Hit and Miss?

I saw Clara a few days ago and she was depressed (also distraught, devastated and desperate). I bought her a couple of drinks and she told me what happened. 

At work she was queen bee, la crème de la crème, the pick of the litter ... everybody loved her, asked her for advice and help and clamored to sit at her lunch-table ... that is until Errol arrived.

Clara, February 2026

,

He was handsome, young and strong (and knew the words for every song). He was friendly, worked hard, jumped in to help everyone, and brought doughnuts (on Wednesday). Suddenly he was la crème de la crème, top of the crop, the pick of the litter and everybody asked him for advice and help and wanted to sit with him at the lunch-table. On the outside, Clara played along, laughed at his jokes and praised him. Inside, she burnt up with the red hot flames of rage and envy and jealousy. 

She was making plans to fix this finding a weakness and exploiting it. Errol had no weakness, no vice. He was an orphan, the only relative was his father's elder brother, a rich uncle in poor health living alone in a big house by the lake. He took very well care of his uncle, visited him every weekend, took him grocery shopping and to doctor's appointments. The only "wrong" Errol admitted to jokingly was vaping. His uncle ordered identical custom made vapes for both of them as a gift. They sat together on the porch looking at the lake and vaped and talked.

Clara, as system administrator, looked at Errol's medical record. He had a hereditary allergy to Almonds, Walnuts and Macadamia (transmitted down through male relatives). Clara thought she could work with this. She came early one morning, sat at Errol's computer, and did some internet searches on the triggers for that allergy. Apparently malic acid permanganate (hydrochloride), available on Amastone in 2.5 ml containers caused migraine and nausea lasting several days for a a healthy person. She ordered a batch to be delivered at the address of her lepidopterist cousin who was away on a three month trip to Madagascar and left her the key to look after the flat. 

The next day, Friday, Clara was watching Errol's comings and goings and caught a break when he went to the washroom. She quickly unscrewed the cap on the vape and added a few drops of the liquid she bought to the pod. She screwed the top back and put the vape back exactly how she found it.  

She went home satisfied, with Errol out of the picture, even for a few days, she would be again the queen bee, la crème de la crème, the pick of the litter.

On Monday Clara Errol didn't come to work. People started coming to her desk with questions or for help and advice. At lunch someone asked about Errol and someone else said they heard he called in sick. Two days later, Paul, the shift manager asked them to come to the lunch room five minutes early for an important announcement. Paul read a statement prepared by corporate council saying that Errol was arrested and charged with first the degree murder in the death of his uncle who died over the weekend of an allergy attack. The police had determined that his vape was tampered with. The only fingerprints on the vape were Errol's and his uncle's. The investigation found internet research of toxic substances on Errol's computer. The allegations have not been proven in court. Errol has been denied bail and was kept at the South Toronto Detention Center. Staff counselling available upon request. 

Clara was in a total melt-down wailing and crying, tears streaming down her face, all thought due to her delicate, sensitive and compassionate nature. Paul asked if there were questions and Clara asked if they shouldn't go visiting with muffins and/or fruit basket. Paul replied that this would be inappropriate.

That is what Clara told me, and after finishing, she asked what she should do. She tried to hit and she missed, but did she miss? I told her not to tell anybody about this and to enjoy being, again, the queen bee, la crème de la crème, the pick of the litter whom everybody loved and asked for advice and help and clamor to sit at her lunch-table with. 

Clara looked even more depressed (also distraught, devastated and desperate).

Things that I Used to Do (Lord I Won't Do No-More)

Play this, yo! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fj33EGMbazY&list=RDfj33EGMbazY&start_radio=1

List of things that I used to do but won't do no-more: 

Shoplift, Eat rare flowers, Smoke, Have sex more than twice a day, Watch Formula1 races, Wear green on Wednesdays, Cook wearing a suit, Pick up girls in bars, Take candy (away) from strangers, Loose my balance, Be without a home, like a complete unknown, Gamble for stakes I cannot afford, Read out loud, Sing in public (sober or drunk), Forget to remember, Be down by the schoolyard with Julio, Talk to my cousin, Contradict my teacher, Walk around with a parrot that talks, Use acrylics, Expect the Spanish Inquisition, Leave full ashtrays over night, Shop at Sears, Come in through the bathroom window, Grow Asparagus, Ride camels, Wear women's clothes and hang around in bars, Play with matches, Play with knives, Play with my food, Play the harp (but keep playing the cello), Play the baritone (but keep playing the cello), Play the electric violin (but keep playing the cello), Pet other people's dogs, Walk backwards fast, Sit down without being asked, Ask for a bio-break, Ask for another piece, Ask for my ring back, Ask for the recipe, Ask to remove the green Smarties, Ask if it comes in Red, Ask one's age, Ask to be asked, Ask to be excused, Ask how much longer, Ask to remove the shoes, Cut the cord, Say "See what you have done", Get unstuck in time, Bring hardboiled eggs and nuts, Say "Told you so", Say "Thanks" (but keep saying "Thank You"), Put sugar in my coffee, Drive Cadillac, Prey.

