Doctor Philip McCavity
Have you ever noticed there are, and have been many TV shows on medical doctors but never any TV shows on dental doctors? Dr. Kildare, Marcus Welby, St. Elsewhere, Chicago Hope, ER, Mash, Frasier, Nip/Tuck, General Hospital, the list goes on and on. In Canada and America (Wikipedia) there have been 96 TV medical shows and 0 shows showcasing dentistry. Jerry Robinson from one of the Bob Newhart Shows was about as close as dentistry got to headlining on TV.
What's wrong with showcasing a dentist as an interesting or complicated, funny, filthy rich, playboy, type character? Well nothing. It just that we don't like them!
And I'll tell you why. They don't put us to sleep when they hurt us. TV would be flooded with new medical shows all about the ins and outs of the sexy world of dentistry. Dentists would be household names like doctors Ben Casey and Marcus Welby were to old people. They'd have their own marketable action figures, lunch boxes and pajamas if they would just put us to sleep while they drill into our heads!
Both medical and dental experiences start out the same way. You sit in a waiting room reading old magazines or play on your phone for half an hour. It's then when you leave the waiting room that dentistry gets its bad rap. In medical office the doctor talks with you and listens to you. In dentistry a dentist talks with you while he distorts your answers with his fingers in your mouth.
"So had any problems since our last visit six months ago?" He asks.
"Whaa eye Kaaan bye hon maaa ref sye oh ma mow" I clearly enunciate.
"Well ya got a cracked tooth Hawaii and we should replace some old fillings and since you have insurance golf clubs we should do a bunch of bonding on your choppers."
"We we? Ef oooo sa show."
And then he starts drilling! He pinches and pulls on your lips, pokes your gums with a nail and then starts drilling. A doctor of medicine,...will asks questions, says uh huh, yes uh huh, then he sends you to a specialist. My dentist never sends me to another dentist! He just goes at it with drill and pick and when he makes a mistake he says rinse and spit. I have to help my dentist in his procedure of my operation. I never have to irrigate incisions for my doctor!
And it's not like you can spit like the professional you really are. I mean you've mastered the science of the spit in grade four with all your buddies. But this expulsion of oral phlegm is handled with the finesse of a three year old spitting corn syrup into a headwind. You're wearing it! The handle on the chair is wearing it! And is the side of the little whirlpool sink. All three points are connected with,....???? Some sort of shiny string. Then he tips you back in the chair till your heads almost touching the floor and the string follows!
He's talking to you but you can't hear over the high, vibrating, teeth shattering, (you can feel them smash against the inside of your cheeks) deafening scream of his favorite drill. It's the same one he had at his home before he got caught working from his basement.
I don't think my medical doctor talks to me while he's operating. He's concentrating! Concentrate will ya!? If nothing else concentrate on using that Dixie straw on the end of that pathetic suction hose before I drown! That suction straw is never where it's suppose to be. Most of its time it's hanging in your mouth away from where it needs to be giving your tongue a hickey
Why am I forced to be awake through this? Why am I not asleep? Is my being conscious all just to rinse and spit!?
And now he's literally taking every nickel I have by inverting me upside down in his dental throne of pain. All my change and car keys are bouncing and clanging on and across his floor as I watch them roll away in my inverted position.
My doctor of medicine gives me a cool nightie and puts me to sleep with a room full of his friends to watch over me. Nice guy eh?
I wish I had on a cool nightie now! I'm sweating so bad now, like my change I'm sliding out of my pants.
And it's just him and I in the room. He can do what he wants and it will be his word against mine. Him with the two diplomas on the wall (even if one is just from Magi-Cuts) and me upside down light headed with an airplane landing light shining in my face. "Well your honor I saw,....?? A bright light!"
And you don't know what the heck he's doing. Even he can't see what's happening! He's using little mirrors on the end of sticks stuffed in your mouth competing for space with a Dixie straw and ten fingers. Medical doctors have magnifying glasses and microscopes with HD cameras. Pencil thin snake like microscopic cameras that are expertly fed along internal natural pathways of the body while you dream the procedure away.
Meanwhile upside down sweating like Mike Duffy at trial your subjected to head rattling high pitched drills that are blasting away fillings and tooth enamel to create gaping chasms of dental wasteland. Down to bedrock and a firm foundation is what's needed to now build back which once was.
Will I look more handsome be able to talk quicker? No? Will I be able to climb stairs without pain or now play the piano like a doctor of medicine might achieve in an operation? No? To be fair I couldn't climb the stairs before.
Drilling now complete he starts rebuilding. No permits no inspections no one to say 'Yup that should do,' he is unto himself. He starts with some sort of roofing putty at the bottom of the pit he just drilled in your face. Using such physical force with his metal sticks and trowels that he's pushing you back in your pants. And with great pressure bit by bit and with magical lights he somehow sets the roof putty to tooth enamel hardness.
"Bite. Grind. Bite again." He requests. At which point you mumble that the only the side of your face he just worked on is biting. Which he understood as 'Can you use that big drill on my face again?'
What the hey! Why did you put too much roofing putty in my face?! And why didn't you drill it out before you made it hard?!
"Okay rinse." he says as he starts to right the throne of pain and I'm right side up for the first time in over an hour. Light headed I flash him a look that this ain't going to be pretty. But I rinse and spit like a three year old so that the pretty receptionist will find me repulsive. And by her judging that the oral phlegm design on my shirt and chin is repulsive she will have saved her and my marriage.
Then he says those five words. The five words that find you leaping to your feet like a darted and drugged yearling moose. Bumping, spinning and tripping into chairs and walls, knocking over instrument trays and lights. Because your dizzy! Dizzy and light headed from being upside down for so long. But your freedom is now assured, operation complete. 'SEE YOU IN SIX MONTHS' he says. Five beautiful words.
With your dentist there's no bed with a caring nurse to monitor your progress as you awake from your dream. No wheel chair to the front door and someone to drive you home. No, not with the dentist. Your running out of his office head spinning, bumping into things trying to hide your phlegm art as you spin past the receptionist. New tooth brush and Smurf sized tooth paste in hand you run out the door and almost get hit by a car. But you don't care! You just want the experience over. You want away! You want to go home and flick on the TV and relive it all again. NOT!
And that's why boys and girls you'll never have a dentist on your lunch box, jammy's or television. Besides they have no time to do a TV show, they're all in Hawaii on the golf course telling funny 'Rinse and Spit' stories.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Friday, April 17, 2015
Men are from Mars, Women from Venus and Grandkids are from the Planet Zoltar
Our first grandchild was a bundle of sweetness and joy. She hardly ever cried. She slept a lot and I think never even messed a diaper. She was always being held and cuddled because she thrived on love and kisses that we're eagerly supplied by grandma.
So when the news was announced our other child was expecting, we were over the moon with anticipation. "This one will be better than the first!"
HA! We're we wrong.
The second one cried and fussed all night and day. Never a moments peace. She wanted everything her way and at the very early age of 6 months began telling us so.
Then two years later our son who had the first child, the best baby on earth, announced they were expecting again. We were hesitant but optimistic for another dream child from him and his wife.
Wrong again! Twin boys. And with twin boys even if you wanted, or could snuggle with one, the other was off getting into trouble with the dog.
Twins aren't a gift from God, they're a test! They test everything you thought you knew, and for sure you were an expert on, about raising children. And after the first year of having twins you are convinced that the only reason you were able to raise your own kids was from sheer luck. All your tried and true methods in child rearing are out the window.
Travel now ahead in time to the oldest eighth birthday party. She is still that sweet quiet little girl that tricked us into believing all grandkids are a breeze to help raise. She comes over to grandpas and grandmas and sits down and starts drawing and coloring. And would stay there all day if left to her own demises.
