Flug
did NOT demonstrate fuel efficiency
by
Robert LaFrance
There is a certain amount of
embarrassment around the Flug household this weekend. On Friday morning he
filled his Mazda with gas and got up Saturday morning to find that the tank was
dry as a bone.
He called the police to report that
someone had siphoned out his gas and they arrived within hours to make out
their report. The officers said that they would let him know if they found his
gasoline somewhere. So I drove Flug down to Muniac Store where he bought forty
litres of the best in a red plastic jug
Once that was in the Mazda’s tank,
Flug pulled out his key and pushed a button. The car started as if by magic.
“So you got one a them remote starters,” I said, and thought I had made a
fairly intelligent statement. I never claimed to be brilliant.
He looked at me as if he were going
to make a sarcastic comment, but must have remembered who had just driven him
to pick up the gas. “Yeah, I got it put in last year so I don’t have to go
outside to start the car.”
“So are you able to send the car
uptown and pick up groceries while you watch the Manchester United game?” I
asked. Yours truly is no mean hand at sarcasm, even though he hadn’t used any
on me. Then I remembered something I had wanted to ask him: “You must have
gotten home late from the club last evening,” I said. “I couldn’t believe it
when I had to get up and let out the dog at 3:00 am and your car was running.
You must have been listening to the radio or something.”
“No, it must have been somebody
along the road,” he said. “I was in bed and asleep by midnight. Threw my keys
on the table and headed for bed.”
As an avid reader of mystery novels,
I think I have provided all the facts to explain where Flug’s gasoline went
Friday night. I should say it’s now up to the reader of this column to figure
it out, but I’m not that cruel (don’t listen to my wife on that subject).
The first clue: he THREW his car
keys on the table. Second: on his key is a button that remotely starts his
Mazda. Third: At 3:00 am I heard his car running in his driveway, and fourth:
his car was dry of gas the next morning when he arose to face the day. You can
see why I used the word ‘embarrassment’. Flug had figured it out himself. I
just hope the police don’t corner a suspect they think was a gas thief and
taser him or make him listen to Celine Dion for three hours.
*****************************
In the remains (as my Aunt Bessie
would say) of this column I shall check my notebook for wise, indeed brilliant,
statements and suggestions, but then will probably just go back to my usual.
As I was grocery shopping last week,
I met a woman I haven’t seen for quite a few years. We talked for a while, and
as she turned to head for the canned vegetables section she said – just as the
church minister went by with the local priest: “Do you want to tweet me?” I
suppose they will understand, eventually, but they looked shocked.
At a recent community event, Flug
was talking to Eddie Flagon, who works for an area company that makes kitchen
cupboards and such things. He introduced me to Eddie, whom I recognized as one
who sometimes also works as a lay minister, filling in when ministers can’t get
to an event. I almost said, but refrained from doing it by the skin of my
teeth: “So you’re a cabinet minister?”
Elroy Fibbret, bartender at the
Kincardine Bar & Grill, was telling us the other evening that he owned a
cockatoo named Bozo whom (or which) he had taught to draw simple figures like a
horse or cow. He said he was still training the cockatoo to hold a brush in his
talons while standing on one foot. Elroy looked at his watch and said it was
already time for another lesson. “Back to the drawing bird,” he said, just
before we killed him.
Would anyone like to know whose name
I am extremely tired of hearing? Justin Bieber. Apparently he’s a ‘teenage
heart-throb’ which must mean that the people we used to call ‘teenyboppers’
find him irresistible. Some people like anchovies too. I will say one thing
about him though: what he presents can reasonably be called music, whereas
‘rap’ and ‘hip-hop’ can only be called…something else. I think that one of
these days, those who like R and H-H are going to be listening to that
monotonous stuff and ask themselves: “What? I used to like this garbage? I’ll
bet I was even a Leafs fan.”
-end-
No comments:
Post a Comment