Lifetime Sentences

I am no sociologist or historian or behaviourist or constitutional lawyer or any other kind of expert, for that matter. But, I have never let that stop me from expounding at length on any subject which might come up for discussion. The fact that I might know absolutely nothing about a thing will not slow me down for a second in explaining it to you.

I have always noticed this aspect about myself and about other men with whom I have had discussions over the past four decades. Lack of knowledge has never been considered a barrier to an analysis of a topic which might have come up, out of the blue.

For example, I might learn of the existence of a country – let’s call it, Percytovia – on a Thursday. On Friday, I might chance to read a short article about my newly discovered nation in a newspaper. Saturday night, I’ll be telling some guy at a party somewhere that the problem with the people of Percytovia is this: They have no appreciation of the democratic process. The average Percytovian thinks of his government as the natural provider of all he needs. Until this unfortunate attitude can be changed …

Now, I am soon, obviously, challenged by some other man who read the same article in the paper and who tells me it is not attitude, but geography which is defeating the good people of Percytovia.

After a minute or two of the discussion, we are about to start smacking each other just above the ears over this when another man approaches to claim he knows someone who studied last year at the University of Percytovia and we are both out to lunch. Faced with someone with actual knowledge about the subject, my debater and I promptly drop the topic altogether and go back to criticizing politicians, taxes and greedy hockey players.

For years, I have wondered why I must immediately know something about everything even when I know I don’t know everything about anything. And why are most of the men I know struggling with the same obsession?

Now, at last, I know.

I suffer from an affliction known as Male Answer Syndrome, or MAS. The term has been coined to explain why men must always appear as if they have just spent the past year locked in a library studying the very topic that has just been raised for discussion at the dinner party. And why we’ll still be talking about it long after everyone else has drifted off to other parts of the room out of earshot of our lecturing voices.

As a rule, women don’t suffer from MAS. If they don’t know something about something, they’ll admit it. “Percytovia?” will ask the hostess as she passes around the drinks. “Never heard of him. Who was he? A composer?”

I hesitate to say this, but I am convinced. Male Answer Syndrome most definitely does exist. Maybe all men don’t have it, but a lot of us do.

Now, it’s interesting that this subject should come up, because I was just reading an article on this not so very long ago. Male Answer Syndrome is a throwback to the prehistoric role of the male human as hunter and provider of the species, Homo Sapiens.

Take Early Percytovian Man, for example …

©1992 Jim Hagarty

Finally, some good news.

Think the passage of time can put you out of reach of the long arm of the law? Think again. Justice for many of the unfortunate citizens of the United States with all their corruption, killings and chaos is often slow to be realized but maybe that is changing.

In Pickens, South Carolina, a lawbreaking movie watcher was arrested and taken to jail this week. And well she should have been. Nine years ago she rented a video from a local store and never returned it. So, she was charged with failing to return a rented video cassette – a very serious offence – and taken to jail where she spent one night in a cell.

Pickens County Sheriff’s Chief Deputy Creed Hashe says a Ms. Finley rented the movie Monster-in-Law from Dalton Videos in 2005. The owner took out a warrant against Finley, who was arrested when she was at the sheriff’s office for something else and the warrant was found. (Actually she should also be charged with watching a movie called Monster-in-Law but we’ll let that go for now.)

Chief Deputy Hashe, who also answers to the name Barney Fife, says Finley had been sent several certified letters at the time. She says she never got the letters and that she will fight the charge. Ya, right. If you’re looking for any signs of the truth in that woman’s brain, I can bet you it will be slim pickins.

Also of interest. The video store in the above story went out of business years ago.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

Not many of you probably know that I am a prolific inventor. My Dad was too. Most farmers are. Economics ensure they devise ingenious ways to do things as many of them can’t afford expensive new machinery.

I have several clever inventions on the go at present. For example, off the drawing board and into production is my WeinerRoaster, an aluminum cylinder slightly larger but in the same shape as a single weiner. It plugs in and cooks up a perfect tube steak in record time for diners in a hurry. The world has been waiting for this.

Then there is my PillowScape, which is doing very well. This is designed for those times in the middle of the night when, for no apparent reason, your pillow completely covers your face and seems to be weighted down somehow. There is a big panic button on the side of my pillow which, when pressed, completely deflates it when mysterious accidents like this happen, usually to longtime married men.

But my crowning glory so far is the GPISS, or Global Positioning Indicator for Seniors System, which successfully guides old guys from their beds to the bathroom for their thrice-nightly visits in the dark. It is designed solely for men as studies have shown women somehow are able to wake from their beds and make a bee-line (also known in the industry as a pee-line) to the can and back again without as much as stubbing a toe, a remarkable feet.

