Razor Here: Rantings of a Silly Old Man

By Ron Donaldson

At one time, Razor was a strapping, athletic, and active young man. Now, many years later, he has finally come to the realization that getting older really pisses him off. Now pear-shaped, slow, and forgetful, Razor is convinced he is not a pretty sight. Worse yet, Squatty Bodyhis lovely, strong-willed wifeis a real pain in his butt.

In his first collection of humorous anecdotes and satirical commentary, based on real-life situations and current issues, retired teacher and avid storyteller R. D. Donaldson shares a delightful compilation of musings both hilarious and contemplative that highlight the adventures of Razor and Squatty Bodytwo characters loosely based on Donaldson and his own wife. Razor was born on the golf course and will do anything to win his opponents quartersincluding verbally slashing the enemy. Squatty Body is a deficient chef who has burned boiling water, screwed up buttered toast, and killed the neighbors dog with her less-than-desirable cooking.

Is the whole world going crazy? After all is said and done, Razor may just prove to everyone that he is the only sane one left standing in the midst of a bunch of nuts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426953743

Ron Donaldson

R. D. Donaldson was born and raised in Yakima, Washington, where he still lives today. A retired teacher and an avid golfer, he became a passionate storyteller many years ago after being bedridden due to illness. He is married with two grown children, three adult stepchildren, and eight grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Birth of Razor

Razor here. Many folks have requested information about the birth of your old buddy. Razor was an invention of necessity. Yeah, seriously. Razor is a complex individual who came about as the result of a number of circumstances.

Razor has never chopped down his dad’s cherry tree—even if I had, I would have lied through my teeth. Cannot tell a lie?—sheesh. I wasn’t born in a log cabin in Illinois. I didn’t kill a bear when I was only three, but I ate a few worms and smashed a number of small, crawling creatures. And I surely didn’t compose my first symphony at age four—I admit that I did rip the head off my brother’s snare drum because he was driving me mad.

Razor was created from some quite traumatic circumstances. I missed a meal once and darn near croaked. I had a girlfriend who was a biter. Enough said. I grew up as the fattest kid in the class (possibly the world) and had to deal with peer abuse. And worst of all, I was a teacher for thirty years. HOLY CRAP!!!

That’s really not fair because Razor had a good teaching experience. I was pretty good at it too. But late in my career it became obvious that the students were not the highest priority for administration. The bosses were more interested in public relations, passing tax levies, justifying their jobs through calling worthless meetings, and meddling into real teachers’ business. THEIR MAIN GOAL, HOWEVER, WAS TO SAVE THEIR OWN ASSES…

RAZOR, DON’T GO THERE!!!

OOPS! That’s Squatty Body, aka Wife. She’s a beauty. I love her, but she is a royal pain in the butt at times. Wife the case manager works at a local hospital for a herd of doctors called hospitalists. She lets them think that they are her bosses, if you get my drift.

Wife the chef has certain deficiencies in her cooking. She has burned boiling water, screwed up buttered toast and killed the neighbor’s dogs. Her recipes include Nike Pot Roast, a dish that has laces and the Nike swoosh; Arsenic Roadkill Stew; Carp on a Board; and the ever popular Crematorium Chicken in which a whole chicken, hide, guts, feathers and all, is cooked for four minutes at 2000* in a pot of motor oil. Delicious!

Before I was so rudely interrupted, Razor was discussing the state of education. It’s bigger than that, it’s the whole world. Wars, poverty, starvation, genocide, corruption. Think about it—our Secretary of the Treasury, who oversees the Internal Revenue Service, IS A TAX EVADER.

One can be either irate over this insanity, or one can laugh at it. Not Razor—I AM IRATE, AND I COPE WITH IT BY LAUGHING AT IT. Our government’s stimulus package is like a blind hunter blasting his shotgun into the air and hoping that some poor bird is stupid enough to run into the shot. This has been about as effective as a laxative for a chicken…

RAZOR----

Yes, dear. Anyway, ol’ Razor also went through a pretty traumatic situation in ’99. I had surgery that went awry. A doctor sewed up a nine cm. diverticulum— that’s a hole—in my esophagus. A week later the sutures broke loose, I got a massive infection throughout my upper body, and Razor was back in surgery for about five days. Another week went by and it was back to the operating room.

