Hey buddy, you want to score some toad?

I was recently sent one of those e-mails with little know facts about life and the world we live in.
Information such as at any given hour there are 61,000 people in airplanes over the United States is interesting.
Well, it is to me anyway, which gives you some idea of just how pathetic my life is and just how easily amused I a can be.
I would also find life much easier if there were not so many shiny things lying about to distract my already distracted brain.
Another amusing, yet absolutely useless piece of information, is the first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
Oh, how times have changed.
Now it would be acceptable to show Fred and Barney in bed together.
Anyway, one of the items in the e-mail of useless (but interesting) information sent me on a short-lived quest to verify the validity of the claim.
The statement was simple: you cannot lick your elbow.
My first thought was, “Why would you want to?”
My second thought was, “I wonder if that is true.”
So I casually found a quiet space where, that’s right, you guessed it, I tried to prove them wrong.
Feel free to give it a try yourself. Go ahead, you know you want to.
You have likely just learned the same thing I did, which is the same thing the original author learned and that is you can’t lick your elbow.
Unless your tongue is 12-14 inches long, it’s just not going to happen.
I got to wondering who the first person to try this feat was, and more importantly why did they try it.
I guess some people just have waaay too much time on their hands.
It is just another example of people doing strange things that most of us probably would never even think of trying.
The elbow incident got me thinking about other strange activities and how they came to be. There have been stories over the years about people licking toads and frogs to get high.
First of all, that is truly disgusting. Secondly, who knew licking an amphibian would give you a buzz?
Who was the first person to lay tongue to toad and think, “Wow man, that’s pretty groovy.”
Were they sitting around a campfire moaning about not having any money for beer when a frog hopped across the lawn and someone said, “I know, let’s lick that frog for fun?”
The only thing stranger than the guy who came up with the idea, is the person he got to join him in getting fresh with a frog. I refer to the inventor of the getting-personal-with-a-frog-as-a-form-of-entertainment game as a male, because, honestly, I do not know any females dumb enough to try licking a frog for fun.
Or perhaps it started at Woodstock where someone decided to take the ‘experimental stage’ of their life to the next level and include woodland swamp creatures to help with the expansion of their mind.
“Hey, what’s wrong with Mikey? He’s freaking out.”
“He got hold of some bad frog.”
“Bummer man, I wonder how many flies he’s gonna eat before he comes down.”
In my 40 something years on this earth, I have never considered a frog or a toad a party accessory, but others have and if it wasn’t for those willing to push the limits of idiotic behaviour there would be much less to talk about in this world.
Thank goodness it never caught on, or police would be raiding grow ops one week, and frog farms the next.
“Pssst, hey buddy. You lookin’ to score some amphibian? I got frog. I got toad.”
And as everyone knows, frogs are the gateway amphibian.
One minute it’s a simple pond frog, then it’s a big ol’ bullfrog and the next thing you know, you’re all the way up to snogging an iguana.
Pretty soon you are sleeping in the bushes next to the zoo just waiting for the chance to sneak in under the fence and make off with a creature of the Kermit variety.
Instead of asking for spare change, you are asking for directions to the nearest swamp.
As if actually licking a frog was not enough of a reason not to try it in the first place, the thing that creates the ‘high’ is actually a mild poison secreted from the critter to fend off attackers.
How smart do you have to be to ingest poison for a cheap high?
I guess if you are willing to lick a frog in the first place, the answer presents itself.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

