Some time ago I penned a passionate appeal to my fellow brothers about the usage of the throne room. And you, of course, disregarded every word I said!
On retrospect perhaps I wouldn’t mind having daughters instead of sons. The associated hardware and utilities required in raising a girl (shotgun, pistol & associated firearms, machetes and whips for errant boys) are a small price to pay for having lovely, gentle and well mannered girls in the house instead of shouting, rowdy and disgusting small boys whooping and leaving muddy prints everywhere.
Take for example last week. I was at some large corporation whose identity I shall keep secret to protect the guilty. Shortly before lunch (the meeting was strategically set up in the window between 11 and 2, leaving the host no option but to feed me and my lads) I walked into the washroom to wash my hands. Yes, gentlemen. Shocking as it may seem some people still wash their hands before meals! It was not some sinister agenda imposed on your mothers from communist Russia!
If Jack Bauer ruthlessly shot his best friend in the head, his wife in the heart decapitated a hapless prisoner while shouting into his mouthpiece “Chloe, pull up the schematics of the lavatory” this is what he would come up with.
The battle theaters are as follows:
A (Medic) Where preparations are (generally) made before and after combat. Those of us who visit the Medic was our hands. Sadly, we are a minority
B (Fantasia) Where limited operations, generally of chemical nature are effected
C (Kosovo) Where dive and cluster bombing, as well as light machine gun fire cum gas warfare is practiced
Now, there I was, hands gleaming from liquid soap and starting to walk towards the door, whistling the happy whistle of a man about to sit down to a free and wholesome meal when the door burst open and a man swaggered into the facility.
That I did not mind. That sort of thing happens, given statistics, probability and other whatnots.
What I did mind, and mind to the extreme, was that the man had opened his firing turret and his howitzer was aimed, locked and loaded at the recommended 45 degree angle.
So let us recap.
Starting to move due South was M, hands washed, anticipating a lunch.
Advancing North without cover is Megatron, cannon exposed pointing, inevitably, due North.
Now I don’t know about you but I acutely, emphatically and totally object to having another man’s equipment in my face pointing at me as a rule. It’s just not my cup of tea.
Meditating pleasantly about a lunch of roast potatoes, pan fried steak, lettuce and tomato, the mind was lurched into unplanned for activity and the following tumbled out
- What the hell?
- WHAT.THE.HELL.
- What if in addition to priming his weaponry early the feller had an itry trigger finger and fired … er … prematurely?
- If a random stranger walked in, or worse still a client, how on earth would I begin to explain things?
Megatron suddenly noticed that he was not alone and there was “gentleman, dead ahead”.
What followed was a social impasse that has played out ever since Adam and Eve discovered they were naked.
M went to his left and Megatron went to his right, effectively blocking him.
M then went to his right and Megatron to his left, again blocking him.
Megatron was a believer in pragmatism and saw no need to holster his weapon if he was going to unholster it not 15 seconds in the near future. So as we danced the dance (a dance without even a damn dinner!) a chemical weapon was pointing at me.
Finally I saw that we were getting nowhere so I effected a tactical retreat due North towards the far wall.
Megatron took this to be a surrender and consolidated his position by advancing North as well.
Hands spread in surrender I backed further and further, dying a thousand deaths at the thought of someone wandering into the scenario that from a cursory glance was getting dangerously close to a BBMM (Brokeback Mountain Moment). Some things really cannot be easily explained. It won’t do for a man that has spent his career elaborating at great detail the dimensions of Miss Halle Berry to be caught in such a situation. Within moments the creative grapevine would be buzzing and I would be fielding questions as to which of us said “I wish I could quit you” .
My breath caught in my throat as I felt the wall behind and I rapidly consulted the field manual on what to do in such situations. The manual drew a blank.
Megatron mercifully pulled a sharp right turn at the corner and rumbled into Fantasia for some light skirmishes.
I departed with a sonic boom.
As we sat down to lunch my host looked with concern at my violent and passionate objection to an aperitif of sausages …
Guys, is it too much to keep your weapons holstered until you’re actually at the firing range?!!