators. Junkies.

Just throw them on the pile with all the other paint splattered, spackle encrusted, broke, muttering wretches.

Book your intervention today. Get the help you need before it’s too late.

This message brought to you by the Recovering Renovators Society.

Surgical Strike

I was chatting with an old boss the other day and he was telling me how amused he used to get every time I left him a voice mail about missing work. My absences usually involved some sort of accidental mutilation, and he used to cry with laughter every time he heard my voice on the phone.

Like the time I called him shortly after stabbing myself.

You would think that upon ventilating one’s person, your first inclination would be to call authorities and have them rescue you to prevent further gushing blood loss.

Not me.

I called my boss and calmly left him a message saying that due to a slight knifing issue I would probably be late for work the next day.

Bosses should note here that such dedication should never go unrewarded. A Loyalty Stabbing Bonus would be appropriate – in the several thousand dollar range per incident. If I ever get mine I’ll be able to comfortably retire.

Why would I stab myself you ask? Well, I’m sometimes referred to as Lurch for a reason.

This particular incident (there’s been a few) happened after supper when I, as a male, was actually cleaning up. Walking to the dishwasher, the utensils slipped from my dirty plate, perhaps because this random act of householdness was so foreign to me.

Now a normal person would just let them clatter to the floor and pick them up later. I, however, have excellent reflexes, so in slow motion I lunged for the tools and in mid-air deftly caught the steak knife by the handle.

The look of exultation erupting on my face quickly vanished as my angular momentum somehow caused me to plunge the implement into my thigh.

It didn’t go in very deep, possibly due to the armour my wife makes me wear around the house, or it could have been the sudden, involuntary shrieking which caused my arm muscles to contract and remove the blade in a rather hurried fashion.

I grew lightheaded from the shock, and old-fashioned newspapers spun before my eyes, shouting bold headlines:

“Man dies of Self-inflicted Utensilectomy!”

“Bernaise Sauce Infects Local Stabbee!”

“Pearl Harbor Attacked!” and so forth.

It was refreshing, in a way, to stab a lower extremity for a change. The incident before that one was aimed at a hand. With a hatchet.

My then fiancée, now tourniquet-wielding spouse, and I were spending a weekend together at her parents’ cottage. For shame.

While preparing for departure, I was carrying several sharp implements in one hand, as men do, one of them being a wood chopping device with a finely honed blade.

If visualizing this, now is the time you would see the edge of the blade give off a bright, star-shaped twinkle and a “Ting!” sound to emphasize its razor sharpness.

In my exhausted condition (ahem) I dropped something, including the hatchet, and once again, using my excellent reflexes, I lurched for and caught the implement. By the blade. With my finger, which almost departed my person.

Thinking quickly, I ran for the bathroom and had a quick lie down.

Actually, I was holding the profusely bleeding digit under cold water when everything went white, then I lay down on the floor for a while.

When I came to, I assuredly announced to the love of my life that all was well, stood up, started to wash off my hand again, then quickly laid down one more time for good measure.

My darling Florence Nightingale, perhaps anticipating that our life together would mainly consist of her staunching my blood flow, cleverly wrapped a life insurance policy around my finger and wearily reached for the Mr. Clean again.

Eventually I made it to the emergency room, where I was greeted warmly by name, and told to go sit in my usual spot and await repairs.

I realize this story may make you hesitate to come over for a barbecue some day, but believe me – we are a fun couple and I don’t always injure myself. Honest.

Maybe brush up on the first aid though. I’m asking Santa for a table saw.

Hawaii

By now you’ve probably pilfered all the really good Halloween candy from your kids, and are getting down to the lame stuff like pulverized taco chips.

Time to get out of here and head someplace with really good food.

How about Hawaii?

The first thing people notice about Hawaii is that it has an abundance of vowels. For example, the simple word ‘To’ becomes ‘WakalakaHubbahubba’ in Hawaiian.

In certain dialects, “Achoo!” means “That’s a nice set of pineapples you’ve got there”. It can be challenging.

Now, the main thing about Hawaii is that when you get there they put flower rings around your neck. Made from Highbiscuits and other fragrant flowers, they do this to hide the fact that all the volcanoes smell like flatulence.

I’m not kidding.

On all the National Geographic shows I’ve seen about volcanoes, not one of them ever tells you the volcano ate burritos the night before. The result is eerily similar to what happens when we eat burritos, except in the volcano’s case the hot lava, or ‘Magnum’, shoots out of a tube at high velocity and hits the water in a great steaming splash.

Yeah. So apart from that it’s a pretty neat place.

