Haemorrhoid, camp and Madantz

Suddenly, a boring domino game found its buzz. As usual, Gene Autry had a difficult task locating a fourth to partner the Beast. Eventually, he persuaded the Dunce to postpone his favourite Saturday afternoon pastime of 'walk street and kick stone' to join us. The problem was that the Beast, unable to discern or appreciate the more profound virtues of the Dunce's unique personality, wasn't a fan. The game's camaraderie had descended to the point of the Beast (for the umpteenth time) advising the Dunce through clenched teeth, "If yu dash weh one more game and seh, 'If a macca mek it jook yu,' I will strangle yu" (or words to that effect) when it was rescued by an unexpected appearance by Haemorrhoid.

Regular readers will remember Ernest H. 'Haemorrhoid' Flower, the articulate articled clerk whose hostility to effort (from whence he earned his nickname; constantly complaining about "piles and piles" of work on his desk) was equalled only by his ability to tell shaggy dog tales. No domino game could descend into apathy while Haemorrhoid kibitzed. Haemorrhoid's domino playing was worse than Dwight Nelson's memory, and he sported the skin of a rhino reacting to hints to leave as would Muammar Gaddafi. But, as a storyteller, he was unequalled. If Buju Banton had Haemorrhoid's talent, he'd be a free man. So, Haemorrhoid was allowed to kibitz in exchange for one of his famous stories.

Favoured son

It wasn't long before Haemorrhoid was off and running. He spoke of a hard-working, successful businessman who started with limited education and no funds but whose greatest ambition was to ensure his only begotten son received the best tertiary education. Through the businessman's toil, sacrifice, and commitment, the educational opportunities that eluded the father were presented to the son who acquired bachelor's, master's and PhD degrees from the most prestigious universities. Eventually, the boy returned home, and the father, overcome by an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and with retirement approaching, contemplated, with deep satisfaction, the prospect of handing over his business to his well-educated son. But, first, he considered he should re-establish the father-son bond after years apart and assess his son's skills.

Wanting time together without distraction, he took his son camping. They worked together to set up a fully equipped tent, and after a tiring but congenial first day in the wilds, they lay down together in the tent to spend the night. After amiable late-night exchanges, they drifted off to sleep. Around 3 a.m., they were simultaneously awakened, and the father immediately seized the opportunity to give his college-educated son his first test. "Look up into the sky," he told his son. "Do you see those stars?"

"Yes, Father," replied the dutiful son.

"What do they mean to you?" the father asked.

Same scene, different views

The son thought deeply about this obviously philosophical query. "Well, Dad," he replied, "I've considered your question from geographical, astronomical, and metaphysical perspectives. The answer is complicated, but simple. It begins with a realisation that there are thousands of little planets in the galaxy, of which Earth is but one. When one adds statistical principles to this empirical evidence, it's clearly unlikely that Earth is the only planet inhabited by intelligent life. The precision and organisation of the stars strongly suggest that if we study these phenomena in depth, we'll discover more forms to life than the physical form we recognise and understand. Eventually, we'll be able to isolate and identify these alternative life forms.

"The father looked at his son with an expression of deep sadness and disappointment. "My son," he said, "I've wasted my life's work on your so-called education. Any idiot would've been able to tell me that the sight of all those stars means that some miscreant has stolen our tent!"

A series of 'stars' have been shining before the Madantz Commission. Some constellations are permanent. We expect the commissioners will spend reams of paper (and millions of taxpayers' dollars) watching and listening to the stars to try to decide to whom to award an Oscar. It'll be up to us, the simple-minded public, to ask ourselves why we see stars. Where's the tent? What's it covering up now?

This column was inspired by and is dedicated to the great Keith Binns, one of Jamaica's finest raconteurs, who ignored his divine calling as a stand-up comic to become a sublime insurance salesman. Keep on telling those stories, Binnsy. Students like Haemorrhoid can but sit at the feet of Gamaliel.

Peace and love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.