The doctor will see you...eventually

Anyone who has been to a doctor knows an appointment is more of a guideline than an actual time you will see said practitioner.
Appointments are made so people can rest assured that eventually, they will get in to see their doctor and are not just hanging out in a public waiting area half the day for the fun of it.
I can appreciate how busy doctors are and I understand stuff happens and appointments get delayed, so my new goal is to have as much fun with the waiting process as possible.
The challenge is to have fun in the mind-numbing vacuum of boringness that is a waiting room.
I can remember when doctor’s offices used to have National Geographic, or some other cool magazines.
The last time I was waiting for a doc, the magazines were the most uninteresting pieces of glossy fluff I have ever seen.
The lets-visit-the-doctor routine goes pretty much the same way every time it happens.
I check in with the receptionist upon arrival – because the sign tells me to and if I don’t will be lost in the waiting room black hole forever, which I am convinced is what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. He’s probably still in a waiting room, reading the latest issue of Modern Unions and Mobsters because he did not check in with the receptionist.
So after I check in, I spend a couple of minutes looking around before seeking out some reading material that will help make the minutes fly by.
In one doctor’s office I was impressed to find the magazines actually had a protective plastic binder around them.
That makes sense. You wouldn’t want that vintage May, 1972 copy of Better Quilts and Pillows to get damaged. How else would you know what kind of throw pillow goes best with orange shag carpet?
Fine literature like that deserves to live for all eternity (and probably will in the waiting room.)
After spending 18-43 seconds looking over the magazines and realizing watching a fly crawl across the wall is more exciting, I begin to check out my fellow doctor seekers.
This is a more in depth scrutiny of my waiting room brethren than the cursory glance I give when I first arrive.
That initial check is an absolutely vital part of the waiting room experience. Remember, these people are here to see a doctor because they are ill, and that means the room is full of koodies (which I believe is an actual medical term.)
The initial glance when you first walk in will give you some idea of the people you do not want to sit beside. The lady with the tissue permanently welded to her nose is the first person to avoid.
As is the guy who is coughing to so much his face has turned so red it could guide Santa’s sleigh.
Once the room is surveyed and you have checked in with the receptionist person, it is time to select your seat based on your cursory examination of the room. This is a very important decision because that will be your seat for the next seven to 10 days, depending on how far behind the doctor is running.
Once a chair has been selected and having exhausted the thrilling and educational stack of magazines it is time to check out the crowd and play ‘What’s your ailment.’
Mucus girl and phlegm boy are easy to figure out, as is the kid with cast and the lady in the neck brace, but there are always a few people who look absolutely fine.
Those are the ones I decide to give an ailment of my choice to. 
“Really. Wow, not many people contract malaria in Canada."
“Diphtheria. Now there’s a disease you don’t hear nearly enough about.”
I don’t even know what diphtheria is, and if it wasn’t for spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell it either, but being married to a nurse I hear about all sorts of nasty diseases that I can’t spell or pronounce and certainly do not want to contract.
During the wait, people come and go and every time the receptionist grabs a file you secretly hope it is your name being called so you can get out of the germ factory and on with your day. You know eventually your name will be called and when it is, it is like winning a mini lottery.
But, having your named called is a little misleading because all that happens is you leave the big waiting room and end up sitting in a smaller room that, without the doctor in it, is essentially another waiting room. But at least I know I am getting closer to my end goal so I cheerfully flip through the latest edition of Modern Squirrels and Muskrats while waiting those last few minutes for the doc.
For some reason that kind of wait seems limited to when I go to see the doctor.
When I go to the dentist, I am ushered into the chair of terror .04 seconds after walking in the front door.
I haven’t even taken my coat off before the receptionist starts dragging me into the room where people are going to stick sharp objects into my gums.
I don’t even know if my dentist has magazines because I am never in the waiting room long enough to read one.
I appreciate their efficiency, but when it comes to seeing a dentist I am an abject coward. I do not like going to the tooth doctor and I actually don’t mind waiting for a while, it gives me time to psych myself up.
It’s kind of a ‘Rah-rah, you can do it’ time.
The ‘What’s your ailment’ game cannot really be played at the dentist office anyway because I know what people are there for – their teeth.
The upside is, the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out, and when it comes to the dentist, getting out is all that matters.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Help, there'a a big ass bug in my car

It is one of the most horrifying, unnerving experiences you can have while driving, and it happened to me just the other day.
I was cruising down the road, enjoying a sunny Okanagan day like I have done countless times. It was not so hot I had to have the air conditioning on, so I had my window open.

That's when it happened.

I actually heard the insect hit the door jam of my car and I saw a black mass out of the corner of my eye.

I knew the condor of bugs had just entered my vehicle, but what I didn't know was the status of the bug - what kind of bug it was and how pissed off it was over being clobbered by my import.

I glanced to my left and saw a black figure – roughly the size of a full-grown ostrich – on the top of my seatbelt near the window...near my head.

And then it was gone.

I do not want to say panic set it...

It did set in, I just don't want to say it.

When you come right down to it, there really are only two types of bugs on this planet: ones that will hurt you, and ones that won't.

The odds of a bug this large being some sort of engorged lady bug were very slim, so my mind immediately went to the kind of bug that can cause pain.

It was no longer on my the top of the seatbelt near my head, so that means it was in the car somewhere.

My first fear was it had fallen between me and the seat and it was getting ready to deliver the mother of all stings or bites – or both.

