Lifetime Sentences

You might not know it to look at me, but I am a rebel. I have been all my life. I do not like authority. I hate people telling me what to do.

So when I was caught for speeding about 15 years ago, I was some sort of mad. I paid the fine, whatever amount it was, and made a promise that this was never going to happen to me again.

Around the same time, I returned to my car in a parking lot to see a ticket for letting my meter run out. I do remember paying a $15 fine for that. Again with a promise to never go through that again. Not one more single penny will I ever pay in fines to the city I was born in.

I had the good sense to be born in the city I still live in and this is how I am treated. I don’t think so.

I have made three solemn vows in my life. My wedding vows, my speeding vows and my parking vows. So far, all three are holding up pretty well.

And this is the ultimate rebellion. To refuse to get caught breaking the law by being determined to never break the law. Yes, a few other drivers want to run me off the road when I travel 80 kilometres an hour in an 80 kmh zone. But they just don’t appreciate or even know how a true rebel works. They probably think a real rebel drives 120 in an 80 zone or takes a parking ticket out from under his wiper and puts in on the car beside him, assuming that person will pay the fine without even examining the ticket.

To be a scofflaw is easy. Any frivolous man can do that. But inside the chest of a real rebel beats a heart that is committed to obeying the rules. To defeat the system by co-operating with every bit of it.

I just smile now when I drive by a peace officer who is pointing his radar gun at my car and at the officious official marauding the parking lots looking for expired meters.

I am a rebel’s rebel and these poor souls don’t even know the extent of my revenge.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

Some guys have all the luck

Like the man in Oregon who got lucky three times.

First of all, Joemel Panisa woke up one day last month to a heck of a snowstorm. So, lucky for him, he got the day off work. And if it hadn’t snowed so heavily, the next two lucky incidents probably wouldn’t have happened.

Joemel decided to use his day off in a way I wouldn’t have thought to do. Before I retired, a day off for me usually meant couch time, potato chips and TV. But not good old Joemel. He decided for some reason to get busy and clean his house. I feel sorry for the guy as he does not own a self-cleaning house like I have.

While he was straightening up his office, Mr. Panisa found an envelope with a lottery ticket inside. It was almost a year old. He showed it to his wife who got busy and found out that the ticket was a winning one. Stroke of luck number two.

And not only was the ticket a winner, it was worth $1 million.

But here’s the REALLY lucky part. The ticket would have expired in eight days. If he hadn’t claimed it on time, the money would have been sent to Oregon’s Economic Development Fund.

So, Mother Nature came through for Joemel. No snow, no million dollars.

If that happened to me, and I didn’t get the ticket in on time, my family would be lucky if I didn’t climb up on the roof and do a header onto the patio.

On a related note, a few Canadian lottery tales to tell.

1. Years ago, when the big lottery prizes got going, a woman in Alberta went to her husband and told him she had had a multi-million dollar ticket but had thrown it in the garbage. The man hired an excavation company to go through the local landfill with a bulldozer and earth mover to see if the ticket could be found. After a few days, the woman told her husband she had found a piece of paper with the ticket’s numbers on it and the ticket was not a winner after all. The landfill excavation bill was over $200,000. I sure hope for better and for worse kicked in for that couple.
2. A truck driver near Toronto secretly bought a lottery ticket, hoping for some help in paying for his unemployed wife and her several unemployed brothers who had moved in and lounged around the man’s house all day. He checked his numbers and realized he had won a big-time prize, in the millions. The next morning, he said goodbye to his wife and brothers-in-law, got in his truck, drove to Toronto to pick up his winnings and just kept on driving.
3. Another man near Toronto also secretly bought a ticket and realized he had won multi millions. When he bought the ticket, he and his wife were still together but they soon separated. The man waited till the day before his ticket was to expire and then talked his ex-wife into meeting him in a local motel. She agreed and they made sweet love. She still knew nothing about the lottery win. The next morning, the man took off for Toronto to collect his money. But in Ontario, to collect on a ticket of that size, you have to agree to some publicity which the devious husband had no choice but to go for. His ex-wife saw the news about her husband’s big prize and sued him for half of it. She argued in court that they were still together when he bought the ticket and therefore, she should get half. The judge agreed. I can’t imagine why she divorced him.

If I had, in my possession, a little piece of paper on which was printed a number which could be exchanged for millions of dollars, I would freak out so badly, I would frighten anyone and everyone I met. How easily a little piece of paper can be lost. Or forgotten about till a deadline has passed. That whole mess would bother me day and night.

I am sure glad I have never won millions of dollars in a lottery.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

Last week, some anonymous busybody sent me a chain letter, the latest of several I’ve received over the years. This one involved no money or whiskey, however, but simply wanted me to write to 20 people and tell them I love them. I love exactly 20 people but am too shy to write it all down in a letter so I tossed it out.

But not before I’d read some startling stuff. I was commanded to send the 20 letters out within 96 hours or risk bad luck. If I sent them out, I could expect good luck within four days. Bad luck, good luck, what was a fella to do?

To help me make up my mind, the letter provided me with both examples of the poor schmoes who didn’t send the letters and the lucky dogs who did. A Royal Air Force officer, for example, got right on it, mailed the documents and received $470,000. Pitiful Elliot Joe, on the other hand, lost $40,000 because he made an airplane out of the letter and flew it off his third-floor balcony.

Tyrone Willy lost his wife six days after failing to circulate the letters. Not knowing Mrs. Willy, I will assume this was bad luck. Constantine Dias sent out 20 letters in 1953 and won a lottery worth $2 million. Carlo Badditt, said he’d be darned if he’d send out any such letters and promptly lost his job. Realizing his error, he quickly did as he was ordered and a few days later got a better job.

Poor old Delan Fairchild didn’t get a second chance. He died nine days after failing to send the letters. No such tragedy befell an obedient chain-letter woman in California, on the other hand, who got a brand new car out of the deal.

After a while, I could see that the general trend of these examples seemed to indicate that it was better to send out the letters than to not send them out. And yet, I got stuck on the part about writing love letters to 20 people. Had I been instructed to tell five or six people I sorta like them, I might have gone ahead. As it was, I just couldn’t do it.

My just desserts started the next day when I was robbed of $20. I haven’t been robbed of anything in 20 years. Two days later, somebody (the fink) stole my sunglasses out of my car while I was in a store. Two days after that, I came up empty handed in a lottery I was sure I would win.

But that isn’t all. During the past week, the following misfortunes can be added to my list:

The cat threw up on the garage floor.

A family of ants moved into my kitchen.

A family of fleas moved onto the cat.

My new eavestrough sprang a leak. So did the cat.

I showed up for a dinner date at a fancy restaurant only to find it closed for the holiday. We ate at Burgers R Us.

The cat threw up on the basement floor.

I went to the beach and got sunburned from head to toe.

A whole loaf of bread I bought went mouldy five minutes after passing its freshness date.

God called and I wasn’t home. (Lightning struck my answering machine.)

The price of coffee went up a nickel at a doughnut shop I frequent.

Of course, I’ve had enough of all this and so has the cat, which is running out of places to throw up. Therefore, I’ve decided to play along, in my own way. So, to the first 20 people who read this column, I just want to say I love you. And so does my cat.

Pass it on.

Or else.

(Update: Shortly after I told 20 readers I love them, I met the love of my life. We have been married 30 years last month. So, ya, I’m a believer!)

©1988 Jim Hagarty

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. But I know I will have no other choice when the time comes.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

I don’t want to alarm you but I am asking you to think of me as I head into an operating room for major brain surgery in two hours. It is a very delicate operation, designed to remove the song Holly Jolly Christmas from my mind, where it plays 24 hours a day at this time of year.

The surgeon explained to me that he will be touching a nerve inside my brain with a very cold instrument and if successful, the song should be instantly removed from my thought machine forever. However, and this is a considerable risk, if he happens to miss the mark by even the smallest degree and touches instead an adjacent nerve, Holly Jolly Christmas could very well be replaced by Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree or worse, Santa Baby.

I am willing to take the risk. I first heard Holly Jolly Christmas when I was 10 years old after my parents brought the record home from a store in Mitchell. I have been listening to it for 57 years. Doctors say that even 20 years of exposure to it would have lodged it in my brain, probably forever.

The operation to remove the song is known as The Burl Ives, after the folksinger who recorded it.

Wish me luck!

And have a Merry Christmas. I plan to do the same, hoping it will not be holly jolly. We have a nice tree but I have no plans to rock around it. And I am not a Santa expert, but I am pretty sure, at 1,600 years old, that he is not a Baby.

©2018 Jim Hagarty

Next to dental surgery, leg-muscle cramps, and bouncing cheques, I like Christmas shopping the best. That’s why I can’t wait to get around to doing this year’s.

I’m aware some people already have their shopping done and their presents all wrapped but, of course, those people aren’t well so it wouldn’t be kind to drag them into this discussion. Besides, shopping accomplished before Dec. 23 isn’t “Christmas” shopping at all. It’s regular shopping that just happened to take place around Christmas.

Real Christmas shopping is the kind that’s done out of the desperation of knowing the continued love of your family and friends depends on the quantity and quality of your purchases.

As the clock ticks down to Christmas Eve, you’re fully aware that, though you probably don’t deserve them, a whole truckload of great gifts have been bought and wrapped and placed under a tree for YOU. It occurs to you eventually that you now have to produce gifts for all the important people in your life. And good ones at that. You’ve known this, of course, since last Christmas, but insisted on ignoring it.

Therefore, Christmas shopping eventually becomes, not an exercise in expressing love, which even the lowliest pet can do with little trouble, but an attempt to avoid guilt, which almost nobody is good at.

Compounding the dilemma are several problems. By Christmas Eve, there is often not a lot left in the stores, or so it seems. When you find yourself in the stationery department at 2 p.m. on Dec. 24, considering a stapler as your wife’s main present, you know you’re in trouble. Big trouble.

As the clock ticks out its countdown to Christmas Day, you become a quivering bundle of indecision. You run from the music store to the clothing store to the jewelry shop and back to the music racks. One minute you’re checking out fuzzy slippers with velcro closers and the next, a fancy sweatshirt with Hurry Up And Hug Me written on the front. Then an automatic can opener, a Bart Simpson key chain and The Greatest Hits of Johann Sebastian Bach performed on the accordion.

The second big problem with last-minute Christmas shopping is money, a best friend of guilt. The worse you feel, the more you’ll spend. Where you might have started out with a vague figure in your head which you thought would make a decent spending limit, by Christmas Eve you’re flashing the cash around like Donald Trump on a spree.

And finally, what endears me the most to Christmas shopping are the people in the stores in the dying hours before the big day. Not the employees, though they’re usually sick and tired of it all. But the other shoppers. People like yourself who are mad at themselves for laughing at the early birds who were out getting the best worms way back in November. I’d like a loonie for every time I’ve been run down by shopping carts driven by cranky, little old ladies or their befuddled husbands.

What a strange tradition.

But even stranger is the realization that when your Christmas Eve-bought presents are opened and a big fuss has been made over them all, that you like this, that you have no intention of giving it up and that this last-minute stuff must be part of the thrill.

Either that, or a sign of mental illness, which we’ll discuss in a future column.

©1990 Jim Hagarty

A man’s needs and wants change with the years. I remember wanting a slot car set one Christmas. A guitar another time. Paint by numbers, cameras, books, records, clothes by the rack full, digital anything.

This year I asked for – and got – a backscratcher. Twelve hours since I opened that metal beauty with extendable arm and there is not an itch anywhere that is even dreaming of sneaking up on me.

But our dog and two cats have discovered the darned thing too and I can see that a great deal of time will spent by me in 2016 scratching their little bodies into states of blissful submission.

However, discord has arisen as they fight over whose turn it is next, and in the case of the dog, whether cats are worthy candidates for scratching. (Spoiler Alert: He has concluded they are not.)

I have already made up my wish list for next Christmas and there is only one item on it: Another backscratcher.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

Our wee dog Toby has become the World’s Greatest Peeanist.

When he discovered that his nightly pee at 10 p.m. earned him a bedtime snack, he developed an overactive bladder. For a long time, for some reason, he needed two bedtime pees in the backyard.

A few months ago, only three pee trips would bring him relief. And last night, he adjusted his routine to include a fourth bedtimer, this one at 7 p.m. Tonight, he is again on track for four backyard bushwhackers.

He is startled to discover that only his final, final pee wins him some kibble but the gambit pays off as it is not always the same person who escorts him on all four pee offs so he scores additional treats just often enough to keep him scheming.

Apparently, poodles, even tiny ones, are the world’s second smartest dog (next to the border collie). I am willing to testify, in court if it comes to that, that this intelligence assessment is right on!

©2015 Jim Hagarty

Almost 30 years ago an earnest young dietitian told me I had to change my ways. Changing my ways is not something I like to do. They are my ways, after all, and being a sensible and serious man, I must have seen some value in my ways or I wouldn’t have adopted those ways as my own.

But a doctor sent me to see this woman who knew about food so when two experts are lined up against a man, his ways don’t stand much of a chance. So, I changed my ways. I had not been in the habit of looking at food as poison so it took some adjusting.

First to go was two per cent milk. The choice I was given was between skim milk and rabbit piss. I chose skim and often wondered if actual bunny urine might have been preferable. No more butter, of course, so I sold my churn and started buying my spread by the plastic pailful. I am not going to address the vegetable situation as this is a family show and violence is not acceptable.

But the lowest blow of all was being ordered to eat whole wheat bread. After 30 years of chewing on that crap, my advice to you if you are similarly sentenced to a life of abject misery is to skip the middle man, find yourself a wheat field and walk in and start munching.

This week I saw a nice fluffy loaf of white bread on sale. I bought it, ate it and now have bought another one. To the people at the wonderful bread factory who baked these amazing loaves, let me raise a glass of cold rabbit piss to you. I know your plan is to kill me, but I have instructed my family to not press charges.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

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 some spiders know how to do that.

Now, if, after all that, Fred could just go home and have a shower, apply a bit of salve 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 male 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 anymore. (Ya, I went there.)

©2014 Jim Hagarty