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Some of you, maybe all of you, noticed stuff from Dylan, The Bee Gees, Monty Python, The Kinks, The Beatles, and others

The Great Jaroslav Hašek Ends

On the 3rd of January 1923, in the bedroom of a modest house at 19 U. Pozavska, in the village of Lipnice nad Sázavou, Jaroslav Hašek lay in bed dictating to his daughter Jarmila page after page of his novel "The Fate of the Good Soldier Švejk During the World War". He was too weak to get out of bed and couldn't even hold a pen. He died that night, from a sudden heart attack at the age of 39, leaving unfinished the greatest Czech novel ever written. Among his papers was a half-finished Proust questionnaire.

Q: Who, living or dead, would you like to have dinner with?

A: Karl Marx and Oscar Wilde

Q: Favorite animal

A: Dog

Q: Favorite drink

A: Beer with a Becherovka chaser

Q: Favorite piece of music

A: Serenade for tenor, harp and strings by Jiří Kaposzta

Hašek as Soviet Army Commissar, 1920 

Hašek did not take life seriously: he was a communist and then an anticommunist, an anarchist, an iconoclast, a bigamist, totally irresponsible and unreliable, a lovable drunkard bohemian (both literally and figuratively). Unquestionably, his literary talent was staggering, a fascinating storyteller with a special, comical style, hiding caustic satire and social criticism, he produced one of those rare books set in a well defined place and time, that expresses thoughts and ideas valid any place and any time. Rev. Augustin Kleinschrodt, on the plains of Trient in 1916, would be perfectly at home on the lawn of the White House in 2026.

After mourning and grieving her father, Jarmila married Miroslav Schikedantz and emigrated to Paraguay, where they ran the "U Kalicha" Czech Social Club complete with the Franz-Joseph I  portrait famously and disgracefully soiled by flies (in the book described as a treasonous act of disloyalty leading to the barman's arrest). They served cheese grioche (mild or spicy).

Words of Words of Danny

Danny had exceptionally beautiful hair: strinking, silky, shiny, the color of flax in June. One should know that the Nation & Bauer test, a successor to Ivanov-Haskel vocabulary test, showed that Danny's (receptive and productive) vocabulary is better than that of 99.75% of the population, which explains that conversations with Danny are different. We have a standing 9:02 AM (sharp) daily phone call to discuss how everything is. This is the dialogue of this morning:

Me: Yo, Danny, what up, how you been, how was last night?

Danny: Good morning to you, my friend. I hope it is a grandiose onset of a new day. I am most grateful for your kind inquiry, and feel I ought to narrate to you of proceedings taking place whilst me visiting the Starbucks establishment at King and Bay yesterday in the mid-afternoon.

Me: Yo, Danny, but you don't drink coffee. I do hope you had a pleasant experience there, anyways.

Danny: If I were to report truthfully, I would have to say that the visitation was the opposite of enjoyable, and I do not foresee future occasions where my shadow darkens their doorstep at King and Bay, or other, sundry, locations.

Me: Yo, Danny, what happened, pray tell?

Danny: I most politely greeted and approached the server, who carries the ludicrous and ridiculous title of "barista", and requested a fill of my water bottle, and, if not too much trouble, the addition of four ice cubes therein. The cog, upon questioning me about having already made a purchase and my replying in the negative, informed me that "unfortunately," the company policy has been altered in a way that obliges him to deny my petition. 

Me: Yo, Danny, that is indeed unfortunate. How did you respond?

Danny: I felt an intense hot rage racing through my veins and, with great force and righteous anger and indignation flung the water bottle at this character, not meaning to harm them as a person but to protest the cupidity and covetousness of the corporation they serve and represent vis-à-vis us, the collective clientele. Regretably, my demonstration of disapproval was misconstrued and, subsequently, authorities whose obligation (among others) is to maintain law and order in the land were summoned to conduct an interview with the purpose and objective to establish facts. 

Me: Yo, Danny, they called the police on you, yeah?

Danny: In the light of the fact that my aim and accuracy did not match the level of force I used to propel the projectile, and as such, it did not appear to have made contact with the target, taking into consideration that I presented my case with utmost skill and made a solemn pledge not to return to the location, the two constables demanded from me an expression of regret which I reluctantly ascended to, upon which they assured me that no charges will be fortcoming, escorted me off premises and wished me a pleasant rest of the day. 

Me: Yo, Danny, you got barred from Starbucks, yeah?

Danny: It does appear to be so, not to put too fine a point on it, but on the positive side, I received many complimentary mentions regarding my hair.

Me: Yo, Danny, you always do.

In Which Some Stuff Makes Sense (and then Some Doesn't)

Pat Coloman Barber has exceptionally beautiful legs and feet. That much is obvious. What is not immediately apparent is Pat's bizarre conversation.

The following dialogue is from when we went for coffee.

- How you doin', Pat?

- Slingshot blue for medium taste without Harem coupling bling

- You don't say?

