Waterslides of ick

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

Who knew a little incident at a local water slide park would wind up being the topic of conversation that would provide entertainment for my friends well into the winter months.

It all began with a family outing to the aforementioned aquatic recreation facility that has a rather shallow landing pool. That is the part at the bottom of the slide where you splash into the water and a time of merriment is enjoyed by all.

The problem is, this particular water slide has a rather shallow landing area. Well, it was shallow for me anyway as my 100-something kilogram frame does not slow down in water like a little 10 year old does.

To counteract this lack of depth in the landing pool, I have to slow down ñ a lot ñ before I reach the end of the slide, a fact I forgot on this particular trip, which was the first of the year.

So, I happily went tearing down the slide as fast as I could, while thinking about all the fun I was having. Just as I reached the exit of the tube of doom, a faint memory flashed through my mind about slowing down long before I arrived at this point.

I hit the water with the force of a Russian nuclear-powered submarine and the thimble-full of water did very little to stop my scraping along the bottom of the pool. To keep people from slipping and sliding in the pool, sand is painted into the floor, offering excellent traction, but in my case it was like doing a knee-slide along a big patch of sandpaper.

The instant I was wracked with searing pain I realized my error. I got out of the water and found a huge strip of 'road rash' that was as painful as it looked.

I headed to our picnic table to assess the damage when one concerned citizen approached me, ìExcuse me, but do you know your leg is bleeding?î

ìWhat! My leg is bleeding? You're kidding me? Holy moly it is. Thanks for pointing that out, if you hadn't of done that, I never would have noticed the burning pain that was shooting through my body. Sure am glad you were around.î

A little first aid stopped the bleeding and over the next couple of days two impressive scabs formed over the gaping wounds.

A buddy of mine summed it up best, ìIt looks like you have two strips of bacon glued to your leg.î

Thanks pal, I appreciate it. 

To add to the situation, we were joining those same friends on a trip to a northern Alberta city that has a huge water slide park located in a mall on the west side of town.

When we got to the slide entrance area, I asked the girl behind the counter if I was allowed to go in with my wound.

She looked at my knee and without changing expression in the least said, ìOh yea, no problem. We've had worse than that in here.î

For a brief moment I was relieved I would not miss out on the fine family fun, but the joy was quickly replaced by the thought of, ìHow much worse?î

If two strips of bacon weren't enough to keep someone out, what was? Deep down I did not want to know, but all of us adults found the declaration a little unsettling.

I blocked the thought from my mind as best I could and off we went to slide the day away. I must warn you the following is kinda gross, and by kinda I mean, very.

When you spend a lot of time in the water, any scabs you might be packing around with you become rather soft. After one particularly fast slide, I noticed I only had one scab left on my leg.

I apologize for the mental image, because I am sure everyone is picturing the same thing I did ñ a giant, alligator-sized scab floating around the pool. I really am sorry about that.

When I told my friends they were completely grossed out and the scab that got away has been a topic of conversation ever since.

See what I mean

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

It would seem God gave men and women different eyes.

The mechanics are the same, with retinas and all those other eyeball thingies, but they just don't see the same things.

For example, there can be a few items on the kitchen counter and to a man's eyes they are just fine where they are, but to a woman they are clutterish (if that is even a real word) and they must be put away - immediately.

A guy can look at the items many times and not see a need to do something with them. That is not to say men are slobs. OK, some men are slobs, or neatness challenged as the politically correct world calls them, but I am talking about a couple of minor items here.

A woman, or more accurately my wife,  can look at a room and see a dozen things that need to be done, changed, moved, cleaned, burned, have an exorcism performed on them or simply left alone.

I can look at the same room and think, 'Looks good to me.'

So how come her eyes can see such a different world than mine do? Beats me.

However, I have noticed that once we step outside a role reversal takes place and I start to see thing she does not.

Our lawn can bethree metres tall with a family of hillbillies living in it and she would not see a need to mow the grass. There could be more weed per square foot than Woodstock and she would simply walk by them every single day.

