Gumming The Jerky

    As I get older I find more and more that little things begin to annoy me.  It’s official-I am finally a grumpy old man.  Dian and I visit Costco once or twice a month where we join other seniors in our search for free samples.  For some reason we find it quite satisfying to get a 1/4 piece of fruit leather and 1/2 a lukewarm pot sticker.  By the time we leave the store, the free samples have set us back around $100.  I tried the beef jerky last time we were there.  It tasted pretty good but it is cruel trick to give it to us with dentures.  I have a theory that Costco has a surveillance camera trained on the jerky station with a live feed to the staff room for their entertainment.  Whenever one of us gets a sample someone shouts “Heads up, another old-timer is going to gum the jerky!” 

 

                                              

    Tim Hortons is on the way home so we usually drop in for a mug which reminds me of a story.  A man walks into a restaurant and sees a sign that says “We make every kind of sandwich”.  The waiter walks over to him and asks “What can I get you sir?” The man says “Do you make elephant sandwiches?” “Yes we do.  How many would you like?” The man replies “Oh, just one.”  The clerk says “I’m not going to kill an elephant for one bloody sandwich.”  Sometimes you ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer. At Timmy’s get in line to order and wait to inevitably hear the  customer in front of us say “Can I get a cup of coffee?”. Why would one ask such an obvious question?  Look around.  Everyone is drinking coffee.  There is a big sign that shouts out “WE SELL COFFEE”.  Did the guy think they would run out of coffee as soon as he got to the head of the line?  For once I would like to see the clerk smile, say yes, and walk away.  Or the clerk could look him in the eye and say simply “No” and if the customer asks why, he could say “Because you ask stupid questions”.  Anyway, when it’s my turn to order, I make a point to say “Give me a small, dark roast regular please - and can I get a double double for my wife?  OH SHITE!! Now they got me doing it.

    That jerky did taste quite good though.  I wonder how long it would take me to gum a whole package.  Maybe next time.

The Saga of Lil’ Orley and the Great Plumbing Fiasco

A few years back my ding-a-ling went on strike. Peeing became less of a “steady stream” and more of a “slow drip coffee,” so I booked myself in with a urologist. After a cystoscopy (that’s a camera adventure up the you-know-where), the doc suggested a prostate reduction, also known in the trade as a TURP, or as us regular folk prefer: the ol’ roto-rooter job.

Operation went fine, or so I thought, and after a few days of sporting my new fashion accessory — the catheter — I was set free to let the waters flow. And they did! Until one morning, when I woke up dammed tighter than Hoover. No flow. Zero. Nada.

Mild panic set in. My wife, Dian, chauffeured me to the ER, where I was parked half-naked on a bed like an abandoned turkey waiting for stuffing. A doctor eventually strolled by, peered at the problem, and announced, “We’ll just slide something up there to clear the way.”

Enter two nurses: one experienced, one still new to the rodeo. The elder gave marching orders, and the younger got handed the honors of navigating Lil’ Orley the Cabbage Worm. Unfortunately, Orley wasn’t exactly cooperative. She tried once. Nope. Tried again with lube. Nope. At this point her hands were so slippery with the K-Y jelly that Orley kept vanishing into her grip like a whack-a-mole.

Now, this could have been mildly enjoyable if Dian hadn’t been looming over the proceedings like an anxious referee. Trying to lighten the mood, I told the nurse, “Careful now — if you break through, I might take out a ceiling tile.”

The nurses exchanged unamused looks and backed out of the game, handing me a towel and told me to wipe myself off.  (I still don’t know why they couldn’t have just wiped me down — they had already been, shall we say, hands on.)

Hours later the doctor returned, made a phone call, and decided, “We’ll go with the industrial-strength model.” A stiffer catheter was installed and a stylish leg-bag attached, because nothing says sexy like carrying your own pee purse.

A few days later my urologist yanked out the gear, did another cystoscopy, and discovered scar tissue had been clogging up the works. He cleaned it out, and at long last — the waters were back in motion.

Moral of the story? Respect your plumbing. And if someone ever comes at you with lube and a flexible tube, just hope your spouse isn’t in the room with front-row seats.

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