The GPISS has several unique features. It wakes the old fella up at just the right times and even speaks electronically “not again”, saving the man the trouble of getting the words out. It can even be taught to add a couple of swear words to the comment.

The device also has several warning sounds it issues, indicating that the would-be bathroom visitor has, in his confusion, stumbled into the laundry (with a big tub waiting there), the rec room or even into a closet.

Mission accomplished, the stylish grey and white GPISS guides the grumpy old fart (an industry term) back from bathroom to bed and even plays soft lullabies to help him saw off again.

Get yours now for the incredible one-time price of $59.95 US, and if you order in the next fifteen minutes, the manufacturers will include free of charge my automatic nose-hair puller, HonkerKleen, which fits over the nose and is guaranteed to do the job painlessly.

Watch this space for more exciting products as I develop them.

You’re welcome.

(P.S. Thomas Edison lived in my hometown in Canada for a while when he was a young man. He had an apartment above what is now a coffee shop called Edison’s on the main street downtown.)

©2023 Jim Hagarty

I am a moody guy sometimes and my mood often coincides with the number of pizza slices left in the box on pizza night at our place. If they disappear too quickly before I can get my share, my mood is inclined to decline.

That is why today I was in an upbeat state of mind when I found out that my son and my daughter would not be home for supper and that my wife would be late. So, by mid-afternoon my plan was clear: I would sneak off to the pizza shop about 4:30 and return with a piping hot pie which I would enjoy all by myself. Just the very thought of this impending gorgefest made me smile – my very own pizza and pop, in front of the TV, watching shows I rarely see when the house is fully occupied.

I made sure to get the pizza early so that if someone did unexpectedly return home, all of it would be long gone. I have no conscience when it comes to pizza.

I drove to the restaurant and waited in the van while the pizza guy cooked me up a delicious meal. I drove home happily, the smell of the cheese and pepperoni filling my vehicle and my heart with joy. I walked into the house and set the box on the kitchen counter, joking cheerily with the dog and salivating at the great taste about to infiltrate my mouth.

Then I saw him. My son, sitting on the couch, surfing the net on his laptop. “Oh, you’re home,” I said, trying to disguise my chagrin. “You’re in luck. I brought home a pizza. Help yourself.” As I said that, I was calculating how much of the pie I would now get. It was, after all, just a medium.

Two minutes later, the phone rang. On the line was my daughter who said she was coming home and bringing a friend. “Have you had supper?” I asked. “No,” was the reply. “Well, there’s a pizza here.” Now, three young people would be attacking my pizza and I knew from experience, that could mean only one thing – not one morsel would be left for me. I had gone, in a few minutes, from a happy guy anticipating his own pizza and pop in front of the TV in a house all by myself to a silently starving, defeated man sizing up the remaining supper choice which involved bread and peanut butter and milk.

I know I will smile again someday, but as of now, my heart is broken. Sliced in eight pieces, you might say.

(Update: Had a do-over the next night. Kids away, Barb left to pick up one of them. I was left alone with a large pizza. Five big slices and a pop later, happiness overtook me and I smiled for what seemed like the first time in days. What a turnabout. Last night the pizza appeared and so did everyone else and tonight, everyone fled just after it arrived. Sweet!)

©2012 Jim Hagarty

Sometimes I feel like I am living in a woolen mill. Or a knitting mill, if there is such a thing. Manufacturing of clothing seems to go on in my home from early morning till late night. The family motto is, “If I’m sitting, I’m knitting.”

I have never knit anything but my eyebrows, on occasion, when I witness all the feverish apparel making going on around me. It started, of course, with my wife and before she could even hold a knife and fork, my daughter.

I do contribute to the enterprise in one important way, however. When I leave the house, many of the garments that protect me from frostbite and public nudity charges rolled off the line at the factory I live in. Some days, I look like a very colourful sheep as I stroll down the street in my finery.

I make no comment on how stylishly dressed I am on any given day but I will attest to the fact that I am usually very warm. Every year I get invitations to speak at the Sheep Marketing Board conventions as well as meetings of the Wool Producers of America. I always decline the offers.

But to be honest. I feel baaaaaad about it. A bit sheepish, in fact. But if your drawers were as full of as many toques and mittens as mine are, you might also grow weary from being a model of fine citizensheep.

