Don’t envy this newspaper columnist

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 14/10/2017 (3201 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I suspect most of you are extremely jealous of me, because I lead the thrill-a-minute lifestyle of a big-shot newspaper columnist.

It’s hard not to envy a man whose job allows him to spend the entire day wearing nothing but a ratty bathrobe, counting ceiling tiles, eating onion dip directly from the container and waiting for professionally amusing thoughts to form in his overheated cranium.

But we’ll see how jealous you are after reading today’s column, wherein I will recount, with painstaking honesty and accuracy, everything that happened to me this week during a day of big-time journalism while trying to write my Speiriscope column, which you will find in today’s 49.8 section and is an action-packed look at some of the most offensive ads of all time in light of that controversial Dove body-wash video that has everyone’s knickers in a serious twist.

So there I was, first thing in the morning, parked in front of the home computer, wearing my bathrobe and a pair of flip-flops when, suddenly and without warning, the dogs — we have three of them now — loudly announced they needed to go outside to perform their daily ablutions, so to speak.

I bravely ventured out into the backyard with my hounds to ensure the gate was closed, then casually strolled back to the computer to resume writing, which is when I sensed, mostly via my nostrils, that something was amiss.

After conducting a brief inspection, I spotted a trail of fragrant footprints leading from the back door, into the kitchen, then over to my computer beside the dining-room window. Which is when I glanced at the underside of my flip-flops and discovered that (Blech!) I had accidentally stepped in dog poop, then tracked it throughout the house.

Still, there was serious journalism to be done, so I grabbed some paper towels, mopped up the mess, and resumed peacefully tapping away at my keyboard, which I did for several hours without anything untoward occurring.

Later, with the column well in progress, and lulled into a false sense of security, it occurred to me that I had gone several hours without consuming a nourishing snack, so I walked into the kitchen and bravely flung open the pantry door.

And that’s when I spotted him — parked on a top shelf in the pantry, nibbling a Saltine cracker and staring at me with a look of sheer arrogance. I am, of course, referring to our beloved premier, Brian Pallister.

OK, sorry, that was a light-hearted attempt at political humour. What happened was I found myself face to face with a mouse; no doubt the same mouse that has been terrorizing our home for the past week — the mouse my wife and I thought had been sealed up in our den, which we have festooned with dozens of traps obtained from Home Depot.

The mouse was as shocked to see me as I was to see him. We engaged in a sort of standoff, staring into each other’s eyes with laser-like concentration that was broken only when, with no concern for my own safety, I began shrieking like a little girl. That caused the mouse to scurry back among the canned goods.

As you can imagine, I slammed the pantry door shut and began perspiring heavily while I planned my next move.

Fortunately, sitting on the kitchen table was a bag packed with anti-mouse devices I’d purchased earlier in the week.

Casting aside the snap traps that routinely crush my fingers when I try to set them, I selected three glue boards, which, of all the weapons in the war on mice, are easily the stickiest.

With a broom in one hand and hatred in my heart, I again flung open the pantry door, gently leaned in, and prepared to delicately lay the glue boards on top of the canned goods in hopes of creating a sticky, death-dealing minefield for the furry little home invader.

And that’s when I heard it! I am referring here to a noise that is all too familiar to anyone who owns a dog. It sounds like this: “HORNK! HORNK! HORNK!”

For those of you who do not own canines, this is the unmistakable sound your dog makes just before it decides to throw up on the carpet at the back door. In my case, this sickening sound was emanating from our secondary dog, Bogey (a.k.a. Mr. X).

With mere seconds before my pet’s digestive system went into reverse thruster mode, I had a moment of panic, which is when I lost my vise-like grip on the glue boards, which flipped over, causing the sticky traps to attach themselves like giant leeches to the hair on my exposed forearms.

If you had been there, here’s what you would have seen: A 300-pound newspaper columnist, with three glue boards stuck to his forearms, filling the air with an impressive assortment of words that cannot be published in a family newspaper and staggering down the hall in the vain hope of putting a dog outside before it loses its lunch on the carpet.

Owing to the fact some of you are likely eating breakfast as we speak, I will spare you the gruesome details. I will just say I did not make it in time, meaning I was forced to grab more paper towels, clean up my pet’s gastrointestinal effluent, then rip the glue boards off my forearms (I now understand the anguish caused by body waxing), carefully place the traps in the pantry, then finally stagger back to the computer to resume writing whatever the (bad word) I’d been writing before all of this stuff occurred.

The worst part? Some people still think journalism is easy.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca