Constant Interruptions: A Collection of Chaos

Contents

Acknowledgments

Constant Interruptions

Hometown Homage

Interruption 1: Patches of Sunshine

United in Umbrage

Snowed

Beautiful Safe People

The Blue Jays

The Paper Caper

Manic Materialism

Interruption 2: The No Newspaper

IDEA

An Industrial Accident

The Bold Sir Pouty-Puss

Fabricated Outsourcing

Water Woes

Big Brother

Interruption 3: Greenspeak

Global Warming–Climate Change

Climate Control

Frightening Forecast

The New Order

Cornfield Cannibalism

Roaming Thoughts

Interruption 4: Call Me Ishmael

Julie

Henrietta

The Rainbow Manifesto

Wishful Thinking

The Phantom

Childish Memories

Interruption 5: Glimpses of Gold

King Daddy

A Sonny Sicnic

Won’t You Mayor Me

Brotherly Love

Acceptance

Melancholy Days

Interruption 6: Misery Loves Faith

The Blackness of Blah

Aaron

Junior

Monsters in the Night

Laura

Family Photos

Interruption 7: Picturesque

My Noble Name

Defective

My Sticky Cousin

A Happy Day

Grandpa’s Goldfish

Political Plays

Interruption 8: Nice and Nosey

Simply Canadian

Borderline Bliss

Campaign Calamity

Dijon Enters Politics

The GTA

Complete Confusion

Interruption 9: Marching into Battle

Opposite Communication

Frying Pan Folly

The Great Divide

Estrogen Comas

Monthly Male Mania

Flawed Characters

Interruption 10: Pilgrims

Indirect Direction

Marshall’s Reflection

Richard’s Revelation

Calvin’s Reformation

The Nonsensical Narcissist

Moving On

Interruption 11: An Awful Autobiography

Too Personalized Banking

Botched Backups

Foul, Frightening Food

Java-Junky Rescue

The Deniers’ Dinner

Constant Opportunities

Acknowledgments

Over the brief course of my life, a few key people have sacrificially insured my success and well-being. Thus, it is only fitting that I gratefully acknowledge the grace and goodness of God, as he has so freely demonstrated it to me through these remarkable individuals. Thank you!

Thank you to my real-life wife, Chiyuki (Chee-you-key), who has faithfully walked beside me throughout every season of our love, and to our sincere son, Makoto (Ma-koe-toe), because you have rooted within you the faith and hope I aspire to live, but you already surpass me.

Thank you to my marvelous mother. Mom, I can only offer you my heartfelt praise and undying gratitude in return for your decades of sacrifice and prayers. I recognize that it is a rare and genuine blessing to have a loving mother who is also a terrific friend. I love you, Mom.

Thank you to my faithful friends who told me I could actually write a book from start to finish. Jim, you encouraged me to be true to my style and message; you’re the real deal! Ed, you are my primary Platinum Pal. Stew, your creative contribution and practical aid was priceless.

Thank you to the whole iUniverse team. I am grateful to the Star Board for their firm belief in my direction. I am also indebted to a host of gifted and talented individuals, and in particular to one outstanding crack shot who always aims to please, George Nedeff.

Finally, thank you to my wonderful Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for a life replete with constant interruptions, for the precious gift of each day, and for constant opportunities to be useful. Most of all, thank you for transforming my perception of you through the gift of new eyes.

Craig

Constant Interruptions

I spend a lot of time meditating on the deeper things in life: sex, politics, and religion. I feel that not enough attention goes toward these mundane aspects of our brief existence. Accordingly, we should lavish more of our precious personal energy toward, if not directly on, these three particularly playful pastimes. Otherwise, we’ll simply get up each day, go to work, wish we were somewhere else, and daydream or chat about these fun facets of our finite existence.

I for one am perfectly comfortable, under any circumstances whatsoever, to engage anyone in an enlightened conversation concerning the first topic. Yes, you know to what I refer, since it is quite clearly the first topic we instinctively chose to discuss openly. As mature and responsible adults, we should be able to dialogue about this topic at any time. Yet, most folks can’t sit down and calmly talk about you-know-what. Many grown-ups are extremely bashful and immature!

Politics is a pussycat! There is absolutely nothing to fear or get all in a fuss over when the gentle and timid topic of politics at any level of government somehow comes along. Eventually, the federal, state, or local bureaucracy will slowly slither its insidious way into your candid conversations or lackadaisical life. Yes, it is beyond my limited ability to concede with any zeal that different political perspectives ever gave this great country anything but unity!