Razor spent a month at the University of Washington Medical Center. I was sent home with a feeding tube that pumped gallons of Slim Fast, or something like that, into my gut, two chest tubes to empty out my lungs, and a J-tube to dump anything that went down the old gullet. I went five months without eating—damn, that was a relief, considering Wife’s aforementioned cooking skills.

The recovery was very long and arduous, so Razor took up writing. I enjoyed poking fun at others, Wife and mostly myself. I am inept at most activities that require tools. I have an entire shoebox full of pliers, screwdrivers, and other implements, and all of them hate me. Rory the needle-nose pliers has unmercifully torn meat from my hands and fingers; Eddie the screwdriver has poked holes in the webbing between fingers; Roger the hammer has caused so many blood blisters that Razor could cater a vampire convention.

Razor also gets a bit nostalgic at times. I write about my hero, Dickie. He spent forty years taking care of his wife, Jan, who had M. S. When she died, he died. His heart just didn’t know it. Razor discusses the good old days. Maybe life is passing me by; we all have our time, and when our time is up, it may not be all that bad. And Razor looks at war from the viewpoint of a medic in Nam.

It is with great pride—well, not exactly pride—uh, some…not some. HMMM. It’s with… Oh, hell, forget it. Here is Rantings of a Silly Old Man.

CHAPTER 2

The Dentist

Razor here. Y’all know that Razor is a gentle soul who is patient and cool headed when in a bind. You don’t know that Razor is also a pretty tough customer. I have had to be as hard as nails to have survived the 38 esophagus surgeries, monthly food poisonings, and the variety of laboratory experiments, all caused by the cuisine created by the infamous (that’s what they call serial killers) Wife the Chef.

Some of you folks have certain aversions. You may find that creepy, crawly things tend to give you the heebie jeebies. You may have some rather uneasy feelings about heights. (Of course, Razor has very strong feelings about getting more than two rungs off the ground on the stepladder—dizziness, nausea, cold sweats…) Some of you may be a bit claustrophobic, and some of you may not particularly enjoy your doctors’ exams of certain areas of your body.

Razor recently went to my local neighborhood dentist for my ten-year check-up. Even though I am brave, virile and strong-willed, going to the dentist makes me the world’s biggest wuss. When I get in that chair I am a white-knuckler. My grip on the armrest would strangle a crocodile. My toes curl so tightly that I sometimes have to jump up and run around the room to get rid of my charley horses.

Now, before you get any nasty ideas about my mention of a ten-year check-up, you have to understand the circumstances. My roommate—er, spouse—is a nurse. I have her check my teeth occasionally, just to be sure they are all intact and not too loose. Although I do not particularly enjoy her banging each tooth with a ball peen hammer, she does an adequate job. But I figured I should probably have a few layers of tarter chipped away since it had been awhile between visits. Besides, I broke two more teeth on Wife the Chef’s 60 minute fried eggs.

I called to make an appointment with Gary, my dentist. I call him Gary, which is his middle name, because he grew up with some of the seedier members of my family. His professional name is James—that’s ridiculous as far as Razor is concerned, but I suppose James is a little more professional sounding than Gary. After all, wouldn’t you rather have a dentist named James than Gary? James sounds like royalty—Gary sounds like the bartender down at Oly’s Place. Anyway, I wanted to get in to see Gary A.S.A.P.

Hello, Dr. Brown’s, office, the pleasant voice at the other end of the phone said.

Hi there—this is Razor. Dr. Who?

Dr. Brown, she replied.

Who’s Dr. Brown? I’m trying to get hold of Gary, my dentist, I said, now losing my patience.

Who?

Now that rattled ol’ Razor’s cage a bit. Dr. Who indeed. Gary had been in that office since Moses was a pup. For crying-out-loud, this appeared headed for trouble.

Dr. James G. Denny, the dentist that I’ve been going to for thirty years.

Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, but you must have been out of town for a few years. Dr. Denny retired eight years ago and sold the practice to Dr. Brown.

OOOOOOO! A smart-aleck receptionist!! WHAT?! You’ve GOT to be pulling my leg. I was just in there a while back.

One moment please, she answered and put me on hold. I HATE BEING PUT ON HOLD!! I WOULD RATHER HAVE SURGERY WITHOUT ANAESTHESIA THAN BE PUT ON HOLD. And the sounds of Muzak drive me up the walls—The Walt Bates Orchestra plays Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band; The Eric Mayhew Quartet plays hip-hop from Brooklyn Heights; Die Meistersingers do George Jones’ one and only hit. There is nothing in this world any uglier than telephone music!

Mr. Razor, our records show that the last time you were in to see Doctor was l998.

Yeah. So, what’s your point?

Dr. Denny retired in 2001, and Dr. Brown bought his practice.

Well, slap my face and call me Leroy. How could Gary abandon me like that? My feelers were totally hurt. I didn’t know a thing about this Dr. Brown feller, and to say that I was apprehensive was a gross understatement. But I finally gave in to the temptation to hang up and asked for an appointment.

I see that our earliest opening is in August.

That’s two months away… I began to protest.

Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Razor, I meant August, 2009.

Folks, my calm, serene, mentally tough personality was now taking a severe beating. I was not a happy camper, but I only had two choices: take the appointment and try to get an appointment with another dentist, thereby canceling the first appointment, or take the appointment and keep it. SHEESH!

I have you down for August 9, 2009, the young lady at the other end of the phone said. And then I got to thinking---hmmm---August 9 is an infamous date in history. (We have already discussed infamous—it means bad.) 1) The bombing of Hiroshima; 2) the Charles Manson family’s slaughter of Sharon Tate and four other folks staying at Roman Polanski’s mansion; 3) the resignation of President Nixon; 4) and worst tragedy of all, THE DATE OF MY FIRST WEDDING! I know…I know…you must be thinking that Razor has a death wish. But desperation makes one do some rather rash things.

Well, as things worked out the dentist’s office called me the very next week. I had not had a thrilling day, having lost money on the golf course to Lizard, Guido, and Stinky.

Mr. Razor, I have a cancellation for tomorrow at 9:30, if you can make it.

Since I was in a foul mood anyway, I decided to pop off a bit.

What happened? Some old lady get run over while waiting for her appointment? I asked in the most sarcastic manner possible.

Why, uh, yes, she did. She was killed when an 18-wheeler ran nine wheels over her.?

Sometimes Razor has this tendency to insert his size fifteen shoe deeply into his mouth. When he says something truly embarrassing and quite stupid, it is called cranial-rectal inversion. This particular outburst fell into the latter category. But since the appointment would be of no use to that recently deceased old lady—unless she planned to be buried with a smile on her face—Razor jumped at the chance. Sometimes compassion must take a back seat to practicality.

I went to the dentist’s office a few minutes early because I had to update medical records and fill out new insurance forms. There are times when you talk to someone on the phone and wonder what h/s looks like. The young lady with the pleasant voice resembled said voice. She was really nice, very accommodating and made the paperwork a little less frustrating.

I am, however, fascinated by some of the questions asked on those medical forms:

Do you now, have you ever had or has any member of your family for the past eighteen generations been treated for insanity? MY WHOLE DAMN FAMILY…well, never mind.

When you were born did your daddy take one look at you and kick your momma square on the backside?

Do you wear false teeth? Now, that is the second most ridiculous question that could be asked. If I wore false teeth, why would I be in a dentist’s office having my teeth cleaned?

But the last question was the beauty—it was a question that makes one wonder if the planet is going to survive. It was such a stupid question that Razor does not even need to comment on it: Are you now or have you ever been dead?

I had just sat down to read in People Magazine about the shortest marriages in Hollywood history when a young lady called me into one of the execution chambers. At that point I was praying—a new endeavor for Razor—that nature would not call and that my severe acid reflux would wait until after I ate Wife’s dinner, part of which I had scraped off the road the previous day.

