Lifetime Sentences

Well, isn’t that cute, I thought. One of the horses in the race we were betting on was called You Can’t Fix Stupid.

Six of us former college journalism teachers were sitting around a monitor and looking out the big windows at the racetrack, following the excitement and checking our tickets after every race. We had each thrown $20 in a pot and when that was gone, we’d quit betting.

This night, we were doing pretty well. In fact, by Race 5 we were up almost $500.

I’m new to this but nevertheless I was sent up to place our bets for Race 6. I took some money, approached the wicket and carefully placed $24 worth of $2 bets. When the race was over, there was great rejoicing at our table. We had won $499.80.

OMG we’ve made a thousand dollars tonight went the shouts and there were still six races to go.

One of the other teachers grabbed the winning ticket and went to the wicket to collect. He was there a long time and he seemed to be almost arguing with one of the women there. I suggested helpfully that maybe she didn’t have enough cash to pay us. Someone else said he looked like he was negotiating with the clerk.

Finally, he turned and came back to the table with a disgusted look on his face. He tossed the ticket on the table in front of me. “You bet on the wrong race,” he said to me.

It was quiet on the way home, all of us in the car. The only thing that saved me at all was the fact that our winning streak carried on for the rest of the night and we ended up ahead $800.

Nevertheless, there was some suggestion made that I would be left in a cornfield somewhere and the words “hide the body” were also spoken but I am not sure what that was all about. I didn’t want to know. I was grateful it appeared there was no shovel about.

All I do know for sure is You Can’t Fix Stupid didn’t win, place or show, and I felt badly for him as he and I seemed to be kindred spirits that night.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I’ve been around animals all my life, starting with my years growing up on a farm. Surrounded day in and out by four-legged creatures of various species, it’s easy to begin thinking that you know something about animals.

But the more I am around them, the less I think I know. One thing seems certain; they are capable of much more than we give them credit for.

Our old cat Mario (18) and our dog Toby (15) have never gotten along. Over the years, when Toby makes the mistake of getting too close to Mario, he pays for that with a series of sharp smacks to his body, although we noticed as time went on that Mario’s shots rarely found their mark.

But that never stopped Toby from carrying on like he’d just been mauled half to death by a ferocious tiger. He got lots of sympathy. That was the point.

On New Year’s Day, we almost lost Toby. He slipped into some sort of drowsy coma and we rushed him to a clinic for care. He was found to be diabetic and has been treated for that ever since.

But he was gone from our house for four days. Mario wandered the halls alone, having lost his own twin brother a few years ago. When Toby finally came home, he was sleeping on the recliner he loves so much. Mario was on the couch beside me, staring at the dog.

Finally, he jumped down and slowly stalked him.

“Oh, this isn’t going to be good,” I thought.

Up came Mario’s right paw and while it would often descend on the dog in several rapid-fire swats, something was different this night.

Mario put his paw on Toby’s head, patted him gently once, and walked away. The dog slept on.

We think Mario missed his brother from a different mother that has been a part of his life for so long. What must he have thought when, like his real brother Luigi, he suddenly disappeared?

©2022 Jim Hagarty

It amazes me what the tee-shirt industry has managed to get away with these past few decades. While virtually no one (except me) was watching, the makers of these classic and simple garments have been steadily shrinking the material they put into them while expanding the designations they assign to their clothing.

I remember, when I was a boy, my earliest tees being sized “small” and even at that, they fit pretty loosely. Then came the mediums, and same thing – hardly snug, just right. But the devious manufacturers began pulling the wool (cotton? polyester?) over our eyes when they began churning out “large” tee shirts.

I swear these newer shirts, in an earlier time, were actually mediums or even smalls, but there I was walking around in large tee shirts which, eventually, somehow, didn’t seem large to me at all. In fact, they felt more like mediums and on hot, humid days, even smalls.

And there were times on hot summer days when I actually needed help to pull these larges up over my head and off my sweaty torso.

The day I put on my first extra large tee shirt was as close as I have ever come to writing a hostile letter to a clothing maker or taking even more drastic action but I was too depressed to do it. The fact is, the extra large shirt fit just fine, which obviously meant that in reality, it was a large or even a medium size. How, I wonder, are these greedy capitalists able to get away with such a swindle?

