Our politicians have decamped for another Easter layabout. All the late night talk shows are re-runs. So why am I the only one left holding the fort?
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I say. Thus the following relic from four years back that I was going to pawn off one day as something new if the weather had co-operated.
If you have any complaints, snail mail them to my back deck where I’ll be throwing Barbie on the shrimp (no, that can’t be right) or at any rate just goofing off while you all get short-changed.
Suck it up—Gord
What would McGyver do?
Probably live in California rather
than in stupid snow-bound Ottawa
Well, the Northern Lights have seen strange sights
But the strangest they ever did see,
Was me stuck on the roof
Feeling much like a goof
With an urgent requirement to pee ….
I think they should make an Olympic sport out of the fixes I get into and then immediately retire the event because no one else has a shot at getting anywhere near the podium, let alone fall off it.
At any rate, we survived another stupid snowstorm because I did all the essential things you’re supposed to do when you’re a good Boy Scout or simply anal-retentive.
I shoveled Friday to make room for the snow expected over the weekend.
I shoveled Saturday when the snow was half over to make room for the second half.
I even shoveled Sunday when it was all over just to prove to myself we actually owned a car. (I found it, finally, under a big white hump which will likely still be around when Conrad Black gets parole.)
After that effort, leaving a shovel-wide path for people to get in and out, I retired to enjoy my emergency storm supplies (two cases of beer and a jar of saloon nuts that should last until Lassie arrives to save us all).
Like all good Canadians, I immediately turned to the Weather Channel to watch somebody tell me what I could find out myself by looking out the window.
Al Gore and Dr. David Sushisushi were nowhere to be seen, but there were other alarmists warning that snow accumulations on roofs could cause collapses and leaks and plaques of locusts.
Piffle and flapdoodle, I snorted—the only leak was going to be the one I intended to have after demolishing a six-pack just before my own collapse into a hot tub to ease the pains of my shovelling-ravaged body.
This Chicken Little TV guy was so strident in his dire predictions (like, duh, it may have something to do with the fact he works for a roof-clearing company), I made a mental note to nominate him for an Oscar.
Of course, my back room began to leak 30 seconds later ….
When I went to the second floor to look over the two roofs (topping my back room and the front veranda) I didn’t see anything.
Mainly because the snow was piled so high I couldn’t see out the windows.
So I summoned up some energy reserves and dragged my ass and various shovels out onto the veranda roof (it was deep enough to freeze sperm, trust me).
And shoved everything down into the waiting embrace of the space I had cleaned earlier at ground level.
With a job well done, I figured I’d reward myself with a visit to the john—only to discover I had pushed the swing window too far back when I was working and was now on the wrong side of the glass.
Which just caused my bladder to complain even more.
Now, anybody who has a fishing camp is no stranger to having a whiz in the great outdoors and sometimes even right off the porch when it’s really cold.
But off the roof of the porch is a different thing.
Especially in a neighbourhood which is one of Ottawa’s classiest when I’m not here.
Plus it didn’t want to expose my shriveled privates to public scrutiny and ridicule.
McGyver has nothing on me when it comes to inventing useful tools to protect the reputation of my useless tool and I was able to pry the window open with my comb (you know how I’m big on personal grooming).
After pausing at the can for some welcome light reading, I tackled the back roof (while leaving the window open, thank you).
After about 200 shovelfuls, the 201st had a little extra—it was full of the shovel, which tore itself loose from my other frozen digits to get away from all this silliness.
No problem, I simply would go down through the house to the back door and reach out to retrieve it.
Except that most of the snow from the roof came down in front of the door in a pile that I couldn’t move with a sky crane and 20 pounds of gelignite.
Aha! And what would McGyver do faced with this latest challenge?
Using an ordinary bottle opener found in every kitchen, I marched over to the back door, closed the blinds so I couldn’t see my shovel sitting in an ocean of snow and popped the cap on the first of what was to be many beers.
There is still a leak in the back room.
I put a plant under it.