About 75 years ago, I say, 75 years ago, I went down to Americaland with my mammy and pappy for some business my pappy had with an engineer from Tulsa who then lived in Cameron, Louisiana. He was a tall man, heavy set, with a slight limp in his right foot. He got the limp from kicking a Nazi to death with his foot. At least he told us the guy was a Nazi, but many folk still believe he was just an ordinary mailman who liked to wave alot, and Carl, the engineer, went off on him after Carl drank a bottle of Valu-Rite Vodka and sniffed a large bottle of Elmer’s Glue. He got the glue from an actual glue factory and not from a retail operation, something we could do more-so back then when we could make purchases direct from the manufacturer. But now you have to go through certain channels to make your purchase, which in turn drives up the price, and that’s one reason we don’t see penny candy at our neighbourhood mamma and pappa shops. But if we did, I would snap up all the C. Howard Lemon Mints and a handful of Chick-O-Stick’s. But I actually couldn’t grab a handful as both my hands are riddled with the arthritis. But I would try my best, even if it meant that I’d have to unfold my wrinkly fingers and stick them in a small container that houses those delicious candies. You have to watch out when you stick your hand in small containers, you should ask my uncle Willie about that. Damn near lost two fingers after he stuck them in a small container when he was searching for a golf tee that his son placed in the small container six months previous. Turned out there was no damn golf tee in the small container, but rather a 14′ Reticulated Python. Funny thing is, he was so mad losing those fingers, yet later, that python became his best friend. He loved that python like a son. Actually, he hated his son, so ya, the python definitely was number one. Then one day he lost the python in a card game. Texas poker. He lost the python and his house, and his car. Damn sad that. But that’s a tough lesson to learn, you should only gamble what you can afford to lose. Actually, Sal, the guy I had coffee with twice a week at the McDonald’s by my house, says you should only gamble what you can afford to win. Damn Sal is one funny guy. And considering he lost his family in a boating accident 55 years ago to the day, it’s amazing Sal still has a sense of humour. He doesn’t have a windpipe, but he does have a sense of humour. Unlike, Mrs Crumpet from down the road, let me tell you….
Archive for the ‘Storytime’ Category
There have been a lot of political conventions going on lately. If you watch the teevee, you’ll soon get your fill. I remember back in 1953, my pa bought one of those newfangled quasar teevee sets, came with rabbit ears and all the bells and whistles. It had rabbit ears, and I owned a rabbit foot. Shot a rabbit with my pa’s .22 when I was a boy, took one of the feet and made it into a keychain. Mr. Cranbrook offered me two bottle caps for it, a Pepsi and a Fanta. What the hell is a Fanta, it sounds awfully European. I had a keychain but no keys. You couldn’t have keys because the government needed the metal to made bomber jets to ward off the Ruskies in case they came across the Bering Straight to Alaska. Alaska is cold, like a nuns chest. I once made it all the way to Montana and slept with a hooker named Yolanda. She had yellow teeth and a broken toe. She got the broken toe by sticking her foot in a lawnmower. Darn well nearly severed her whole foot off, but only took the toe. I ended up taking the toe and cleaning it up, and sticking it on my keychain. People use to ask me what the dilio was on my keychain, and I’d tell them it was a fat hooker’s toe. The rest of the body I kept in an industrial freezer. And then the person would laugh, but one of those nervous laughs. I stopped laughing after pa fell into a creek and was eaten by small fish. My family held a funeral for him at a chip wagon east of the big oak tree down by the stop sign. 23 people showed up and two of them wore wool caps. It was 92 degrees in the shade and some arseholes were wearing wool caps. The caps were hand sewn, not the store bought types. I once bought a shirt from a store….
