‘Who’s bigger? Mister bigger, or Master Bigger?’
‘Master Bigger – because he is a little Bigger.’
I don’t exactly know why I put up that Wodehouse quote. It has f—kall to do with this piece. But sometimes it is rejuvenating ta not know what you’re talking about and I feel rejuvenated all the f—in’ time. Not that anybody can do jackshit about it. This is my blog. ‘Jackshit’, ‘f—kall’…. I feel like cussing today. So just leave me the f–k alone.
Phew! That sure felt good!
I actually have a massively overweight colleague named Mike who cusses like crazy. Right now he is having a recurring groundhog problem in his backyard. “Those m—ther f—kin’ sons of bitches, choon up my lawn, shittin’ all over. I even saw one humpin’ once. Shit-kickin’ bastards!” You’ll find the story of Mike and the groundhog at the following link….
Let’s just leave cussing at that. I am just too straight-laced to even think of inappropriate language.
This Sunday was unusually warm and pleasant and as with balmy days, funny things begin ta happen. And so it did this grocery shopping Sunday as well. I had parked Twiggy (my brand new Corolla) outside Maxi and was headed toward the cart area next to the entrance to pick up a cart, when this disheveled guy emerged. The man hefted a 24-pack of Molson Dry from the cart and with a friendly gesture, he shoved the cart toward me.
“Happy shopping,” his lips formed and he grinned, revealing a set of yellowish teeth. In North America, having yellow teeth is a clear sign that you’re penniless. Fuelling that image was the fact that he looked decrepit and smelt faintly of urine. Definitely a homeless guy, I said to myself. Somebody must have thrown him a tenner and here he was, getting his beer with it.
I did not grin back – I gave him back a fleeting grimace that went for an acknwledgement. I am at heart a class conscious guy. All Hindus have class and caste deeply ingrained inside their DNA. Our DNA isn’t even a spiral – it is a string of tiny touch-me-not ॐ (Oms).
I moved to take hold of the cart and reached out with both hands to grip the cart’s handle bar.
And then I stopped.
The guy was yucky. What if he had some infection? He must have smeared it all over the handle bar. By now naughty little AIDs viruses must be prancing and gamboling about on the handle surface like electrons over an excited plutonium nucleus. I better go get another one, I thought and I began walking toward the bank of carts at the far end.
And then I stopped once more.
How did I know the other carts were cleaner? Maybe the next cart has eebowla germs doing pole dances over the handle bars…piya tu, ab to aaja, aha ha aha…
Why do I always let myself be taken in by appearances, I said to myself grimly. I made me wheel around and go back to the cart that the geezer had left behind. Of course, prudence made me clean the handle bar with the tissue I always carried in my pocket.
Meanwhile this deadbeat had shuffled his way toward the parking lot, holding on to the 24-pack and I lost track of him.
Un til I saw a Camaro sweep regally out of the parking lot and ease to a walking pace at the stop sign just a few yards from me. It was crimson, bordeaux, blood red, sheekalapoo and shoobadoodee and it had it’s sunroof open. A 500-watt stereo somewhere inside was blaring ‘Ventura Highway’. The Camaro reeked of leather and money.
As it whispered to a pitter patter and remained there just a wee while, the window rolled down. A fashionably dressed woman was sitting next to the driver. And at the wheel, with his arm round her shoulder, kissing and nuzzling her hair, was Mr. Homeless!
If you had stood close ta me last Sunday, you would have smelt burning flesh – mine – so insanely envious was I. And speaking of smells, the urine smell was still very much present long after the Camaro had turned the corner. Only when I looked around did I find out where it was coming from – the stain against the wall of the building, close to where I had been standing with my mouth gaping open, was a giveaway.
I tried to tell myself that they were a pair of carjackers who had just stolen the Camaro from the parking lot and were now going to drive down to El Paso – like a Bonny and a Clyde.
But alas, I hold a PhD in pre-conceived notions and I had ta admit that sometimes appearances not only deceive, they test my ability to make dispassionate choices and even be civil.
Then, just as Mr H was looking like he meant to hang around there in front of me a while, the stereo in the convertible began ‘Sister Golden Hair’ and the $5000 speakers began throbbing. I felt faint with flushed shame within, while the Camaro revved up with a tortured growl and leapt forward into the traffic.