Like most families, I've been blessed with an assortment of colorful relatives.
This gives me plenty of fodder for blogging -- which is much, much cheaper than therapy.
I have two family stories to tell you about today.
One involves a murder, the other a Darwinian accident.
First, the murder.
My cousin Walt was married to a woman named Monica, who seemed to my tender young eyes to be not unlike a school marm. But you know what they say about school marms.
Monica and Walt had some marital issues -- as most people do -- and decided to separate. One day, Walt's sister Norma arrived at the farm to inform us that Monica had been murdered. Apparently, she had been strangled.
This was pretty big doin's for our family whose only scandal to date was that my Uncle Tom had a "housekeeper" named Vi.
Anyways, Monica was dispatched and a man was convicted of manslaughter. I thought, in my little pea brain, that he got off pretty easy considering strangulation and all.
Years later, when I worked at the St. Catharines Standard I spoke to Tom McCarthy, the creepy cop reporter who looked a lot like Burgess Meredith in his Twilight Zone days, about Monica's case. He started chuckling and told me the real story.
Apparently, Monica was doing the hibbity with this dude we'll call Robert --can't remember his real name -- and she took little Robert into her mouth, and she proceeded to choke on his semen or his dick.
Robert didn't notice and kept on coming until Monica stopped breathing and collapsed. Then Robert did what the notorious do in St. Catharines.
He took her into the basement and propped her up against the freezer.
Her death, according to Tom, was an accident. Robert's only crime beside having either cement for sperm or too big a dick was to leave her smelly corpse in the basement.
Did I tell you that Robert was the Dad of one of my public school classmates?
The next story involves my Uncle Ivan who married a woman named Esther who mysteriously disappeared before I came on the scene. Ivan refused to get a divorce and lived in the little house he had built for Esther. He owned that house for 30 years, but finally decided to sell.
Ivan located Esther somewhere in Northern Ontario and sent her half the money -- again thirty years later.
Meanwhile, a few days later, Esther was snowmobiling and got hit by a car.
Instead of calling the police, the man propped her up on the snowmobile and left her in the middle of the road where she was subsequently hit by a transport truck.
Uncle Ivan never did get his money back.
Talk about your bad luck.
Don't you love these trips down memory lane?
Are there lessons? If you're giving a man a blow job make sure you have a safety sign. If you're snowmobiling with a pile of cash, stay off the main roads. If you're separated for 30 years, chances are she's not coming back for the cash. Feel free to keep it.