My man eyes however, see the need to get the motorized lawn chopper out and make the yard somewhat presentable. The weeds, of course, must go, the hedge has to be trimmed, the trees pruned and something must be done with that darned spreading juniper that is attempting to take over the entire front yard rock garden.

ìWe have a spreading juniper? What's a spreading juniper?î was pretty much my wife's response when I told of the cedar situation that is threatening to create havoc in the entire western hemisphere.

I will show her the bush that is just slightly smaller than a 747 and she will invariably respond, ìOh, I never noticed it before.î

Funny how that excuse does not work when it comes to a pile of laundry.

ìWhat do you mean you did not notice it? How could you not notice a pile of laundry next to the wash machine behind a closed laundry room door? It's so obvious. Juniper? What juniper?î

Let's just say the yard work has been left mostly to yours truly. Fortunately I have two big strong sons who willingly jump in and help me with the back 40.

OK, willingly might be a bit of a stretch. I think forcibly is a more accurate description of their helping out with the greenery.

Teen eyes are also different than adult peepers ñ man or woman. Human eyes must change over time, because teens do not see things that need to be done inside or outside, and once they enter their bedroom they must go completely blind, but that is another column.

My wife's eyes do notice the gas guage now, which is a good thing. For a while she had a blind spot for that particular vehicular function and I would often jump in the car to go somewhere to find it had less gas than a squirrel fart.

But that's OK, I never quite did get the hang of noticing when we were out of shampoo (Hey, I'm a bald man, shampoo is not a real big concern for me.)

But eyes can be trained. My eyes have learned to notice when the floor needs to be vacuumed, but for some reason I am still somewhat blind to a pile of dirty dishes.

My wife has figured out the gas thing, but for some reason remains oblivious to the plight of the lawn.

Perhaps glasses might help us both.

Trapped in the frenzy

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

I walked into the house after work no differently than I have done hundreds of times before.

There was no sense of foreboding, no feeling of impending doom. Just me coming home after a hard day in the salt mines.

But danger was there, it was lurking, waiting for the unsuspecting victim to step into it's steely jaws of misery.

What, you ask, was the trial I was facing?

Was it a rampaging horde of Mongol warriors bent on taking over the world and they decided to start with my house? I wish.

Perhaps a rabid timber wolf had some how wandered down from the wilds of northern B.C., found its way to my home, snuck through the backdoor undetected and was waiting to pounce the moment I walked in the room.

I should be so lucky.

I did not even see it until it was upon me, until I was in its grasp, it was then and only then did I realize my wife had entered the spring cleaning madness zone.

It caught me completely by surprise. She was in a full-blown spring cleaning frenzy by the time I walked through the front door.

The cleaning tsunami began to build in the morning while I was blissfully working away, ignorant of the situation brewing in my castle.

Once home, it took me a while before I became aware of what was happening, and by then I was being swept away in the cleaning frenzy like a cork in the ocean.

The Missus started by asking me to put a couple of things in the garage, no big deal, so I put the items in the garage and went back into my humble home to see what else my beloved needed.

It was then that I froze in my tracks, and the full gravity of situation hit like a bird flying into a window.

There she was, standing on a desk reaching to the far corner of a top shelf, cleaning every last speck of dust from the most hard-to-reach places in the house.

I knew that could mean only one thing and I was officially recruited to help with the spring-cleaning frenzy.

The orders then came fast and frantic: ìCould you please pass me that dust rag? Take those out the garage. Do we need to keep these? What are these? Put that in the garbage. Does this go on the keep, give or throwaway pile?î

My mind was spinning. How had I not seen it coming. It happens every year, but this year I walked into it like a blind cat running into a rottweiler.

My first thought was to clutch my chest, fake a heart attack, wobble around a little bit and hit the ground moaning and groaning.

Then, as she went to call 911, I would bolt for the door, jump in my car and head for the hills until the frenzy was over. Perhaps I could find a nice cave or something to cower, I mean, live in for a week or two.

Sorry children, but you are on your own. When it comes to the frenzy it is every man for himself and you would have to find your own way to get through.

Besides, I have been enduring the frenzy for a lot longer than you young uns have, so it is only fair you take up the slack.

