Humor

Brad and Cynthia’s Wedding
Overrepresentation of White Pigs in Entertainment Media
The Chinaman’s Chance
The Ecstasy of Instant Coffee

Fiction. Brad and Cynthia’s Wedding

Normally, mixing drugs and alcohol is not a recommended practice. But, if you can’t make an exception for your best mate’s wedding, what kind of friend are you?

The trip from Murwillumbah to Brisbane last August (the middle of Austral Winter) was uneventful. Despite the good motorways, finding a good vein while riding in an SUV is a greater challenge than one might imagine. Laureen avoided bumps and pot holes as much as possible, which i really appreciated.  She is so considerate–even remembered to bring along my bleach kit.  I was feeling fine as we approached the train station at Varsity Lakes, just across the border of Queensland and New South Wales. She parked the SUV and we boarded the train heading north..

Should have been clear sailing from there to South Bank Station in Brisbane. However, with security cameras everywhere and Big Brother’s prohibition on public alcohol consumption, my aspirations of dissolution were put on hold for the time being. Fortunately, I was able to drink Bundaberg Rum from a flask, uncontested on the one kilometer walk between the train station and the River Cat ferry.

I must admit that I was not feeling my best on the ferry to Kangaroo Point, as Neptune himself takes issue with the inebriates who ply His waters. Well, I have news for him: He is no saint himself!

As we disembarked at the Holman Street ferry stop, Laureen guided me to the Anglican Church, where I took a nap around the corner from the main entrance. Some time later, I awakened to an odorous and unpleasant moisture emanating from my torso and legs. I asked Laureen if she was feeling better. But, with her characteristic Bart Simpson laugh (the one with the slight cackle at the end) she informed me that I had, in fact, vomited upon myself. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to wear a Hawaiian shirt (one of those classy ones with the coconut shell buttons) that camouflaged my chunder. My khaki trousers were less forgiving. I felt betrayed by my own pants.

By this time, Laureen, satisfied that I would be okay, went to confer her greetings to the assembled crowd. I sought a faucet to mitigate my arguably soiled condition. But, was surprised to learn that when I turned on the faucet, sprinklers just around the corner soaked the assembled the wedding party. What were the odds on that!

Nevertheless, I went around the corner, removed my potentially offending garb and conscientiously cleansed my clothing in the soothing sprinklers . I then dressed and took a seat next to Laureen in the cold stone church. She really loves weddings. In fact, she has been married seven times.

I slept through much of the ceremony, and don’t remember much about it, except for admonishing a five year old to “watch it with those flowers!” as she spread rose petals at the initial procession. I do remember awakening when the priest said “You may now kiss the bride”. I obediently staggered towards the altar, only to be stopped by that killjoy Greg Dunny. The padre should have been more specific and Greg should have minded his own business.

Laureen and I walked to the reception nearby (the longest half kilometer of my life!). There we discovered that my name was absent from the list. That was okay. While Laureen had a good feed, I sought the refuge of a sleeping space among kindred souls. With a view of Storey Bridge and a cool breeze to comfort my soul, I savored thoughts of the happy couple, enjoyed the view and looked forward to the warm and forgiving embrace of my beloved Laureen.

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Michael T. George
28 December 2018

Fiction. The Chinaman’s Chance

When the cashier at the hotel coffee shop in Rock Springs, Wyoming appeared at the cash register, the old Chinese man had already removed from his billfold a Hong Kong ten dollar note and a US twenty dollar bill.  His wearing surgical gloves that made the process more difficult. The cashier was fascinated by the plastic Hong Kong note.  The Chinese handed it to her. “It’s worth barely a single US dollar”, he said. “Please accept as my gift to you.”, handing it to her with both hands.

She gave him his change. On his way out, he stopped by the Men’s room.  He carefully removed his surgical gloves, dropped them into the waste basket, washed his hands thoroughly, and put on a pair of winter gloves.

Glancing back, he could see the cashier proudly showing the plastic note to her co-workers, all bemused by the novelty of the gift.  He departed into the sub-freezing cold.  The skies were clear.  Snow drifts fringed the parking lot.

Inside the car, the frosty interior of the windshield was still new to him.  He had before
encountered such back home. He tried wiping the windshield with his forearm and gloved hand before allowing the defroster to finish the job.

A drive to the tourism office proved fruitless. His request for directions to the cemetery in which the Chinese were buried was met with a cold stare. Tourists were welcome.  But,
troublemakers were not. No massacre had taken place in the 1870s. The rumor that
Chinese immigrants–newly unemployed after completion of the Transcontinental
Railroad—had competed for mining jobs with locals had no basis in fact.  No, the Chinese
had moved either to San Francisco or elsewhere, he was told.

On his own, he found the town cemetery. But, it offered no clues. Graves dating to the 1840s were to be found. (Many were of those passing through on the Oregon Trail, but, none contained Chinese.)

The old Chinese was chagrined as he left town, thinking ahead to his return to his hometown of Sah-In in Guangdong province, where he was a distinguished, though
generally regarded as a rascible, chemist. Meanwhile, he passed the hotel on his way to the I-80.

Slowing at an intersection, he could see an ambulance in the parking lot, its two EMTs were loading a young lady onto a stretcher: the hostess he had encountered earlier.  A second ambulance almost ran him off the road and into a snowdrift as it squeezed past him. A third ambulance could be heard in the distance, its siren growing louder by the second. He was relieved that he had avoided a collision and was happy that he would be in Salt Lake City in time for his flights to San Francisco and Shenzhen, followed by the long bus ride home.

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Michael T. George
4 May 2017

The Ecstasy of Instant Coffee

In my youth, I was both precocious and an over-achiever. So, it was no surprise when I was sent to a reform school for teenaged boys when I was only 11 years old. It was a progressive facility, teaching skills that would be useful when we matriculated to adult prisons.

In one shop class we were being taught to make shivs from toothbrush handles. Mine was roundly praised for being exquisitely sharp while being concealable in body orifices without causing internal damage. It was truly the Mona Lisa of illicit weaponry.

In the informal contest, mine was assumed by all to be the finest.

However, the teacher’s punk was given the highest marks. I was inconsolable. My mates sought to make things right by providing me with a life-changing consolation prize–a sachet of Folgers Instant Crystals coffee.

I will never forget that both the aroma and the taste exceeded any sensory experience I ever had. The subtle froth alone was worth a pack of cigarettes. The taste alone would turn the most devout Mormon into a Jack.

My anticipated career path has not gone as expected, as I have remained outside the prison population. I found myself as a full time advocate of instant coffee. True, I have shared my joy, and gained many new converts along the way. But, not at a certain cost.

Maureen D had spent over A$700 on an espresso machine a week prior to her conversion to instant coffee. At first, she tried to sell the chrome plated disaster. But, the constant reminder of her mistake induced her to throw the machine away. Meanwhile, M Durney discovered that her new found distaste for the pretensions of French Press coffee were hard to give up. What would she do with the drawer full of berets?

The satisfaction of conversion to new and better things has its challenges. However, the rewards far exceed the costs. One must always be willing to go that extra sip on instant coffee’s journey of ecstasy.

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Michael T George