As for religion, you’ve got it made in the shade on this one. As we all know, we average people know little or nothing about the faith we chose to ignore and even less about the religion we never embraced. Furthermore, our parents may not care whether we are active in any form of organized religion, but it is quite clear that the one exception to the rule is the energetic host that millions of followers faithfully watch on television every weekday afternoon.

There are also the hot-button topics like the environment and the national deficit, and the blatantly burning issues like who’s been sitting in your chair, eating your porridge, and sleeping in your bed. However, without the slightest bit of common sense, or at least enough to lock our front doors, it’s best if we take it easy, relax with a good cup of coffee or tea, and learn to laugh at our own humbling, bumbling humanity. I hope this book helps you to do that, dear reader.

Enjoy.

Hometown Homage

I don’t know whether you know Mariposa.

—Stephen Leacock,

Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town

Interruption 1: Patches of Sunshine

United in Umbrage

Snowed

Beautiful Safe People

The Blue Jays

The Paper Caper

The noble city of Umbrage is nestled snugly on the banks of the Grandiose River.

—United in Umbrage

Interruption 1: Patches of Sunshine

There I sat on the patio of Café 14, basking in the warm sun of a fresh spring day after the traditional eight months of winter had sauntered by in my hometown of Umbrage (which is a city). I was just about to dive into one of my favorite novels, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town, by the late, great Stephen Leacock, when suddenly, my reading came to an abrupt halt. My old friend, Patch McDougal, was dying to quench his thirst for knowledge and meaningless trivia, but first he satisfied his parched palate with a couple of shots of the house’s double espresso.

Patch shone brightly with great enthusiasm as he keenly sensed a golden opportunity for him to impart his vast warehouse of knowledge concerning the slender book I tenderly pawed with my grubby hands. The sage made a smart tip with his chapeau, and after the customary, genteel greeting of Hey, got right down to business. Patch cleared his throat, blew his trumpet, and hitched his pants. He informed me that the late Leacock actually wrote about the town of Orillia, Ontario, as everyone already knows. No, I knew better and begged to differ with Patch.

I firmly reminded Patch that the late Leacock made it very clear that he was certainly not writing about the town of Orillia. I pointed out that the late Leacock took great care, according to his own words, to write about the good people of many small towns across Canada, especially those in Mariposa, which, as anyone knows, is just on the outskirts of the city of Orillia by Lake Wissanotti. I could see the weight of my wisdom was too much for poor Patch because he fell suspiciously silent. Then he left in a huff and politely permitted me to carry on with my book.

United in Umbrage

The noble city of Umbrage is nestled snugly on the banks of the Grandiose River. It proudly borders the conjoined, think-tank megacity of Berlin–Napoleon. It is common knowledge, dear reader, that B–N is as exciting as tiddlywinks. Conversely, Umbrage, once divided and inbred like many traditional settlements in the area, is now the prosperous manufacturer of golf carts, bicycle bells, and Popsicle sticks. It is also the epitome of unity, progress, and visionary vision.

It may shock you to know it was not always this way. In fact, it was quite to the contrary. The city of Umbrage was so divided the people spoke of building a freeway right through the middle of it—and then they did! Yes, not long ago, I believe it was on a sunny Tuesday, a gentle mob of mild-mannered, peaceful citizens threatened to dismantle or destroy the monumental advancements achieved by the previous generation of great leaders in Umbrage.

I love Umbrage. I am not ashamed that the public knows of my sincere affection toward it, although I receive harsh letters from the mayor insisting I make it private, lest local law enforcement officers force me to limit my romance to a spacious and comfortable holding cell. Yet I remain undaunted. I call it my hometown because I dislike where I was born and because, as you can plainly see, some of the finest years of my life, I spent wisely in Umbrage.

Here in Umbrage, Ontario, I came to realize that people will read anything printed in a newspaper, because in Umbrage I found a local newspaper crazy or desperate enough to publish my perplexing and riotous rants in their guest column. Yes, here in my beloved hometown, which is a city, I soon discovered, to my great shock and chagrin, the endless joy of daily diaper changes and the ecstasy of fast and frequent property tax increases, often confusing the two.

Yes, in Umbrage, I can honestly say I have at long last found a home away from home, in a hyperbole. For you see, dear reader, Umbrage flows out of hardworking, blue-collar, lunch-bucket people who favor good ol’ rock ’n’ roll and easy listening tunes over the monotony of the local symphony. Folks eat with a fork and spoon, but masticate their peas without the aid of a knife because, simply put, aid is for welfare cases and their thumbs work just fine.