Travelling down the highway and 100-ish km/h is not a good time to have an insect attack, well, no time is a good time, but barrelling down the blacktop is an even worse time.

I reached around behind my back trying to locate the beast before it took its revenge upon me for hitting it with my car.

I reached around as far as I could then sort of lifted myself off the seat as best I could to see it maybe the monster was on the seat – not an easy thing to do at highway speeds, but I know we have all done it.

The whole time I am searching, I am also waiting. Waiting for the searing pain that only an angry insect can deliver.

By now I had slowed down considerably and was pulling over to the side of the road, getting ready to evacuate my car like it was on fire.

I stopped, jumped out and danced around the side of the road for a minute with terrifying thoughts running through my mind.

What it went down my shirt and was just knocked out, soon to awaken and bring down its wrath upon me?

Not good.

So I thrashed about for a minute trying to make sure Jurassic bug was not in or on my clothing.

It was not, so that means it was still in the car.

Gulp.

I looked on the driver's seat and found nothing. A gargantuan beast of this size could not easily hide, so it had to be in there somewhere.

I opened the back door and looked on the rear seat and again saw nothing.

Had I imagined it? Was the bug some sort of hallucination brought on by my dislike of insect vermin?
No, I know what I saw and heard, and what I saw and heard was a bug hit my car and and bounce inside.

It was in there alright. Perhaps it was hiding, healing and regaining its strength for an attack.

I then looked on the floor next to the seat and there it was – a wasp.

Not just any wasp, but a monster wasp, at least two pounds worth of wasp.

Well, maybe it wasn't that big, but it was big enough.

I dispatched the beast and went on my way – with the windows rolled up of course.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

I will keep my clothes on. You are welcome.

Saturday was the annual World Naked Gardening Day and once again I did not participate.

You are welcome.

Believe me folks, nobody would want to see that.

In fact, the last time I saw my doctor for a physical, he wore a blindfold.

I am not sure why Naked Gardening Day was created, but it was.

Perhaps an exhibitionist was prancing around the yard in the buff and when the authorities showed up, the quick-thinking nudist made up Naked Gardening Day on the spot and an annual tradition was born.

The funny thing is, every article I saw and every picture promoting the event featured some really good looking people – with their naughty bits appropriately covered of course.

The women are gorgeous and the men are buff. Who wouldn't want to see them naked?

I am neither gorgeous nor buff.

Small children would run away screaming, people would be gouging their eyes out with sticks and the very plants I was trying to nurture would shrivel up and die at the sight of my naked, flabby, furry body toiling the land.

Perhaps if I looked like one of the muscle-bound garden studs in the promo pictures I would consider it, but the only six pack I have is in the fridge.

I do have ab muscles, but they are safely secured under a layer of flab which makes them look more like a keg than a six pack.

For me, naked anything day is just a bad idea.

Nude beach – if I was there it would be more like empty beach.

“But, the human body is beautiful in all its forms.”

No it isn't, and I could provide a couple selfies that prove it.

People of all kind are beautiful because beauty comes from the inside, but not all human bodies are beautiful.

There was a time when I looked pretty good running around naked and I must admit I enjoyed doing so, but what two year old doesn't.

Father Time has been slapping me around for several decades now and he brought Uncle Flab and Cousin Hair Loss with him.

I am sure Naked Gardening Day was started as a lark, likely by college students who are still in good enough shape to pull something like that off.

The social media ads for it reminded me of a beer commercial where all of these gorgeous people run around in bikini tops frolicking in the sun while the men's rippling muscles shine like a knight's coat of armor.

Where is the fat, unshaven, loud guy?

Where's the obnoxious drunk guy who knows he looks like one of those naked gardeners and proceeds to hit on every female within a 50 kilometre radius?

I know they are out there because I have seen them.

I have attended my share of gatherings where adult recreational beverages were consumed and the not-so-good-looking people (I'm not mentioning any names here) far outweighed the gorgeous people.

Hmm, perhaps the gorgeous people were avoiding the marginally good looking people, and there really is a party where everyone looks like a super model.

Odd that I have never been to one of those parties. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail (that's my excuse and I'm sticking too it.)

To tell the truth, I really do look like a movie star. Sure, the star is Alfred Hitchcock, but he is still a star so I will take it.

