Category: Life

Posted on

The Hippo and the Lion – 19/03/2018

In a display of supreme stupidity, the group of bankers moved downhill towards the lioness and her cub to get better photographs. Predictably, the lioness charged.

My friend, who was leading the bodyguard detail for the bankers, described what happened next as “a cartoon”. Feet slipped, arms flailed, and the bankers fell all over each other in a desperate attempt to scramble back up the hill to the safety of the lodge. The lioness streaked towards them, roaring in anger.

With no good option, my friend ran downhill past the flailing tangle of bankers to meet her. He reached for the concealed pistol in his shoulder holster.  His only choice was to kill the lioness before she killed his clients. This was a great pity, because she was clearly faultless and they were clearly fools.

However, having seen off the threat to her cub the lioness stopped, then retreated. My friend, standing alone and relieved, removed his hand from the still concealed gun. He turned to climb back up the hill.

He was met by thunderous applause. The bankers, now safely back at the lodge, still had no idea that my friend was armed. They believed he had charged the lion in an act of selfless bravery.  All afternoon they bought beers for the conquering hero and recounted their mutual adventure. No doubt the tale grew in the telling, and with the drinking.

One by one the bankers wobbled off to bed. My friend sat alone on the lodge verandah, savoring the events of the day and the cool African night. A hippo wandered by grazing on the grass. So wild and yet so close, like the lioness herself.

Then the hippo pooped all over him. Hippos use their paddle-shaped tails to spray stool around like a firehose. My friend found himself sitting in just such a hippo car wash. When he finally got up from the chair there was the outline of his body, like a chalk drawing at a murder scene, surrounded by hippo poop.

He went into the parking lot, stripped, and threw his uniform in a garbage bag, never to be worn again.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Posted on

The Bear – 05/03/2018

I am a bear in a world of lonely cubs. That’s the only way to explain the frequency with which I am propositioned by other men.

It happens everywhere. Last month it was from a guy sitting at the table next to me in a restaurant in Brussels. For the record, he was six foot four and full of muscles. I was merely full of mussels. It happened in the workplace, where a male colleague made a pass during a pick-up volleyball game at a staff party. He could not possibly have been attracted to my volleyball skills. It once happened on a beach. And lets just be honest: you have to be pretty damn desperate to proposition me while I am in a bathing suit in full daylight. Or visually impaired.

It happened in an airport security line. I had just finished telling a female colleague about my being approached by other men. She rightly scoffed. Moments later, as if scripted, the man in front of me turned and asked if he could borrow the toothpaste I was putting into the little plastic security bag. Taken aback by the odd request, I handed him the crumpled tube. He thanked me, winked, and then slapped my butt. My colleague stood there stunned. I told the man to keep the toothpaste.

Having my wife with me makes no difference. She and I were once holding hands in a café booth. The waiter lingered around us with the same intensity that I have around warm lasagna. We ignored him. Then he came back with a huge chocolate cookie and sat down in the booth beside me. “You have to try this”, he said. “Its better than sex”. My wife can attest that this actually happened. And that it was, indeed, a very good cookie.

The most amusing instance took place on a crowded subway train. “Do I know you from somewhere?”, asked the fellow standing beside me. When I said no, he continued. “Are you sure? You aren’t perhaps an accountant, are you?” Again I answered in the negative. Then he just got to the point and asked me where I was getting off the train, because he could get off there too. I sensed a double entendre. I smiled and replied, “As I said sir, I am not an accountant”. Startled that I was using his code, he laughed out loud. Then he added with faux sarcasm, “Oh. That must mean you are one of those guys into IT and computing.”

Take that, Bill Gates.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Photo credit to Gastoniagrizzlies

Posted on

The Wheelbarrow – 19/02/2018

There is little justice for the poor in this world. But in at least one instance, it was served in a wheelbarrow.

I received the call sitting in a café in Uganda. It was our gardener, very upset. He had been taking grass clippings down to the local garbage site when he was jumped by several men. They roughed him up because he was from a different tribe. Then they took the wheelbarrow. They happened to be Kampala municipal workers, doing this in broad daylight with impunity.

Our gardener was upset for losing the wheelbarrow. I was upset because he had been assaulted. I told him I couldn’t care less about the wheelbarrow so long as he was safe. He assured me he was OK. I told him we should go to the police. He laughed and told me there was nothing further to be done. Sadly, I knew he was right. I hung up the phone and relayed the story to the man with whom I was meeting.

That evening I returned home to find a beaming gardener and our fully restored wheelbarrow.

Apparently, shortly after our call, several pickup trucks full of uniformed men arrived at our house. They were armed with rifles. They confirmed our gardener’s identity. They confirmed that indeed a wheelbarrow had been taken from him. Without further explanation they told him to get in a truck.

The convoy drove straight to the municipal depot. The armed men deployed from the trucks and fanned out across the compound. Someone approached the yard foreman and informed him they were here to retrieve a misplaced wheelbarrow. It was immediately “found” and loaded into a truck. The armed men and our gleeful gardener mounted back up and the convoy left in a cloud of dust.

The friend who was with me that morning when I received our gardener’s call happened to own a security company. He knew our gardener. And he was annoyed at the injustice. So he took it upon himself to dispatch a few truckloads of his men to sort it out.

Of course I thanked him. But then I asked if a wheelbarrow was really worth someone getting shot. “Oh Chuck,” he replied “I just sent them out with guns. Trust me, they didn’t have any bullets!”

Thereafter at the garbage site our gardener was given a little respect, and a wide berth.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[This story is dedicated to the godfather of our son. May he grow up to have a heart like yours, if not armed men at his disposal.]

Posted on

List Serve – 12/02/2018

Nothing provides a window unto the soul of suburban America quite like a neighbourhood list serve.

I was once offered the coveted position of list serve co-moderator in our small community. I turned it down. I knew that the power of moderating my neighbour’s comments would in time corrupt and destroy me, like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

The following annotated content is but a small sample of what appeared on our list serve:

1. “The bitches are whelping”. This spectacular post came from a local biologist in reference to foxes mating in our neighbourhood. Mating foxes generate a lot of noise. So did this comment when it appeared on the list serve.  Actually, so did his subsequent post about the Tufted Titmouse.

2. “Please have your son refrain from urinating in the creek. Not only is it gross but it upsets the fragile ecosystem”. The referenced son was none other than our own little boy. We asked him if he did indeed ever pee in the creek. He looked puzzled. “Of course I do”, he said. Then he added hastily, “But I never poop there!” I would say that outcome puts us in the running for Parents of the Year.

3. Original Post: Have you seen my lost cat Periwinkles? She has run away.           Response: Is it possible she ran away because you named her Periwinkles?

4. Curb alert/free to a good home: One Kenmore vacuum cleaner bag. Slightly used.

5. Epic email chain: The original post came from someone who was asked to refrain from letting her dog poop on the church lawn, even though she dutifully cleaned it up. In response, she called the town police to inquire if dogs pooping on the church lawn violated local bylaws. She also noted in her post that the request had been made of her by a member of the Baptist congregation, since our community church is shared by several denominations.

This post set off a firestorm on the list serve. There were comments and rebuttals about race (I think in reference to the congregation being Baptist?), religion (why not), inconsiderate pet owners, and the general injustice and failure of local law enforcement and our elected officials. I stayed out of the fray.

 However, I did briefly consider sending our son over to the church lawn to sort of stir the pot. You will be “relieved” to know that I refrained from doing so. And that Periwinkles returned home safely.

 [If you know someone who would enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

Image Credit goes to Roeselien Raimond – similar photos of funny foxes can be found at this site.

Posted on

The Puddle – 29/01/2018

Sitting in the puddle of urine caused me to reflect on my life. Particularly since the urine was not my own.

We arrived at the dementia care facility and wheeled our dear family member into the garden to enjoy some sunshine. On route we passed the activities room where a singer of modest talent was belting out “Margaritaville” to a few dozen facility residents. As we rolled by, our family member shoved her fingers in her ears. Dementia has not diminished her musical scruples.

We parked the wheelchair in the garden. I sat down on a cushioned park bench. As I did there was a loud and prolonged squishing sound. My trousers became instantly soaked.  Several cups of suspicious liquid drained from the cushion to the pavement below.

Only then did I notice another facility resident ambling away from the scene of the crime. Her saturated sweat pants told the whole story.

Standing beside me, my ever sympathetic wife could not stop laughing. A duty nurse promptly came to clean up the mess and take the cushion off for laundering. She managed to choke out the words “occupational hazard” between peals of laughter. Where is the humanity, I ask you?

This incident did not register with our family member at all. She chattered away in a happy state and within a world, sadly, all her own. She was clearly energized by the sunshine and a few power naps.

As we went back inside we could hear the entertainer down the hall. He had passed around little tambourines and was lustily leading the facility residents in a version of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”. However, the residents soon lost the beat, along with the general plot of the song. The resulting chaos sounded something like: “He was Bad (bang) Bad (bang) Leroy Brown (bang), bad(bang) est (bang, bang, bang) man in(bang) the (bang, bang, bang, bang, bang).”

My wife made me strip off my trousers in the parking lot. I rode home in my undies, humming “Margaritaville”, reflecting on the heartbreaking beauty of this life sublime.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[This story is dedicated to newborn Evelina. May you love this world as much as your namesake.]

Photo credit: Horizons Unlimited

Posted on

The Tuxedo – 22/01/2018

My pants kept falling down the night I met former Senator Al Franken. This has nothing whatsoever to do with scandal. It was my stupid rental tuxedo.

I had recently taken a new job in Washington, DC, and this was my first black-tie event. I went to the tuxedo rental shop in our local mall, proudly located in a “transitional” part of town.

The moment I entered the shop I knew I was out of my element. Every tux in the store looked like it belonged in a Snoop Dog video: pink vests, furry top hats, shiny sequins, ivory-handled canes. Some dudes can pull off such a look. I am not one of them.

The sales person approached. I cut straight to the point. “Do you have any fat white guy tuxedos?” I asked.  She looked at me without expression, then replied, “Yeah. We keep one in the back”. She disappeared into the storage room to dust it off.

She emerged with an appropriately boring black tuxedo. The jacket fit my shoulders and chest just right. But the arms were 6 inches too long. She folded the sleeves to the appropriate length. Then she got out a staple gun. Nothing says “class” like the sleeves of your rented tuxedo jacket being staple-gunned into place.

That evening, I went directly from the office to the grand ballroom. This was my first exposure to the strange allure of pomp and power in Washington, DC. My job at the gala was to interact with high worth donors and dignitaries, including Senator Franken. Doing so required only three things: make eye contact, shake hands, keep pants on. Not as easy as it sounds.

With the gala about to begin, I found a bathroom in which to change. That’s when I discovered (a) the accompanying trousers were absolutely cavernous. Truly, the crotch hovered just above my knees, hanging feebly like a sail with no wind. (b) The adjustable waist band on the trousers was broken, and there were no belt loops. And (c) the rental shop had neglected to include suspenders – normally standard with any rented tux.

I had no good options. I emerged from the change room: sharp dressed professional from the waist up, Oompa-Loompa from the waist down.

I circulated through the ballroom, gladhanding with donors and colleagues. As I did, I was obliged to keep my hand in my front pocket at all times. The only way to keep my pants up was to hold tightly to a gathered wad of surplus fabric in my balled fist.  If, even for an instant, I absentmindedly reached for a glass of wine, my pants began to slide rapidly to the floor. It was a stressful evening with many close calls. But I managed to “pull it off” (I couldn’t resist).