When I was a little boy, I use to collect scraps of paper. We didn’t have much paper back then, as any product made of tree was confiscated by the government and ground up to add as filler in Grade B meat. I’m not 100% sure, but I think Grade B meat is made from zebra, or elk. Exotic animals they are. Brought in from Africa, or zoo’s. Big zoo’s, like the Kalamazoo Zoo in Michigan. Michigan folk love their zoo’s. They like to take their families there and look at the animals and buy food from the vendors. Being a vendor is a lot of hard work. Sometimes you can work in excess of 18 hours a day. You usually work at state and local fairs. After the Ponce Indiana Fair of 1922, the local government changed the name to The Summerside Fair. No one knows why, they just did. Some people don’t like the name Fair because they don’t think they’re fair. That seems to make sense. Dollars and sense. And recompense. That was quite a string of rhyming words I just put together, wasn’t it? And speaking of string, have you ever seen a cat eat string? They’ll poop it out hours later, you be chasing the little bastard down the road for hours, pulling string out of their rectum. Damn near killed ‘em! I invented that joke. Way back in the days when I was an inventor. I invented the sun. And the colour green. Imagine what the world would be like without green. We’d have no green apples! And other stuff that’s green. I invented green by mistake, I was actually trying to invent chili peppers. And not that damn stupid rock group that only Nancy boys like…
I remember one time when I was a young lad of about seven or eight, I took my fishin’ pole down to the pond in hopes of catching a bass. It didn’t matter what type of bass it was, I just wanted to catch me a bass. Largemouth, smallmouth, striped, white, spotted, it didn’t matter to me, I just wanted to catch a bass. So I grabbed my pole and my lucky lure – my Bouncing Georgina Fly Trap Spinner Bass Catcher (BGFTSBC). I headed down to the pond with lure and pole in hand, but first I had to go to Tom’s General Store to get a ham-hock for lunch. I went into the store and Tom greeted me in his usual way, “Good morning, lad, going to the pond for some fishing?” Tom was always observant, he seemed to notice the smallest things.
“I see you’re going to use a Bouncing Georgina Fly Trap Spinner Bass Catcher, plan on catching a big bass?” “Yes sir, I do indeed.”
“Are you lookin’ to catch a largemouth, smallmouth, striped, white, spotted?
“It dun matter to me, sir, I just wants to catch me a bass”
“Do you fish by the big oak tree, town folks say that’s the best place to catch a bass”
“No sir, I fish down by the dock, I’m going to try my luck there”
“Well, I hope you do well, young lad, go catch yourself a big bass!”
“Yes sir, I’ll shooooore try”, I then ordered my hamhock and took off down the road to the pond, in the hopes of catching me a bass.
As I was heading to the pond, I passed by Jerry’s Barber Shop. Jerry was standing outside his shop, leaning on his door-jamb, reading the local paper. “Hi, son, I see you’re going fishing, Jerry.”
“Yes sir, I’m heading down to the fishing hole right now!”
“Are you lookin’ to catch a largemouth, smallmouth, striped, white, spotted?
“It dun matter to me, sir, I just wants to catch me a bass”
“Do you fish by the big oak tree, town folks say that’s the best place to catch a bass.”
“No sir, I fish down by the dock, I’m going to try my luck there.”
“Well, I hope you do well, young lad, go catch yourself a big bass!”
“Yes sir, I’ll shooooore try.”
I then kicked a small rock with my left foot and headed down the road to the pond to catch me a bass!
As I was walking, I passed by Lou’s Garage. Lou was standing outside smoking a cigarette. “Good morning, lad, going to the pond for some fishing?”
To be continued…
It sure looks like Yuri had a halibut good time last night. When he wakes up this morning though, he’s going to pray to cod to take away his hangover. Yuri shouldn’t carp though, the bartender did want to cut him off, but you know Yuri, always anglering for more booze. I mean, holy mackerel, Yuri, you should know when enough is enough. Telling the bartender you need another drink because you’re mourning the death of your cat, well, that’s a red-herring, you have a drinking problem. Walleye I should do something about it, after all, I’ve known Yuri for 25 years, but whenever I say something to him he always snipes at me, the silly mudhead. Sometimes Yuri gets me so upset I want to lift up my fist and give him a sockeye, a golden shiner, but my sole tells me otherwise. I doubt I could ever hit Yuri, ever since the time I saw him play a really sad song on the bass, the way he perched himself against the wall as he played, I knew I could never beat up the silly Pollack, I mean Russian. Oh well, I hate to see you flounder like this, Yuri, and haddock been a different time I would have helped you, but you really smelt up my place the last time you passed out there. Goodbye ole chub!
That’s a pretty great graphic.
The story I’m about to tell has nothing to do with this graphic, but it reminded me of the time I was about 16 or so and my friend Scott and I went into our neighbourhood convenience store to grab a Coke. While in there, this guy we knew, Tony, came walking down the aisle with a box of Kotex, totally oblivious that Scott and I were in the same aisle. When Tony finally realized we were there, it was too late. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights; he started mumbling something about how his mom made him go to the store to get her some “supplies”.
Well, my friend Scott is pretty sharp, he’s a really funny guy, so he says to Tony, “Sure, Tony, no big deal”.
But Tony and I knew it WAS a big deal and that Scott was just playing with him. We get in line behind Tony, who is behind five or six other people. Scott and I said nothing – nothing to Tony or to each other. The whole time I suppressed a full face grin, knowing that wasn’t the end, something had to give.
The whole time in line, Tony shuffled back and forth, looking over his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable. But Scott pretended he was doing other things, like reading a magazine or whatnot.
Finally, Tony gets up to the counter to pay. Kendo, the dude behind the counter, rings up the Kotex and looks right at Scott and I, wondering why we weren’t chirping in. We said nothing.
So Tony pays, grabs the bag of Kotex and starts walking out. You could tell by his smile and the bounce in his step that he thought that the Kotex episode was over. As he’s walking out, Tony turns to us and says, “have a good day, boys”, and Scott says, “You too, Tony…..you little bitch”.
Well, Tony’s face dropped to the ground and right at the same time that his expression changed he stubbed his foot into the carpet and fell to one knee. Tony picks himself up, totally embarrassed, and tries to get to the door quick-smart. As he hits the door, Scott says to him, “Tony, if there’s any blood, at least you have something to mop it up with….you little bitch”.
I laughed so hard, the owner of the store was laughing, and even the people who were in line that didn’t know any of us started to laugh. Scott though, the only expression he had on his face was the tiniest of smiles. But he knew he did good.
And that’s the story of Tony and his moms Kotex. I would like to thank you reading this story and for being part of one of the many episodes in The Mayor’s life. I would like to thank Scott and Kendo, the people who were in line that day, and especially Tony and his mommy. For without them, The Mayor would be storyless today.
I hope your day is super special and that all your dreams come true!
I am as free as nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
John Dryden – The Conquest of Granada
**Here’s a little (true) story DMorris left in the comment section last week. It’s a great little diddy that The Mayor thoroughly enjoyed. The story hasn’t been produced on any other website since, and especially not at Andy’s Place. I repeat, this was not posted on Andy’s Place at any time. Nope. It shooooooore hasn’t.
Me and a buddy were out North of the community pasture hunting rabbits and partridges with our .22’s. I heard this hissing and clacking sound,looked down ,and there was this little owl laying on his back,wings spread, claws up,hissing and snapping his beak rapidly to scare off the enemy,me. He was about the size of a grouse, wingspread about eight inches on each side.
We looked all around and couldn’t find a nest anywhere. GH owls were not really native to that part of Manitoba, usual grounds were a couple hundred miles north.
So, I wrapped him in my jacket, and decided to him home to my place, as my buddy, a Metis kid , had brought home a couple of baby foxes the year before, and his parents were on no mood to raise more wild animals. So,it was either I raise him or he’d be coyote bait pretty quickly.