My wife and I spent our honeymoon there you know.

We spent a week on a big island called Kona, named after a famous bicycle manufacturer, where we did some marvelous baking.

Here is our favourite Hawaiian recipe: rub exposed skin with fragrant oils (do not cover), fry until bright red in a hot (35° Celsius, 100° Calvin Klein) oven environment, turning frequently. Baste with more fragrant oils, apply beer, and serve cooked and mellow with fresh fruits and vegetables. Just cut off the burnt bits. Yum!

We also visited the Mona Lisa volcano, which was nice.

Then it was off to Kiauuyeehawkaaii or Malahuinahaha or some other consonant-challenged place for another week, where I was attacked by some tuna.

Ahi-type tuna fish is a local delicacy, caught fresh in the local Carol reefs by large fishing boats from Taiwan which freeze the fish in huge holds, take it back to Asia where it is packed in boxes and flown daily to New York, then to Hawaii, where you can eat it as a fresh local delicacy while looking out over the reefs where it was caught.

Isn’t the global economy swell?

Anyway, there was a ‘Seafood Palace’ which had just opened next to our hotel, and was already World Famous according to its sign. Word must have spread rapidly on the interwebs or something.

My first bite of their specialty, Ahi tuna, proved interesting, and by ‘interesting’ I mean ‘caused most of my face to fall off’.

“Oh now this is different” I thought. “Subtle, delicate flavours, coupled with poisonous toxins that cause your lips and tongue to swell to several times their normal size. This IS a special!”

I wondered if ‘Ahi’ in Hawaiian meant ‘deadly fish that kills people every so often in Japan’ that I had seen once on Discovery channel.

I wasn’t sure if I was having an allergic reaction, or if my new bride had learned about my real past and had decided to bump me off without the bother of kids or years of tender happiness and joy.

I looked into her eyes and said romantically “Thish mish ins magging my mouf go numb!”

Turns out tuna does that when it goes bad. The restaurant actually confessed that it was their fault – it was an old piece of fish and not the ‘fresh off the boat bit of aquarian heaven’ their world famous menu had so obsequiously promised.

My threat of sicking an army of pasty white Canadian lawyers on them paid off handsomely when they offered me a free dessert for my trouble and puffy lips.

Lest you think I’m a wimpy negotiator, let me just inform you: I held out for two.

Cook ‘em Dano.

Toilet Issues

Bathrooms are wonderful places and not just because it is there you can squat naked over your spouse’s hairdryer to dry off your bits.

That may be information you didn’t wish to know about me. Nevermind.

What I really wanted to say here is, as chief bathroom cleaner in our house, I have been thinking about the effects advertising has had on our sense of cleanliness in the throne room, or “visiting Mrs. Murphy” as my Mom used to call it.

Why, for example, do we demand that our toilets smell like toothpaste? Have scientists deduced that peppermint is the most effective agent for killing bacteria? My immediate suspicion is that this research is a canine conspiracy that was formulated so they don’t have to spend so much money on mouthwash.

Given the methods currently employed by dogs to ‘freshen’ themselves, I somehow don’t think gargling with minty fresh blue water is going to help much. In fact, I would enjoy seeing a dog gargle period.

I have yet to see an ad campaign telling me the dangers of leaving fingernail clippings in the sink or bathtub mind you. That particular delinquency is brought to most husbands’ attention early in the marriage. Probably on the honeymoon. Maybe on the wedding night. Something like that. First date maybe.

Ahem.

I also got busted once cleaning the sink with the toilet brush. My argument, bravely and I think concisely put forward, was “But honey, you don’t actually eat out of your sink – why should it matter…?”

The phrase “Went over like a lead balloon” was perhaps coined in honour of this cogent but fruitless reasoning.

It failed utterly.

I became a truly outstanding toilet cleaner not only by right of occupancy (according to statements made by my completely disloyal relatives and offspring), but as a result of an embarrassing injury long ago in a past life.

This may seem obvious but believe it or not some toilets are smaller than others.

Speaking as a larger man in terms of body size, and not necessarily size of the, uh, sensitive personal region, this can pose some difficulties.

For example, when a man assumes the throne, what will occasionally happen is his (sensitive personal region) will touch the side of the toilet itself.

Now the cleaning agent in most cleaners is hydrochloric acid.

Let me just repeat that for female readers: HYDROCHLORIC ACID!!

A female, and let me take pains here to assure you it was not my wonderful spouse I am talking about here, accidentally left some toilet cleaner on the edges of the bowl and seat.