Besides, beauty comes from the inside so on the outside I may be bald and flabby, but on the inside I'm a super model.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Relax little man, it's just a game

Due to the ever-expanding waistline of many high school students, our elected officials have made physical education classes mandatory through Grade 10.
When I was in high school, PE was just a part of the curriculum.
Because the school I went to had a strong athletics program, the gym classes were typically geared toward the jocks, and the teachers (who were also the coaches) would divide us into teams so we could learn to play games like football and basketball.
Funny part was, one side often consisted of members of the school football team and anyone not on the team was designated the opposition, or as they were more commonly known: tackling dummies.
Same for basketball. It just happened to work out all the sportos ended up on the same team and we would spend our class being the opposition while the teacher ran drills. It was not like that for every class, just near the playoffs.
To keep us in shape, the guardians of the jock straps decided we needed to run – a lot. That was fine because I had been running for years already and I was in pretty good shape, but I always questioned the route they chose.
We had a nice, flat field with a track located 50 metres from the gymnasium, but where’s the fun in that?
No, our gym teachers had a much better plan and it was called ‘Running the Tower.’ The Tower was a large water tower on the side of a mountain and the assignment was to run up the mountain, around the tower and then back down the mountain – a distance of about three kilometres. My knees still hurt from the pounding of running down a dirt trail.
The gym teachers at my old alma mater were, for lack of a better term, borderline lunatics.
They were an odd pair. One teacher was huge. You know the type – no neck, unibrow, big forehead, hairy back, looks like he should be sitting in the jungle eating grubs or something. He was your typical muscle-bound super jock who couldn’t make it as a pro so he decided to turn his attention to making life miserable for any non-athletic teens who were unfortunate enough to land in his class.
The other teacher was a little guy and when they walked down the hall together they looked like the bulldog and the Chihuahua from the Bugs Bunny cartoons.
While the big one had to stop walking when he talked so his brain could concentrate on forming words, the little one was much more animated and would turn red in the face, holler, scream and generally freak out if he felt someone was not playing hard enough – and that was just during a ‘fun’ game of floor hockey.
I remember one kid getting hurt and hitting the ground and instead of seeing if he was OK, this teacher was yelling at him to “Get back in there.”
I don’t mean to burst your bubble there Skippy, but this is a Grade 9 floor hockey game, not the Stanley Cup finals and getting maimed for the sake of marginal bragging rights seems pretty stupid to me.
This guy was like that all the time, no matter the surroundings.
Winning a game of kick ball was like the World Series to this little man who was about five feet tall and weighed in at around 120 pounds, but had the attitude of Mike Tyson and Hulk Hogan combined.
“Excuse me, sir. But, are you trying to live vicariously through your students because you were not even big enough to make the junior varsity tidally wink team when you were in school? I mean, if you were any smaller and the mob was after you, you could hide out in an elementary school.”
If it wasn’t so comical, it would be stupid.
He would strut around in his miniature track suit (that I suspect he acquired from the Ken doll sport and leisure line up) with a whistle hanging around his neck that looked like a piece of oversized bling because he was so tiny. And that was when he went grocery shopping. I don’t think I ever saw him without his whistle.
I am not sure where he is now, probably in a nursing home some where with his oversized whistle telling his co-habitants to “walk it off. You call that a stroke, that’s nothing. Get back out there.”

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

I faced pure evil, and won

I am proud to say I went toe-to-toe with evil itself and I did not flinch, I did not waiver, I did not scream like a small school girl and run out of the room.

Instead, I steeled my nerves, summoned courage from deep within my soul and slayed the beast that was threatening me.

Yes folks, it's true: I killed a spider like a man.

I was in the kitchen when out of the corner of my eye I saw it.

A grey figure scampering across the countertop. For a brief instant I froze as my mind reeled at the creature before me.

What kind of horror is this? What kind of spawn from hell itself was invading my home?

As I turned to face my nemesis, it stopped and looked at me tauntingly with its beady little eyes, fangs of doom and eight legs of terror.

It was mocking me, daring me to challenge its existence. At that moment time stood still and I knew it was either him, or me.

Suddenly, he started to move and I had to act fast.

I did not have time to grab paper towel in which to encase and smash him. Nor was there a flame thrower, incendiary device or weapons-grade plutonium handy, so I charged forward with the ferocity of a wild beast.

Unleashing my inner cave man, I attacked with unbridled rage and with a bare hand smashed the creature from hell with a single mighty blow, claiming a staggering victory for arachnophobes everywhere.

However, having a smashed spider on my hand really creeped me out so I ran, I mean, casually strolled to the washroom where I rinsed his guts from my skin – a lot.

