Author: Jim Hagarty

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I’ve not written a limerick in days.
Maybe I’ve mended my ways.
But I’m thinking at home
About one more great poem
Which I’ll write if my poementum stays.

By Jim Hagarty

We have a thief in our neighbourhood and it’s troubling. So far, the culprit has made off with only small things – rhubarb plants (removed by the roots), steel bars, old panelling, used two-by-fours.

But the absconder is getting more brazen. A new house was being building directly across the street from our place after the house that was there burned down. One day, the concrete trucks arrived. They poured the footings. Came back a few days later and poured the walls.

The stealer man noticed that each time the concrete truck left the site, the workers left behind a neat little pile of wet concrete on the ground. They should have put a sign in the pile, “Free.”

Shovel by shovel, the neighbour stealthily removed great quantities of the concrete which he put to good use as mortar for his stone porch which was getting wobbly. However, he made one critical error. He stopped for supper one night and when he went back, the concrete in the pile had set.

I feel like Grover Monster from Sesame Street who was featured in a great kids’ book, There’s a Monster at the End of this Book. All the through the book, poor Grover gets more and more worried about the monster he will meet at the end of the book and he tries to get the reader to stop, so the end won’t be reached. But alas, he makes it, only to find the monster is himself.

My front porch never looked better.

By Jim Hagarty

If I come back some day as a dog,
I hope I get me as my master.
Cause I am a real pushover.
A veritable dog owner disaster.

I would feed myself way too well,
From the table scraps on my plate,
And only take very short walks.
The long strolls we both really hate.

In the evening, I’d sit on my lap
Snarf potato chips straight from the bowl.
And we’d both ignore the poor vet,
And never do as we’re told.

I’ll miss me when I finally go.
I can guarantee both of us that.
But my hope is, now and forever,
That I don’t come back as the cat.

By Jim Hagarty

I wouldn’t say I’m a hard-nosed, law-and-order guy, but I have to tell you I am pretty impressed with the justice system in Mexico.

What attracts me most about it is the way it doesn’t discriminate – between rich and poor, black and white, male and female…

And even human and non-human.

That is why a donkey ended up doing time in southern Mexico for assault and battery.

I’m not making this up.

Police in the state of Chiapas say the animal was locked up at a local jail that normally holds people for public drunkenness and other disturbances after it bit and kicked two men near a ranch. Officer Sinar Gomez said the donkey would remain behind bars until its owner agreed to pay the men’s medical bills.

The victims who ratted out the donkey say the animal bit Genaro Vazquez, 63, in the chest and then kicked 52-year-old Andres Hernandez as he tried to come to the rescue, fracturing his ankle. Police said it took a half-dozen men to control the enraged burro.

“All of a sudden, the animal was on top of us like it was rabid,” Hernandez is quoted in a news story as saying.

I can’t say for sure, but I am guessing Mexico does not have a big problem with out-of-control donkeys gone wild as a result of this get-tough, proactive policy. Throwing donkeys gone wild in the slammer sends a message to other donkeys that might be considering a life of crime and it shows the community that its police force has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to donkey attacks, which I think would be very reassuring.

And it’s not only Mexican donkeys that are having a hard time escaping the long arm of the law. Chiapas police have thrown animals in the slammer before, including a bull that devoured corn crops and destroyed two wooden vending stands n 2008. And in 2006, a dog was locked up for 12 days after biting someone. His owners were fined $18.

My only concern, of course, is what jail does to these four-legged miscreants. Does the dog, for example, emerge from its incarceration humbled and wiser or does it become hardened by rubbing shoulders day after day with the criminal element. Does it get a tattoo with “Mom” on its back, does it start wearing a black eye patch for effect, does it start cursing in barkese?

I think, in the long run, however, that the risk of hardening these wayward animals is worth the increased safety and peace of mind for the public.

We could use such a system in Canada because we have so many animals who are running amok. Wild dogs and coyotes chasing cats and peeing on tires, nasty birds that splatter cars, cattle that escape their fields and get out on the roads.

I would also welcome the opportunity to turn in my cats for a tune-up now and then to stop them from chewing up books and papers, throwing up on the carpet, threatening the hamsters. Maybe we could start a “scared straight” program for cats.

We may not have rampaging donkeys in this country but that isn’t to say it couldn’t happen and if it does, we have Mexican police to thank for giving us a blueprint as to how to deal with the situation.

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I live in a little blue home
With a clock and a fridge and a phone.
I don’t envy kings
In those big castle things
Cause I have got one of my own.

By Jim Hagarty
For a few years, in my younger days, I went scootin’ around in one of these things, a 1966 Chevrolet Chevelle. I saw this beauty, a 1969 model, in my hometown travels today. Hard to believe it is almost 50 years old.