- Belfast orange burning flat calapasnium random fresh organ failure miso soup

- I am not sure I know exactly what you mean

- Gilded cream Tripanosoma furious bicycle prime-video adverbial descending park

- You may have a point there, Pat

- Rings with things, kings springs in slings

So now that we were entering the versification stage, I knew that we were coming up to the surface.

- Fair is foul, and foul is fair; Hover through fog and filthy air.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

- Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 1, you start making sense, Pat.

- I always made sense

- So what do you want, now?

- What I want today is what I had tomorrow

I smiled and said

- Gilgamesh blend standard poodle mix

Pat smiled and said

- Mick, you are so full of shit

ABC Discovers Useless Aptitude and Talent

Andrew Bysshe Cole (known to all as ABC) sat at the boardroom table with the rest of the council. He was supremely bored.
Michael Shelley (known to all as Shelly), a stickler for detail and process, was going line-by-line, item-by-item through the yearly report. He was making sure that the "approved by the board" stamp meant what it said.
Andrew was very familiar with the document. His team wrote it, and he edited it, so he just sat there playing with his pen. It was beautiful, 14 karat gold, had come with a free custom inscription (made it Andrew B. Cole), a lifetime warranty, and complimentary refills for as long as you own it. These days, he mostly typed or tapped; so he didn't use the pen so much, but he always carried it

Out of boredom, Andrew started sketching Shelly on his legal pad. He was struck by how realistic his drawing looked after just a few strokes. He added some shading and suddenly stared at a perfect portrait. Wow! As Shelly wrapped up "Planned v. Actual" and started "Forward Looking and Profit Projection", Andrew tried another drawing. He picked Appolonia Curtiz (known to all as Poppy), sitting at the front. He was amazed at how quickly and easily he captured not only a good likeness but also the VP for corporate HR's shifty-eyed expression and menacing look.

He realized that he had a talent hidden from him for all these years. He worked hard to get into Uni, graduated well, got a job, worked harder, and got ahead in the company. He was making 350k a year plus bonuses of twice or three times that much. His condo was paid off, and he had money in the bank. Andrew was very satisfied with his life. At family gatherings, he was the center of attention, admiration and envy

His cousin Gwen Cole (known to all as Gecko) was a talented painter. She worked hard, graduated, tops, was well regarded by critics and fellow artists, had shows and exhibitions, and was represented by a good gallery, but sold few pieces. Gwen was always broke and relied on teaching art classes and on her partner for rent and expenses. Andrew had a couple of her paintings, which he really liked, Gwen thought them as pitty purchases.

Andrew was suddenly horrified by the realisation that his life would have been so much different had he discovered and pursued his artistic talent. He quickly tore up the two drawings.

Shelly stopped reading and asked, "ABC, alright?"

Andrew smiled, nodded, "All cool, Shelly, no worries," and he put away the pen.

Aoife Hits Back and Something Bad Happens to Simon

Simon Palm was tall, athletic, with dark brown wavy hair and light brown eyes, a gorgeous young man by any measure. He often boasted that he could get "any chick anytime" he wanted and that "nothing bad could happen to him". Simon was on the track team, running the 800m, and captained the college Lacrosse team.

Aoife O'Graidy, Simon's girlfriend, was the typical Irish beauty. Slender and delicate, she had auburn hair and emerald green eyes to go with her glowing milk-white complexion. She moved with the easy grace of a fairy gliding over the waters. Wherever the pair went, they became the center of attention and attracted (envious) admiration.

Luca Brazzi* was Simon's best friend; he called him Brother Luke. He was big, frightfully muscular, and exuded physical strength. Luca was an assistant captain of the wrestling team. He had numerous relationships with girls from the campus that rarely lasted longer than a few months. His breakups were friendly and he sometimes returned to past girlfriends.

Simon cheated on Aoife constantly. It was casual hook-ups just for sex, limited to a few trysts. He had had waitresses, girls from his classes, and almost all of Aoife's girlfriends. Aoife was aware of his indiscretions, and he knew she knew, and she knew he knew she knew, but she was fine with it as he was always polite and thoughtful, bought her gifts, took her to parties, and on vacations.

This one evening, Simon dropped by Aoife's place and found her naked in bed and Luca in the shower. He went white and then red in the face, and couldn't speak for a moment, babbling, "You horrible, horrible whore, how could you do this to me?" Aoife pulled up the sheet to her neck and replied, "You cheated many times", to which he shouted, "But you fucked Brother Luke," and stormed out. Simon, in fury, drove to the Liquor store, bought a quart of Bourbon, and stopped in the parking lot behind the stadium. He sat wailing and drinking, crying and slapping his head with his fists. After a while, very drunk, he started to drive home. The car hit a post exiting the parking lot, but Simon accelerated down the street. At 4th and Oak, in front of the Community Foundation Building, he missed the turn and drove head-on into the wall. When the police arrived, they pronounced him dead at the scene at nine-oh-two PM.

I guess something bad can happen to anyone.

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* sometimes spelt Brasi