It is a day that shall go down in infamy. The day I faced my worst fear and won.

Some people might say it was a shallow victory because the spider was just slightly smaller than the flat part of a thumb tack, but hey, it was still a spider and I still killed it with my bare hands so I am counting that as a victory.

It's not that I hate spiders...OK, well actually I do, I do hate spiders.

I hate pretty much all spiders and now is the time of year when they make a reappearance after several serene winter months without them.

I know I will have many encounters of the icky kind before the cold weather returns and I am not looking forward to any of them.

“Spiders are more afraid of you, than you are of them.”

No they're not.

I doubt a spider ever peed a little while running out of the room because a huge Darren fell on him from the ceiling.

“Spiders are harmless.”

I don't care.

And for the record, not all spiders are harmless. The black widow is a nasty piece of work and can harm you.

There are black widows in the area, so some local arachnids are dangerous.

And with international shipping and travel, how do we know the spider I am gently trying to save is not a deadly species accidentally introduced to the region and by catching and releasing it I am actually dooming the area to a spider-filled nightmare.

That innocent little spider I just squashed could have been a baby Goliath tarantula that will grow into a monster with fangs the size of a chihuahua's tail.

Think of the children.

It is a chance I simply refuse to take, so whenever I see a spider of any size, shape and colour I will slay it.

You are welcome.

So who needs hair anyway...

So what is the big deal about hair loss?
What’s wrong with showing a little scalp?
As you may have guessed I am of the forehead enhanced group and I don’t have a problem with it.
But some people do. They arrange their hair in goofy configurations – known throughout the land as a comb over – to cover their shame.
There are advertisements for laser hair therapy, or LHT for those in the know, and a whole truck load of ways to make the locks last longer.
There are even clubs for bald guys who wish they were hair guys.
I don’t get it.
Like with so many other woes of society – such as every movie Pauly Shore has ever made – Hollywood is to blame.
You will notice there are no bald people in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.
More than 200 hours worth of movie and there is barely a scalp to be seen in all of Middle Earth. Oh sure, there is one bald Hobbit in the opening and closing scenes, but that’s it.
Other than that, the only ones without hair are the Orcs.
Is Hollywood saying losing your hair is akin to being some hideous creature with bad teeth and a skin condition that really should be looked at?
What if Frodo was bald? Or Legolas? Would that be so bad?
Instead, the main characters have more hair than a 1980s rock band.
The monstrous ‘90s hit “Jurassic Park” did have a few hair-challenged characters, but they were all eaten by dinosaurs.
The balding lawyer was the first to go – chomped by a T Rex.
The balding computer technician played by Samuel L. Jackson was also a dino pate when he was set upon by a flock of velociraptors which obviously preferred a hairless meal because they also ate the balding big game hunter.
So who survived? People with hair, that’s who. All the heroes with their lovely locks lived to be part of the sequel.
So once again Hollywood is screwing the bald man.
Do people with hair know how tough it is to be bald? Do they appreciate the hell we must endure on a rainy day and we don’t have a hat?
Do they know what it’s like to feel that great, big freezing drop of water fall from the eves of a building and land with a smack on an uncovered cranium?
No, they don’t because they have a little helmet of hair between them and that Volkswagon-size drop of water acting like a personal ozone layer.
On TV it’s the same story. People with hair are running around being the hero and saving the damsel in distress while the bald guy waits in the wings and is treated like the drunk uncle nobody talks about.
“OK. The script says it’s time for someone to get killed, quick, send in the bald guy.”
And the bald guy shows up just in time to get munched on by a dinosaur with an eating disorder or to get splatted by a falling piano.
There are a few exceptions to the rule. Take Bruce Willis for example.
True, he may have started his career with hair, but he is now one of us – a brother of the scalp. Fortunately shaving your head bald is en vogue so he can get away with it.
The trend of shaving one’s head is proof that deep down inside, hair people want to be bald people.
Ron Howard is bald, but he always wears a hat – obviously he has not come to terms with his condition. Accept it Ron, you are a bald man.
But the ratio of bald actors to hairy ones remains seriously lopsided. It’s an attempt by Hollywood to keep the bald man down.
It’s like Hollywood is terrified some sort of weird hair leprosy will strike them down if they associate with the follicle-diminished.
So it’s time for baldies to unite. Stand tall and stand proud. And when one of the hair people come close, reflect the sun off your forehead and blind them.
It won’t give you any more hair, but you might feel better knowing you have just fried their retinas.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh