Rhiannon Chronicles 2011 [November 17-20]


Note:  Alan = my crusty old Dad; Audrey (or Mémé) = my crusty old Dad’s wife

*

17 November 2011 – 10:35 PM – Arriving at my crusty old Dad’s place in Toronto where Rhiannon is waiting

Me [slamming the front door closed hard behind me]: Whew! Made it! It’s simply crawling with Torontonians out there!!! Ewwwww!!!

My Crusty Old Dad [to Audrey, disdainfully]: It seems he wasn’t even bothered to wash his face this time around.

Audrey [snickering]: I think, Alan, Andrew’s growing a moustache?

My Crusty Old Dad [eyes widening and taking a closer look]: Dear Lord – he’s even a complete failure at facial hair!

Me [aloofly]: I’m going to ignore that as you can just refer to me as Mobro this weekend. I will answer to no other name.

Audrey [expression of understanding dawning on her face]: Ah! Movember!

My Crusty Old Dad [raising an eyebrow, dubious]: Movember?

Rhiannon [bursting into the room from downstairs]: Daddy! Daddy! I… Oh, my God! What have you done?!

Me [brightly]: It’s my totally cool ’stache! Come here and give me a kiss!

Rhiannon [stopping in her tracks]: No way!!! You look really creepy.

Audrey: It’s just for November, Rhiannon. Your father’s growing a moustache for the ‘Movember’ movement.

Me: So you can also just refer to me as Mobro this weekend. I will answer to no other name.

Rhiannon: Movember?

Audrey: It’s to raise funds and awareness for prostate cancer research.

Rhiannon: Prostate?

Audrey: Your Dad can explain. No wait! Let me –

Me [interjecting]: Allow me, Audrey. The prostate-

My Crusty Old Dad [interjecting]: Oh no, I’m going to blame you for this, Audrey…

Me [indignantly]: Ahem, as I was saying, Rhiannon – the prostate is a compound tubuloalveolar exocrine gland of the male reproductive system.

Audrey [aside to my Crusty Old Dad]: Is he actually going to give her a serious explanation?

Me: The function of the prostate is to secrete a slightly alkaline fluid, milky or white in appearance, that usually constitutes 20–30% of the volume of a man’s semen along with the spermatozoa and seminal vesicle fluid. Because they can perform spectacular money shots, young men with robust prostates are highly coveted and well paid in the porn industry. And irrespective of their looks, I might add. I know because –

Audrey: Oh, Jesus!

Me: That’s flattering, Audrey, but please don’t forget to refer to me as Mobro this weekend. I will answer to no other name.

Rhiannon [perplexed]: Mobro?!

My Crusty Old Dad [perplexed]: Money shot?!

Me: Yes, Rhiannon, I am not Daddy to you this weekend – I am Mobro. Now, when men get into their 40s, like me, and they go and get their annual medical, the doctor will put on a rubber glove, lube it up and give them a damn good fisting.

Rhiannon [to Audrey who has buried her head in her hands]: Fisting?

Me: Yes, Rhiannon, it’s a technical medical procedure to determine whether or not the prostate gland has become overly enlarged and, if it has, the doctor will run a test to see if it’s cancerous. The sad reality, today, is that if it’s a bad news verdict then the unfortunate man has only two options. First, he can get an operation to remove the cancerous section of the prostate. However, this will most often leave him impotent and utterly shunned by Red Tube’s facial delivery department. And the cancer typically returns anyway. Second, he can ignore it and die young (but at least happily in the arms of a gaggle of satisfied young women). So wearing this moustache, along with my fellow Mobros, is, in fact, a selfless act for the greater benefit of women and the global economy.

My Crusty Old Dad: That’s it – it’s only 10:30 but I’m going to bed.

Audrey: Me too. Jeesh!

Me [calling after them]: Hey, it’s true! I’ll have you know I’ve already raised 45 bucks!!!

Rhiannon: They’re going to bed earlier and earlier when you’re around, Daddy.

Me: Please refer to me as Mobro, Rhiannon.

Rhiannon: Say, when’s your next fisting appointment… Daddy?!

*

18 November 2011 – 3:00 PM – Guided tour at Black Creek Pioneer Village

Audrey [to me and Rhiannon rushing up to the church]: Ah, there you are at last. The tour’s about to start!

Rhiannon: Sorry, Daddy’s half in the bag.

My Crusty Old Dad [frowning deeply]: What?!

Rhiannon: There was beer tasting back down there at the brewery. They had opened a few bottles but it was only us so Daddy drank them all.

Me: Not quite, Rhiannon. I didn’t drink the brown ale. And how many times do I have to keep reminding you to refer to me as Mobro?

Rhiannon: Hee, hee! Yeah, Daddy said that, because there was no carbonation in the 1860s, the brown ale looked like a urine sample from you, Granddad!

My Crusty Old Dad [menacingly]: He did, did he?

Tour Guide: Alright! Now that we’re all here, let’s start our tour at the town’s church! Please step inside with me.

Rhiannon and I whispering in the back of the church while the Tour Guide gives her presentation…

Rhiannon: This is boring.

Me: No kidding. I told you that you should have had a few beers with me to prepare for this.

Rhiannon: I’m only 10 years old!

Me: So what? It’s the 1860s, remember? And back then a pioneer kid your age would drink plenty of beer before heading out into the fields to lose a body part in some horrific piece of farm machinery. Don’t forget, sweetheart, beer is the simplest and easiest way to alleviate pain and boredom. And today they were giving it away for free!

Rhiannon: Why are they called pioneers, anyway?

Me: It’s a little known secret that the pioneers invented the iPhone 150 years before Steve Jobs and his mob. They just preferred to live a life of lonely hardship thousands of miles away from home.

Rhiannon: Why?

Me: They feared that if people found out they had access to the Internet, email, phone, SMS, Angry Birds, etc., their lives would appear too comfortable and the brewery would be shut down.

Rhiannon: So?

Me: So then they’d have to come to this God-forsaken church sober.

Tour Guide [pointing at me]: Sir?! Um – sir!

Me [pointing at myself]: Who? Me?

Tour Guide: Yes, I see you pointing out the doors at the entrances to the pews. Maybe you could explain for all of us why they had them back in those days.

Me: Oh yes, of course. I was just explaining to my daughter that these doors were locked to prevent the men folk from sneaking out to the brothel midway through the sermons.

Tour Guide [spluttering]: I… well… Sir… I…

Me [holding up my hand]: Please, babe, no need to keep calling me ‘Sir’. Just refer to me as Mobro. I am currently answering to no other name.

Rhiannon: Where did Granddad and Mémé go?

*

20 November 2011 – 4:10 PM – Saying goodbye at Eglinton Station

Rhiannon: Did you have a good time at Edwards Gardens yesterday?

Me: Uh-huh.

Rhiannon: And was it fun playing cards and making ginger snaps today?

Me: Uh-huh.

Rhiannon: And has the swelling on your nose gone down after the Tour Guide beat you up on Friday?

Me: Uh-huh. I’m used to it from IPC.

Rhiannon: You didn’t forget any of your things? You have all your stuffies for the train?

Me: Uh-huh.

Rhiannon: So why such a long face?

Me: You know why.

Rhiannon: I’ll be in Montreal in just 4 weeks for Christmas!

Me: I know. I’ll still miss you. Bye Rhiannon.

Rhiannon [giving me a kiss and whispering in my ear]: Bye Mobro… Ha! I made you smile!

*

Note, please visit my Movember page to make a donation at http://ca.movember.com/mospace/2336938/

About Requiem for the Damned

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