Yee Haw Plunkity Plunk

By Jim Hagarty
2015

I have been looking for a new sport ever since my doctor put an end to my hang gliding (I landed inside a silo near Kinkora and got some scrapes) and now I think I have found it in New York.

Several dozen competitors from around the world took turns Sunday hurling a sacrificial banjo into a polluted urban canal to see who could throw it the farthest. Tyler Frank of St. Louis bested all other male competitors with an 85-foot throw. On the women’s side, Nada Zimmerman of Innsbruck, Austria, tossed the banjo 67 feet into Brooklyn’s Gowanus Canal.

Two things: I want to hire Tyler to tutor me and I am madly in love with Nada.

Event founder, banjo player and radio host Eli Smith, says, “I love the banjo, and yet I have a perverse desire to see it thrown into a body of water.” I don’t see anything perverse about that at all.

So, I’ll be down at the Avon River in Stratford practising tonight. I just hope I don’t hit a duck or a dragon boater.

Finally, my sport. Shows if you are patient, the right one will come along.

Party of the First Part

By Jim Hagarty
2007

Nothing’s simple any more. You hear it said. So do I. You might, in fact, have heard it from me. I’m usually saying it. People of the jury, I present as my evidence, well, just about every aspect of modern life.

You don’t want to know about my underwear buying habits, I’m sure, but I just recently spent almost half an hour in a men’s clothing section trying to decide among the many options available today for the simple job performed by underwear, whatever job that might be. Colours galore, patterns aplenty, boxers, briefs. Value paks of six pairs, or three pairs. Special occasion briefs.

In the good old days, there was one kind of men’s and boy’s underwear and one kind only. However, you had a wide variety of colours to choose from – as long as it was white.

It doesn’t matter what you go to buy, or to eat, or to watch in a theatre. Saturday, at one of these big movieplexes, a friend and I stood gawking for 15 minutes before the popcorn stand, weighing all the various options and packages priced for value. Bargain hunters from way back, we took our time and came up with what we think, but still aren’t sure, was the best buy.

Has anyone’s life improved as a result of having all this variety pumped into it? I don’t know. I do know that simplicity is as quaint a notion as table manners, modesty and diplomacy.

Witness my main piece of evidence. When I was a kid on the farm in the 1830s, our black and white TV got three channels – London, Wingham and Kitchener. We picked up the broadcast signals from these stations by way of a space-station-looking aerial on the roof of the house which we controlled by an electric “rotor” in our living room. Amazing science.

Today, in the city, of course, my TV-watching options are much more varied although my family and I have not opted for all the channels money can buy. For 22 years, I have had a pretty good arrangement with my cable company. They’ve run a wire into my house, I’ve plugged it into my TV, they send me a bill for this luxury every month, and I pay it. Every year they send me a letter saying, sorry, but we have to charge you more for your service. I pay it. I don’t see any other cable companies banging on my door, so I have no choice.

Now, in my feeble mind, the simplicity of the relationship between me and my cable company goes like this: If I don’t pay, they take the wire away. Not hard to understand. I don’t get to have that bag of potato chips if I won’t give the cashier the money for them.

But this week, I received in the mail an “Important Notice of Changes” to my service. “As part of our ongoing effort to improve customer service, we have simplified the terms applicable to our various services.” I opened the document and it fell out before me like a scroll Julius Caesar might have read from. On that parchment are typed 5,493 words (I did a computer word count) defining the new relationship between my cable company and me.

Somewhere, a lawyer is basking in the south sea sun at a beautiful resort paid for with the money he or she charged my cable company to write to me with all these simplified terms. There are 52 sections in the document and most of them seem to more or less define what awful things will happen to me if I don’t live up to the agreement.

OK, here’s a little nugget: “We may assign or transfer the Service Agreement or any of our rights or obligations hereunder without your consent. The provisions of Sections 8, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38 and any other provisions of these terms which by their meaning are intended to survive termination. These Terms have been drawn up in the English language at the express request of the parties.”

I am baffled as I believe I am a party and I don’t remember expressly requesting this, or anything else, with the possible exception of being left alone.