But I did not feign a medical crisis, instead I did what any self-respecting husband would do.

I squared my shoulders, looked my wife directly in the eyes and proclaimed, ìYes dear, what ever you need.î

I am sure the fake heart attack would not have worked anyway, as once she realized I had escaped she would have found my cave and, after giving it a thorough cleaning, would have guided me home for continued participation in the joyous springtime ritual.

I am not sure exactly what the next few days will bring, but with talk of rearranging this room, removing stuff from that room and buying cleaning supplies by the truck load I have a pretty good idea.

Does anyone have a cave I could rent for a few days?

Doggone strange stuff

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH

It's funny how animals bring people together, especially dogs.

When walking the hound, it is not uncommon for other hound walkers to stop and chat about their dog, your dog, a dog they had when they were a kid or a variety of other canine-related topics.

While the strangers are chatting it up, the dogs are circling each other trying to get the best angle to sniff the other dog's butt.

Once again, I am glad humans shake hands when they meet. Sure it may not be the most hygenic thing to do as germs can be transferred and what not, but compared to how dogs greet each other it is just fine thank you.

The beasts give people a common ground from which to start a conversation, even if it is about a critter that would just as soon hump your leg as form of social interaction.

I guess any animal could be the catalyst for conversation, but you don't see many people taking their cat for a walk, so dogs are the predominant conversation starter.

And why not, dogs are better than cats anyway, as any dog person will tell you. Now before all the cat huggers cough up a furball, I have nothing against the kitty critters, I just prefer dogs.

We got my son a cat a few years back so I do share my home with a distant, self-absorbed creature that knows they are the centre of the universe, but enough about teen agers, we're talking about animals here.

We are a multi-cultural home with cat and dog live in near perfect harmony.

Part of that is because we have the mellowest cat to ever walk the planet. Nothing phases this cat, which is nice because those spastic, bounce-off-the-walls-at-the-sound-of-a-bug-fart cats drive me crazy.

I am convinced the cat and dog made an arrangement when Murphy the mutt arrived as a 10-week-old puppy.

ìHey, little dog, c'mere. Tell you what, let's make a deal. You don't annoy me and I won't kill you, sound good.î

Apparently they had an agreement, because the two get along very well, even though Murphy does still want to wrassle with the cat on occasion, but more often than not it involves the dog bouncing around wanting to play and the looking at him with the I-will-kill-you-in-your-sleep look.

But when taking your dog for a walk, it is a natural to strike up a conversation with other mutt people.

Typically the conversation centres on the dog, which makes sense seeing as how I do not know you and have nothing else to talk about other than the weather, but once in a while I come in contact with some one who offers too much information, waaaay to much in this particular case.

We were strolling down the street when an older gentleman approached walking a dog about the same size as ours. While the dogs were busy sniffing each other's posterior region, we chatted about the silly things dogs do.

This gentleman decided to let us know his dog preferred to sleep on the bed between himself and his significant other.

ìHe's a little dog so we don't mind, it just makes it kinda tricky when we want some loving,î he said much to our distress.

OK, pal, you know what? That is information I do not need. In fact, that is information I will never need. In fact, I could have gone to my grave without that information.

My wife and I suddenly realized we had to rush home to do, um, er, anything that did not involve talking to this guy so we excused ourselves and made good our escape.

Calm down 'little' man

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
So there I was, driving along the highway like I have done a thousand times before, minding my own business while rejoicing in having survived another day at work.

Ahead of me in the fast lane was a car that was not going very fast. In fact, it was doing about 80 km/h along a 90 km/h highway.

Did I mention the car was in the 'fast' lane, not the drive-at-less-than-the-speed-limit lane?

That information plays a role in this tale.

I was cruising along at around 10 km/h over the posted speed limit, which is no biggy because even then some people were passing me like I was on a skateboard.

The speed limit along this stretch of blacktop often seems more like a suggestion than anything else. I have seen some drivers going so fast they broke the sound barrier as they passed.

But on this day, it was not a fast driver who was causing distress to other motorists, but a guy who knew the world should do what he wants, so going slow in the fast lane is perfectly acceptable.