Not to mention the sheer envy being outfitted in yarn from head to foot can bring out in my jealous friends and acquaintances.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I recently wrote a piece about the Soup Situation in our home. Asked to go to the store to buy more soup, I did an inventory of our supply instead and discovered our shelves were bending in the middle under the weight of the 41 cans we already had. However, with the two of us eating soup as fast as we can, the stash has fallen sharply to a dangerous level of only 30 cans in the past 16 days and with one of us suffering through a bad cold and consuming chicken noodle almost faster than the chickens and the noodles can produce it, it became necessary today for me to once again head out and stand in the soup line.

One thing to know about buying soup is every store has its approach to soup pricing and so in-depth research is required before purchases can be made. The first thing that must be done is to fill up the car with $49.52 cents worth of gas to ensure you do not run empty before the investigations are complete.

Being soup frugal, we often wait till Groceries Galore puts it on sale for 57 cents a can but these bargains are as rare as alligators in Alaska. Nevertheless, that was my first stop today. The soup was on sale for $1.19 a can which seemed almost reasonable for the emergency chicken noodle for which I was in the hunt. However, though the store covers the equivalent of about four city blocks and it would not be unreasonable to call a taxi to get from one end of it to the other, there was not even one can of chicken noodle to be found anywhere, as I guess half of my fellow citizens are currently down with a cold.

So, it was off to Fantastic Foods only to find that the price there is $1.29. That store did have lots in stock but the price was exorbitant by any standards so I left. Back in the car, I hiked off to Wealthy World where, shock of shocks, the extortionists there are trying to pawn off their supply for $1.99 a can. The people I saw there in three-piece suits and formal gowns seemed happy to pay that fee but I would die face down in a ditch with a cold before I’d even consider it.

So, with hope dwindling and thoughts of driving to the four other grocery stores on the other side of town beginning to dominate my brain waves, I suddenly remembered I was within range of one of the three Pennyrama stores in our town, so I drove there. And I came away with four fine cans of chicken noodle for $1 a can. I checked the best before date on each can to make sure I wasn’t five years younger when each container was filled and was thrilled to see that the contents will last till sometime in 2021, long after, I presume, the common cold will no longer be an issue in our house. And given our newly replenished soup supply, neither will famine.

So, we’re back in business and as of this writing, we have:

19 cans of tomato;

6 cans of cream of mushroom;

4 cans of chicken noodle;

2 cans of cream of chicken;

1 can of vegetable;

1 can of pea.

And lest you think you know of better ways to spend an hour on a cool day in the middle of February, let me set you straight. I cannot think of even one thing I would rather do, on any day in any month, than shop for soup. Like a Neanderthal tracking an ancient wildebeest, I was in my glory wrestling all those chickens and those noodles to the ground.

I’ve gotten good at it. I would gladly enter a televised Soup Challenge if any Food Network had the good sense to air one.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

It is not a rule that longtime married couples have to eventually look exactly like each other and yet, in so many cases, that is what they do. Even physical features and mannerisms seem to begin blending after a while.

This morning, I saw an extreme case. A slim, 50s-something, man and woman walking briskly along the sidewalk on their way to a parking lot. To begin with, they were exactly the same height and build. They wore identical long red winter coats. I don’t know if they were both wearing women’s coats or both men’s, but they were the same coats. Same big BLACK fluffy mitts. Each wore BLACK pants. She wore high-top BLACK boots and while his were more low-cut, they were BLACK, of course. She wore BLACK ear muffs and his ear protection, while somewhat different, was BLACK, what else.

The only distinguishing characteristic I could see was his brown cap. They walked with precisely the same gait and at the same speed.

A visiting Martian, getting a quick glimpse of these two and leaving Earth quickly without seeing any other people would report to headquarters that all humans look exactly the same. In this couple’s case, the little alien would not be wrong.

I just hope that happily married or not, man and wife have managed to hang on to some of their individuality. Otherwise, it would seem a little freaky to wake up someday and realize you were married to yourself.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I’m a cautious person. Some might say I am overly cautious. That’s fair. But I believe in looking before I leap and so far, that has prevented me from leaping off any cliffs. Many bad things don’t happen to me and I hope never will.

I am not like the couple in Texas the other day who wanted to smoke some weed and so ducked into a vacant house to do so. So far, so good, I guess. In my younger days I used to wander through old, abandoned houses just for fun.

But if I was to go into a vacant house in Houston to smoke some weed, the first thing I would do is call out, “Here kitty, kitty!” Just in case there was a cat inside. The couple referred to above didn’t do that and consequently ran into a tiger that was inside the house.

All is well for tiger and humans, who at first thought they were hallucinating, but this is precisely the kind of thing that would never happen to me. In fact, I can proudly proclaim than I am practically an expert in staying away from tigers. A little thing I picked up on the farm growing up when the elders told me to stay away from tigers.

And so I do.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Now and then I go to a play and I watch all the pantomime actors on the stage. They run around in fancy costumes, pretending to say words and sometimes, act as though they are singing. I’ve gotten used to this and have learned to kind of enjoy these soundless theatrical presentations. That is, I did until someone pointed out to me that these are, in fact, not silent Charlie Chaplin-type productions.

This news caused me to question whether or not I am missing the sound from the stage because I cannot hear anymore. That is an unlikely explanation as I have two perfectly good ears on the sides of my head. But someone who is convinced that I am, in fact, deaf as a frying pan, took matters into her own hands and bought me a $40 hearing device designed for people to use at live theatre presentations and in movie theatres. Yesterday, I tried it out for the first time at a play.

Thirty seconds after I managed to get the thing set up and the earplugs shoved into place, I began to hear a very disturbing growling coming from somewhere below my chest. It sounded as though there was some kind of hideous creature hiding under my seat. I was quite alarmed by this until I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day and my stomach was rumbling. In stereo. Any self-respecting doctor would sell his stethoscope if he had to listen to even a few seconds of that.

I calmed down and it was lucky I did as a few seconds later I sneezed the loudest sneeze I ever have blasted in my life. Through my listening device, which I had turned up to full volume and the earbuds burrowed deep into my ear canals, this sounded just like one of the final fireworks crackers set off at our local Canada Day display, only twice as loud.

I no sooner recovered from that when I started to hear a constant clicking sound and realized that the device must be picking up my pacemaker. That made sense till I realized I don’t have a pacemaker, my heart insisting on continuing to beat on its own without help. I did notice an old guy sitting a row or two behind me so it might have been his. I considered asking him to turn it off but decided that is probably not polite. This reminded me of our baby monitor days when we would suddenly hear a child crying and screaming and alarmed, we’d rush into our kids’ bedrooms to find them sound asleep. Some neighbour baby was the source of the howling, it appeared, its screeches somehow broadcasting through our monitor.

Pacemaker problem ignored, there started up a very high-pitched sniffling which was coming from my nostrils as I tried to hold back the stream of nostril substance they were trying to exude.

It took me a while to adjust, but I finally learned to rip out the earbuds before violent sneezes erupted and to ignore the other errant sounds. That accomplished, I began concentrating on the sounds from the actors on stage. The play was a comedy, set in England in 1897, and surprise to me, all these young Canadian actors (including my daughter who bought me my hearing aids) were speaking with English accents.

Who knew? I heard almost every word they spoke. The play was hilarious.

But if I had to review my new $40 hearing device, I would have to say it was $20 well spent.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

Conspiracy theorists are in the news a lot these days. These people are crazier than shithouse rats, but they are not in any way new to the world.

I am sure there are those who believed that it wasn’t really Jesus Christ who died on the cross and that it was all just a big plot to make Pontius Pilate and the Romans look bad. There were probably those who thought the Bubonic Plague was a hoax and didn’t really wipe out millions of Europeans in the 1300s. Anne Boleyn was never beheaded, William Shakespeare was illiterate and never wrote any plays, if there even was a William Shakespeare, and the two world wars of the 20th Century never happened.

Of course, in our day, there was no moon landing, Oswald didn’t kill Kennedy, George W. Bush personally lit the fuse which caused the twin towers to explode and fall and Saddam Hussein is alive and well and running a bakeshop in Baghdad with his partner Osama bin Laden. And, naturally, the Titanic is still in one piece and doing just fine in the sea near Newfoundland and rich people helicopter onto its deck all the time and use it for weekend hideaways.

All through the ages, being the sheep that we are, we keep getting the wool pulled over our eyes. But at least in the old days, conspiracy believers tried to come up with some evidence for their claims. Never-before-seen videos of Kennedy’s killing that proved a new and shocking theory, engineers who say the planes couldn’t have possibly brought the towers down, only explosives set at the base of the buildings could do that.

But now, in 2021, there is a whole new approach to conspiracy mongering. In the past, nutjobs had to make at least a stab at coming up with some evidence to explain their insane theories. But now, no evidence at all is required. In fact, the absolute absence of any evidence is all the evidence you need to declare that “they” are hiding the truth and that “they” are so good at it, that no one can even find the evidence.

Because through all these centuries, “they” have just been getting better and better at concealing what only a few special people among us can see.

So the best conspiracy people nowadays are those who have not a shred of evidence for any of their claims. They should become lawyers.

“Your honour, I have absolutely no proof that the accused man sitting here murdered his neighbour on the night in question.”

“Guilty!” yells the judge. “Lock him up!”

Sounds about right.

©2021 Jim Hagarty