Month: November 2017

By Jim Hagarty
1986

There aren’t that many things left, nowadays, that haven’t been improved. In fact, that’s the great obsession of our age – to improve everything. We want better bodies, better cars, better food and better TV programs. We’d like better government, better mail service and better information.

So, we get basically what we want and the one thing we can be sure of today is that whatever we buy, from tires to transistor radios, will be out of date some day, more likely sooner than later. Buy a stereo, TV or video cassette recorder and the miracle of modern technology will become practically obsolete in the time it takes to get it from the store to your home. This continuous search for something better is good because it creates a lot of employment.

But better is not always best and some things just can’t be improved on. Like rubber boots, straw hats, rocking chairs, long underwear and corn brooms.

The old bristly yellow and green corn broom has swept up more North American kitchens, cellars, granaries and ice rinks than any other type of cleaning tool including the vacuum cleaner. It has herded millions of nosy cats, dogs and children out of the house and brought down cob webs from the hardest-to-reach places in the parlour. For generations, it has kept the sidewalks in front of city stores clean and in its spare time, been horse, harness and saddle to many a young cowboy and cowgirl who rode out into the yard to shoot up the town.

The corn broom is close to the ideal cleaner. It can be used to sweep up everything from water in a flooded basement to windshield glass at a car-accident scene. Its bristles wear down more or less evenly, giving the broom a long life and as its condition deteriorates, it gets relegated from the house to the grimier jobs outside and in barns and basements.

Adaptations of the old corn broom have been a hit in the world of sports, keeping snow and dirt away from curling rocks as they head for their destination in the circle at the other end of the ice and being the main means of propelling the ball in broomball. And, for kids not able to afford a real goalie stick, the corn broom has turned aside many of Wayne Gretzky’s most blistering shots on both basement and parking lot rinks. Many a close game has been halted at critical moments because Mom needed the goalie stick to clean up the kitchen after supper. (The kind of people who most often use corn brooms, by the way, have “supper” at suppertime, not “dinner.” They eat dinner at dinnertime, not lunch. Lunch is what they eat in the field by their tractors some time about half way between dinner and supper.)

A corn broom can be used effectively to “shoo” little animals and little people in a direction opposite to the one they’re intent on travelling. It can be ridden by witches on their Halloween rounds and when its bristles have all worn down, they can be cut off and the broom can start a whole new life of usefulness as a broom handle.

As far as I know, no saying has ever been coined about the vacuum cleaner but for how many generations have people been using the phrase “a new broom sweeps clean?”

The corn broom, though crude in some respects when compared with the modern synthetic-plastic magnetic broom whose fibres attract dust to them like June bugs to porch lights, has managed to survive our computer age and by virtue of that achievement, deserves respect. And, when you consider you can still buy one of these brooms new for as little as $3, they have to be one of the few real bargains left in this world.

I hope nobody ever improves them.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

Scholars and other smartypants are debating when the decline and fall of modern humans began. I wish they would save themselves the trouble and just ask me because I know precisely when things all started going wrong.

It was June 3, 1996, at 3:25 p.m. I walked into my local Tim Hortons coffee shop and ordered a bran muffin, as I had done daily for many years. It was then I was informed that Tim’s would no longer – as in never, ever – offer plain bran muffins again.

I remember the feeling. I thought I might collapse and lose consciousness. But, and this is a testament to my great strength of character, I pulled myself together and started screaming instead. I was the first person ever, on that day, to use the expression: “Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

The young server was not kidding me. Instead, she began negotiating, offering me alternatives. One of them was the raisin bran muffin, a complete abomination. A raisin bran muffin is a terrible creation, similar to a cherry pie stuffed with mushrooms, if someone was ever so demented as to try such a thing. But what was I to do? I ordered a raisin bran muffin. It tasted even more awful than I imagined it would and I don’t know if I even finished it.

A 10-year period of mourning began, during which time I ordered and ate a raisin bran muffin every day. Then something strange happened. One day I realized that I liked raisin bran muffins. A lot. Like in OMG these are good. On the occasional special day, I would eat one and order another one right away. That was in 2006 and the world seemed to be righting itself.

But that was an illusion.

On June 19, 2014, at 2:21 p.m., I walked into my local Tim Hortons and ordered a raisin bran muffin. It was then I was informed that the restaurant would no longer be offering raisin bran muffins. As in never, ever again. A shock and a sadness overwhelmed me such as I have not known since the day they stopped making Massey Ferguson tractors. I felt the tears filling up the cavities behind my eyes but I held it together.

“What else have you got?”

It turns out they had several new offerings. There was a rhubarb/flax/mustard seed/green pepper/wild carrot/burdock/clover muffin. Also a crabapple/black currant/white potato/green bean/dandelion/seedless grape/brown rice/whole wheat/chives muffin. Several other such combinations too hideous to describe were rattled off for me till I felt like someone had blindfolded me and spun me around six times just to watch me fall down.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the server. “There’s fruit explosion.”

An explosion in that restaurant that day would have suited me just fine but the closest I could come was a fruit explosion muffin so I ordered it. It tasted like you stuffed 12 fruits in your mouth and they exploded. I would have rather eaten my car’s spare tire. So I went back the next day and ordered another one.

It’s going to be a long 10 years.

(Update: Possibly due to the maniacal outcry from bran muffin eaters worldwide, Tim Hortons once again began offering raisin bran muffins a couple of years after they stopped. My joy is almost overwhelming. Now all they need to do is bring back the long-dead plain bran muffin. If there is any justice in the world, they will.)

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once had a red sports car
That was fast as red sports cars are.
It was shiny and sleek
Never mild, never meek.
The highlight of my long life so far.

