#1113 Chuckin’

So in the course of a recent commentary I mentioned the word “chuckhole.” I had a friend ask me what it meant. Why, pothole, I answered. And it occurred to me that it’s one of those regional words. Like tullies and dingleberry. They either mean nothing at all or something entirely different in different places.
But, you know, it makes you wonder. Who is Chuck and why did they name a hole after him? Was he some forgotten, except in infamy, civil engineer who always cut corners? Would the roads he built always develop potholes, which soon bore his dastardly name?
Or possibly it was a woodchuck thing. When they aren’t chucking wood and making people wonder how much and if they could, they’re gnawing holes in the roadway.
Which reminds me, I need to go another way. Which way are you headed Funny Guy? Into this segue.
Why is it you notice chuckholes most of all when you’re already in frustrating, emotion-roiling, rush hour traffic? And why do we still call it rush “hour”, when the radio traffic reports start at 4 o’clock and end at 6:30? In my book that’s rush 2 and a half hours. It ain’t no hour.
Likewise the bars that say happy hour is from 2 to 7 pm. Even a drunk could figure out that it’s five hours from 2 to 7pm. So it’s Happy Five Hours. It’s not Happy Hour.
When people tell me they are going to do something in a second or a minute I expect they won’t take five of either. And if someone tells me he’s going to be here in a day, I sure as heck don’t expect to not see him ‘til the end of the week.
So let’s not play fast and furious with the concept of an hour. Time flies fast enough when you’re older, let’s not meld one hour into five.
Not least because that’s a lot of drinking. And if I drink that much I’m gonna encounter that Chuck guy in a different way.
But this time before I hit the road he’ll be getting rid of my cookies.
America, ya gotta love it.