Chervid Jamson or not Chervid Jamson?! - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

Unprepared, unassured but, somehow, undaunted, I’ve wandered into a whirlwind wonder of wild, wooly words, folks. I’m Chervid Jamson, pinch-hitting for my perplexed, possibly fictitious cousin, Dervid Hamson, who, in turn, was subbing for the mysteriously MIA maestro of mayhem and mischief, Scott Stephenson and his gonzo gang of “Whoomp (There It Is)” party-people pranksters. Yes, Scott and his crew of cheeky chums, those merry miscreants with a knack for nonsensical novelty, have been causing chaos from the cozy confines of their basement bunker while the rest of us are left scratching our heads.

 

You see, I’m not the regular rabble-rouser of The Chaff. Frankly, this whole affair feels as flimsy as a feather in a fox’s den. Is this a column about jazz music? I don’t know! Am I supposed to summon the spirits of scat and swing? Shall I wail whimsical riffs on the saxophone of syntax? Perhaps, but my skills in such sonic sorcery are severely lacking.

 

Let’s untangle this twisted tale together, shall we? Dervid, dear cousin Dervid, gallantly agreed to ghostwrite for the regular renegades of The Chaff. Alas, the true truth, the hidden hoax, is that those so-called vacationers were merely lurking in the labyrinthine lair of the basement, biding their time, brewing up who-knows-what. Crafty critters, those Chaff chaps, chuckling away while Dervid’s very existence teetered on the precipice of profound panic.

 

Yes, Dervid had an existential crisis, a meltdown of metaphysical magnitude. “Am I real?” he queried, quaking in his quizzical boots. The Chaff crew, mischievously muddling through mayhem, claimed he was but a figment, a phantom, a fabrication! And so, here I am, cousin Chervid Jamson, stepping into the breach, bewildered and befuddled but brimming with bravado.
So, what do I do now? Do I dip into the diatribes of daily drama? Do I mock the mundane or celebrate the silly? Here’s a haphazard homage to humour and an ode to the odd.

 

The Chaff may be a conundrum wrapped in a riddle, but with a sprinkle of sparkle and a dash of dazzle, we’ll navigate these nebulous narratives.

 

Let me give you a glimpse into my own swirling vortex of personal chaos. My marriage, oh dear, my marriage, is teetering on the brink of disaster. It’s like trying to balance a teeter-totter on a tightrope while juggling torches, and the tightrope is made of tacos. Ttump!

 

My spouse and I, we seem to have drifted into different orbits, like celestial bodies in a cosmic dance gone awry. We’ve tried everything: couples’ therapy, romantic getaways and even synchronized yoga, but nothing seems to anchor us in this chaotic cosmos.

 

And as if the turbulence in our relationship weren’t enough, there’s the absolute pandemonium at home with our four children. Oh, those wicked little weasels! They are a tempest of trouble, a fierce, flailing foursome of failures, with an extra dose of torment thrown in. It’s as if they’ve taken a masterclass in mayhem and emerged as experts in havoc.

 

The eldest, Tetris, is a whirlwind of chaos in a tiny suit. He’s got the sickly energy of a thousand caffeinated coughers and the cunning of a phlegmy fox in a horrible, gross henhouse. The messes he creates are pretty messed-up, and we can barely keep up with the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake.

 

Then there’s Salami, the upper-middle child, who combines a fiery temper with a talent for turning any situation into a disaster. Her room looks like a tornado hit a crap factory.

 

Next up is big, little, beefy Billy, the portly, pint-sized dynamo has a penchant for causing pa-pa-pa-problems. He’s a disappearing act artist, vanishing into unfathomable spaces and emerging with a grin and a live skunk in tow. He’s mastered the art of dangerous evasion to such a degree that finding him during hide-and-seek feels like trying to locate a piece of hay in a needlestack.

 

And finally, there’s the newest addition, baby Bort, who has redefined the concept of sleepless nights and incessant noise. He seems to have an internal alarm clock set to “cry all night” and “make as much noise as possible.” His ability to turn even the smallest issues into monumental crises is truly a feat of extraordinary annoyance.

 

So, here I am, juggling a faltering marriage, four wild little weasels, and a column that I barely understand. It’s a life of relentless chaos and unending frustration. But, as they say, when life gives you lemons, you make a zesty lemonade, or in my case, a zesty lemon Chaff.

 

If nothing else, at least my awful personal life gives me something to write about. Here’s to making the best of a maddening situation and finding humour in the madness.

 

Truthfully yours,
Chervid Jamson