This looks like an SS (Super Sport). Mine was a four-door Chevelle Malibu. Robin egg blue. My Dad bought it for me from a neighbour who rarely drove it. He paid $400. In spite of being a sedan, my ’66 Malibu went like stink. Today, the name Chevelle is long retired but the Malibu lives on. However, I keep forgetting that the “Big Three” automakers often had different names for the same cars, depending on whether they were made for Canada or the U.S.

By Jim Hagarty

I have been on a few job interviews in my life. Some went very well, some badly. My most memorable bad one occurred when I was offered the job but then told the interviewer I would need some time to think about it.

“What kind of guy interviews for a job he’s not sure he wants?” asked the ticked off interviewer, who subsequently hired me. Then fired me later.

But at least one job seeker in Kentucky seems to have gone about things in perhaps exactly the wrong way, though this is just an opinion.

A young man came into a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in a Lexington mall this week and asked for a job application. An interview was scheduled for 4:30 p.m. He showed up 10 minutes early which I would say shows initiative and interest. If I had been interviewing him, I would have been impressed.

But in the interview, the job seeker, in my view, made a critical error. If you are looking for work, you might want to avoid making this mistake.

Our young hero told the manager he had a gun and he was there to rob the place. When the manager informed him that he did not have access to the safe, the young man apologized and then got very upset and left.

Two mistakes: Don’t try to rob your prospective employer. That approach does not usually result in a good first impression. And don’t show too much emotion during the interview. You want to project stability.

The man left and apparently had better luck when he robbed a dollar store down the street and got some cash. He hid in the store and waited till it closed before demanding money from the clerk.

But still no job.

I have always found it is a mistake to hide in a place of business until after it is closed.

Above all, job interviewers do not seem to deal well with surprises.

By Jim Hagarty
This is the first song from the CD Folk ‘n’ Western by my friend and fellow singer-songwriter Michael Earnie Taylor. Entitled I Just Fiddle All Day, this is Earnie’s recounting of playing for passersby on the streets of Stratford. The CD is available for purchase in the Corner Store.

I Just Fiddle All Day (The Busking Song) by Michael Earnie Taylor

By Jim Hagarty

In 1985 I bought a little red two-seater sportscar. At least I thought it was a sportscar.

It had hideaway lights and six speakers in its small cabin, two in each headrest. And a five-speed transmission. The engine was in the back and there was barely enough storage room for a sandwich and a pop.

It was only years later when the car was long gone that I found out the Pontiac Fiero was built on a Pontiac Acadian chassis and was not really a Ferrari in disguise. And it wasn’t very expensive. But it went like hell and I felt like I was flying an airplane when I was behind the wheel.

It was a poor man’s Ferrari and being a poor man, it was perfect for me.

It was a real head-turner when it first came out in 1984. Its body was made of plastic and at the auto shows that introduced it, young women in bikinis would remove the outer sections completely from the car and reassemble them in about 15 minutes. So, I thought, if I get one of these cars, I’ll get a young woman in a bikini. My plan worked and ironically, I had to get rid of the Fiero when that young woman and I started having children.

My fantasy is to one day own that car again and while I know I won’t get another young woman in a bikini, it might make me feel spry again to cruise around in it.

Shortly after I got the car, I went on a trip to Ireland and left the car at a Park and Fly near the airport in Toronto. A friend told me to mark down the mileage and check it when I picked it up because sometimes the guys would take nice cars for a ride when their owners were away. So I did. When I returned, I found that there were 26 more kilometres on the car than when I left.

And walking around the car to check it out, I saw something truly horrible. It had been parked close to a woven-wire fence which bordered on another parking lot. In that lot were a bunch of yellow parking blocks near the fence and they had been spray painted when I was away. The overspray covered the back of my sportscar. My red little number was now red with dozens of little yellow spots all over the back end. Not a nice way to come back from a great trip.

So I went into the building to straighten up with the Park and Fly people and I found an unfortunate young man who bore the brunt of my very legitimate complaints. I was not a happy camper. Paul listened and listened and finally he said, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He then went through a door right behind him and closed it. I waited and waited and waited. Finally another employee walked by and I hailed him over. When I told him I was waiting for Paul, he said, “Oh Paul’s gone home for the day. He was off at 3.”

Now I resembled Yosemite Sam going off on a rant against Bugs Bunny. Finally, a middle-aged man came over and listened to me sympathetically, took the details of my address, insurance, etc., and said they would look after the paint damage. You know the rest of the story. I never heard from him – or Paul – again.

Instead I spent hours removing the little dots of yellow from the rear of my sportscar, one painful splatter at a time.

It was a sad day when I drove away from the car dealer in a used, four-door Chevy Cavalier which we bought to replace the two-seater, as I looked back longingly at it sitting forlornly on the lot. I have good memories of that little buggy despite the odd hiccup.

Mechanically, it was a bit of a nightmare but it was also a whole lot of dream come true.