If you have ever had any HYDROCHLORIC ACID touch your hands, you will know that it can cause some mild discomfort. A burning sensation if you will.

Having it touch more sensitive tissue has been known to cause panic and alarm in many male individuals.

Can you understand what I’m delicately trying to phrase here?

I imagine a visit to the emergency department would be interesting…

“I have a burning sensation on my sensitive personal region!”

“How often do you visit prostitutes Mr. Scumbag?”

“No no – not that kind of burning. I think a chemical actually touched my (sensitive personal region) and now it hurts”.

“What kind of chemical would do that?”

“Toilet bowl cleaner”

“Why were you cleaning the toilet bowl with your thing, Mr. Crawford?”

“I wasn’t. It’s a long story – please get the fire hose…”

Perhaps I should write an advertising jingle:

“You’ll wonder where your husband went

If you clean your bowl with Pepsodent…”

Or perhaps it should be a public service announcement:

“Your mate has gone flaccid

Cause you’re scrubbing with ACID…”

Anyway – I am now, and always will be, the official and most talented, thorough cleaner of toilets in our house. Perhaps the world.

Believe me – I don’t mind. It is not a chore. I rinse well. Really well.

Food Rules II

The Food Consumption Rules Committee would like to further clarify the rules regarding certain foodstuffs.

The round, jelly Licorice Allsorts with the little round candy things glued to them are unfit for human consumption and are henceforth banned. The round coconut ones are not yet outright banned and the committee will accept discussion papers regarding their relative merit.

The coconut ones are usually preserved until snack desperation sets in, usually when you have come to the last of your Allsort supply. Then and only then are these confections admitted.

Most prized for their rarity are the tubular Allsorts with white stuff on the inside, followed by the single or double layered Allsort. Squishing the double layered ones down to single layer thickness for purposes of concealment is allowed. The plain black licorice jobs are OK too in the eyes of the rules committee, but those jelly ones have got to go.

The rules committee is also curious if Allsorts is supposed to be capitalized and will undertake research into this concern.

There seems to be some confusion regarding the consumption of corn on the cob.

The rules clearly state that this delicious vegetable is to be consumed by gnawing horizontal rows in either direction. Chewing the delicious, wholesome, butter-drenched kernels off by an around the cob circulatory action is similar to a log de-barker and is therefore ruled gauche and forbidden.

The rules committee notes they do not get to say ‘log-debarker’ very often.

The application of liquid condiments such as ketchup to the kernels of corn is disgusting and is forbidden. Salt and pepper is not considered too weird and is acceptable.

Flossing of the incisors after consuming corn on the cob is understood to be extremely satisfying, but should not be undertaken while in mixed company, in restaurants, or on dates.

The rapid ejection of corn particles from one’s bicuspids accompanied by moans and cries of “I got it!” has been known to reduce the ardour of companions.

The committee is also seeking your input regarding the eating of ice cream delicacies.

When consuming a Revello (which, incidentally, should be called just a ‘Revel’ and not ‘Revello’), it is undecided if one should eat all the chocolate coating off the outside prior to eating the ice cream inside.

Taking bites of both chocolate coating and ice cream together has its adherents, but there is something to be said for the delicate removal of all traces of chocolate from the outside first, then plunging into the ice cream within.

Polls are showing a close race so let’s form committees and heavily armed factions prior to next year’s convention.

A report from the Children’s Division deserves your attention as follows:

All French fries are to be eaten before the burger, grilled cheese or chicken fingers. This is well known as the Kids Rule of Outside the House Culinary Excitement. Parents must abstain from all disciplinary procedures during these focused moments.

Forks are to be used only when food is too slippery to grasp with fingers alone. Sauces are irrelevant to this reasoning.

The spreading of jam and other condiments upon toast is a category of rules all its own, but some issues need refreshing.

When children are spreading assorted condiments on toast, butter and jam are allowed to be plopped into the middle portion of the bread, with minimal spreading, or spread with the wrong side of the knife or even the handle or finger.

This makes imminent good sense since once it has all been chewed up and in the tummy it doesn’t matter where the condiments were anyway.

Parents are also cautioned to back off and not worry about the jam being spread nicely to all areas of the toast’s surface.

Mouths are to be wiped on the sleeve, until such time as children are old enough to be bashed for doing so.

Spit washing by one or other parent is allowed up to the age whereby children actually use a napkin, but only if child involved makes a face and turns away violently during the washing procedure.

The rules committee thanks you for your continued attention in these matters.

Beater Logic

I put some oil in my car this morning, thus blowing my entire auto repair budget for the year.