I commandeered my Dad’s garage/workshop, and put him in there,loose,we didn’t have a cage. Dad came home and opened the garage and the bird squawked loud and hopped up onto a rafter in front of him, damned near gave him heart failure. I heard a loud bellow,”DONNIE”!, and knew what had happened. I explained the situation to him and as he was a hunter/trapper, understood the predicament, we didn’t want to see a rare and beautiful bird die in the wilds.
Believe it or not, he had once found a moose hamstrung by wolves, and brought it home and fed it in our barn for a few weeks until it was healed,so he knew the feeling I had with the owl. Funny thing, when the horses smelled the moose,they bolted out the door and it took hours to find them and round them up. They would never go in that barn again, so we converted it into a fish shed and built another one out of logs a couple of hundred feet away.
This happened in 1952, when I was just little, but I can still see that moose in the stall, terrified even more than I was. It was so scary looking,with big wild eyes, I decided it must be a wolf, as in the fairy tales, and it took my Dad and Uncle a long time to convince me that such a scary creature wasn’t a wolf, but a moose. What the hell,I was a stubborn kid.
But, back to the owl. My buddy,Stanley , decided we should name it “Lost”, which I didn’t particularly like,but deferred to his judgement as he was two years older and therefore wiser.
We fed it strips of pickerel fillets which it reluctantly ate,and it wasn’t doing too well at first. So, my wise Mother suggested we go and catch mice for it as that was it’s natural diet. So, me and my border collie,Skipper, would go out to the nuisance grounds,which is what we called the town dump, and hunt for mice.
Skipper loved it as he was the original “natural born killer”, and I’d bring home a few mice in a paper bag. Sometimes Skipper ate quite a few, so I had a big fight with him over their little bodies.
It was a really neat experience feeding Lost the first time. As soon as I took the mouse out of the bag and dangled it by the tail in front of him, he immediately sat perfectly still, tilted his head back, and opened his mouth wide. Then all I had to do was drop the mouse down the hatch and glorp it was gone!
If I remember right, he ate two or three each feeding, so I had to work like hell to find him mice. Fortunately in that part of the world there were lots of them. I gradually gained his trust and pretty soon he’d sit on my arm. He became so tame,I could walk around the neighbourhood with him on my arm. I was quite the celebrity with the owl perched either on my forearm or on my shoulder.
The dog,Skipper, was jealous as hell, as I was HIS human, and although I kept him away from the owl as best I could, one day when it was about three quarters grown and able to fly short distances,it jumped off my shoulder and landed on the ground very gracefully, right in front of Skipper.
I figured that was the end of the owl as the dog bore in for the kill, we were BOTH in for a hell of a surprise!
The owl laid on it’s back, just like it had the day I found it, and when the dog came at hm, used his wings to propel himself at Skipper,in a sort of backhand motion talons to the front. He just sprang at the dog like lightning,and grabbed him by the neck with his talons, and beat the hell out of him with his wings. Skipper jumped back,amazed at the ferocity of the attack, and didn’t bother to try another lunge,I think he knew this was no seagull,which he used to kill regularly.
I raised him throughout the summer, and when Fall came, I had to start junior high, so didn’t have as much time to spend with him, and hunting for mice became more of a chore. By about October, he was full grown, and when he sat on my arm or shoulder,he was damned heavy, He was so tame by then,I used to rub my nose against his beak while he sat there staring at me with those big owl eyes.
Finally, I let him loose and he flew up into the big tree by our house. He flew off hunting one night, and I thought I’d never see him again, but a few days later, he was back in the tree. Try as I might, he wouldn’t come down and sit on my arm any more. After a couple of days, he flew away, and I saw him only once more, in the bush North of town, and he seemed fully returned to the wild.
Other people around the area said they also saw him a few times,but by Winter, I guess he flew back North to Great Horned owl’s natural territory.
When I think back on it, I have to give my parents a lot of credit for their patience, as we kids were always bringing some wild creature home. Two of my friends brought foxes home and raised them, and another guy brought home two bear cubs and raised them until they got too big. They sent them to the Assinaboine Park Zoo in Winnipeg.
