Draconian Measures

Well it is past January 1^st and we are all supposed to act grown-up when driving. I myself am practicing the art of sliding my cell phone down my sleeve upon sighting a police officer and pretending to scratch my head instead of talking. It’s all in the wrist action.

“Why no officer I don’t hear anything and I don’t have a ringing armpit, how absurd.”

Getting busted after February 1^st could be interesting.

The law now clearly states that if you are caught talking on a cell phone while driving you will be executed in terrible ways, possibly involving pitchforks, and your remains will be stuck on a pole at the entrance to the city and tazed repeatedly by authorities while chanting, torch-waving crowds scream invective at your corpse.

I’m sorry – I’ve been reading about the Middle Ages lately and I got a little carried away there.

What I meant to say was that your corpse will be tazed only once at the gates of the city. My bad.

My eyelids are getting heavy…

“…For lo did the younge peoples and contractores and sellers of homes and many others use the fone devices while driving, and they didd then plow into the hind endes of the autos in fronte of them. Such crashes upset ye apple carts so to spill their goodes and wares and injure the occupantes and hinder the tax collecteth thereby and possibly involveth lawyers God forbidde amen.

“And so it came to pass that the ruler Gordone of Victoria did invoke a Lawe which stated that henceforth all citizenry woulde Nought speake into hande held devices whilste driving their powered automachines.

Foresooth it be further proclaimed that shoulde ye be founde typing of texte or Twitteringe or reading of the Holy FayceBookes while driving, yea verily wouldst thou be an idiote and dolte and hindquarter of a donkey and shouldst be pelted with stones verily.

The people did righteously say “Art there also lawes forsaking all doughnuttes and koffees and drinkes contained in bottles and lippstickes and combes for the brusching of the hairs whilst in my horseless carriage? Wouldst thou ban me from changing the numbers upon my wireless music boxe? Verily there are notte such lawes so buzze off!”

But the people didde sigh and line up at the Future Shoppes anyway because they are Canadian and sheepishe and they didde get new fones with Blueteeth things for the eares from the lande of Dorke, and cool touch screenes and kameras whiche would take naughty pictures of girlfriends and post them to their FayceBookes, blessed be they without passwords.

And Gordone of Victoria shall sende his sherriffs farr and wide to enforce his decrees, and collecteth the taxes (sorry – fynes) from those who commit peril upon the rodes and byways of the land, and they shall all live happily everafter with fewer dentes in their bumpers and fewer dents in the pedestrians and shoppes.

So sayeth The Gord.

I am so sorry - I must have nodded off there. Is that your cell phone ringing?

What’s that thing on the side of your head?

Driving Diversions

Now that the toll on the Coquihalla highway is gone, I’m sure you’ll agree there isn’t much thrill in driving it naked anymore is there?

I did experience one last bit of fun at the toll booths the other day. I drove forward and backward through one of the toll stations several times, not just to relive the naughty joy of it all, but to revel in the fact I could do so now without paying.

To a skinflint such as myself this is high living let me assure you.

Anyway, it lead me to think of other entertaining activities undertaken while driving.

When I was growing up we usually drove in a Volkswagen bus with the middle seat removed. We’d lay on foam mattresses and amuse ourselves endlessly – ‘steering’ Dad’s ears, holding up ‘I’m being kidnapped!’ signs to passing motorists, bashing our heads on the sharp corners of the overhead air conditioner – you know, the usual stuff.

We didn’t even consider wearing seatbelts – even if they were available. Parents then were either oblivious to the danger or simply didn’t care. Our bus was so slow it would get bug splats on the rear windshield so it didn’t really matter anyway.

Our drives were also unbearably lengthy, sometimes as long as 3 hours if you can imagine the torture. Desperate parents would resort to idiotic things like pointing out interesting mileage numbers approaching, with a live play by play commentary and some family photographs of the great event for good measure.

It was on one of these long, boring journeys that a family legend was born. Why yes, it did involve me and how thoughtful of you to guess!

We refer to it simply as the “Help Me! Help Me!” episode.

You’ll be pleased to know that what follows is extremely gross and may be unsuitable for more mature readers. Kids will love it though.

We were having a “Who can make their face the reddest” contest. You’ll recall these events – hold your breath, grunt like you’re giving birth, and see how red/purple you can make your face. Simple really. Good training for fighter pilots. Or future hemorrhoid sufferers. Something like that.

So it came to my turn, and until the Great Blast, I was doing pretty well. My face was hot with the red iridescence pluming up my cheeks, my form was good, and the judges were nodding in approval.

I was on my way to another championship I thought.

Then it happened. Someone made me laugh, and instead of exhaling out my mouth like a normal person, I let fly with enormous pressure entirely through my nose for some disgusting reason.

The collective mucus of my pre-pubescent body, from my ankles on up, came exploding out of each nostril in massive snakes of grayish green uh, material.

Head bowed and not knowing what to do, but knowing I was probably in trouble, I started yelling “Help me! Help me!”

Of course this came out something like “Hep knee! Hep knee!” since I had enormous tubes of snot dangling from my face down to the floor of the bus.

I’m not kidding about enormous. These things were about an inch in diameter and over two feet long. Kleenex alone was not going to work here – I needed a bucket.

Of course my siblings did nothing to assist me in my plight – they were too busy pointing at me in a mixture of revulsion and awe and crying with laughter.

Here I had the entire contents of both lungs and most of my head hanging out of my proboscis and no one lifted a finger to help. In hindsight I must have looked like some sort of freckled walrus with hideous green tusks quivering in the air in front of my bowed head.

My charming family always sees fit to remind me of this episode anytime we get together. Heads bowed they chant “Hep knee! Hep knee!”, and my wife learns still more about her charming, mature husband and his upbringing.

I just smile quietly at their collective mirth and then sneak off and maturely piddle in their suitcases.

“Hep knee” indeed.

Enjoy your breakfast!