The dental assistant told me she was going to take a few x-rays. No problem—until she stuck what I assume was the entire x-ray machine into my mouth. I have a beautifully honed gag reflex—again, I must give credit to Wife the Chef for that one—so every time she stuck that dude in my chops, I wretched and almost lost my cookies. Fortunately, this process did not take long, and I was certainly relieved when it was over.

Dr. Brown then came into the chamber to check things out. He was a pleasant looking young man, about 15 or 16 years old, and seemed to know what he was doing. He looked through my teeth, noting that there were a few broken teeth that needed repair. One was not serious—he said it looked like I had bitten into something hard, and I told him that I chipped that tooth eating Wife’s spaghetti and baseballs. The other teeth were in critical condition and would definitely need crowns. I was just thrilled to hear that news.

After Dr. Brown left the room the dental hygienist took me to her torture room. I was used to Gary and his brother, John, working on my teeth. There were no latex gloves, surgical gowns, surgical aprons, masks, clear face shields, or surgical caps. She looked like she was going to remove my liver, not clean my teeth. The only way I knew she was a she was a pair of perfect big, blue eyes. No man could ever have eyes that perfect. And, of course, her voice was distinctly feminine.

She was very concerned about my comfort. The dental chair that I was sitting on was a one-cheeker. Razor could only get one butt cheek on this sucker. The other cheek had no support at all. When this sort of thing happens, the muscles take over. My glutinous maxidromis, or whatever butt muscles are called, tried to compensate for the narrow chair. That in itself was not particularly comfortable, especially when the muscle spasms began. My butt muscles shook like electrocuted Jello.

Then she tilted me back until my feet were at a 45* angle above my head. This relieved the pain in my butt, but all the blood rushed to my brain, and I wasn’t sure if I needed a seat belt or a transfusion. An aide turned on that God-awful light that was suppose to illuminate my chops but instead hit me square in the eyeballs. OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

The hygienist explained that she had a new machine that rotates a trillion times a second and removes all of the bad stuff immediately. Water has to be sprayed and suctioned off in this procedure because the machine gets so hot it can cause patients to spontaneously combust. Some people cannot tolerate the machine because of sensitive teeth. Razor didn’t plan to be cremated alive, but since I did not know AT THAT TIME that I had sensitive teeth, I thought this would be a wonderful idea.

Well, folks, I would rather spend another month tied to a bed at the horse-pistol than go through that again. At first it was fine. Then the aide squirted water and used suction on one of those teeth that had never been sensitive before.

YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOWWWWWW!

I have experienced the throbbing pain of a toothache, but this was the shooting pain of a raw nerve being attacked during its most vulnerable moment. The pain shot from tooth to other parts of the body in such a way that I nearly wet my pants. I was flirting with the exact four-letter words to use.

Not wanting to appear to be less of a man, especially with these two lovely ladies working in my mouth, I didn’t scream—well, there might have been a bit of a screech.

Oh, did that hurt? the hygienist asked in a really concerned manner.

Ygfoal, soa-3w t, ifpwkfd9I, I said. I mean, after all, I had seventeen instruments, four hands, and a whole pile of other things in my mouth. How was Razor supposed to say anything of significance?

Oh, good, I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Madame Sade said.

Folks, this went on for close to eleven hours. Every other tooth in my head was sensitive, but my ability to communicate was very limited because of the aforementioned hands and instruments.

And BLOOD!! I am now known in dental circles as a bleeder. These two wonderful young ladies tried their hardest to distract me, but whenever they would stick a piece of cotton in my mouth, it would come out dripping with blood. I hope you understood the term dripping, because even though I had a bib on, my shirt looked like I had been attacked by Machine Gun Kelly.

We finally got to the end of the cleaning process. My cell phone was pulsating and I knew it was Wife the Chef wondering where I was. But I couldn’t answer the phone because, by this time, I was hog-tied to the one-cheek chair.

I just need to check for bone loss, the hygienist said.