Jim Hagarty

I am not sure who is the sharpest tool in the toolbox. I know it isn’t me. The other day I complained to my family about a fitness centre located next door to my house. I noticed that the members of the centre started gathering for their morning’s workout shortly after 6 a.m., which seemed to me a ridiculous hour, coming as it does exactly one hour after 5 a.m.

“Why do they even go there?” I asked at the supper table. “They all look in great shape, none of them seem to need it.” I thought my reasoning was airtight. My daughter replied, “They look that way because they go to the fitness centre, Dad.” Well, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.

On the other hand, I am not the dumbest guy on the planet. And maybe this guy isn’t either but he’s in the running for the title. The Florida man to whom I refer leaned in to kiss a rattlesnake the other day. The eastern diamondback snake, I guess, was resistant to the man’s romantic offer of a kiss on the lips and it bit the rattlesnake whisperer on the tongue. The man had to be air lifted to hospital.

I feel some sympathy for the man as no one appears to have gotten him to slow down long enough to advise him in the matter. I was fortunate to be raised better, and I say that without bragging. I do not know how many times my father told me not to kiss a rattlesnake on the lips. I’m not aware if there is anywhere else on a rattlesnake to safely plant a harmless buss but my Dad’s warnings sort of put me off rattlesnakes, at least as objects of potential romance.

I have not lived an exciting life but I also have picked up not even one rattlesnake bite along the way. Swallowed a few flying bugs by accident, but that’s about it. And I sure as heck didn’t kiss them as they flew between my too-open lips.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

It is with no small irony that I find myself crying over spilled milk several times a week. I have not developed the knack for properly cutting open milk bags to put in the milk jug and hence, milk dribbles all over when I first try to pour some.

My reaction is always the same – outsized outrage accompanied by threats of physical harm to the inventor of the plastic milk bag. Even as I lose it, I am aware of the irony that I am disobeying the time-worn injunction and crying over milk that has spilled. My anger intensified one day when I was informed that people the world over do not all get their milk in plastic bags. I don’t know the details of that, but it seems clear someone has it out for the unfortunate citizens of the province of Ontario in central Canada where I live in various states of spilled milk-induced discontent.

My wife’s reaction to each of my meltdowns is always the same. She comes with a dishcloth to clean up the mess, lets out a long sigh, and says in a sing-songy voice, “It’s not the end of the world.”

This difference in approach to tiny nuisances probably explains why we are into our third decade of marriage. If we were both of exactly the same temperament, we probably would have burned down somebody’s house by now. Maybe our own. We might have even hunted down a few cows after midnight.

But we carry on. She opens milk bags with the precision of a heart surgeon. I open the bags as though I was using a rusty set of bolt cutters to do it.

The stupidest saying in the world is, “Don’t cry over spilled milk.” What an arrogant command. If any situation you might encounter in life ever justified crying, spilled frickin’ milk is the one!

©2012 Jim Hagarty

There are two ways to go down a waterslide: the right way and my way.

Fifty-something people have no business being on these terrifying inventions but when a man that age has young children, he has no choice but to put himself into situations he would otherwise gladly avoid. That is how I found myself at the top of an enormous slide that stretched endlessly straight up into the sky and into which a continuous stream of water was flowing, the better to carry me pitilessly to my doom below. And at the bottom was a little pool that, from the top, looked just a little bigger than a bathtub. It was into this minuscule container of water that the manufacturers of this ridiculous contraption proposed that I land, after sliding at a rapid rate of speed down their device.

I looked cautiously around me. Young boys, mostly, and a few dads, waited on the landing at the top of the slide to climb into the blue plastic human pistol. My eight-year-old son gallantly took his turn in the chute and with little prompting, slid down the waterway with total glee, much like a baby bird learning to fly. Like me, this was his first tour down a waterslide. Unlike me, however, he seemed to derive an immense amount of satisfaction from the experience. I could see him at the bottom as he climbed out of the tiny pool, smiling and waving encouragement at me.

Pushed from behind by some boys in a great big hurry, I climbed into the chute and realized this was it. There was a two-second window of opportunity when I might have climbed back out, and in retrospect, I really wish I had done that. But at this point, I didn’t know which to be the most afraid of: the waterslide or the prospect of being mocked by a group of young boys who go down waterslides like they were born to do nothing but. There was also the matter of the humiliation my aborting of the mission would have brought upon my son.

So, I pulled myself ahead until there was no going back. I crossed my arms over my chest as I had seen others do (and am surprised that I am still not lying somewhere in that position today) and took off, like the Titanic, on my maiden voyage.

If you happened to be outside pretty much anywhere in southern Canada at about 2 p.m. on July 14, 2004, you would have possibly heard a short, piercing sound that would put you in mind of a blood-curdling scream. Somebody, let’s say, who had just gone over Niagara Falls. That somebody would have been me.