My point is that Umbrage has been so good to me, and it is so near and dear to my heart, since it is full of melodramatic maniacs who are loopy like me. Therefore, unless I have to move for reasons of fame, fortune, or better opportunities, I will never, ever forsake her. With this in mind, it pains me from the bottom of my bleeding heart to inform you that I must ponder a recent job offer from the tiny Republic of Yoo-hoo to serve as its first Canadian ambassador.

Regretfully, not all love this jewel of Waterloo County. The greatest threat to peace and stability in this veritable Eden comes from the citizens of the old town of Whisper—or, as we call them, Whisperers. You see, this city, my darling hometown, was three chipper burgs that grew up to become three tidy towns that perversely joined together in holy matrimony to become Babel! Today Piston, Fault, and Whisper proudly form the unadulterated city of Umbrage.

Inevitably, Umbrage creates a continuous state of indignation for the Whisperers because of the amalgamation, although the amalgamation occurred a lifetime ago for many, and the rest of these folks merely wished for death. On principle, the mutated monstrosity of Umbrage offends the Whisperers so deeply that they maintain their own minor hockey league, rather than risk contaminating their pretty, precious players with shameless, sloppy stickhandling.

The Whisperers’ anger never rests. Their Santa Claus Parade will not cross the freeway into the ghetto of Fault and the crooked lanes of Piston for fear that Santa might decide to stay. Speaking of parades, no one throws a parade like the rowdy Whisperers! Berlin–Napoleon has haggis and shots during their Scotchtoberfest celebrations, and Toronto, the Big Smoke, serves great jerk chicken during the Caribanna festival, but nothing compares to the jerks of Whisper.

The Better Day march cheerfully reminds the rest of Umbrage that Whisper doesn’t want to belong. I salute the jocularity of the Whisper Better Day Parade, as it embodies the collective wisdom and lighthearted spirit of a people whose only goal in life is to tear a city apart. It’s difficult to conceive of anything more uplifting than the lone advancement of one’s own petty, precocious, and minuscule agenda over the lasting greater good and prosperity of an entire city.

I admire the way the Whisperers shout the good news of clinging to the past. I enjoy it when these folks scream from the rooftops at anyone who believes in Umbrage. I thunderously applaud their God-given, democratic right to write so much hate mail in condemnation of Umbrage; it filled the guest column of our local newspaper, the Daily Flyer. Fortunately, the editor finally cut it out; unfortunately, the Whisperers calmly decided to burn the paper to the ground.

As fate would have it, my darling wife’s new job is in the nearby magical city of Elf. That’s right, Sophia insists on leaving Fault and moving to Whisper! I admit, at first I was greatly dismayed, and disapproved because as any man in this culture knows, Fault is a fitting residence for any man. My wife insists that Whisper will provide her easy access to the freeway, and a quick escape route from me. I think it’s a good idea because everyone there will make me look normal.

Furthermore, once in Whisper, I’ll poke and prod the City Counsel of Umbrage until it passes a proposal to make Whisper a city within a city. I’m certain that will make everyone happy for at least one whole second or maybe one whole day. That is, until we find something new to moan, whine, and complain about. Then the charming Whisperers can celebrate their intolerance and superiority over everyone, but remain a treasured and vital part of the city of Umbrage.

Snowed

The moon was full, and the breeze gently played with my hair as I gingerly switched off my cell phone. My wife had ordered me home to bed, unaware of my upcoming mission. I coaxed my car to life and cheerfully buzzed along, savoring the sweet nectar of twelve tall bolds from Bill’s Coffee Hive—I mean Pub—along with a heaping slice of conversation with Patch. Then I saw a vision on Bee Shoppe Boulevard. The transcendent sign read, Umbrage Snow Dump.

Some cities, like Calgary, have a rapid transit system. Ours is on its way if we keep our vote conservative. Some cities, like the Big Smoke, have the occasional snow day, so their mayor calls in the army to rescue them. We just pour maple syrup all over the sidewalks and eat our way out. Still, other cities have the nerve to brag about their NHL team, because not everyone has a magnificent snow dump like ours. Yes, we have the second-best snow dump in the world!

