#MajorsCorner #TheEscape #Woebegone #HumourCanadian

Big news. There was a break-out last week from the Tired Fawn, or, as we like to call it, the Last Roundup. This is where families commit their loved ones when they can no longer be bothered to look after dribbling relatives. Apparently there was a mutiny with more than a few escapees. The reason might have been the food, for I have a bit of insider gossip in that area. An old friend, Bob Woebegone of this parish, is an inmate of said place and he used to leave whispered reports on the club answering machine concerning the food.
“Monday is unspeakable, Tuesday is just appalling, Wednesday is something called Giblets Avec Surprise and then the week fades in a series of unfortunate porridges. Please get me out.”
Many of you will remember Bob and the TV commercials for his family company, Bob Woebegone’s Used Motors. For a time he was ubiquitous on the air with his famous slogan, “I can sell fudge to Fijians.” No one really knew what that phrase meant, but it had a nice ring to it and somehow it worked, as he did turn-away business for years. That is until a touring Fijian rugby team found his use of their country’s name as an aid to selling old cars unpalatable. Suddenly Bob had 15 furious 300-pound men tearing apart his showroom while he hid in the women’s WC with Betty from Parts.
Bob’s family had had enough and voted him out of the company, leaving him to sit around the club where, much against policy, he tried out new slogans. “I can sell borsht to Bulgarians” or “ant-eaters to Australians” could be heard sailing about the dining room, which finally led to a confrontation with our president, General Baron de Boeuf and the board of governors, because supposedly no business can be discussed within our confines.
Bob’s family sent some chaps with a net and just as he started to say, “Saabs to Swedes,” he was hauled from the club steps, with many of us looking away, thinking “There but for fortune go I.”
More info is leaking out about the runaways, as most were caught within the second fence, but we heard that Bob made it past that obstacle and was seen legging it for the highway dressed in a stolen red plumber’s uniform with the name “Mustapha” prominently displayed on its breast pocket.
The outraged plumber in question was found semi-naked and wrapped in duct tape. I gather the poor man is on the extreme end of hirsute and therefore faces a series of long baths in an effort to soak off the numerous tapes. There may be religious issues involved.
But I hope Bob makes it.
Update: Bob has been found! He was in the large bush below the Senior Reading Room. The One-Armed Colonel heard a whispered “otters to Ontarians” coming from the juniper and alerted us to a man below in a red jumpsuit with a tea towel covering his head. I and another pretended to stroll out the front door for a breath of fresh air before shooting down the street to the bush in question, and there was a trembling Bob.
“Do you have any chocolate?” he squealed. Mr. Cursive, our retired teacher and a diabetic, had his necessary box of Smarties on hand that Bob tore from his grip gratefully. We helped him through the basement door, past the busy kitchen and into the club wine cellar. When we were all finally sitting comfortably on cases of Malbec and merlot, we watched Bob open and quaff a half bottle of burgundy taken from the vintage section, before getting his breath.
“I must get away, chaps, before my family knows where I am,” he blathered. “Perhaps Mexico?” He looked hard at me, but I was not an expert in escapees and their needs. Besides my wife has always found him a trial, as it were. So no Mexico.
Now it is one thing to hide a chap in a wine cellar for a day, even two, but not, I am afraid, for three days. We knew that the sommelier would be around for his official weekly count in five days, but what about the everyday corkage involved in satiating a large membership such as the club’s?
I suggested we put Bob into the far rear of the cellar, hidden amongst cases of some bilge reserved for ceremonial and religious goings-on. He should have been safe there. I even gave him several of my self-published books, My Life Amongst Mems, Ps.1, 2 and 3, to keep him amused.
Would you believe it? He was bored and by the second day had found some of the dreaded screw-top wine called Oy. He began to sing, softly at first, but by the third day, frightened waiters began to report that they heard sea shanties coming from the basement.
For several days previously there had been a large man loitering outside the club in a raincoat with suspicious white trousers, and he heard the music also. He was, of course, one of the “associates” at the Tired Fawn, who alerted his superiors. They arrived in very short time with a large net.
Poor old Woebegone now sits forlornly back at the Tired Fawn in the so-called Unit, nibbling at whatever excrement they give him. Some mems, I am told, threw a bag of food over the west wall and were delighted to hear “… armchairs to Americans.”

Copyright Major’s Corner 2015

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