When it comes to vehicular maintenance I have to surrender my man-card and admit I’m pretty useless. As my dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree I know some belt has torn or a vital fluid needs replenishment, but that’s about it.

Incidentally, if you put a vital fluid in the wrong hole, the vehicle will cease to function.

Beer in the radiator may be amusing, but it is apparently not good for the engines’ continued or long term operation.

It makes the beer taste dreadful too.

I have also discovered that warning lights are pretty much meaningless unless all of them come on at once when you stall at intersections. This can be embarrassing if you are taking your wife to the hospital, or if the vehicle is a police bait car, or both.

If mine doesn’t run then it probably means I’ll have to spend some money on it – how much being directly proportional to how little funding I have currently available, or how big a hurry I am in at the time.

Because I own it outright, I do not care if it gets dings in doors or anywhere else for that matter, and I haven’t washed it in many months.

This is all known as Beater Logic, a subject with which I am intimately familiar.

In the old days, before I got so clever, I used to actually pay to have the problems associated with warning lights fixed by a mechanic. Now I know better, so I just put large wads of chewing gum over the offending lights on my dashboard so as not to distract me or spoil my night vision.

My car was recently broken into but not really – I never lock it. The would be thieves actually re-arranged the rubbish to look neater. Toss out a few Tim cups next time would ya fellas? Thanks.

My first beater was a 1968 Dodge Cornet. Bugle. Something like that. Dodge Strumpet maybe.

Purchased for $900 at Prairie Shyster Motors in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, it was a real trooper with 4 doors, about 3 out of 9 cylinders actually functioning, and an awesome AM radio that changed stations by simply bashing the top of the dashboard, or turning a corner.

Corners were rendered even more interesting by manual steering that required about 27 turns lock to lock – helpful for my developing teenage musculature. It was like a massive ship where you’d start cranking the wheel over, and about 10 minutes of furious cranking later the bow would slowly start to change course.

The winterization process was straight forward though. I had to sweep out accumulated leaves, wire the passenger window shut, and place a piece of cardboard in front of the radiator. Henry Ford would have admired such simplicity.

I recall trying to change a flat tire on this beast and learning that, idiotically, Dodge lug nuts were threaded backwards until about 1972. When I thought I was loosening the bolts I was in fact tightening them – one of the more ludicrous automotive arrangements I have ever discovered (the other being the butt-ugly Pontiac Aztec of course).

I still remember the shrieking sound the lug nuts made as I torqued on them. It was almost as loud as the sound of the enormous rupture appearing in my groin as my pressurized innards tried to rapidly escape from my straining, taut young body.

This episode also taught me that WD40 could be used on something other than frying pans.

So if you ever buy a used car with bits of gum all over the warning lights, buy a selection of fluids at the gas station and relax. It is a fine cruising automobile and you got a screaming deal.

Oh, and gum loses its flavour after a few days so don’t even go there when you get stuff fixed. Trust me.

The Great Constipated Elephant Story

As a kid I used to work part time at the local radio station – reading news after school and being a ‘DJ’ on weekends. Yes, they were as desperate for talent then as most businesses are today.

Now, in broadcasting, especially in small town radio stations, it is the sworn duty of all staff to make the on-air talent laugh unprofessionally while the microphone is on.

This is done in some rather creative ways – up to and including setting the news copy on fire (back in the days when it was paper anyway), having office staff lick the ears of the announcer, undressing them, making rude sounds, pulling the chair out from beneath them, and so forth, all while live on the air.

Of course I myself would NEVER do any of these rotten things to my fellow broadcasters.

Well, actually, most of my fellow announcers would lock the doors at the sight of me approaching, perhaps thinking I would be dropping my pants and mooning them again through the newsroom window. Or other such amusements as occurred to my fevered brain.

Like switching their record players surreptitiously from 33 to 45 rpm or vice versa (yes we played records back then). (Readers under age 35 please ask your parents what records are).

Station scoundrels would try this nonsense on me all the time, but for some reason it never worked. One prankster thought I would crack up if he waggled his willy at me, but a quick smack to his scrotum with a ruler soon disabused him of this notion.

I was the Iceman.

One night while on shift by myself, however, it came to pass that I had to read 10 minutes of news, 2 minutes of weather, then 10 minutes of sports. It was quite an exhausting pile of stuff.

The station I was at (CJYR in Edson, Alberta if you must know) was called a ‘rip n’ read’ – we didn’t re-write the news at all, we just ripped it off the wire printer and read it.