I once read about a calamitous town in Wisconsin that boasts in the meanest streets. In Goodenburg, roaming gangs target those who are lactose intolerant and spray them with squeeze cheese. In Umbrage, we tolerate no intolerance toward our gangs. Rather, we revel in our cheesy citizens. Besides, we have the right to boast, because when the humidity pushes the temperature to 45°C, we can all head down to the Umbrage Snow Dump and cool off!

Upon further reflection, which always leads me to cranial indigestion, acid reflux, and endless regrets, I asked why. Why in heaven’s name did our angelic and transparent public officials keep this life-changing treasure hidden from us? I understand that most politicians suffer from a wide variety of incurable illnesses such as chronic sticky fingers, convenient lapses in memory, shifty eyes that wander, and the likes thereof, but not in my precious Umbrage.

Yes, in Umbrage our leaders are so squeaky-clean, you will never catch them in anything. Moreover, I’m under the profound impression that Mayor Earnest Integrity is not only above board in all things related to health and safety, but the city council as a whole is under some sort of oath to do us, the citizens of Umbrage, only good—some sort of hypocritical oath, or hypothetical promise, or something along those lines. Did the council plan on sharing?

My heart sank like the day I received my first report card, at the very thought of such a dastardly betrayal of public and private trust. In the frozen tundra of my mind, snow is not just for lackadaisical, snowboarding hippies and Zamboni enthusiasts. Snow is the birthright of every Canadian, whether we want it or not—as I said, it’s a birthright. It is utterly inexcusable to rob anyone of the privilege of shoveling snow until one can’t stand or see straight.

Privately the pain went deep, far beyond the normal realm of pain, because Mayor Earnest is much more normal than anyone I know, and because the mayor, or Earn, as I like to call him, and I go way back, all the way back to last month. It was magical when I passed him on the street and he said, Hello. I stopped and pondered the beauty of it all. It made me realize how special I am to His Worship the Mayor. Now I know why he keeps an eye on me.

So the next day, I called city hall, like I do every Monday morning sharp at 9:00 am, to encourage Earn, and reminisce over that fateful day when he said hello, and changed my life, and wove our destinies together forever. I knew he’d snow me as usual, but that’s okay. On weekends, I stand patiently for hours outside of Earn’s home. I do this just so he knows that I’m there for him, and he can count on me. In return, Mayor Earnest softly weeps with gratitude.

With the trembling joy of a lad on Christmas morning, I picked up the receiver and dialed. After I managed to calm myself down enough to focus, the receptionist with the demure voice greeted me with the usual, Oh, it’s you again! before we got down to the business of the snow. The receptionist, Mildred, graciously informed me that the city possesses an abundance of top-notch fertilizer, but absolutely no snow. Mildred is so nice, so, of course, I took her word.

My next move required serious sleuthing to track down our missing flakes. It is a well-known fact that folks have plenty of flakes to spare in California, so I dialed up Fresno to inquire after ours. Another receptionist, named Sky, told me she would never steal our flakes since she could not live without their own unique variety, so I knew I could trust her. I called the Governator, who is normally a man of action, but he just laughed and called me a sissy girly-man.

More disappointed than my wife on our honeymoon, I found they were all out of flakes in Whistler since it was their off-season. However, a sweet angel of mercy, named Rainbow, their receptionist, encouraged me when she said she hoped to see some gradually blow in after a few months of colder weather. I stopped to ponder again the mystery of our missing July snow, and that’s when it hit me. It was blatantly obvious where to find the stashed snow!

After three more phone calls, I confirmed that there was still only one place in Canada, besides Vancouver, where you could hide that much snow and get away with it, or rather that much snow and almost get away with it—Pimucktachuck Bay! No doubt, you are unfamiliar with Pimucktachuck Bay. It’s all part of their clever scheme. These schemers act as if their town doesn’t exist! That is why you will never find it on any map available to you, dear reader.

For you see, dear reader, it’s the perfect cover for stealing snow because these cons blanket the sinister craft of swiping flakes in broad daylight all year round. Nobody suspects them of this heinous crime, and the flakes are none the wiser! My brother Archie believes it takes a certain type of person to find a town that does not exist. Yes, Archie wants me to know that he’s positive I’m absolutely the right hangdog for the goose chase. I love my brother; he’s so encouraging.

Filled with new delusions of grandeur and Archie’s false, fresh affirmation, I leapt into action and made yet another phone call. If I had fifty cents for every time I made yet another phone call, I’d be richer than my long-lost Uncle Buffet. In fact, it occurs to me right