I raised a Franklin gull, and a redwing blackbird as well as the owl,although Skipper finally caught the blackbird and killed it.
We were lucky to have been raised in an area so close to wildlife and nature. When I look back on my youth in my home town, which has now almost disappeared, I realize what a great place and lifestyle it was for us kids, safe from the modern predators common in city life today.
We had no TV, no video games, just loads of energy and imagination, and I wouldn’t trade the days spent playing “cowboys and Indians” with all my friends, most of whom WERE Indians, for all the tea in China.
TLDG and I went to Buffalo last Saturday for a little getaway (and to think I just wrote a post regarding Buffalo the day before, snort!), to do some shopping, eat at Fuddruckers, and to just enjoy a little time to ourselves, as grandma had Clare for the day.
As we were winding up our day in Buffalo, we remembered that we had one more stop to make – The Dollar Store. Specifically, we wanted to find the dollar store that sold a specific kind of chocolate caramel corn – it’s bloody delicious. TLDG asked me if I remembered where we first found the caramel corn, and I told her I thought it was at the Dollar General. Then I quickly corrected myself and said I thought it was at Everything For A Dollar. TLDG said that we bought the clothes pegs at EFAD, and that maybe the caramel corn could be found at The Dollar Tree.
But then I remembered The Dollar Tree was the place we bought the #5 pencils, and that the caramel corn was actually at The Dollar Box. No, no, said TLDG, The Dollar Box is where we bought “The World’s Greatest Dad” mug, and that she was pretty sure the caramel corn was at The Super Dollar Store. But I clicked in that Super Dollar Store didn’t sell caramel corn, and it wasn’t Everything Under a Buck either, or Buckaroonies, nor was it Giant Dollar or Family Dollar.
“How about Dollarama then?” said TLDG
“Nope, that’s where we got the silver plated letter opener”
“30′ of nylon cord”
“The Almighty Dollar”
“Hearing aid battery”
Then all of a sudden, TLDG and I looked at each other and at exactly the same time said, “Target!”
Man, were our collective faces ever red.
And that’s a true story. You should email everyone you know with it. And at the end of the story, copy and paste this into the body of the email, “I really like the layout of your blog, maybe I’ll contribute one day 8 6 3″
It’s true, my suv broke down last night as I was traveling on a side-road just west of nowhere. Alternator. Cool.
So I got to stay at a motel last night; a motel that charges by the hour. Extra-double-good cool.
I took the blanket out of my truck and slept on the floor. Today, some two-toothed Jimbo stuck his thick fist up my rectum and extracted $700.00 for a rebuilt alternator.
But I’m home, safe and sound.
I have a pretty heavy Green Shoots for you tonight, and I’ll extend my daily post into Saturday because I have some pretty decent pictures and don’t want to rip you off. Like Jimbo did me.
Man, my azzzz is killing me.
In Ontario, we have a program called TeleHealth, it is meant to take the pressure off the massive emergency waiting lines hospitals have. Basically, instead of going to emerg and clogging up the system, you can phone TeleHealth first and waste their time instead. It’s cheaper, and as I say, it doesn’t clog up *the system™*.
I decided to use TeleHealth yesterday afternoon instead of going to emerg or our family doctor, mainly because with all the flus going around, if you want to get real sick, visit emerg. However, this was about Clare. She was really backed up, been four days since she unloaded and she seemed to be in some pain. So I called TeleHealth for some advice.
I spoke with Nurse Judy Scott. After our introductions, I asked, “My baby daughter is having trouble unloading in her diaper, I want to see if there is anything I can give her to help her along”.
Nurse Scott told me that she needed a little background information first, “Can you tell me about her stools, please”.
“Hmmmm, well, she has a little pink stool in front of her little pink desk. I believe it’s a Dora the Explorer stool.”
“No sir, not that kind of stool. Let me rephrase that: Can you describe her waste for me, please?”