The preparation for a newscast was extensive. It consisted of dashing into the newsroom, grabbing a pile of news summaries and the sports scores, then running back into the control room, turning on the microphone and commencing to read in your finest ‘Broadcaster’ news voice.

Rehearse? Not so much.

CBC it wasn’t…

One night I, as usual, didn’t rehearse or even look at the material, and in the middle of the newscast I started to read a very funny story about an elephant in a zoo somewhere that had become constipated. In its ongoing efforts to remedy the situation, it started eating all sorts of items, including a large rock.

I found this story amusing, such that it got me chuckling, which is a no-no, so I tried to suppress it, which proved fatal.

Anyone who works in the industry is nodding their head at this point. There is nothing more dangerous or volatile than suppressed laughter. It simply cannot be stopped.

I’m afraid my response was quite unprofessional – to the point of guffawing so badly I had to turn off the microphone, and when I turned it on again some 30 silent seconds later, I was crying with laughter.

I’m afraid the listening audience was subjected to snorting and choking that I’m sure came as something of a mystery. One minute he was reading a newscast and now he’s choking and laughing and crying? What station is this again?

Tears streaming down my face, I had to cut my losses and go to music. I couldn’t even read the weather for the rest of the shift – it would send me into convulsions again.

Luckily I think the boss was out of town or I would have gotten his patented Professionalism Speech. I figured since only about 6 people were listening it probably didn’t matter.

Anyway, the constipated elephant story succeeded on its own where my colleagues had failed miserably, which was even more humiliating.

I suspect any broadcasting outlets wishing to interview this professional columnist about his acclaimed work have just crossed me off their list of studio visitors.

Maybe they’ll phone instead.

Snap, Grin

With Christmas just around the corner AAAAHHRRRRGGGHHH!!

Pardon me. Small panic attack there.

Well it’s time once again to stop reviewing the stock portfolio, take the hose out of the exhaust pipe, and increase the line of credit so we can buy fuel so we can stock up on the roomful of batteries we’ll need for the upcoming joyous non-denominational, non-sexist, no trans-fat statutory holiday.

Your shopping experience will be that much more satisfying if you go armed with good information. Cameras are always a thoughtful gift, so today we’ll discuss photography.

First of all, look for one of the major camera brands like Olympia, Pentaxi, Honda, Evinrude, Cannonball or Hasselbladder. These companies never have blurry pictures in their brochures so you know they can be counted on to have good products.

Before we get to what kind of camera to get, let’s talk about what sort of pictures you like to take.

If you want to take pictures of dots in the sky like most of my air show pictures, or vacation pictures of the family in front of yet another cathedral, get what’s called a Point and Shoot, Give and Go, Thick and Thin, or Do the Hustle-type camera.

This type is also favoured by kids for taking extreme close-ups of tonsils, ears, nostrils etc. They are fairly small and inexpensive (the cameras), although I’ve found the TV’s on the back are pretty much useless since they don’t get cable.

For actual good grown-up pictures, you’ll need something called a Single Laser Reflux camera. These have more buttons and settings, and allow you to take pictures of everything from waterfalls and sunsets to, if you’re paparazzi, Britney Spears’ hoo haw.

Society is truly benefitted by this technology isn’t it?

These cameras can photograph, or ‘shoot’ as we photocopiers call it, almost anything, so you’ll also need a bunch of different lenses to lug around all the time and use once per year.

If you’re male then you’ll want a really big unit.

Excuse me – that didn’t sound quite right.

Manly men usually prefer having a long, uh, lens like the guys on the sidelines at sporting events carry. These are way cool but can be problematic when a linebacker lands on top of one on and winds up with a 500mm suppository. Awkward.

Probably the most important thing to look for in any new digital camera is lots of something called megapickles. Megatickles. Something like that. Mega Ryan maybe.

Anyway the more megalicks you have the better your pictures will turn out, and the easier it will be to Photoshop yourself twenty pounds lighter and get rid of those unsightly blemishes and wrinkles.

Further amusement can be had by adding these same blemishes and wrinkles to pictures of the rest of your family or better looking comrades. Use your imagination. Get lots of megathingies.

Apparently there is also a way to take pictures of people so they don’t have alien red eyeballs. That would be nice to know but, being male, I don’t read instruction booklets, especially ones the size of War and Peace. In our house the camera is safely set on AUTO only.

Actually, the kids and I were taking our camera apart the other day when we discovered there are spring loaded parts that can shoot out like grenade shrapnel.

Not all the parts went back into the camera when we finished picking them up. Which is why we are currently looking for a new camera too.

Our old one is fun to play with in the tub though. Almost waterproof too.

Happy shopping.