Here is the most I can put together from all I’ve read so far. If I don’t pay them, they’ll take the wire away.

If I was writing the Simplified Terms, I’d reduce the 5,493 words to about 12: If you don’t pay your bill, you will lose your cable signal. Words a TV-addicted couch potato like me can understand.

Expressly.

A Pocketful Of Propane

By Jim Hagarty
1987

Every once in a while, a little boy from down the street brings me fuel for my wheelbarrow.

The other night, Bradley and I were sitting on the steps of my front porch slurping popsicles when he turned to me with a serious look and said in a man-to-man voice: “How’re ya fixed for propane? D’ya need some?”

“Well, I am getting pretty low, now that you mention it,” I answered. “You wouldn’t happen to have any with you, by any chance?”

“Yes. I’ve got some in my pocket,” he replied.

“Is it okay to carry propane in your pocket like that?” I asked.

“Ya. It’s okay.”

With that, he went over to my wheelbarrow – an implement for which he has an undying fascination – and plugged his thumb and forefinger into the end of one of the handles. While he made a sound like gas escaping from a hose, the propane travelled from his pocket, up one side of his body, down through his arm, out his fingers and into the wheelbarrow.

It’s a good thing, too, that somebody keeps the wheelbarrow gassed up and ready to go because I can never seem to remember to do it. And it gets a lot of use around my place for jobs its designers might not have envisioned when they created it. It’s plastic and lightweight and can be easily maneuvered by a child. And it’s excellent for carrying live cargo as well as inanimate objects.

Take my cat, Grumbles, for example. Without the wheelbarrow and the kids to operate it, she might have to actually walk all the way across the front lawn. That’s a lot of steps when you’re only eight inches high. Lately, she gets to ride, free of charge though she doesn’t seem to realize she’s supposed to stay in the wheelbarrow for the entire trip.

Other kids are more suitable freight as they aren’t as liable to scratch and hiss at you when you put them in and can generally be relied on to stay in for the entire journey although they have a tendency to yell, “Not so fast” a lot. I looked up once to see the riders blindfolded with towels and now and then, one of them would get dumped on the ground.

I am continually amazed at how little it takes to amuse children. Bradley’s little sister Jennifer is madly in love with three old sponges I keep in the garage. I’ve been going to throw them away but she drags them out whenever she’s over and carries them around the yard. They’re a great thing to press against your ear when you’re sucking your thumb.

“Dairz doze punjes,” she says, just before she pounces on them. Once in a while, she stops, puts them on the ground and counts them.

“How many sponges you got there, Jennifer?” I ask her. The fingers start touching each sponge, “Waaaan, twoooo, forrrr … and finally she arrives at a figure. “Nine!” she says. A few minutes later, when I ask for a recount, she repeats the procedure and comes up with, “Eight!”

Unfortunately for Jennifer, her mother doesn’t share her daughter’s deep interest in sponges. And so, they remain at my place and not at hers where she would like them to be.

Jennifer is also intrigued by my cats, Grumbles and Buddy. (She calls them Dumbles and Bunny.) But Margie, a toddler from across the street, goes wild whenever her parents bring her over to visit the “meow” at my place. She gets excited watching Grumbles’ tail wag back and forth and once in a while she grabs it and gives it a hardy pull, supplying the cat with a reason to demonstrate how she got her name.

Watching my little neighbors find ways to make themselves happy takes me back to the days when a wooden fencepost and a driveway covered in stones could keep me out from under my parents’ feet for hours. It was impossible to get tired of picking up stones and trying to hit the fencepost, which was about 20 feet away. No finer sound could be heard than the “crack” of rock meeting wood.

“Go on outside and let the wind blow the stink off you,” my mother used to say. And I would.

And while the stink was blowing away, I’d hurl a few dozen stones in the general direction of the post.

That was long before the age of propane-powered wheelbarrows.

It’s Fryin’ Time Again

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I hate to be pessimistic, but it is getting to be an awful world out there. Bombings, torture, arson, assassinations. Environmental crimes. Hate crimes. Our fellow humans are losing their minds and it is downright scary.