“Ohhhhhh, haha, sure, she seems to waste a lot of food. Some is wasted on her bib, some falls on the floor, stuff like that mostly. But she’s a baby and doesn’t know any better.”
“Not that kind of waste, sir, what I’m asking about is her movements. Can you describe her movements?”
After a few seconds of contemplation I said, “Ahhhhh, I see what you’re getting at. Sorry, yes, when I play guitar and sing, she moves around quite a bit. She’s at the stage where she dances a little. It’s the cutest thing, really. She has terrific movements, full of enrgy, bright as the sun.”
“Sir, please, not those kind of movements. How do I put this: I’d like to know the background of your baby daughters discharge.”
“Her discharge? Ahhhhhh, of course. It was a little over a year ago, I remember it was a cold but sunny day. We left the hospital at around 2:30 pm. i remember an old woman stopped us and commented on what a beautiful baby we had.”
“Look, sir, I’m not talking about her discharge from the hospital, I’m not talking about her dance movements, I’m not talking about her wasting food, and I’m certainly not talking about her Smurf stool…”
“You mean Dora the Explorer stool”, I corrected her.
“Whatever. Let me phrase this as only you would understand it – tell me about HER #2’s!!”
I responded, “You mean her lack of delivering timely excrement? You should have just said so and stopped beating around the bush.”
Truth be told, I won’t use TeleHealth Ontario ever again. I found it hard to communicate with their staff, they didn’t seem to have their listening ears on, and I certainly can’t be bothered to translate every piece of verbal information I’m given. What do I look like, Babel Fish?
In case you’re wondering, Clare is fine, she’s doing great. TLDG gave her a few cans of prunes and bang, Bob’s yer uncle.
I apologize for not posting more the last few days, but I got into a wicked bad fight with TLDG Friday afternoon and it’s really taken the steam out of me. Go grab a cuppa, come back and I’ll tell you about it.
There, are you ready, did you grab a coppa? Liar, I know you’re lying. Whatever, here’s the story…
I haven’t divulged this information before, but I have terrible hearing. Truth be told, I’m deaf in one ear and can’t hear in the other. I’m also a stubborn type of fella, so I’ve always refused to go get my hearing checked. Mostly because I fear that the ear doctor will outfit me with a hearing aid. The fear in that is I believe from the bottom of my heart that hearing aids are also GPS’s, and I would rather die than have the feds monitor my every movement. Anyway, TLDG and I were taking a Roadtrip to East Gwillumbury Friday afternoon, and before we left she asked me to grab a Thermos of coffee for the road. No problem, I got the supplies ready, put them in our massive SUV and we took off.
After about 10 minutes of driving, TLDG asked me to pass her the Thermos. Because of my crap hearing, I said, “No, I am NOT having an affair with Uma Therman”. TLDG looked at me like I bumped my head and presumably asked me again for the Thermos, and I snapped, “Of course I’m not wearing thermal underwear”. I thought that was a ridiculous question and I got really angry. Hell, I blew my top.
A couple of minutes later, TLDG was back at it again, “Can I PLEASE have the Thermos?!”
“How the devil would I be hanging out with Thurston Howell III, he lives in Texas, I answered”.
That seemed to set her off. With a look I have not seen before in my life, she basically freaked the heck out and screamed at the top of her lungs, “PASS ME THE THERMOS!!” There are three things I hate in life with all my soul – Surtax, front hallways that have slush footprints, and screaming broads. And not in that order. I could not for the life of me figure out why TLDG wanted thirty dollars in loose change.
Having gone through that personal hell, I had to bring things down a bit, so I decided to offer TLDG a nice hot cup of coffee. “Can I get you a big cup of coffee from the Thermos, sweetheart?”
Anyway, the rest of the trip is a bit of a blur, and I can’t remember how I got here, but I do have to say that all the nurses on my ward were very nice, and hospital food really isn’t that bad.