The Duffer

by Ian Robinson        June 2002

DUFFER ……..mother of the year?

By Ian Robinson  

      In the category of Worst Mother Ever....we have Mirelle Breitwiser. She's to mothers what Hitler was to race relations. What Jean Chretien is to honesty in government. What Joe Clark is to physical fitness. What the Calgary Flames are to NHL hockey.

      Mirelle Breitwiser. Worst mother ever.

      I know what you're thinking. You're thinking nuh-uh. No way. I KNOW the Worst Mother Ever. She's the one who brought ME into the world, is what you're thinking.

      Brought you into the world in a manner that still kind of creeps you out if you allow yourself to think about it, but you don't let yourself think about it, do you? And you pretty much manage to not EVER think about how you were conceived and born, until some jackass reminds you of it, and then you get the total body goosebumply creepies. And I, personally, am proud to be that jackass. You write stuff, you gotta try to reach out and touch somebody. If I can make you laugh or cry, great. But if I can't inspire one of the higher emotions, I'll go for the total body goonout. I'm not proud.

      Anyway, the reason you figure you have the Worst Mother Ever is pretty simple. Cause after se conceived, bore and (speaking of being creeped out) suckled you at her bosom, after she raised you up to be the man you are today, what did she go and do? Huh? What did that evil witch go and do? What single thing did she do that totally negates any and all good things she ever did?

     Sure, she may have brought you into the world in pain and blood and screaming agony. But she gets no slack for that. Because later on ... she threw out you hockey cards. She threw out your comic book collection.

     Ask any guy on the plant --- except the ones who grew up to choreograph dance routines and fluff women's hair for a living ---and he's morally certain that, before their evil mommies held a Satanically - inspired garage sale, they had complete collections of sports cards and comic books. Guys who grew up to choreograph dance routines and fluff women's hair for a living, they didn't collect comic books and sports cards. They had dolls. And they hung onto them. And have sold their 1962 vintage Barbie, still in the original box with polyurethane handbag, on e-Bay, for enough money to buy a Mercedes coupe. But that way lies too much bitterness to handle. Onwards.

     One guy I work with, named Marvin, swears to God he had Issue 1, Vol. 1 of Wolverine. Some vintage Spidey . All worth a minimum grand apiece today, because he wasn't the kind of kid who rolled his comics up and stuck them in his hip pocket and then fell into the creek with it. He was the kind of kid who put them in plastic bags and kept them in back of his closet.

      But does he have' em? Nope.

      Cause momma got a bee in her bonnet about comics and how they would prevent her beloved Marvin from going on to have a useful life. She thought if she dumped his comics, he'd get his head out of the clouds, and get a degree in physics or business or something, win the Nobel prize, get to marry movie starlets and sit around the pool all day with midgets in velvet outfits bringing him tequila drinks, while he counts his money which he keeps in wheelbarrows cause there's so much of it.

     I'm pretty sure that, in that fantasy, momma thought that if sonny Marvin did so well, he'd buy her a mansion and introduce her to wonderful and interesting people, and she'd join a spa, lose the weight, meet Tom Jones at one of Marvin's parties and get to dump Marvin's dad and shack up with old vintage swivel-hips Tom himself.

     Of course, momma was wrong and if Marvin could sell that vintage Spidey and the first-ever comic featuring Wolverine, he could pay off his freaking VISA bill, which is nailing him for an interest rate only slightly better than you can negotiate in a pool hall from a guy with a bent nose named Vinnie the Nutcracker Baladucci. (And they don't call him the Nutcracker cause he loves the ballet, if you know what I mean).

     Suffice to say, getting rid of those comics did not vault Marvin to fame and fortune. He works with the likes of me, for crying out loud.

      Basically, that's about one step up from collecting bottles and cans for a living, and hanging around public washrooms begging people not to throw  their cigarette butts into the urinals because it makes them taste funny after you get them dried out.

      Every guy I know believes in his heart of hearts that he had the entire 1966 NHL hockey card collection. That he owned the rookie cards of Wayne Gretzky, Gordie Howe and Bobby Orr. That, if he's one of those pencil necks who loves baseball, that he actually inherited a Honus Wagner card ( I think there's what? Two or three of those extant?) from his great-granddad, but that mom threw out the cigar box they were in.

      This is all a load of horse hooey, of course. Because the same guys who remember owing complete 1966 NHL hockey card collections, also remember that they dated the head cheerleader and that after she slept with him, she spent the rest of her life going from man to man to man, because nobody could measure up to his performance. They remember that they were starting quarterback for three seasons on their high school ball team.

      They remember losing their virginity at 13. And they're right. If you substitute the word " ignored" for "slept with" and " equipment manager" for "starting quarterback", and "22" for "13" memories are perfect.

      But you can't convince a guy of any of that. So most guys wander around sure that their moms ruined their lives. Cause guys like to collect stuff. Not necessarily to profit from it. Just to have it.

      Which brings us to a guy called Stephane Breitwieser. Old Stephane is a waiter who likes art. He and his girlfriend used to go into museums in Europe and lift paintings off the wall, cut them out of their frames, and walk out of the building. Apparently, this isn't as hard to get away with as you'd think because they did this from 1995 until this year, without getting caught. It was sort of their hobby. And they kept most of their crap in Stephane's mom's house.

      They went to lots of museums. For eight years. They stole a lot of stuff. You know, even if you steal only one incredibly expensive piece of art per month, it adds up. That's almost a hundred art objects. And that's only if they were so lazy they did it once a month.

      Then poor old Stephane got busted stealing his old bugle. And his girlfriend tells his mom. And Mirelle, his mom, panics. Thinks: What if they search my house? So she starts chopping up wooden paintings with an axe. She tears up canvas paintings and feeds them through her garbage disposal and sends them into the sewers. And then she drives a hundred miles or so, and throws about a hundred more objects, like silver plates and medieval weapons and vases and stuff, into a river. 

     This is a little more serious than my buddy Marvin's mom throwing out his Wolverine comics.

     Old Mirelle, who at the age of 53 should be expected to know better, is estimated to have destroyed $2 billion worth of stolen art.

      Let me repeat. $2 BILLION. With a B.

     I think we can forget about Stephane getting to cut a deal with the prosecutors, that could, say involve returning all he stole in exchange for leniency. Cause mom shredded it. And I think we can forget about Marvin, once he hears about this, ever whining about that Wolverine comic again.

      And Mirelle? I think you can forget about getting a Mother's Day card this year.

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