THE LOWDOWN: The pen versus the sword
Most readers who email sweeten you up first. Not so Jacqui. She lets you have it straight: “Every time I read one of your articles I keep saying I should email you to tell you what I think. I finally decided to stop procrastinating and do it. Here goes . . . . I think you are an idiot . . . .”
Whatever the land speed record for shutting down a computer and diving under the bed is, I have it. No way was I reading what else she had to say.
But under the bed I got to thinking. Last week I mentioned having so much unused ammunition that the wife wanted to send me for a vasectomy. I was joking.
But suppose the police didn’t know that and came searching? That’s when I started to sweat.
People hear of “rounds” of ammunition and get the idea it’s a lot. Actually a round is only a bullet. You get a license for say, 50, fire off two or three and a few years later, get some more in case the older ones aren’t any good.
David Holford used to tell of shooting at a rat with an old gun. The bullet bounced twice before it reached the rat who threw it back.
And when you sell a gun, old ammo gets left lying around. That’s what happened to me. I turned in my licensed .22 but never got rid of the bullets.
I did once take them to the police but they told me to throw them into the sea. I never did.
Suddenly I imagined big Task Force officers swarming through the house and THE NATION headline Lowdown Off To Dodds. So I crawled from under the bed, grabbed said bullets and with fearsome despatch hurled them into the Atlantic Ocean.
Lord, I’m sorry for polluting your waters with poisonous lead, but what’s done is done.
Then another thought hit me: suppose there were other old bullets lying around? Search time!
Have you ever searched a woman’s press? The Concorde could be in there. Nor could I risk not putting back everything exactly where it was.
And then, bingo! I struck gold.
Not bullets but something way more interesting – a box, tied up with ribbon, containing my wife’s love letters from her courting days!
This raises a moral question: is it wrong for a man to read his wife’s old love letters? Especially those written by himself?
Boy, was I hot in those days! There was another girl I was always too shy to talk to. Then she went away and wrote me and I wrote back. And in no time she was putty in my hands. Except you can’t do much with putty that is 3 000 miles away.
Alas, as they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. At least mine is. For I can never whip up the same enthusiasm with these love-lettered ladies when we do get together. But then again, do we really need the sword?
Scientists now think the flatworm, Schmidtea mediterranea, may hold the key to immortality. Any part that breaks off becomes a new worm. Only, they never have sex. Is immortality worth it if you don’t get any? Ask Sanka Price. I don’t know.
Anyhow, dodging Jacqui’s verbal bullets and dumping actual bullets have left me shattered. So here are a few recent quotes to round things off:
Rough white Bajan at supermarket: “Wendy, Richie A tell me he does mek that goat milk (S-word variation)!”
Truck driver: “Skip, I had some goat’s milk last night. Sweet, man! I poop all night, poop all this morning. I even poop on the wife!”
Canadian visitor “Big Fish” due in from Ontario: “I don’t care if your sister says it’s a battery-operated toy man on a bicycle that she wants to send to your wife. In my experience there’s only one battery-operated toy women send each other that comes in a ten-inch box. And no way am I going through customs with one of those!”
Gloria Wright on husband Roger, the Canadian stud: “He gets oats and Viagra, barley and Viagra. And you know what, Richard? It doesn’t help!”
By the way, Jacqui went on to say some sweet loving things and all’s well.