Letters to the president, rocket powered bicycles, and more
The scene opens with a moderately disheveled male, mid-sixties, (age, not girth) shuffling into the kitchen where his wife makes lunch. He looks exactly like me. Hey, wait a minute, it is me. Clutched in my hand is a white legal sized envelope. On my face, you can almost see a smattering of feathers, cat that caught the canary feathers.
Me: (To wife.) Go ahead; ask me what I’ve been doing?
Loving wife: Okay, what have you been doing?
Me: (Gleeful; on the verge of a cackle.) I’ve been writing a letter to President Obama. What else would I be doing? (Triumphantly brandishes envelope. Yep, it’s the real thing; Barack Obama, the White House, 2600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Get out the stars and stripes, cue up the Rocky soundtrack.)
Loving wife: That’s nice. Did you clean out the hall closet like I asked?
Now you’d think a letter to the President would cause some excitement, some incredulity, curiosity, or any other word ending in y. At least a question! Been pen pals long? Did you say hello for me? Are you trying to get us nuked? Something of that nature.
Apparently not. Nor was my wife’s reaction unusual, not if you ask my cronies; sage, coffee-swilling individuals, most of whom have had similar reactions from their wives. “Next time try someone important, Oprah maybe,” one of them said, although that was curiosity speaking
The Obama letter can be seen in full ridiculousness on my previous post. It’s entitled a Solution For the Sony Problem, and offers commonsense playground advice on how to prevent the North Korean situation from escalating, while at the same time putting the fat kid with the funny haircut in his place, that being the nearest possible sewage treatment plant.
But, funny hair cut or not, the North Korean, cheese addicted strongman, last seen bench pressing two rounds of cheddar, must be taken seriously, especially since trash-talk coach Dennis Rodman has come aboard. The “cheeky monkey” comment, an obvious Rodman tactic.
State department officials, fearful of Rodman’s rebounding prowess, are worried the insults will escalate to the tipping point, that being “Your mother wears army boots”, where the president, always defensive about Mom’s footwear choices, would have no option but to respond with the greatest possible force. State department officials are fully aware of the President’s vulnerabilities, that being, spinnaker sized ears, and persistent rumours that he is Alfred E. Neuman’s secret love child.
But, back to the letter. Some have suggested the only response I’ll get from the White House is, “Please advise of your coordinates, and kindly remain seated until the B-52’s arrive.” But hey, wouldn’t it be great if he did reply? Then I could sign “Confidant of the President,” after my name and preface all remarks with, “As I was saying to Barack, just the other day….”
But I digress, my point is, when it comes to matters fun to the heart, don’t expect your wife to react the same as you do. Just because you’re excited over your latest breakfast creation, the blue cheese and peanut butter omelets, doesn’t mean she will be. Some things are just better kept to yourself.
Some say that one should share your innermost dreams and fantasies with your mate, but whenever I’ve mentioned I’d like to redline a sports bike in top gear, or that Car and Driver got 204 mph out of the new Lamborghini, all I get is, “Where can you go that fast around here?”
This is what’s known as a rhetorical question and is not to be answered unless you look good wearing a flowerpot on the head. Though technically a question, it is the female way of saying your prefrontal cortex is made of cat litter.
Things that excite the male just don’t resonate with females. Take the French guy who recently hit 207 mph on his rocket powered bicycle. (True story) In French, that works out to 333 kph, which sounds even grander, but then so does everything in French. You can have a boring steak and fries, but summon all your phlegm, puff up your bony chest, and voila, you have zee pep-hair biff-steak au Poo-rah, avec palm fritz. (Fritz? Hey, get that guy outta my fries.)
Imagine the rocket powered bicyclist coming home from his record run, putting his helmet in the hall closet, placing his hightops which are still smoking after being set on fire from the jet exhaust, outside on the stoop, a minor inconvenience from the prone riding position.
“What’s that smell? Asks his wife?” “Just my shoes,” he says. “They got a little hot today. Took the bicycle up to 333, shattered the old world record.”
“That’s nice,” she responds, then without missing a beat, “Did you remember to pick up the bananas for the kid’s lunch?”
Meanwhile, back in Moose jaw, and not to be outdone by a bony Frenchman, another man brings excitement to his fellow males, this time with a V-8 powered, walk-behind snow blower. An engineering tour de force in any language with treads at the back for easy turning, exhaust headers that rise straight up like antlers, heated handlebars, what more can a man want other than a blizzard in the forecast?
And when I say V-8, I don’t mean a little piddly one like you’d find in a BMW. No, I mean 454 cubic inches of big block Chevy with a four-barrel carburetor that pumps gas like a fire hose. We’re talking enough horsepower to shoot a large tube of snow out of your yard, over the Jones’, and onto the roof two houses over. How can you not get excited about that?
According to my wife, it’s easy. But not to worry, I know how to get her excited. Boy do I know how. Just carefully follow these simple steps until it’s time to duck. Tell her you invited your pen pal Obama and Michelle over for dinner, plus his kids, bodyguards and the White House dog. The more the merrier. Trust me, even though the chances he’ll accept are maybe 300 million to one, she will share your excitement. Just be prepared to wear the flowerpot. Cool your heels after riding your jet powered bike with an Italian white, Poggiotondo Bianco, $15.99.
Delbert Horrocks is a co-proprietor at Mahle House Restaurant. Follow him at Slightlycorkedandmore.wordpress.com