What is all this mayhem leading to? This is what we can look forward to.

A woman in Maryland stole three french fries and, incredibly, ate them. She ate them right in front of the man she had stolen them from. You are reading that right. But take heart. The woman was not only hungry and lacked any moral compass, she was stupid enough to steal them in a restaurant from a plate which belonged to a police officer.

Wow!

Thank God, however, that the law moves decisively and quickly in our modern society. The officer arrested her right away and carted her off to jail where she belongs. She has been charged with second-degree theft. On the arrest sheet, the fast-acting cop listed the items stolen as “French Fried Potato…quantity 3.”

Some might say this is too trivial an event for jail and a subsequent court appearance. Are you kidding me? Across the world, french fry theft is on the increase and out of control. Do you not read the news? And if you think this is over the top, ask yourself this: Will french fry thieves stop at potatoes? Will they? No they won’t. Left unchecked, they’ll go on to nab onion rings, salad fixin’s, gravy containers.

I hope this doesn’t sound like fear mongering, but sooner or later, they will drink your pop! Good work Maryland police officer. In your honour, I am coining this new slogan: “French Fries Matter.”

Beware the Termite Baby

By Jim Hagarty
1988

As an editor at a daily newspaper in a small, Southwestern Ontario city, I have long wondered if most of the really exciting stories that are taking place in this big, wide world are passing me by. While I’m writing headlines to go on the tops of articles about landfill sites, 90th birthdays, plowing matches and town council meetings, are other journalists out there having a more rip-roaring time of it? Are they getting to handle stories they can really sink their teeth into?

Apparently, they are.

While waiting in a grocery store checkout line recently, I noticed this huge headline calling out to me from the front page of a paper in the newstand: Termite baby eats mom out of home. An accompanying headline, in smaller type, clarified: He crunched crib to sawdust.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought. “I hope he’s not headed this way.”

Grabbing the paper from the rack, I flipped to page 27 and there, staring out from a black and white photo with an evil grin on his infant face, was 18-month-old Erwin Edsten, displaying a set of molars, incisors and bicuspids so big and sharp they belong in a sawmill, not a baby’s mouth. Fascinated, and a little frightened, I started reading.

“Looking tiny and tender, a soft, cuddly infant suddenly turns into a monstrous eating machine as he crawls from room to room devouring everything in sight. Not even furniture is safe from the jaws of this hungry horror.” Poor Erwin, it seems, was born with a full set of teeth and an appetite as big as a forest and he’s been chomping ever since. He eats chairs, tables, floors, walls, clothing, pencils, paper, cushions and even mattresses. His latest meal was his own crib.

“Erwin eats nothing but wood and cloth,” his mother is quoted as saying. “We try to feed him regular food but he spits it out.”

“Now when,” I asked myself, “was the last time a real good story like that crossed my desk?” A little dejected, I bought the paper and took it home. At 79 cents, the publication turned out to be a real bargain. It was jam-packed with amazing news.

Talking parrot predicts quakes and tornadoes, reads one headline and beside it is a picture of Ernie, the psychic bird. “The first few times Ernie kept yammering about earthquakes and fires and whatnot,” says his owner, “I didn’t pay any attention.” But, now she does and she’s living proof of Ernie’s powers because in the years she’s had him, Mariatt De Bouville has never been hurt in an earthquake, a fire or a whatnot. So there you go.

It’s vasectomy or jail for dad of 42 kids, says a headline on page 6. “Because his huge family is draining the town’s welfare funds dry, authorities have ordered Hans Heinz to submit to sterilization – or he’ll be facing a jail sentence for contempt of court. The reporter gives both sides of the story: “God gave me a talent and I’m making full use of it,” says Hans, who hasn’t held a job in years. “And who knows? It may be one of my kids who discovers a cure for cancer.” But one town commissioners fed up: “At least if he goes to jail, it’ll keep him away from his girlfriends.”

