Ветеран Второй мировой войны и беженец из СССР вспоминает юмористические истории своей жизни в Канаде

Funny Side Up: My father, the unwitting wit Article content My father George was a Russian war veteran who came to Canada as a landed refugee. (How else can you come but by landing?) He was a funny guy, not always intentionally; it started with his wobbly grasp of the English language: (Immigration) agent: Do you speak English? Recommended Videos George: Yes. Agent: Well, how are you? George: George. Agent (smiling): How do you do, George? George: Yes. At his medical exam, my father threw the doctor for a loop: George: Doctor, I have an “unusual pen.” Doctor: Pen? George: Yes. Doctor: I don’t understand. George: Pen. Pen. I have an “unusual pen.” Doctor: (Racking his brain. Finally.) Oh! You have a pain. George: George. As his English gradually improved through his colourful environment as a blue-collar construction worker, he could qualify his health albeit sowing confusion: Doctor: How do you feel? George: 60/40. Doctor: Is the 60 good or bad? George: 50/50. Having experienced the real world as both a survivor of the USSR’s communism and as a POW of the Nazis, he took no prisoners so to speak. If he agreed with you, he would say (still in bad English): “I like what you think. You think like me.” If he disagreed with you, his reply was more economical: “Bullshit!” His template for global conflict (voiced back in the 1960’s) still holds up remarkably well today. The process of world wars: 1. USA is hated by Europe. 2. European psycho decides to invade a neighbouring country. 3. Takes over Europe. 4. Europe begs USA to save them. 5. USA saves them. 6. USA is hated by Europe. 7. Wait a few generations or so and repeat the above. My father never understood the point of football: “They line up. The guy puts his hand up the guy’s ass to get the ball. They pile up on top of each other and start all over again.” The only thing he liked about football was a part of the halftime show where majorettes in short skirts would march around the field and as they marched off screen, he would lean into the TV to try and see inside the frame after they are off screen. (He didn’t exactly understand the concept of video screens.) A man of joyous contradictions, he would literally boot a construction associate out with one heel on the gas pedal and one on the guy’s ass out of his moving car if the latter farted but freely demonstrate match in hand at home to his family the flamethrower flammability of a fart. (We didn’t have a lot of money, so entertainment was limited.) On the topic of fundaments, he also exhibited wartime-like bravery by treating his hemorrhoids with men’s cologne. (You don’t want to try that, trust me.) Sometimes his random philosophies were on the east side of abstraction: “Never pull nose hairs – out of someone else’s nose.” Sometimes’ they were blunt: “Don’t trust lawyers.” If you voiced socialist views, you were labelled “pink.” He didn’t understand why people laughed at Archie Bunker’s opinion of communism. Bunker’s comments made perfect sense to George. Above all, my father was a man of unshakeable integrity: He loved and protected his family. He loved Canada for the opportunities it gave him to prosper. He never tried to take advantage of our culture. He added to it. He was a man’s man but a feminist ahead of his time who said, “A man who does not help his wife in the kitchen is not a man.” So, my father is the root of my love of humour, short of lighting my own farts. Have another day.