At the conclusion of the evening our boss gathered the staff. She warmly praised our collective work. She reached out to offer me a congratulatory hug, to which I naturally responded. Terrible idea.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

Posted on

Priorities – 15/01/2018

Winter grilling in a skin tight speedo should be against the law. Yet there was my neighbour, putting kebabs on the barbeque in his driveway in the depths of an Ottawa winter, wearing nothing but a bright red speedo.  Two quick pieces of context.

First, Ottawa is really, really cold in the winter. Not exactly speedo weather.

Second, my neighbor was a heroin dealer. People came and went from his place at all hours of the day and night, often leaving with small paper bags. He was scraggly and greasy and rail thin. He only dressed in black. But he was a very friendly neighbor. He would give a big wave and smile every time we passed his house. He seemed happy in his work.

As I drew nearer on my walk home, I saw with relief that he had put on a scarf. Then the scarf moved. To my horror I realized that it was actually a large snake, presumably a pet, draped around his neck. Naturally, I concluded that this entire escapade was a result of heroin use. There is no other explanation.

As I passed the end of his driveway, true to form he turned to give me a big smile and wave. His pasty-white, Canadian winter body was positively translucent against the backdrop of snow. And I got a front row seat to the full glory of the speedo. Normally, cold makes things shrink. But not always.

As I returned his wave, my eyes locked on one final detail: my heroin-using, winter-grilling, snake-wearing, speedo-bursting neighbour also had a nicotine patch affixed to his shoulder. He was trying to quit cigarettes. Because those things will kill you. Unlike heroin. Or snakes. Or being out in a Canadian winter in a bathing suit.

When I got into our house, I called my wife over to the window. This is a transcript of her response as she peered across the street to the scene of the crime:

“Good Lord, is he wearing a….”

“What the hell is that around his neck? Is that a….”

“And what is…what is…Are you KIDDING me?”

 

If you know someone who would like Words for the Weary, feel free to share or forward our posts! 

Posted on

The Christmas Concert – 18/12/2017

It officially became the best Christmas concert of all time when they broke out the bongo drums and booze.

My daughter’s school choir sang this morning in an ancient stone church in the next village. As I walked there I greeted some French-Swiss construction workers who, true to form, were leaning on their shovels and smoking. The German-Swiss street crews work. The French-Swiss crews smoke.

The concert was hosted by the local International Women’s Guild.  The only thing international about the Guild is the use of the word “International” in the title. These women are all English. Like Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey. Like the Queen mum and her Corgies. The aging flower of Britannia.

The audience sang along with Silent Night, While Shepherds Watched their Flocks, What Child is This, and other old-fashioned-hey-nonny-nonny English Christmas classics. The songs were interspersed with readings by proper British authors like Rudyard Kipling and Charles Dickens. There was even an inexplicable Beatrix Potter poem about an Ostrich pulling the Christmas sleigh. How did these people once hold dominion over a quarter of the world?

Then things got “International”.

First, the choir made the mistake of projecting the words to a French carol. The Guild ladies sang along, but only out of duty and with nowhere near the gusto of the other carols. There were sideways glances and knowing nods exchanged, lest anyone be perceived by their Guild-sisters as being unpatriotic or worse, a Francophile.

Then came the Hanukkah song. This was received by the stunned assembly like the sting of a boxer’s jab. It was followed by the bruising right hook of the Kwanza song. The choir director had to explain to the baffled crowd what Kwanza was. One of the boys in the choir produced a bongo drum.

Then all hell broke loose. The bongos wailed, the choir sang, and the director, with her ample backside to the crowd, began to shake her caboose in time with the music in a most un-British manner. The Guild matrons swooned.

Decorum was restored by the taking up of a collection for some suitably obscure British charity involving animals. Then the crowd filed into the back of the church for biscuits and mulled wine. Even the kids were given mulled wine. It was 10:30 in the morning.

