Author: Jim Hagarty

A college class was told they had to write a short story in as few words as possible. The instructions were: The short story had to contain the following three things. 1. Religion; 2. Sexuality; 3. Mystery.

Here is the only A+ answer in the entire class, written by a woman:

“Good God, I’m pregnant; I wonder who did it.”

An elderly couple had just learned how to send text messages on their cell phones. The wife was a romantic type and the husband was more of a no-nonsense, to-the-point kind of guy. One afternoon the wife went out to meet a friend for coffee. She decided to send her husband a romantic text message and she wrote: “If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.” The husband texted back to her: “I’m on the toilet. Please advise.”

By Jim Hagarty
2014

Sometimes life is hard for the human male. I won’t go through the list of ways it sucks but, you know, breadwinning, hiding emotions, early death, and all that, not to even start on baldness, bellies and bad breath. I think about these things every day and feel badly about my plight as a man.

But after learning today about the life – more specifically the sex life – of a certain kind of spider, the name of which I can’t remember, I am feeling a little better about myself. These guys are a little over-the-top sex-crazed, in other words, normal males, but lovemaking for them is a bit riskier than to remember to buy some protection. The problem is, their girlfriends, after it’s all over, literally eat their lovers (I said, literally).

So if you want to have sex with one of these hotties, and these guys really do want to, you have to have a strategy if you don’t to “die in her arms tonight” as one pop singer once ridiculously sang. The strategy that sometimes works is to get the hell out of there as soon as it’s all over. This is not easy, but can be accomplished. However, these spiders have two penises which might sound like a good thing but when you’re trying to make a run for it, could slow you down. Especially since these penises are located on the spider’s head.

“Hey, is that a tophat Fred or are you just happy to see me?” they might be heard to be asked.

“Eff off,” replies Fred.

However, and we may as well stick with Fred from now on, Fred does the nasty and then, to get away from his lover and would-be consumer, chews off his penises and runs away as fast as he can. How you can chew off your penises when they are located on your head is a mystery but I guess spiders know how to do that.

Now, if, after all that, Fred could just go home and have a shower, apply a bit of polysporin and sit down to read his favourite book, Itsy Bitsy Spider, that would be fine. But instead, after he turns around, head all bloody and suddenly penis-less, he has to viciously fight off a long line of other males who just can’t wait to get in on this action. Because Fred’s penises are still inside his lover and doing their job of impregnating her even though Fred has left the building, and if his two former members are interrupted, no baby Freddies next spring.

Out of four males spiders who go a courtin’, only one makes it out alive, if penis-less. But I have to be honest, I think Fred’s life probably just got a whole lot better now that romance is off the table.

Now, as bad as all this is, it could be worse. There is a caterpillar somewhere out there that has to contend with a wasp which stings it and eats it and this guy’s only hope is to fling his poop as far away from him as possible so that the bee won’t find him. In human terms, that would be like throwing your bowel movements 75 feet away from you while lying on your belly on the ground.

Oh, what the heck, my life as a male seems rather quiet and uneventful, you know, so no more complaints from me. It’s Fred that has the real headaches even if his head is lighter than before. But at least he won’t get called a dickhead any more. (Ya, I went there.)

By Jim Hagarty
2017

A few years ago, I bought a wonderful 36-inch HD Panasonic tube TV on the Internet for $100. I drove 40 miles to pick it up. The seller and his buddy loaded it in my van. When I got home, two family members and I tried and almost failed to get the darned thing from the van into our garage, it was that heavy and awkward.

The TV was destined for the rec room in the basement. I didn’t dare ask a friend or neighbour to help me move it there as I didn’t want any predictable injuries to these helpers to be on my conscience. Out of options, I hired a mover to do the job. That cost me another $104. Two skinny guys who would blow away in a strong wind showed up and hauled the blasted thing downstairs like they were carrying a big feather cushion.

A couple of years later, I spied a smaller version of the same TV, this one measured 32 inches, in a second-hand store. Perfect for the shed. I plunked down $25 and prepared to haul it home. The store assigned a 75-pound guy who looked like he’d skipped his Grade 4 classes that day to help me. From the store to the van, we dropped the TV once. Somehow, we got it into the vehicle.

Once home, I got a wheelbarrow and with the help of my son, we hauled the thing down our walkway and into the shed. Plugged it in. It worked great and served perfectly the next couple of years. This summer, it became redundant and my son and his buddy moved it into the garage.

“We’re not moving it again,” came the announcement. So there it sat, completely in the way, for the next few months. And I worried about it every day.

Finally, I offered it for free online. There was immediate interest from a couple of people. I warned them it was a monster to move.

A young guy, of normal size, showed up for his prize. I told him I couldn’t help him move it into his van, as I was an ancient person, and that he would have to get a friend.

