Author: Jim Hagarty

When I was seven years old, I was in Grade 1, was good at tying my shoes, knew 200 words and already had my first pair of ugly eyeglasses, which, as I was to sadly discover, were extremely efficient bully bait.

It was only later I found out our one-room country school had hired a designated bully and I am not sure how he was paid but he kept himself busy and if he earned a fee for every kid he left lying on the school grounds sobbing, my guess is he did okay.

But I am pretty sure Bully For Hire didn’t do as well as a kid named Ryan, and strangely, neither did I. The highest-earning YouTube star in the world, Ryan is a seven-year-old elementary-school kid in the United States who does alright reviewing toys. The host of Ryan ToysReview earned about $22 million last year. The year before that, he made $11 million.

Ryan’s channel started in 2015 when he was four years old after he asked his parents why he couldn’t review toys on YouTube. Today, Ryan ToysReview has 17 million followers and has gotten a combined 26 billion views. And recently he struck a big licensing deal with Wal-Mart.

Now, I hate to be one to make excuses, but darn it all, that could have been me when I was seven, except for a few minor things. Our home didn’t even have its first TV at that time and it would be another 47 years before YouTube started up. And even if there had been an Internet for me to review toys on, as one of a family of nine, I don’t remember having all that many toys. A plastic rifle, a truck or two, maybe some cowboy action figures, a rubber ball. Reviews of those would have gotten old pretty fast.

At seven, I didn’t have much of an income, aside from the occasional deposit money I would collect for finding pop bottles in the ditches between school and our farm. So, yeah, I’m a little jealous. It would take me many years before I was able to begin earning an annual income of $22 million as a small town journalist. Many years.

Also, Ryan didn’t go to my school. If he had, he would have been too busy hiding behind trees to stay out of the path of our school’s official bully to think up toy reviews. I am guessing that Ryan has been privileged in his life. Not having your head beat on daily by a small army tank outfitted with arms and fists leaves your mind available for many profitable thoughts, I would imagine.

As for my brain, it was sort of obsessed with the bully and not with economics. Or toys.

However, if conditions had been right, I suppose, I could have done a video series about the Hundred Best Ways to Get Away from a Bully, except that I hardly ever got away. And didn’t know any ways.

Hiding behind trees was pretty much a useless strategy.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

I wish I wasn’t so far behind the times. I love the new ways, but my time has passed.

I wish stuff like the following had been going on when I was younger. A Venezuelan comic book fan has had his nose removed so he can look like his favourite Marvel character, Red Skull, Captain America’s Arch Rival.

Obviously, there can only be one Red Skull so I propose that this guy be named Numm Skull, his first cousin.

In addition to his tattooed eyeballs and lack of nose, the comic fan intends to have his skin dyed red and more facial implants added. Forget Red Skull. Numm Skull is my hero.

Oh, if I could only have something removed to look like my favourite comic book hero, Wonder Woman. Yes, that’s right. I know what you’re thinking and you are correct.

I would have my eyebrows plucked.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

I was singing in the shower the other night and my rendition of Blue Spanish Eyes was sounding downright great. I always sound amazing in the shower but this night, my voice seemed especially awesome. I chuckled to myself that it was as though someone had installed a waterproof sound system in the ceiling and I went a step further and thought, that’s not a bad idea. No more holding the shower wand as a microphone; I could have the real thing.

Then, I was suddenly struck by an awful realization. The reason for the fantastic sounds I was warbling was dreadfully simple: I had forgotten to remove my hearing aids before I entered the stall.

These are not just any hearing aids. These are a trial pair and I remember signing some document at the hearing place which said if I wrecked them during the trial period, I agreed to pay the full price for them, even if they were toast.

So, I did as I always do in a crisis such as this. I yelled out a string of words I used to have to tell a priest in the confessional that I had said, then I hurled myself out of the shower. I frantically dried off the little devices, then spent the evening on the Internet desperately researching facts about water and hearing aids. As instructed, I let the little suckers dry out on their own, popped them in their charger and went to bed.

I put them on the next morning and they have been working fine ever since. In fact, maybe better than before. Maybe water is good for them. I really hope it is because I don’t think that is the last time I will belt out a watery Engelbert Humperdinck song with that much power.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

A few years ago, my son and daughter gave me a TV for my birthday. A brand new 13-inch Electrohome TV for my bedroom. They got it at a place where you can also buy tires.

This little thing has amazing colour but not much else. It doesn’t have stereo sound and only minimal outlets to plug things into. But I love it. Its stay in our bedroom was brief as we never watched it but it migrated to the kitchen and has seen a lot of use there.

One day recently I was strolling through a local second-hand store looking for a bargain when I saw it. Exactly the same TV. For $5.

Now a man would need to be horsewhipped if he didn’t buy something like that so I carted it home, convinced that there would be something wrong with it. Maybe the picture would be terrible. Or the sound. I took it into the garage and with hands shaking with excitement, plugged it in, hooked up the cable and turned it on.

My joy could not be measured. It was as good as the one the kids gave me years ago. For $5. So now, guess where I wanted to do all my TV watching?

A problem soon became apparent, however. Because of the small size of the screen, I couldn’t sit across the room and watch it so I found myself standing right in front of it while I watched. This got a little annoying and I thought to myself, “It is too bad I couldn’t get the same TV, only bigger.”

There were problems with that wish. I didn’t know if a larger replica of this machine had ever even been made. And even if it had been, the TV was a few years old now. What chance would there ever be that such an imaginary TV would show up anywhere where I might see it?

A few weeks ago, I was back in the hand-me-down store and there it sat: My dream come true! Nineteen inches of pure, unadulterated Electrohome. For $10.

A man would need to be held down and hog tied if he didn’t buy something like that so I hauled it up to the counter, bought it, drove home and sneaked it in the back door of the garage. (This was necessary because our home looks like a TV warehouse these days.)

I thought, “Well, this one will definitely suck.” I got it hooked up and turned it on. As good if not better than the other two miniature versions I now own. My life was complete. It was like finding the blonde you had your eye on but who is too young for you, has a blonde mother who could pass for her sister. Or something like that. (If my wife is reading, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Just looking for a simile.)

And the great thing was, I didn’t have to admit to the latest purchase because the TV looked exactly like the one it replaced on the shelf. No one noticed that it was six inches bigger.

Anyway, Life and Fate throw you a bone every now and then. An Electrohome Bone. And all that needs to be done is to pick it up and chew on it. However, can you imagine what the same TV in 26 inches would look like?

Wait for my new series: Jim the TV Hunter.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

Important news today. Researchers have concluded that when a fly is hungry, its memory improves. Full tummy, bad memory. They’re looking into whether or not this might also be the case with humans and if they find out that it is, then you can forget about (?) drinking to forget; a better plan would be to eat to forget.

The problem there is, of course, that if you eat too much, and your memory goes on you, you might forget to eat in which case you will get hungry again and the problem of not being able to forget will be coming right back atcha. So it is quite possible that the best remedy for a broken heart, for example, might be to head to your nearest pizza shop and gorge yourself till the button on your pants pops and your fly (there’s that darned fly again) flies down on its own.

I am not a doctor or scientist so don’t take my word for it but on the other hand, I’m pretty sure I’m right. And for all of us who have been complaining about our bad memories lately, the answer to that may be to STEP AWAY FROM THE FRIDGE.

As for the flies, this story makes me wonder: What does a fly have to remember, anyway? The average one lives from two weeks to four weeks. Maybe it remembers the first time it made love which can happen as early as 36 hours after it hatches from the pupa (thanks Google). Imagine that, 36 hours after it’s born, the randy little thing is already going at it, maybe even with a fly twice its age, or 72 hours old. That might be something the fly would think is worth remembering.

But what else? All the great manure piles it ever landed on? That dead mouse the Hagartys’ cat killed and left behind the blue spruce? That was a good day.