As I walked back to the car I passed the construction workers once more, their cigarette butts piled high from a long, unproductive morning. Each of them was by now also holding a steaming cup of mulled wine, a gift given by the passing Guild ladies returning to their cars.

I love Christmas. God bless us everyone, no exceptions.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Note there will be no posts for the next two weeks on account of the holidays. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year to everyone! More to follow in January, 2018.]

Posted on

Thanksgiving – 27/11/2017

As I blacked out from cardiac arrest I thought: I am going to die in Africa, naked, at the hands of a French dwarf. How disappointing for my parents.

 Days earlier I had felt an exquisite pain like someone twisting a knife in my back. I was 20 at the time, sitting in a restaurant in rural Cameroon. I stumbled from the table and dropped to my knees in the parking lot, bawling like a calf. My colleagues took me to a local clinic. I was soon transported to a private clinic in the capital city.

 I was met there by a doctor of exceptionally short stature. With an outrageous French accent and extreme platform shoes, he was a cross between Jacques Clouseau and Gene Simmons from KISS. The diagnosis was renal colic–kidney stones. I had been working outside in the tropics for 9 months, sweating hard every day. At night I drank mostly beer. Eventually my desiccated kidneys had enough.

 I was rehydrated in the clinic over several days. Before being discharged, the doctor wanted to do a full body x-ray with an injected tracing fluid. This would confirm if all the calcium was out of my system. In preparation I had to suffer an enema, witnessed by the entire clinic staff at my bedside. Further humiliation followed as I lay naked on the cold x-ray table. No secrets that day. Or dignity.

 They injected the iodine trace. Who knew I was allergic to iodine?  My heart stopped beating.

 Other people see a light at the end of the tunnel. Not me. I saw African faces bending low, weaving in and out above me like a kelp forest in the water. There was a tiny white shark circling the kelp forest. It was speaking French and wearing platform shoes. I also vaguely remember my tongue being clipped to the side of my mouth, injections, chest compressions.

When the ordeal ended I was weakly helped off the table and into a wheelchair. Unexpectedly, a nurse brought me a chocolate bar. I remember clearly it was a Twix. I had not seen chocolate in 6 months. Her gift unleashed a flood of uncontrollable tears. I sat there naked, savouring the chocolate, sobbing and laughing and overwhelmed with inexpressible gratitude for the precious gift of this life. May I feel that way every day.

Posted on

Scandinavian Furniture – 30/10/2017

A certain Scandinavian furniture store, which I probably cannot name on a public blog post, is the last train stop before hell.

Many people like it. “It’s great value”, they say, “so many practical things and so affordable. I get a sense of accomplishment from assembling the furniture I just bought”. This is willful delusion.

Every minute spent in that store is an admission of failure. None of us choose to be deep in the bowels of the labyrinth with glassy eyed kids melting down all around us. We are there because we cannot afford to be somewhere else buying furniture that we actually like.

Each purchase is an exercise in compromise: you know it is bad quality, but we buy it because we have to. Sitting in our home, it reminds us that we just spent $200 on lacquered particle board and ate meatballs made from horsemeat. And then it breaks.

Products are named by cleverly rearranging letters from the Scandinavian spelling of only three words: “underachiever”, “futile” and “self-esteem” (which is actually two words). Fake accents are then thrown in to give products their mysterious Euro-allure. This is the furniture equivalent of Häagen-Dazs.

The company motto should be: “Where Relationships go to Die”.  Couples enter the store with dreams of the future they will build together. They end up seething in the check-out lanes, their ankles gouged from the person with the extended cart in line behind them, craving a $1 hot dog despite being vegan. This is followed by the silent car ride home and furniture assembly with the little allen keys: a guaranteed relationship-ender.

Guess where my wife and I just spent our afternoon? Thankfully we have plenty of humour and whiskey to regain our perspective. And no doubt we are soon to return, drawn by the meatballs like a moth to hell’s flame.

 

NB: Image credit to Reddit User dionysage