I have been on a few wild rides at the fairs in my day. I remember some at a Toronto funland one year that curled my toes. But I have never experienced such sheer, unadulterated terror and hope to never again.

Everything was totally out of control and, given my limited ability to accurately size up the situation while hurtling to the teacup of water below, it seemed to me that the time gap between my departure and my arrival at the bottom was very short.

Before this ill-advised adventure began, I was cautioned to do two things: cross my arms on the way down and keep my legs up just before I hit the water. I did not know what the consequences of failing to follow these rules would be; I wish now that I had.

As mentioned, I crossed my arms like King Tut, no problem. But the leg part I found a little more difficult as I had no idea where I was by the time I hit the bottom.

Here, in as polite terms as I can bring myself to tell you, are the consequences that accrue from failing to keep your legs in the air as you hit the pool at the bottom of the fearsome, straight-on waterslide. Water is a powerful force. Imagine someone waiting for you at the bottom of the slide holding a sledgehammer. Now, imagine that same person swinging that hammer in the direction of your groinal area as your bum touches down.

There was a great concern among the pool staff over the mess that was me at the bottom of the slide and to their credit, they hid their smiles well. My son, however, was unable to pretend that what he had just witnessed was not the funniest thing he had ever seen in his short life. Ten days later, he is still laughing about it. And the fact that he spent the next hour with his mom, the two of them going down every waterslide in sight.

I related all this to a friend on Sunday and he said that the only way for me to get over my bad experience was to do it a few more times. Only then would I get to enjoy it, as he now does. I assured him getting to like watersliding was not on my list of priorities in my life at this point and I couldn’t say when it might be unless we were prepared to discuss the meaning of the word never.

After my ordeal, I wandered over to kiddies’ area with my daughter and she and I spent a long time together enjoying the two curved and short waterslides there. It is these slides that should be made mandatory in every amusement park across the country. I am writing to my local lawmakers to try to make it happen. Being the one to kill all killer waterslides across the country would give me my only and best revenge.

©2004 Jim Hagarty

Last week, some anonymous busybody sent me a chain letter, the latest of several I’ve received over the years. This one involved no money or whiskey, however, but simply wanted me to write to 20 people and tell them I love them. I love exactly 20 people but am too shy to write it all down in a letter so I tossed it out.

But not before I’d read some startling stuff. I was commanded to send the 20 letters out within 96 hours or risk bad luck. If I sent them out, I could expect good luck within four days. Bad luck, good luck, what was a fella to do?

To help me make up my mind, the letter provided me with both examples of the poor schmoes who didn’t send the letters and the lucky dogs who did. A Royal Air Force officer, for example, got right on it, mailed the documents and received $470,000. Pitiful Elliot Joe, on the other hand, lost $40,000 because he made an airplane out of the letter and flew it off his third-floor balcony.

Tyrone Willy lost his wife six days after failing to circulate the letters. Not knowing Mrs. Willy, I will assume this was bad luck. Constantine Dias sent out 20 letters in 1953 and won a lottery worth $2 million. Carlo Badditt, said he’d be darned if he’d send out any such letters and promptly lost his job. Realizing his error, he quickly did as he was ordered and a few days later got a better job.

Poor old Delan Fairchild didn’t get a second chance. He died nine days after failing to send the letters. No such tragedy befell an obedient chain-letter woman in California, on the other hand, who got a brand new car out of the deal.

After a while, I could see that the general trend of these examples seemed to indicate that it was better to send out the letters than to not send them out. And yet, I got stuck on the part about writing love letters to 20 people. Had I been instructed to tell five or six people I sorta like them, I might have gone ahead. As it was, I just couldn’t do it.

My just desserts started the next day when I was robbed of $20. I haven’t been robbed of anything in 20 years. Two days later, somebody (the fink) stole my sunglasses out of my car while I was in a store. Two days after that, I came up empty handed in a lottery I was sure I would win.

But that isn’t all. During the past week, the following misfortunes can be added to my list:

The cat threw up on the garage floor.

A family of ants moved into my kitchen.

A family of fleas moved onto the cat.

My new eavestrough sprang a leak. So did the cat.

I showed up for a dinner date at a fancy restaurant only to find it closed for the holiday. We ate at Burgers R Us.

The cat threw up on the basement floor.

I went to the beach and got sunburned from head to toe.

A whole loaf of bread I bought went mouldy five minutes after passing its freshness date.

God called and I wasn’t home. (Lightning struck my answering machine.)

The price of coffee went up a nickel at a doughnut shop I frequent.

Of course, I’ve had enough of all this and so has the cat, which is running out of places to throw up. Therefore, I’ve decided to play along, in my own way. So, to the first 20 people who read this column, I just want to say I love you. And so does my cat.

Pass it on.

Or else.

(Update: Shortly after I told 20 readers I love them, I met the love of my life. We have been married 30 years last month. So, ya, I’m a believer!)

©1988 Jim Hagarty

You know, it’s hard to be optimistic about the human race and I hate to have to say this for the first time, but what is the world coming to? There I am, bagging my groceries at the checkout as they come down the conveyor belt, when a woman shopper on the other side of the collection spot reaches out and grabs a loaf of bread. The problem was, that was my loaf of bread. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She tried to steal my bread right in front of me. Did she think she would get away with it? I was standing right there, for the love of Tommy Smothers.

I quickly grabbed the loaf in question and for a few seconds, our eyes locked as tightly as both of our hands were clenched on the bread. Her eyes were steely blue and cold. Non apologetic, to be precise. It was a little chilling, really, to look through those dark portals into an empty cavern where a soul should have been. Suddenly, she let go of the prize, realizing, I guess, that I would be no easy foe. It’s a little something left over from my teaching days. One glare from me, and young hearts were instantly changed – and usually frozen in their tracks.

I finished loading my bags, as the woman across from me filled hers. She turned, without a word, and left the store. I delivered my cart to the store lobby, grabbed my bags and headed for the car. Opening the trunk, I happened to look into my bags to notice that there were two loaves of bread in them. But I had only bought one!

OH. MY. GOD. I looked all around the parking lot but there was no sign of the poor, aggrieved woman who had been robbed of her loaf of bread that day by an absent-minded hyena of a man. Well, at least she had a story for her family at supper. I also had a story, and an extra loaf of bread. Plus a load of guilt heavier than the woman and her bread put together.

We ate the bread. To be honest, it didn’t taste all that great.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

This is why I love newspapers. In the Toronto Sun on Monday there was a story and photo about rare and endangered reptiles. Aside from the potential tragedy in losing these creatures to the hostile world we’ve created, the details were fascinating, especially about a giant salamander. Called an olm, the creature was wandering the earth before Tyrannosaurus Rex showed up. Now that’s a survivor! Imagine outliving the dinosaurs. It’s a shame it appears as though they might not outlive the human race. Given our penchant for self-destruction, on the other hand, they might yet be around to someday reminisce about the time when people inhabited the earth.

Besides being old, the olm is blind and very big. But what caught my eye most about the creature is the fact that it can go years without food. I have known bachelors who achieved almost the same amazing feat – I myself was one for 20 years – but it is nevertheless incredible that there is a creature on earth which only needs a meal once every decade. This guy is well on his way to being the perfect housepet, with a feature such as that.

However, the newspaper story did not detail how much the salamander eats when he finally sits down to a meal after the 10 years are up. My guess is a seven-course meal would not do the trick. I’d be throwin’ a few pies his way too, maybe a gallon or three of cider.

Following all that, I would not want to be around to witness the belch from a creature who had just finished eating his first solid meal in 3,652 days. Nor experience any of his other bodily functions.

Also endangered (sadly) is a purple frog the size of a pin which lives four metres down in the earth. I would say it’s a toss-up which creature devours more – an animal which can go 10 years without food or another which eats often but is only the size of a pin to begin with.

Here are the eight other most endangered amphibians in need of help to survive: The limbless Sagalla caecillian, South African ghost frogs, lungless Mexican salamanders, the Malagasy rainbow frog, Chile’s Darwin frog and the Betic midwife toad whose male carries fertilized eggs on its hind legs.

We humans are such an arrogant group we think we’ve got this survival thing down pat. But along with the salamander, they say there is a chipmunk which was also around when the dinosaurs roamed the planet. What stories these two old fellas could tell … Sally and Chip.

Add to that the reality that scientists are still discovering creatures – birds, fish and mammals – which they didn’t know existed and are rediscovering some that they thought had died out.

Even the most sober of newspapers can’t resist the weird and wonderful and I hope they never do give up their priceless “oddities in the news.”

©2008 Jim Hagarty

I was walking along the sidewalk on the way to the dentist this afternoon when I looked down and saw a hammer. A lightweight one with rubber on the yellow handle. Pretty cool. I am now the owner of a yellow hammer with rubber on the handle.

It occurred to me to leave it where it was in case the rightful owner returned, but I doubt that would happen and someone else’s toolbox would be one hammer fuller tonight. So I walked into the dentist’s office carrying a hammer.

I could see fear in the eyes of the people who work there and read their minds: “Old Jim’s finally gone nuts” as they are aware that I think dental bills are too high and I wonder if they thought I’d come to seek revenge. I explained the story and all was well. But they still looked at me as though I had hit myself in the head with the hammer 50 times before I walked in.

The reason I kept the hammer was this: Years ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop (when they still had stools) and I was right next to the cashier. There was a lineup. I looked down to see a $20 bill on the floor. I picked it up and said, “Anybody lose a twenty?” A young man in line instantly yelled, “I did” and grabbed the bill out of my hand. A young woman in front of him with two little kids at her legs frantically started searching in her purse, I believe, for the missing twenty. The jerk behind her got it.