I pulled up behind said driver, and after slowing down I flashed the lights of my car a couple of times indicating I wanted to use the passing lane to do just that and if he wanted to drive like he was cruising the block, he should do so in the slow lane.

He declined to move over, so I went into the 'slow' lane, and passed the slow driver. While passing, I glanced over at the car and thought nothing of it.

As soon as I was past him, he began pointing to something in the sky. At least that's what I think he was doing as he kept using one finger to point upward.

Looking skyward, I failed to see anything, so I continued on my way. Suddenly Mr. Fastlane found the accelerator and pulled up behind me, still pointing at whatever it was he saw in the clouds.

I came to a stop light and Mr. Finger roared up behind my car, braking at the last moment.

It would seem either flashing the lights of my little car, passing his larger car or daring to look in his direction was a tremendous insult because this guy was obviously annoyed.

The light turned green and I proceeded like I always did with Mr. Angry right behind me. As I pulled onto a side street Mr. Bozo continued past me down the road, again pointing to the heavens with what appeared to be the only finger he had left on his hand.

Perhaps the others were chopped off in an industrial accident or something. I felt bad for the poor guy, having to go through life with only one finger, and it happened to be 'that' finger to boot.

He was a younger fellow, I would say in his early 20s, and from what I could see of him he was rather large. You know the kind: no neck, head slightly larger than a ripe pumpkin only not as smart.

After watching his tirade and single-finger salute for several minutes, I tried to think of what I did that was so offensive as to evoke such ongoing anger.

I did not cut him off, give him a dirty look or even return the single-digit sign language, but somehow I had committed a great offence against him and he wanted to make sure I knew it.

I thought about it for a long time before the answer became clear.

He wasn't saying 'You offended me,' nor was he saying 'You disrespected me and I am not happy about it.'

I realized what the meathead was saying was, 'I have a very small winky and that really upsets me and I am not bright enough to deal with it in any way other than directing pointless anger at those around me.'

It all became clear after that realization. Why else would a full-grown man show such hostility for absolutely no good reason if he did not have some personal issue he was trying to compensate for?

Hey pal, it's OK. Many creatures on this planet have the same handicap. Mice are a prime example and you don't see them flipping the bird to people and acting all hostile for no real reason.

My advice would be to accept yourself for who you are and relax a little bit, no matter your short comings.

The big ass colon adventure

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Perhaps there are some things you should not be able to simply walk in to.
The colon is the first thing that comes to mind.
Sorry for that visual, but there is an exhibit in Toronto featuring a huge walk-in colon (I am not kidding). The stroll-a-colon is part of a campaign for prostate cancer awareness, which is something I wholeheartedly support, but I am just a little shy on the whole whale-sized colon thing.
It is an attention-grabbing gimmick no doubt, but it is also kinda weird.
Haven't these people heard of information kiosks, or display boards or anything but a massive colon large enough for people to wander around while chatting about the latest in colon-related activities.
“Hey Phil have you gone in to have you prostate checked.”“Not yet, I am looking around for a doctor with really small hands.”
The display is called the Giant Colon Exhibit.
I will give them an A for imagination when it comes to the actual display as it does certainly catch your eye – I mean where else have you heard of a colon the size of a city bus?
However, I do have to give them a C-minus when it comes to naming said exhibit.
Not the most creative name I have ever heard, mind you it is also the first time I have ever heard of a gigantic colon being the centre of attention.
Perhaps a catch phrase or something could liven things up a bit.
“Come for the colon, stay for the pizza.”
“We will leave no place untouched in the battle against colon cancer – literally. No, really, we mean it.” That one may not be catchy, but it's true.
Maybe organizers could hand out those little travel-size bottles of Preparation H to each entrant.
Souveniers of the event would be another matter. I am not sure how the T-shirt sales would go over.
“My parents walked into giant colon and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” might work, but who would want to wear it?
I have not been able to confirm this yet, but I heard from a reliable source there is a giant finger on wheels in the next room.
The organizers are trying to keep that part a secret because of the big finale which I refuse to go into more details about.
I do not know how enthusiastically I would walk into a giant colon, but I have strolled through a giant nostril.
It was at a science centre where the display was on bodily parts and fluids. While there were no colons or associated body bits, there was a huge nose you could walk in to see all the things there is to see in a nose.
It is a rather odd to feel like a giant booger, but when in nose...
Kids in particular enjoyed walking around the big nostril and the booger jokes were flying faster than kickbacks during the Mulroney administration.
The nose thing was not only quite interesting, but hearing someone say, “Eeeewww, grrrooosssss” every 10 seconds was worth the price of admission on its own.
Oddly, it was mostly girls who were grossed out by the nasal expedition. Apparently, a nasal cavity large enough to hide a '72 Buick in is not enough to gross out pre-teen boys.
Along with the thrill of walking through a nasal passage that would make the Jolly Green Giant's honker look petite, were all sorts of details about the nose, such as how my snot the average nose generates over a typical life time.
I do not remember the exact amount, but I have a rough idea because after having three kids I have had to clean up several gallons of the goo, so over a lifetime the numbers must be astronomical.
All we need now is for some scientific braniac to figure out how to run a car on snot and the world's energy problems would be solved.
People would be lining up to purchase the Booger-mobile, and if you have a cold – bonus – free gas for a week to 10 days.