Man meets female self through dating service. Victim of a split personality, the male side of this fellow Harvey gets matched up with his female side. But the story’s incomplete. What is left unanswered is, who pays for supper and movie when they go out?

Foot-long cockroaches terrorize renters. In search of foot-long hotdogs, no doubt, the mutant insects escaped from a lab. “A horde of them attacked my cat and nearly killed it,” complains one renter. Foot-long or not, I’d like to see them attack my cat.

Docs cut giant down to size. Once 7-foot-6, he’s now 6-foot-2. I didn’t read the story but I can imagine how they did it. They probably threw a few foot-long cochroaches in his bed when he was sleeping. Or got him to put on some wooden shoes and babysit little Erwin for an hour or two.

Dog saves owner by using CPR. Riff the dog’s a real hero now. “He licked the man’s face and then started jumping on him,” a witness claims.

That did it. I was hooked. This week, I saw the latest edition of the paper. I wasn’t disappointed. Baby born holding its five-inch twin, announced the main headline, and above it: Lightning bolt splits man into male and female. I wasn’t long getting my 79 cents down on the counter, let me tell you.

Wrinkle cream causes model to grow beard and mustache. “My face is my fortune,” Lisa moans. “And right now, my face isn’t worth much.”

Woman told she must cut vocal cords of 21 pet dogs. Neighbours complained about too much barking. Surprise, surprise. I say, get Riff to teach ’em all CPR.

Phony doc jailed for operating on 248 patients. If he’d operated on only 247, he’d have been all right.

Stranded man eats own leg to stay alive. Lost in the desert, downed pilot Peter Lind dined on his own drumstick.

This paper has everything. Farm news: Cows trained to act as bodyguards for lambs, and $1,000 found in cow’s stomach. Marital advice: How to gag a nag. You can shut mate up forever. Supernatural research: Man captures friendly ghost in hot wax, and Phony pyschic trapped in her own crystal ball. And crime news: Chimp dressed as midget robs bank.

Then there’s the story about the woman who bit off another woman’s nose and spit it on the floor, the man who’s selling land on the moon for $5 an acre (the landscaping’s extra) and the man who is hooked on laughing gas and is not amused. Well, he is. Sort of.

Sigh. Those big-time reporters. They have all the fun. If I could just once meet little Erwin, feed him a table leg or two. Or watch Riff the dog perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

But I won’t. You just watch. I’ll be writing up 90th birthdays till I celebrate my own.

Pass or Fail?

By Jim Hagarty
2014

If you live in the United States and you would prefer not to be shot, a good course of action might be to not sign up for a gun safety class. Last week, a Florida man accidentally shot himself in the leg just after leaving such a class. Last year in Ohio, a gun safety instructor accidentally shot a student during class. And in 2012, a Virginia man accidentally shot himself and his wife during a gun safety class.

Imagine showing up early for your gun safety class, all scrubbed up and shiny, pencil case and notebook in tow, all ready to go. The teacher comes in, says, “Good morning class”, writes a few things on the blackboard, takes out his gun and then turns around and shoots you.

A few questions here. If you can’t complete the course on account of, you know, being dead, do you pass or fail? Does the teacher get a cut in pay or is he forced to take some retraining and what if he gets shot during his retraining class?

Now, if you are a gun teacher’s wife, is it advisable for you to accompany hubby to class where he shoots you and himself? Who drives home? How does a teacher review board assess a gun safety teacher who shoots his students, his wife, or himself? Are there different ratings based on the level of injury or who it is that gets shot? Five points off for a student, three for a wife, two for yourself? Does this affect enrolment in the class next semester?

Would students shy away from a class in which they might get shot? I am guessing, in certain parts of the United States, that probably wouldn’t put them off a bit.

Recently, a suicide bomb instructor accidentally blew himself and 22 of his students up. How would you rate a teacher like that? He certainly showed his class exactly how it should be done. I used to teach and while I did have my good moments, I was never as thorough as that.

Somewhere in the world, at least once, a person who just moved into a new neighbourhood was run over by the Welcome Wagon. Oh cruel irony. You suck!