I think the lesson is this. If you want your houseflies to leave you alone, forget the swatter or the sprays. Leave lots of rotting food and other crap around so it has lots to dine on and when it has bloated itself up to bursting, it will hopefully forget it’s a fly at all and just lie there. At that point, with luck, the cat will go over and eat it.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

At the risk of offending those with strong opinions about whale vomit. I would like to note the following.

I have been on the search for sometime now for a quantity of whale vomit to replenish my dwindling supply. And I have been willing to part with some of my also dwindlng financial resources to acquire a bucketful or two of big fish puke.

What I do with this barf is none of your business; you need only to know that I am on the lookout for some and if you have any, we might be able to do a deal.

That said, I will not pay one million dollars to fetch the retch that was recently found by a young fellow on a beach in Thailand. He was just being a Good Samaritan cleaning up the beach when he happened across the big pile of whale belly jelly, a reminder, again, that Good Samaritans have all the luck.

So if you happen to have a pile of whale vomit that turns your stomach every time you walk past it (the best kind), please contact me.

Serious offers only, please.

2022 Jim Hagarty

Gordie Howe’s parents were humble farmers from Floral, Saskatchewan, Canada, who couldn’t afford to attend an NHL game and therefore, had never had a chance to see their son play professional hockey.

Gordie’s team, the Detroit Red Wings, decided one year to celebrate their star’s time with the team and so before one game, they surprised No. 9 with a huge gift at centre ice, covered in wrapping paper and tied up with a bow. A startled Howe, a man known for his shyness, skated out to where the big gift sat and after a few speeches, was instructed to find out what was under all that gift wrap.

So Gordie tore away at the paper and it didn’t take long for him and all the people in the stands to realize that Mr. Hockey was the owner of a brand new car. That was nice surprise number one.

The bigger shock and the one that brought Gordie to tears came when the back doors to the vehicle opened and out stepped his Mom and Dad.

The Red Wings didn’t always treat Gordie Howe that well and underpaid him for years. But on this occasion, they really came through.

As a big fan, this is my favourite Gordie Howe story. It shows how a little bit of class from a big organization can serve as inspiration in a sometimes hardened world.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

Apparently young people buying homes today often don’t want what their parents had. They don’t want big houses nor do they care for large lawns – they just want enough backyard for a patio and barbecue where they can entertain friends.

No useless rooms inside like a parlour or fancy dining room. Instead they would like a room for a big TV and space to play video games. They don’t want a tub but do look for a large walk-in shower. And they want to be within walking distance of shops and restaurants and schools so they are not dependent on cars.

A friend and I talked a bit about this sort of thing last week. He and his wife recently sold their beautiful country property and moved into a house in town. They’re loving the change. Their rural property was so big and filled with so many flower beds, he spent his days manicuring everything, as though he was the keeper of a large park.

In summer I drive in the country a lot and I often feel sorry for farm families who I see out caring for the large lawns surrounding their homes and outbuildings on beautiful Sunday afternoons. The one day of the week they normally could have off they spend bouncing around on riding lawnmowers keeping everything trim, even the roadside ditches at the front of their farms.

In the old days, farm lawns in southern Canada were not so grand. A very old picture of the farmhouse where my mother grew up shows just a small patch of grass surrounding the home, maybe only 20 feet or so. It seems as though farm lawns have grown bit by bit over the decades and now are rural parks as much as anything.

But who are they for?

Do those who care for them ever get to enjoy that space? Along some country roads in my area, only a few cars a day might pass by. So not a lot of viewers to take in all that grandeur.

Maybe young homeowners are onto something. Like the expression goes, do I work to live or live to work. Do I own my home or does my home own me?

But no tub? Seriously? No shower I’ve ever been in, no matter how roomy, could ever ease the aches and pains and tension like a bathtub full of very hot water and bath oil to save the skin. And with the light off and a candle on the sink, the room can seem almost like your own special home away from home.

Showering in the dark just doesn’t have the same appeal, not that I have ever tried it.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

It’s been kind of lonely around the house during the day since we exchanged our old fridge for a new one. The old one had been around for almost 30 years and was dear to my heart but its motor was in terrible shape and when running, sounded like a big machine in a factory might sound or a plane taking off at the local airport.

I had gotten used to all this racket, but one day, as I sat here at my computer alone in the kitchen, I noticed the darned thing had started talking to me. I can’t remember all the things it said, but it would toss out a phrase and keep that going till it turned off. When it started again, another phrase would emerge. It was usually three words. Something like, “Buy some cornflakes” or “Grass getting greener” or “Gordie Howe called.”

Not joking.

Once I had heard the motor say one of these things each time it grunted, the phrase got louder and louder and clear as a bell.

I happened to mention this to my family and each night at supper, inevitably, someone would ask me what the fridge had said that day. So I would tell them. It was kind of comforting having this talking appliance over in the corner and eventually, I found it to be better company than the radio. At least it didn’t shout out any annoying ads every few minutes.

But Old Yeller left a few months ago and I’m afraid the new fridge is not very talkative. In fact, I have yet to hear it say anything. So, back to wall-to-wall silence during the day except for the gerbils running in their ferris wheels and the dog barking at passersby through the picture window now and then.

However, just yesterday, I noticed a wonderful thing. Someone was showering and the bathroom fan downstairs, which is louder than the fridge ever was, struck up a one-sided conversation. And it was a good one. “Buy a boat!” it said, over and over.

And when someone else showered later in the day, the fan came alive again, this time advising me to wash my sweater. So, I am happily entertained once more and no longer lonely. I can flip the bathroom fan on whenever I like, even if there is no shower involved, and then sit back and listen.

In an Irishman’s home, sometimes, even the appliances can’t stop talking.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

It is a common perception that Americans are tough on crime. I never gave that notion very much thought. I just accepted that the people of the U.S. do not have a high tolerance for bad guys.

But now I have some proof that our southern neighbours aren’t foolin’ around when it comes to scofflaws and mischief makers. A news story this week convinces me just how seriously some of the 50 states of the Union (not all) take their administration of justice. It is the fact that apparently, in at least one place in the U.S., a man can be charged for farting.

Yes, it’s true. A guy in West Virginia was charged with battery on a police officer after passing gas last week and fanning it towards the cop who was booking him for driving offences.

As Patrolman T.E. Parsons prepared the breathalyzer machine back at the police station, suspect José A. Cruz, 34, scooted his chair toward Parsons, lifted his leg and “passed gas loudly”, the complaint taken out against him said. According to the complaint, Cruz then fanned the gas toward the officer.

“The gas was very odorous and created contact of an insulting or provoking nature with Patrolman Parsons,” the complaint alleged.

For his part, Cruz says he didn’t aim his nasty missile at the patrolman at all. He said he had an upset stomach at the time, but police denied his request to go to the bathroom when he first arrived at the station.

“I couldn’t hold it no more,” he is quoted as saying in a newspaper story this week.

Cruz said the officers at the station thought the gas incident was funny when it happened and laughed about it with him but things turned serious later.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I could be facing time.”

This situation raises several curious observations. Is crime in West Virginia so well eradicated that they are now going after people who pass gas inappropriately? And sent to jail on such a charge, how would the culprit answer the other prisoners when they asked you why he was being locked up?

Now, I don’t think what José did would look very good on his résumé and surely this was not his finest moment. But should the gaseous ones among the population really be incarcerated?

And if so, what are the various penalties that should accompany such an offence? And are other bodily functions potential lawbreakers too? Does belching border on the criminal? What about sneezing too loudly, spraying in seven directions in the process?

I’m afraid my grandmother, rest her soul, would not have done well in a West Virginian society that charges aggressive flatulence producers. Because on that subject, she had two favourite expressions.

“Wherever ye be, let your wind blow free,” she would say.

And hearing one of her six children express themselves in such a way, she would remark, “Well, that’s better out than an eye!”

She also would tell members of her brood: “Go outside and let the wind blow the stink off you.”

When Cruz is done serving his time, I think he should consider trying to sneak into Canada. In this country, we don’t believe in capital – or rectal – punishment.

He needs a vacation. He could come up here and bum around for a while.

©2008 Jim Hagarty