I was in Tim Hortons the other day–a claim that pretty much all Canadians can make on any given day–and I heard something that had never occurred to me before. The cashier said to the next guy in line, “I can help you over here.” And the guy replied, “No thanks. I don’t need any help. I just need a coffee.”
Why had I never thought of that response? It’s genius.
And it has made me worry about what I will say when I go in to work tomorrow. I always ask the bookstore clientele if they need help. Upon reflection, it sounds like I am accusing them of requiring psychoanalysis–and that I am offering to provide it.
So far, no one has called me out on the ridiculousness of my offer of help, but it is only a matter of time until that Tim Horton’s guy comes in to the store. Unless he’s illiterate. I can only hope.
1) Perhaps, some of the bookstore clientele are in need of therapy and my offer of help will inspire them to seek medical attention. Especially the one who smells like pee.
And the world is full of the insane. Just look at these hammer-wielding morons. I’m sure that if you saw them walking down the street (with their rubber mallets concealed, of course), they would appear as normal as you or I. Well, maybe you. I rarely appear normal. But, once they bring out their squeaky hammer, they turn in to madmen and madwomen.
This is the Sao Joao Festival in Porto, Portugal–a celebration in honour of St. John, the patron saint of lovers. Apparently, hitting a member of the opposite sex on the head is meant to be a turn-on. In the old days, the head-basher of choice was a leek. Don’t ask me why. If someone said they were going to take a “leek” on my head, I’d run the other way screaming. No one knows why the leek was dropped in favour of squeaky hammers–likely due to an influx of head injuries. Plus, a night of having giant onions whipped across your head would make your hair smell appalling. No amount of “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific” (remember that shampoo?) would set it right.
2) After a rough night of being in hit in the head with a hammer, there is nothing better than a good night’s sleep. Unless, of course, you find yourself next to a complete surprise. And I don’t mean the guy you picked up after one too many Molson Canadians–the one who looked like George Clooney in the pale light of the moon, but more closely resembled Woody Allen in the light of day. Don’t get me wrong. I am a huge fan of Woody Allen, but you couldn’t pay me enough to sleep with him
The “surprise” that I am referring to, however, is a severed horse head. Not a real horse head a la Godfather. That would be disgusting. No, I am referring to the severed horse head pillow planted there by someone who wants to give your cardiac system an unscheduled stress test first thing in the morning.
If you have someone who has recently given up coffee and needs a tad bit of a “jolt” in the morning, you can get yours at http://www.kropserkel.com/horse_head_pillow.htm
And, just in case you live under a rock and have never witnessed the scene that birthed this idea, here you are…
I bet that guy is going to need therapy.
3) Some people require therapy for issues relating to self-esteem. I don’t think anything could be harder on one’s self-esteem than being called “spastic” or “spas” for short. But what else would you call someone who hails from the town of Spasticville, Kansas?
In fact, this name is such a burden on residents that in 2010, they applied to have the town’s name changed to “Trail’s End.” It is said that the name Spasticville originated with a large home for the mentally challenged that was once located there. That’s just mean.
In the interim, the inhabitants of this minuscule Kansas town can say it loud, and say it proud. ”I am a Spas.”
Photo credits: Lucy (web.wm.edu), rubber hammers (www.relax.com.sg), horse head (culturepopped.blogspot.ca), Spasticville (mapquest.com).