So, if I had held that hammer up today and called out, “Anybody lose a hammer?” I know that guy or a jerk just like him would come speeding by on a bike, grab the hammer and take off.

Besides, I think Life throws you a free hammer every now and expects you to take it. So I did.

I nailed it!

©2013 Jim Hagarty

If I could be just half as smart
As the smartest guy in town,
Would I then be known as half as dumb
As the dumbest guy around?

Or would it be the dumbest guy
Would be half as smart as me?
And the smartest guy would then become
Twice as smart as the big dummy.

But if the smartest guy in town
Lost a thousand big brain cells,
Would I still be half as smart as him?
I’m not smart enough to tell.

And some day if I happen to
Outlive the town’s smartest guy,
But then fall sick with the same disease
And sadly, tragically die …

Would the dumbest guy in town become
The smartest guy just by chance?
Though no one is dumber than the big dumb ox,
Guess he would be the Town Smarty Pants.

©Jim Hagarty

You have problems. I know you do. Why else would you be coming to Jim Hagarty to find the answers to all of life’s mysteries?

I won’t pretend to compare my problems with yours as we both know yours are more significant and if you would just spell them out for me, I would get back to you with solutions within the hour.

As for my problems, I like to take molehills and shove the dirt up into big piles until I have mountains. The big things in life I let pass. I have left funerals with my eyes as dry as they were when I arrived. It is more important to me to concentrate on the fact that there is a pebble in my shoe, not on the sad reality that my shoes died 10 years ago and should have long ago been cremated. Stones usually fall into a man’s shoe from the top. Mine sneak in there from the holes in the soles. I am the original guy who cries over spilled milk. This summer, I spilled a whole pitcher of milk on the kitchen floor and tears welled up in my eyes and swear words, which I am unaccustomed to pronouncing, escaped my lips.

So here it is. Just now, as I was walking my dog, my pooper scooper broke. This is a device I have owned for six joyous months now and it is dysfunctional as I (tearfully) write to you. Before the pooper scooper, I had to bend down to the ground with a plastic bag to recover my doggie’s offerings and I just could no longer do it. Several times I lost my balance and almost landed on my head. I could see a dark day in my future when I would do a faceplant into doggie doo.

I loudly proclaimed my frustration at the dinner table and the next day, my ever resourceful daughter surprised me with a genuine, three-foot-long, state-of-the-fart pooper scooper. Not since the day I witnessed her being born has my heart been so filled.

And now, my scooper is pooched, or pooped, or something. I will scoop no more.

Just now I am in the midst of an Internet search for answers on how to properly clean up after a faceplant into dog poo. There are 342,219 replies to the search. I am going to go through everyone of them.

What were your problems again?

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Hi there:

My name is Jim Hagarty and this is a new site – Jim Hagarty: Things That Make Me Laugh (and Cry) – dedicated to showcasing the best of my work from the past 52 years of writing for publication. I am a retired newspaper reporter and editor and spent six great years teaching journalism at a Canadian college. I have been a storyteller since I was a kid but during my years on newspapers, I turned that hobby into humour writing and that, as it turns out, is my true passion.

I won’t go into much detail about myself here because as you read my stories, you’ll gradually discover more than you want to know about me. That is because I am not comfortable laughing at others (except for dumb criminals, I howl at them) but I don’t mind poking fun at myself as a flawed human being who bumbles along day by day in this fast-paced world.

Some of you might have become familiar with me through a blog I began in 2016 called Lifetime Sentences: Tales from a Wandering Mind. I continue to breathe life into that site, located at lifetimesentences.com, every day but it is a real funhouse filled with all sorts of things from great photography, wonderful music, and many contributions from friends I have met along the way.

This new site will be dedicated to my work only. My books, newspaper columns, poems, limericks and even a few opinion pieces. I don’t expect to spend the amount of time on this site that I dedicate every day to Lifetime Sentences, but you never know. My concept is to feature just one piece of my own writing every day. That will amount to 365 pieces every year. At that rate, given my backlog of writing spanning 52 years, it could take me a very long time to run out of stuff, especially since I am writing new material almost every day.

Much of what you’ll see here you will have already encountered at lifetimesentences.com. But I hope maybe in time, you will bookmark this site and we will enjoy each other’s company.

Without readers, a writer is a guitarist playing to an empty concert hall.

I need you.

And while you might find you don’t need me all that much, it might occur to you after awhile that you don’t mind having me around. I’m a pretty good houseguest. I can usually feed myself, I clean up pretty well and I only snore less than five hours a night. If you want, I will even walk your dog.

I am looking forward to getting to know you.

Jim Hagarty – Things That Make Me Laugh (and Cry)