Finally, on Saturday, I put on a new “two times extra large” tee shirt and I was crestfallen to realize that the Great Tee Shirt Scandal was now tipping in a new direction. Rather than being too small, this darned thing was way too big. I wore it to a family reunion anyway, having nothing else that was clean. Since then, I have seen photos of myself from the event and am shocked to realize that I was wearing not a tee shirt at all but an actual moo moo.

So now, the tee shirt makers are passing off moo moos as tee shirts. And I refuse even to discuss the size designation of “three times extra large”. That one is big enough to do double duty as a barbecue cover.

I hope someday our politicians in Canada, some of whom I swear are possible three times extra large candidates or even four times – yes they exist) will take on the tee-shirt industry. They could at least get them to come up with new designations after large such as “beach size”, “tent”, “blanket”, “moo moo”. At the very least, get rid of that ridiculous “extra” specification. The connotation of that awful descriptive term suggests that the wearer of such a garment is walking around in an “extra large” body, for example.

I have been looking for a cause to champion and realize all the really good ones are gone. With the advent of the tee shirt/beach blanket/moo moo, I think I might have just found the one that suits me to a tee.

©2018 Jim Hagarty

This week, Canadian Lawyer magazine published a list of the best and worst judges across the country and editorial writers have been lining up to condemn the legal profession ever since. Judges, the newspapers say, are in the business of dispensing justice. They shouldn’t be involved in popularity contests to win the approval of lawyers.

But maybe we’ve been a little too quick to jump at the throats of the lawyers. Because, after all, they’re about to get as good as they’ve given. Next week’s issue of The Average Joe magazine, coincidentally, will carry an article about the best and worst lawyers in the country. Following is a sample of some the ones the magazine says are the worst.

Mr. Bob N. Weeve

The lawyer who said his client didn’t mean to toss his best friend over Niagara Falls, arguing the accused had been momentarily overcome by an attack of Rushing River Fever, an obscure disease which grips its victims with a terrible urge to throw other human beings into large bodies of water.

Ms. Sue De Panzoffum

The lawyer who acknowledged that, yes, her client did confess to stealing 47 television sets during a one-night wild spree of break-ins, but who went on to argue that when he was a boy, his parents abused him by denying him his own television in his bedroom. He finally snapped and was simply acting out the juvenile anger brought about by this childhood deprivation and which had been festering inside him all these years.

Ms. Bea Leevit-Iffucan

The lawyer who said that, incredible as it may seem, her client was indeed sleepwalking when he got up in the morning, went downtown and bought a gun, hijacked a bus, shot up the town, took four hostages, burned down city hall, stole a car and smashed into the mayor’s house, finally waking up in the cruiser on the way to the police station and saying, “Hey, wait a minute. What’s going on here?”

Mr. I. Deltok

The lawyer who said that, while it was certainly a rotten shame that Junior had blasted Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Sis, Rover and his poor Aunt Bessie out of their beds in the middle of the night, to punish the unfortunate, misunderstood lad for his one, momentary mistake might rob him forever of the feelings of dignity and self-worth which he would need in his struggle to carve out a useful life for himself.

Mr. Bill E. Dinghart

The lawyer who said it was pretty evident to him that most of the people with whom young Brutus Bilgewater had had anything to do with in the past five years before he blew up the courthouse had been guilty of name discrimination. Studies show, the lawyer said, that less than one-tenth of one percent of all jobs in Canada are held by people named Brutus and an astonishing 99.9 per cent of all jobs are held by people of other names. Quotas are needed, he said, so that by the year 2000, every employer with more than 10 employees has at least one Brutus on staff.

On the bright side, the best lawyer award went to Ms. Dawn Toourth, the solicitor who told her clients to quit their scrappin’, forget about suing each other into the poorhouse and go home and grow up.

At least that’s what she told me when I wanted to sue my neighbour who I saw peeing behind his shed in broad daylight, thereby robbing me of my ability to enjoy my property and probably contaminating the groundwater in the area.

I really thought $50 million might ease the distress.

©1989 Jim Hagarty

I have mentioned before that I know exactly how I will die someday. The last image I see will be the big ugly face of an angry bear. I am deathly afraid of bears and they say that what we fear we attract, so I am doomed.

But I was reminded today that there may be an alternative exit waiting for me.

My neighbour asked me to come over to his house and replace a light switch. I am as qualified to do electrical work as Donald Trump is to run a country, but I am nothing if not up for a challenge. I told him to make sure the power was off.

I showed up for the job with wire stripper in one hand and needlenose pliers in the other. I wanted to show my neighbour the awesomeness of my electrical skills. Ten seconds into the job, the one strand of hair that is left on my head stood straight up, my eyes turned into lasers and I could see right through the wall. I also broke into song – the Polish National Anthem, I believe it was.

The hydro was still on. Oops.

Undaunted, we finally found how to turn the power off for real and I finished the job. Funny thing though. I went to put a frozen meat pie in the oven for supper but after holding it in my hand for 30 seconds, it was done.

This is the fourth time I have electrified myself over the years. I am starting to think it’s good for me. I feel completely energized afterwards. Seems to jazz up my heart. And I can read in bed after dark without turning on the light. So that’s a bonus.

In light of all this, this is the likely outcome: I will be electrifying myself by accident some day with more juice than I can handle when a murderous bear will break in just at that moment.

It will all make for a very interesting obituary.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

I went for my daily walk yesterday morning and had a few things on my mind. I can’t remember what things, exactly, but I know one thing that I wasn’t thinking about when I left the house. I had absolutely no plan to get more furniture for the rec room.

Along the streets I walked, turned a corner and there they were: Four, perfectly good, solid wooden TV tables, all standing in a wooden case. Interesting. As I was looking them over, Frank, the crossing guard, who was sitting in his car nearby, said, “If you want ’em you better take them ’cause I’m going to throw them in my trunk when my shift is over.”

“You can have them,” I said, nervously.

Then I continued my walk, and this thought began to obsess me. I had to have those tables. Had to. The thought that Frank was going to get them started driving me crazy. As I walked, I pictured two futures: one with the tables and one without and believe me, the one that included those tables was much preferable to the one without.

I picked up my pace and was practically running by the time I hit my driveway. I ran into the house, grabbed my keys, drove the van like crazy over to the street with the tables and raced down there. Frank’s car was still there, but he wasn’t inside. I couldn’t see, couldn’t see, are they, what is that?

YES!

No one anywhere on Earth at that moment was happier than I was as I loaded them into the van. Funny how something I didn’t even know existed 10 minutes before became the whole focus of my existence until they were safely tucked away in my garage.

Next year, they’ll be sitting out at our curb with a “free” sign on them.

I bet Frank comes by and gets them. I just bet he does.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

There is a popular song on the radio these days about a guy who is frustrated that his girlfriend doesn’t share the deep feelings of love he has for her. The singer of the song passionately describes what he would do for this woman. He would catch a grenade for her, put his hand on a blade for her, jump in front of a train for her and even take a bullet through his brain for her. However, he’s concerned that she would not do these same things for him. In fact, he believes that if his body was on fire, she would just stand there and watch him burn.

I am not a professional counsellor but I wish I could spend a little time with this poor lad. First of all, I would advise him that after catching a grenade, cutting his hand on a blade, jumping in front of a train, shooting himself in the head and setting his body on fire, he might be somewhat of a mess and, not to take sides, but after all that, I would think any sensible woman might want to think about whether she would want to do these same things for this guy who would not be much of a prize by then.

So, in that respect, I think she’s probably showing some pretty good judgment where he appears to have no sense of balance whatsoever. Hence, she is quite clearly too good for him and is smart to move on and that’s what he should do too right after he receives some intensive help for these extreme masochistic tendencies of his.

If it was me, I’d choose no girlfriend over a grenade, a blade, a train, a bullet and a body fire any day. Call me selfish if you want, but remember the principle that has guided my life: I’d rather be a live chicken than a dead duck!

©2012 Jim Hagarty

So, Hillary Clinton has pneumonia. Lucky for her – and the world – it is the treatable kind. I had pneumonia a few years ago. I could hardly lift a glass of water to my lips let alone engage in a presidential election campaign.

For six nights, I had to sleep upright in a leather recliner. If I lie flat on my bed, I coughed so violently everything in my body shook loose.

My doctor gave me an antibiotic. Maybe the same one Clinton is on. He said it would get rid of the sickness in seven days. He was bang on.

As for Donald J. Trump, it is a little known fact that he is suffering from a severe case of knowmonia. Victims of this affliction are left not knowing anything but sadly, they are totally unaware that they are as dull as the underside of smooth, round rock. Perversely, and this is the scourge of this disease, victims actually think they know a lot. More than anyone else, in fact.

Sarah Palin has exhibited symptoms of knowmonia for years but she also has frequent bouts of dieherheehaw. There is no cure for knowmonia and little hope for sufferers of dieherheehaw.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

When I was in the news business, I always bristled a bit when people talked about all the bad news in the media and lamented the fact that we didn’t print more good news. But from my point of view, there is no such thing as bad news or good news, there is just news.

An overabundance of apples on the market might mean cheap apple prices for consumers, hence some good news. But, bad news for apple growers and supermarkets whose profits suffer.

When I taught journalism, to make my point, I sometimes told the following true story, which I think makes a statement not only about journalism but also about life. A lifelong bachelor was the winner of $100,000 in one of Canada’s first lotteries back in the ’70s. Good news, right?

My students always agreed it was a good thing that he won the money. He went out and bought a boat with some of his winnings. Great. He went to church on Sunday, dressed in shirt and tie, and afterwards went to where his boat was moored to take it out for its first spin. He leaned over to start the engine and his tie got caught in the propeller which pulled his head under the water and he drowned.

Was his lottery win still a good thing? No, said the students, not a good thing at all. But a minute ago it was a good thing, good news. Everyone agreed it was. Now, they admitted they had been wrong and as things turned out, it wasn’t a good thing at all.

Then I would ask them, if you were wrong to make the judgment that his lottery win was a good thing, are you now correct in declaring that his death is a bad thing?

To me, we are not meant to judge the events of our lives as good or bad, although it might seem to us that death is an obvious bad thing. We just need to accept the twists and turns. I don’t think we have the ability, in fact, to know when something is good or bad. We think we do, but later we change our minds.

How many famous singers or actors or business leaders recall with glee how down they once were when fired from one of their first jobs driving cab or selling encyclopedias? The firing, of course, was just the course correction they needed to get launched in the new direction their lives would take.

Life is an adventure. If we knew where we were going, it would be something else altogether.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

This is one of my fondest memories of growing up on the farm.

One hot summer day, my Dad, my brother and I were standing in a field of young corn, which stood about waist high or lower. I was 10, my brother, 5. The air was still and humid.

Suddenly, Dad saw a whirlwind coming our way because he noticed the top leaves of the corn stalks were twisting. Whirlwinds were common in the summer on the farm. We most often saw them as they picked up dust in the barnyards; they looked like mini tornadoes.

On this day, when the twister got close to us, Dad grabbed the straw hat off my brother’s head and tossed it into the centre of the funnel. The hat shot up quickly as though fired from a cannon. And it stayed aloft, floating in ever widening circles at the top of the twister.

I kept thinking that the hat would soon fall back to earth, but it didn’t. It just kept flying and flying until it was hundreds of feet in the air and drifting southward away from us.

My brother started crying, thinking, as it turned out rightly, that he would never see his hat again. Eventually, to our amazement, a hawk joined the hat in the updraft and the two of them floated effortlessly around and around in a circle that continued to grow wider and wider. In time, hat and hawk became just specks in the sky and finally disappeared from our view altogether.

To a boy my age, this phenomenon cemented the conviction in my mind that my Dad was some sort of super genius as well as hero. But he was born on that farm and had spent all his days on it and was as familiar with its environment as the most wily cat or bird would be.

I didn’t think of this aspect of the story till many years later, but at some point and somewhere, that straw hat would have had to have floated to the ground again, who knows how many farms south of ours. What would have been the reaction of another farmer and his sons if they were out in a field somewhere and saw a straw hat suddenly appear hundreds of feet in the air and slowly drift towards them to the ground?

That poor Dad would have had to think quickly to provide the explanation to a couple of young boys wondering why a hat was suddenly descending from the heavens.

I would like to have heard the story he told them.

©2012 Jim Hagarty