“Well, let me see,” he said, before picking up this gigantic boat anchor and walking it to his car like he was carrying a baby’s empty carseat.

“Wow, it is a bit heavy,” he remarked.

And as he drove away, I thought to myself, heavy is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

I hope someday he is available to move the deadweight still sitting in the corner of my rec room. I’d rather torch the house, I think, and hope for some insurance than pay another $104 to move it.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

One night last week I watched a terrific musical event – the induction of Anne Murray and Leonard Cohen into the Canadian Songwriters’ Hall of Fame.

The tributes to Cohen, which made up the biggest part of the CBC show (perhaps because Anne Murray is not a songwriter) were especially stirring. This was a bit of a surprise for me because somewhere in the back of my mind I still associated Leonard Cohen with a torturous book of poetry I had the distinct misfortune to have to suffer through during an English literature appreciation course in university. I did not appreciate it. This was supposed to be a “bird” course, but it ended up being tough, thanks in part to Leonard’s very difficult book, Beautiful Losers. I never thought I was particularly stupid, but I couldn’t seem to understand a thing this guy wrote down, though everybody else around me seemed to get him just fine.

Later on, Leonard Cohen took up writing popular music and while his lyrics still sounded like something someone might scratch with a stone on the wall of a Third World prison while serving a 99-year sentence for spitting on the sidewalk, I found myself warming up to the Montreal poet to whom smiling seemed like a completely foreign act. Then 10 years ago I saw him perform his song called Tower of Song on TV and I was captivated. This guy is good, I realized that night without doubt.

But the years drifted by and I didn’t pay much attention to Leonard Cohen, except for what I’d read about him periodically in the papers. Then came last week’s show and three great musicians performed three of their favourite Cohen songs. Willie Nelson did a great version of Bird on a Wire. And k d lang was simply amazing with her stunning rendition of Hallelujah, as she hit notes no one should have been able to reach. But the best song of the night was performed by a young artist named Rufus Wainwright who marched onto the stage confidently and nailed Cohen’s Everybody Knows.

“Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” Wow! Fortunately, l taped the show and so watched the whole thing again before going to bed Friday night. Saturday afternoon, I put the tape back in and watched Wainwright’s Everybody Knows four more times. Unbelievable.

All that day, I kept humming the song in my head, “Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” What a song! It was about supper time, l guess, that I realized what the effect of watching Rufus Wainwright sing Everybody Knows four times in a row can be. And for the rest of that night, this is all that ran through my head.

“Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.”

From time to time, that was interrupted by the chorus: “Everybody knowwwws/Everybody knowwwws/That’s how it goessss/And everybody knowwwws.”

Leonard Cohen, Rufus Wainwright and I spent all evening together and I’m afraid to say, all went to bed together too. I tried to get away from them but they weren’t going anywhere.

Sunday morning came, and I woke up all alone. A few clear-minded hours went by and around noon, I suddenly remembered that I had been obsessed with a song the day before. What was that song, I smiled to myself. Oh yeah: “Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” Back it all came, double.

It is Tuesday night now as Leonard, Rufus and I write this story and there is no sign a separation is on the horizon. But that’s how it goessss. And everybody knowwwws!

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I wish I could remember the days when I had a memory.

People tell me, it is a handy thing to have. And I believe them.

I was building a skating rink in the backyard and needed a new water wand. So I went to the hardware store and bought a nice one for $20. The first night I used it, I left it outside and it froze to death. Hooked to the hose, it blew water in 25 directions at once, like fireworks.

So, back to the hardware store where I bought the same water wand. Another $20.

Come spring, the rink was long gone. One day I was cleaning up the garage, and there I found the broken water wand. So I put it out with the garbage.

Unfortunately, I had already discarded the broken one shortly after its demise, apparently.

So, I threw out the good one too, thinking it was the dud, that I had already junked.

And now it’s skating rink time again. I just got back from the hardware store with my third water wand. But the hardware store owner saw me coming, I guess, cause he put the price up to $27.

Yes, it’s true. My mind tends to WANDer.

By Jim Hagarty
2012

RIP George 2010-2012.

Named after the late comedian George Carlin, George was a good gerbil and a great father of seven. He leaves behind Brenda (named after Carlin’s late wife) and his kids. Brenda lives in another tank now and probably isn’t aware of her husband’s passing which is just as well as she will be following him one of these days to the little pet cemetery in the backyard near the composters.

George loved to spend time in his coconut and on his wheel. His biggest interest, however, was in renovating his wooden house. He and Brenda pretty much completely ate the first one and before he died, he was halfway through a new one.

He was found buried in a pile of his woodshavings, placed there probably by the sons he lived with. He will be missed by his master Chris and the rest of his human friends.