Who's clucking idea was this

It's either an interesting idea or a clucking stupid plan.A while back, the fearless leaders of Vernon and Kelowna requested staff look into a backyard chicken bylaw.I recently spoke to intrepid city council reporter Ron Seymour, who said not much is hatching when it comes to the fowl bylaw, but the fact that there was even a need to look into it in the first place seemed rather odd.I did not know the Okanagan urban chicken population was so large it needed a bylaw, but they are working on one so the situation must be fowl indeed.The bylaw would allow people living within city limits to have chickens in their backyard on a permanent basis without breaking the rules.Apparently, some people already have the feathered friends fluttering around freely on their city-encased range, so instead of telling them they were not allowed, the city is looking into making it legal.If it goes through, any Farmer Brown wannabe can have a few birds without running afoul of the law (pun intended).My grandparents used to have several chickens on the little rural farm they retired to. They also had two roosters. One was a regular ol' rooster who spent his time doing rooster things, but the other was the meanest, nastiest piece of feathered terror God has ever put on this earth.Even the eagles would not mess with this mean little clucker.The stupid beast would attack pretty much anyone, or anything, that went into the chicken coop. Grandma used to carry a broom when she went in to collect the eggs to keep the critter at bay. They put up with the antics of the reddish rooster until it attacked one of their grandchildren - me. I was about five years old and when I went into the coop, the danged monster attacked me and laid a pecking on me I remember to this day.That was enough for grandpa, he was done with the dumb cluck. Let's just say we had chicken for supper that night.In your face bird brain.That left one rooster and he did his best to maintain the rooster code of making as much noise as possible very early in the morning.The sun would be rising into the heavens, small birds would be chirping and all of a sudden there was this horrid sound, kind of like a schizophrenic bagpipe player. And Foghorn Leghorn of the family homestead did not just crow once, noooo, that would be too easy.This feathered freak would make noise until even the dead were showing up, asking the stupid bird be shut up.So what happens if the urban Okanagan farmer gets a rooster so he can have more little chickens to sell to other urban farmers and the rooster does what a rooster does and keeps half the 'hood awake?I have never seen a chicken murder on CSI, but I guess there is a first time for everything.If there is such a thing as rooster rage I am sure it will happen.Mind you, accidents happen and as tragic as it would be, roosters have been known to trip and fall on axes in the past. Hey, I'm just saying stuff happens.And what happens if people get tired of the birds and just let them loose. The next thing you know there are thousands of chickens setting up house all over the place.Remember the bunny brouhaha that embroiled the city for so long?The bunny huggers will have to become hen huggers and lobby to save the birds by sending them to a farm or something where they can live out their lives in the setting they were meant to be in.Or, the city collect the wayward cluckers themselves and have one helluva barbecue.It will be interesting to see what, if anything, becomes of the bylaw.