Number two granddaughter is now five and has brushed death on several occasions. Including, and not limiting to riding her bike off the sea wall, crossing a bear, sailing on a boat almost hitting a freighter and falling off a dock in Greece. She has tempted life more than James Bond in any of his moves. Her volume is constantly set at eleven and is always in overdrive. She is always making deals when asked to do anything. 'Okay I'll do it but you have to...' And is continually asking why it has to be that way? Always to her, life is unfair.
Then there's the twins,......OMG! They're Dad was just telling me how one of them pooped on the floor and the other one picked it up and started to smear it in his brothers hair!?????! At play school one of them has become a kleptomaniac by stealing things from the teacher. We're not sure which one because they both fit the description of the thief. And at home dad has learned how to remove and replace everyone of the three toilets as they have all been plugged with toys. And this all plays out while their sister sits downstairs and colors and their cousin is off tempting death on her bike and chucking rocks at a bear!
Little boys and girls aren't from Mars or Venus as the author of a famous book would suggest that men and women are from. But they are from somewhere much further out in the seemingly endless universe. Like Planet Zoltar and beyond!
Little people that live this way can't be from this solar system. Their thinking, actions and respect for life is so far from what we deem as normal. Why have we not placed them all into protective custody! They are scary!
They come over to grandpas and grandmas for a sleep over and are all sweet, respectful and kind for about five minutes. It's about then their hearing automatically stops. Their name means nothing to them. It's like renaming your dog for a day after having it for five years. You get no response. You need candy, chocolate, money or something bright and shiny to get a response. And even then it can, and probably will have to be repeated three times before its full content can be understood and a correct response or action is attained.
You need to tell them what you would like them to do, when you would like it done, where you want it done and how it should be done.
You just can't say have a bath and get ready for bed. Because your idea of having a bath and getting ready for bed is so far from how they do it on the Planet Zoltar and beyond. I've seen kids in the tub with and without water, in their clothes having baths. And if you don't mention to dry off after exiting the tub it becomes your fault why the floor and comforter on the bed is wet. And the brushing of teeth is not done on other planets apparently. And an alien from Zoltar and beyond has to sleep with everything she owns. But, after some deal making we got it down to 6 fuzzy stuffed toys. But now I have to take her and her 6 fuzzy friends to McDonalds tomorrow for breakfast.
It was getting late I caved in.
Five minutes later.
"Grandpa?" a little voice calls from upstairs. "I think Charlotte wants you." I mention to the wife over the TV volume. She shoots up the stairs reminiscent of her high school track and field days. But then all too quickly a deflated wife returns with an "It's you she wants."
"Nuts!" I climb the stairs reminiscent of yesterday. It still hurts. "Grandpa,.. Dixie needs a drink." she says. "She was flying so fast that she got thirsty and needed to go to the bathroom with a stomach ache that mommy always let's her watch TV when that happens." She then blinks twice because that's probably how they hypnotize you on Zoltar and beyond.
Who is Dixie? Would be a proper response to her last statement but at this point I didn't care. It was probably the fuzzy winged horse but considering the source of the tall tail it was probably the almost fuzzy turtle or the umbrella stand. (what the.....? Don't care)
"Okay let's go to the bathroom and we'll get you a drink while there." I puff in exasperation. "What about the chocolate cookies and TV you promised to Dixie?" Again blinking twice. I stammer, and for a brief moment show weakness and confusion. She knows she has me.
It's now 10:30 and she and grandma are wrapped up on the couch with a blanket and the umbrella stand.
It was the umbrella stand!
Crumbs are all that's left of two chocolate chip cookies that share a tray with a now half empty glass of milk. It's here that the oldest grandchild suddenly appears as if by magic and scares the bejeebers out of me. Forgot she was even here! "Grandpa, guess what?" she crackles in a sleepy voice. "One of the boys wet the bed,...from the top of the dresser. How come Charlotte had cookies?" she reports and asks followed with a double blink.
Caught again with the Zoltar and beyond double blink! Now all four grandkids are on the couch snuggling with grandma eating cookies and watching,....??? Well it ain't hockey! Doggone little aliens from the Planet Zoltar and beyond!
Monday, April 13, 2015
Game of Thrones With a Royal Flush
And flush again........, ah there's nothing like a low flush toilet. And this is nothing like a low flush toilet! It takes me two flushes to say good-bye to last nights meatloaf. Oh I didn't eat it, I'm just saying good-bye to it. Oh I know I'm not suppose to flush food down the toilet. But the 'Green Cart Guys' won't take it anymore. It jammed their grinder down at the processing plant......Twice!
So what I do with the wife's meatloaf is hammer and chisel it down to flushable pieces and say good-bye to it via la commode. But I used the wrong commode.
I have three toilets at my disposal, or is it three toilets handle my disposal? However the osal, I have three different toilets that have been installed or replaced in renovations throughout the house over the years. And I have found that all toilets are not created equal.
Now when I say all my commodes are different I don't mean in colour. It's not the Harvest Gold versus the Avocado Green against the Fawn Beige of our youth. But toilets that differ in age, function and water consumption.
Some years back the wife, creator of all weekend jobs, wanted to update the main bathroom. We (me) took out a perfectly good toilet to replace it with one of the early low-flow models. I don't know it's name or model, but we've knighted it as the ring-a-round toilet. It will, after two low-flow flushes, do what's required of it. Without getting too graphic it just barely works as long as you don't try to flush toilet paper by itself. Toilet paper alone in its bowl just spins around and around and would stay there for eternity if nothing else was offered to the ring-a-round toilet.
It should be replaced with the newer models of today but I keep it as a 'Well look what happened last time we renovated!' reminder to the creator of weekend jobs.
Last year we (I) replaced the ensuite toilet because it had become such an energy user. My energy! I had tried to save her by spending hours trying to get the float valve from sticking to the sides of the tank. The flapper to sit right and the chain from flipping off every time I flushed it.
It got to be quite the routine with every use. One I was willing to live with! After every flush I would take the fake flowers and doily off the tank, lift lid and place on floor. Put the chain back on the leaver, fiddle with the flapper and stop the float from sticking to the side of the tank. Replace lid, doily and fake flowers....TA DA! Who needs a new toilet! We (I) do, the wife said.
So it was off to the Homehandymanhardware super store in search of a new throne. And after much looking and no trying we bought a low flush elongated white one. This new one has a toilet tank a little bigger than a bread box. Ya right what's a bread box? How about two old VCRs taped together. Remember them?
So its back home and off with the old and on with the new. Thank-you super home reno store! You gave me the tools to do it myself and now I'm back buying a new floor for the bathroom because the old toilet base was much bigger than the new one, and now there's a gaping hole in the carpet in front of the new toilet that the old toilet had covered. On the bright side the carpet was getting a bit funky anyway, but on the other side, it is hard trying to find a shag the same colour.
This toilet flushes on two tablespoons of water! And its noisy! It creates a sucking sound when flushed that can be re-created by your tongue on the roof of you mouth and breathing in. It sounds like someone is having some sort of medical problem that deserves a 911 call. I have never seen a toilet flush with so little water. And, it came with a plunger!
Our (my) best toilet and friend in time of need, is the one that commands the most respect, and is also the oldest. It has to be 50 yrs. old! It's down in the basement in a small, built in the 60s, add on bathroom. You have to take a step up to get to it as the plumbing had to be raised because we were on septic tank at the time. And this monster deserves the step up. This thing could flush a whole roll of paper towels! I bet it could flush a two and a half foot 2 by 4 down its chasmic gaping throat. It's a 'Royal Flush' with such strength that it sucks the bowls dry of the other two toilets. And being on a water meter it probably costs me a buck and a half to do 'Royal Flush' each time. But it's a one flush job master. When you start this thing in motion, by using both hands to flip the leaver on the tank, the whole house knows of its roar. It announces its awakening to the completely deaf by the lights going dim and then start to flicker off and on in fear. This remover of waste or as its known to us as Big John, was designed when the buffalo was cooked in 40 pound roasts, not fried on wings. Made for an Al Bundy eating hungry man meals, not the low flush tofu, sushi eaters of today.
With Big John, if you don't come into the bathroom with your hat off, it'll take it off for you!
I said all that to say this...why is it that when I buy a toilet I can't test flush a toilet? You can go to a show room and look at lovely toilets but if you want to flush one you have to go in the staff washroom. They have samples of lighting lit up for all to see. And we all know a lamp turned on is just a little bit brighter than a lamp turned off. It's pretty much the same. That pretty white toilet installed in your new renovation looks just like the one on the show room floor, but it's not until you light it up.......that you realize the nature of the beast.
And flush.... And again.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
I Played Round the Oval Before the Globe Went Pear Shaped
It was the summer of 1960 something. Maybe 1964 and then every summer after that till the term 'summer job' and how I should have one became my parents mantra. In the haze of those summer days here in Richmond I discovered frog filled ditches and pastures with field mice and pheasant nests. I played catch with wooden net floats that washed up at hide tide on the river. I teamed up for hide and go seek and built forts in dried grasses taller than me . I wandered, wondered, explored and played till the summer day grew long on shadows. I only suffered from never having enough time for all the spontaneous nothing to happen. At a place where sunsets came too quickly on our planned activities. It was 1960 something, down at the Oval
The Oval I refer to is well know to people round here, but to taxpayers further out it refers to the speed skating center constructed for the 2010 Olympics here in Richmond. After all the athletes and most of the metals went home the Oval stayed, and became,.....? Well,... It's trying to become everything to all. The space is there. But all that's another posting.
And in the summer of 1960 something, it (the Oval) wasn't there but the summer activities were.
I mention the summer activities because I just received a flyer in the paper about all the activities offered to kids this summer at the Oval. From fencing, baseball, soccer, paddling and rowing to camp combos. All things I did as a kid on that very spot.
My early fencing experiences were rusty horizontal barb wire at the future Oval site. And old man Kruger made sure he let us kids, Wayne, Shorty and myself, know what side to be on. Old man Kruger occupied a house and barn at the north end of No. 2 Rd. and River Rd. He patrolled east of there to the Gilbert Rd. ditch (Gilbert Rd. use to end at Westminster Hwy. but it's ditch came through to the pump house that's still there by the Oval) and then south to Westminster Hwy. with his fierce, but old dog Getemboy.
And at every opportunity old man Kruger would chase us on foot or by tractor. Him and his dog, heck bent on telling us the fenced in area we were crossing had something to do with him.
And it wasn't like we were crossing precious freshly planted fields. They were hay and grass fields for his milk cows. But they were dangerous fields. Scary fields. Shoe filling wet cow pie fields that terrifyingly sprouted fleeing pheasants. Stupid birds that waited till you almost stepped on them, till they explode out of the grass. And then with a sound like nails on a chalkboard they cry out as thunderous wings beat against their broad chest and stop the hearts of young 9 yr. old boys. They were tall, dark, scary, grass and pheasant filled fields. Future Oval footprint fields of soccer ball eating grasses.
The fields scared us! But, at the same time offered excitement and imaginary situations for soldiers, big game hunters and pirates like us. They were the open rice fields of Vietnam connected to the steaming jungles of the Congo on a deserted island. With a tribe of 6ft tall Amazon female warriors living somewhere in its depths (we hoped). And, the fields were also the straightest line between two points. My house and the river.
The river was our destination every day after school, and every day all summer long. It was a cool fun filled and unpopulated (all before jogging was invented on the dyke. Which I guess Wayne,Shorty and I invented running from old man Kruger) activity center for us. We'd paddle it's poisoned waters, that smelt like oil, (back when we poured everything in the river) on logs latched together with braided grass and willow branches. Making sure we never went a bean pole depth (6ft) from its shores.
This was something we only did one and a half times. As it resulted in near death the first time and constant arguments how to latch it together, so it wouldn't fall apart, the almost second time. Wayne and I could swim. Shorty was just brave. But we were all stupid.
Now because we played there every day and the fact that water is wet, our feet were always wet too. So it was out of the need to dry our feet that we learned camping skills. We collected dry grasses and twigs to burn under the train trestle that crossed the Gilbert Rd. ditch. A skill that almost cost us our freedom as old man Kruger got the jump on us one time. We had got complacent as we had lit many fires without incident. We thought we were hidden under the trestle not realizing smoke rises. He didn't have his dog Getemboy that day and we didn't have our shoes on, so it was a fair race. We were just lucky the grass in the fields were short along with his stamina.
In all our years of building trails through his fields he never caught my friends and me. We joked about not having to outrun old man Kruger but to outrunning each other. But in fact if one of us had been captured by old man Kruger, the mobs code of silence (as well as ours) I'm sure, would not of been followed. We would have given up the others quicker than a Parking Bylaw Officer in Steveston.
All this took place after the spring of 1964 when my family moved here from Vancouver. I would turn nine that year and the wilds of Richmond were the best things a kid my age could hope for. Mistakes cuts and bruises were mine to make, and mine alone.
Now all activities at my old childhood stomping grounds are monitored. Adults are now directing, teaching, and constantly counting children to make sure they're there. Not because of old man Kruger, his tractor and his dog Getemboy. They're long gone. Now it's a loner in a white van we have to be afraid of. Oh he's not scary like old man Kruger was. This guy is friendly, wouldn't stick out in a crowd. He perhaps looks like a teacher. Maybe is a teacher! Maybe a family friend. But somewhere down deep he's wrong and very scary.
My heart ached a bit when I read the flyer of all the planned and supervised activities at the Oval. The place where I played and grew up free (except for the attempts of old man Kruger) from adult supervision. It hurt for the kids today who can't have a simple self monitored childhood outdoors. One of self exploration with unknown time limits where nobody picks you up after a set period. For kids knowing a time where you yourself are to blame. You are at fault if you get cut or banged up, not the person who's suppose to be watching you, or the faulty equipment company you can sue.
Mistakes that are yours to make. Mistakes and tumbles that are now almost impossible in helmets, pads and safety vests under trained adult supervision.
But we have to watch them. You can't kick them outside anymore to master a long boring summer day alone. My grand kids are growing up in the same country, province, and city as my wife and I did. But their world is so different. All because of that guy with a van, a car, a secret place. All because of the six o'clock news story of a distant, but not distant, city with grieving family over a young child. Again!
We were so lucky back then with our three channels on our black and white TVs. Me and my two amigos with little, to no, to wrong knowledge about girls. Where all of life's answers had to be discovered and not answered with a click of a mouse.
But questions all about things like that were years away then. We had trails to build, fires to start, big game to hunt and six ft. tall Amazon women in leopard skin bikinis to capture. Maybe some questions were not so far away,....in 1960 something.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Begin forwarded message:
The Grass is Always Greener On the Other Side of the Fence
(but it smells like a chip shop)
I find myself standing in line at the 15 items or less isle at my local grocery store. In hand are one gallon of vinegar, one kilogram of salt and a bottle of lemony fresh, tough on grease soft on hands dish soap. All the items needed to boil me up a dandelions worst nightmare.
For weeks now the wife has been bugging me to kill all the lovely yellow flowers punctuating the back and front yards. Bright, cheery, round kisses of sunlight that mature into ever so fragile orbs, that on but a whisper float softly across the yard in a delicate dance, then to land to continue their cycle of life.
"WEEDS!" She called them, raising her arms in the air, with both hands and teeth clenched. "Get off your bottom, ( just in case the little ones are reading this) get out in that yard, and kill them weeds!"
"With what shall I kill them (to the tune of 'There's a Hole in My Bucket') dear Cindy dear Cindy? With what shall I kill them?"
I never heard her response as I was to busy ducking, spinning and running avoiding air-borne objects all trying to do to me that which she wanted me to do to the weeds.
My question was a valid one.
Gone are the warm Spring days filled with the hazy fog of herbicides, that was my youth. Dad sending you out with a spray bottle and an "Oh by the way try not to breath it in" cautionary instruct. Sprays, powders and liquids, all with the picture of that guy you see on the pirate flags. 'Old Skull-n-Bones.' Together him and I would rid this here town of all the low life pesky weeds. Got to be a pretty good shot with a spray bottle too. Behind the back, over the head, under the leg, all with deadly accuracy.
'With what shall I kill them?' Herbicides are banned. "Good thing too!" my doctor says. "You should of breathed that stuff in a little less, then your kids wouldn't all have to be working in the circus."
I'll ask the guy next door, he has a nice lawn. A fact my wife never forgets to tell me every chance she gets. Besides I've got to go over and complain about a chip shop he's just recently opened up over there.
"Ya git yer vinegar, ya git yer salt and ya git some of that there liquid soap. Ya mix'em all up, boil it, then ya pour it on them and watch'em scream!" This was his answer to "So what do you use to kill weeds?" Or at least I hope it was, don't see many kids playing outside anymore.
Weird guy! I order a side of chips and leave.
Back at home now I drag out the wife's cauldron, careful not to knock over her broom. I drain the vinegar into the pot, add four 'Worlds best Dad' cups of salt and enough liquid soap to beg the question, is it half empty or half full?
Using 2 by 4s from the sun deck I ripped down three years ago (I told her I'd use these someday) I start a fire under the pot. In no time at all my eyes are stinging from the smoke and I'm breathing through my mouth to avoid the stench of hot vinegar. Place smells like a chip shop!
Hey he still hasn't brought over them fries.
My mixture of 'dandelion hell is soon at a full boil. I remove the pot from over the fire, using my pants as a pot holder. That's pretty much what they are when I wear them too.
I pour my steaming concoction on the first weed I see. It withers and deflates like a wife reminding you you're almost out of 'Depends' in front of your high school sweet-heart at the 40th school reunion. I mean that weed wishes it was never born! If it had a palm to smack the front of his forehead and eyes to roll back and squeeze shut and a mouth to say "Not here! Not now!" and fall backwards on to the gymnasium floor into the fetal position sucking his thumb ..........he would. I mean 'it' would.
Upwards and onwards to the next weed.
Two week later
Sitting in McDonalds wondering where I went wrong. Not enough vinegar? Wrong kind of salt, should of been sea-salt? Too much soap? What?
All my weeds are back , just like before. I walk out to the car and they're waving at me in the summer breeze, and laughing with their bright sunny disposition.
I grab another handful of fries and shove them at my face. Looking down at my tray I see my unopened packet of vinegar and salt. Remembering I like these on my fries I decide to be classy and not to remove the dozen or so chips sticking out of my mouth to anoint and bless them with free condiments. I'll practice good manners and wait for the next installment.
FREE? Did I say free?
Hang on here! Am I the only one that realizes Mickey Dees is giving out free weed killer! Or in my case weed suppression.
Armed with this knowledge, I ask for three thousand packets of vinegar for my small fries. "No need to count them"I say, "just fill this black pot. Oh, and make it quick, the wife doesn't like me taking her things out of the yard."
It's time to cook up another vat, and cheese off a bunch of heckling, yellow headed, jovial weeds. Hey, do you think Heinz 57 got it on the first try?
by Bob Niles.
PS. After less than 57 tries I now realize my recipe was correct it was the timing that was off. You must spray the vinegar, salt and soap solution after the dew is off the rose, and the weed. Plus it's also helpful if it doesn't rain the next day so the weed can get the full effect of your hateful concoction.
I also found out McDonalds is not in the habit of giving out endless supplies of free condiments. This was explained to me as my wifes' black pot was about 1/4 full of free vinegar and salt while I was trying to pull it through the bathroom door for liquid soap.
Oh, and one more thing, you don't need a big black pot to heat up the vinegar to dissolve the salt. Run the vinegar through the coffee maker. It heats the vinegar high enough that the salt is easily dissolved, and it cleans the coffee maker. But make sure you run a full pot of clean water through your Mr. Coffee afterward or you'll get yelled at.
bobby did this