By Jim Hagarty
1994

Over at the federal Bureau of Rights and Privileges, Maggie Tapwater is busy handling an office full of applicants.
“Next! “ she calls out.
“Hi. I’m Herman Nairdoowel and I’m …”
“Yes, yes. Are you applying for a right or a privilege?”
“A right.”
“And what right are you applying for, please?” asks Ms. Tapwater.
“The right to steal,” says Herman.
“Yes, yes. And what is the basis of your application, please?”
“Well, if I know somebody who has a lot of stuff, and I don’t have very much stuff, why can’t I just go take some of his stuff?”
“OK, well, fill out this form and we’ll let you know in about six weeks. Hey, what happened to my pen?”
“Next!” she cries out.
“Hello there, I’m Sue Exheighted and I would like to apply for the right to perform laptop dancing.”
“Ah, you mean lap dancing. Perhaps you didn’t know. You just got that right three weeks ago.”
“No,” answers Sue. “I mean laptop dancing. You see, I take this laptop computer, and strap it around my waist and …”
“NEXT!” yells a flustered Ms. Tapwater. “Please step aside Ms. Exheighted. There are people waiting.”
“Howdy. My name is Jag Bhaduria. I’m an member of Parliament and I’d like the right to line up about 30,000 of my constituents against a wall and take my gun and …”
“Mr. Bhaduria. How many times do I have to tell you? You’ll need a special licence for that. Please check down the hall at the Bureau of Righteous Indignation and Retribution. They’ll help you there.”
“Next!”
“Pardon me, ma’am, my name is Ian Sest and I would like the right to marry my sister.”
“Reason please.”
“Well, we already live together as it is and have all the same relatives and she could keep her name and …”
“Fill out this form,” a tired Ms. Tapwater says.
“Next!” she calls to the crowded waiting room.
“Hi there. I’m Svend Robinson. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Robinson. You’re kind of a regular around here, aren’t you? Weren’t you in just recently about the right to wear only bikini briefs in the House of Commons during summer sittings?”
“No, I think that was Sheila Copps.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. And how can we help you today, Mr. Robinson?”
“Well, I’d like the right to die, please.”
“Right to die. Right to die. Just let me look that up. Right to date, right to dance, right to dawdle. Oh, here it is. Right to die.
“Mmmm. It says here you already have that right.”
“What?”
“Yes. In fact, beside Right to Die in the directory it says, see Guarantee. Apparently, you are guaranteed the right to die.”
“How?”
“Just let me read this. Ah, here it is. Yes. Every living thing comes with a guarantee that it will die. So, I suppose you don’t even need the right to die.”
“Alright then, how about the right to kill? Have you got anything on that yet?”
“No, that one’s still open although a Mr. Bhaduria might be applying for that. In any case, here’s the form. Take a seat please and fill it out.”
“Next!”
An hour later, an exhausted Maggie Tapwater has earned the right to go home where she complains to her husband for an hour about her job.
“You have a right to be upset,” he told her.
And suddenly, she didn’t feel so left out.

Photo by Al Bossence (thebayfieldbunch.com)

By Jim Hagarty
1995

This week, in our continuing feature, This World of Science, we look at yet another new development involving cows. You’ll remember, only recently, our in-depth study of the efforts by environmental scientists to get cows to emit less methane gas and thereby save the planet. Now comes the news that another group of scientists is working on a way to get cows to emit something more productive.

Yes, it’s true. “Experts” say it’s possible the cow could someday be used to incubate human embryos, freeing up women from the drudgery of morning sickness, mood swings and labour pains.

(Before we proceed, it must be asked why scientists are so fond of experimenting on cows. Could it be because they are more docile and easier to work on than, let’s say, alligators or wolverines? When are they going to start poking around on the insides of grizzly bears?)

In any case, if they can work out “species compatibility” in the labs, you can bet your milking stool some big-eyed Holsteins will be delivering bouncing babies before too long. But, as usual, scientists continue to explore only what is possible without giving much thought to the consequences of their discoveries.

Fortunately, Lifetime Sentences has given this matter serious consideration And is ready with some probing questions of the geniuses who would have us spending our first nine months of development in the barn instead of the house.

Here are some of the important issues we should all be trying to answer as we sail blithely along on the wave of yet another new technology.

1. When it’s “time”, do we pile the cow in the car or truck and rush off or if there’s no vehicle around, can we simply ride the animal to the hospital?

2. As a matter of fact, do we go to the hospital at all or do we head for the vet clinic?

3. Does the father wear a cap and gown into the delivery room or overalls and rubber boots?

4. Do we feed the newborn baby pablum or fresh hay?

5. What do we do, as the child grows up, if it just wants to lie under shade trees on hot summer days and chew gum?

6. Do we hang a pretty necklace and locket around the child’s neck, or a bell?

7. Do we sew the child’s name inside his pants or affix a metal tag to his ear?

8. Should we even mention branding time?

9. When the child starts school, should we ban after-class visits to the fridge or to the silo?

10. What happens, when they get to be teenagers, if their first love lives, not down the street, but on a farm outside of town?

11. What if their table manners resemble grazing more than they do fine dining?

12. And if we have, by the same manner, a large family, how do we gather them up for church? Do we rope them, herd them into the car or drive them up a ramp into a truck?

13. If their major skills end up being jumping fences and butting heads, do we try to teach them piano anyway or go with the flow and let them be football players and professional wrestlers?

14. Will we still be able to use the age-old putdown, “Were you born in a barn?” or might some people start answering, “As a matter of fact, I was.”?

15. And the most important question of all is this: what the heck do we do if they moo?