Boogers Are My Beat

by Dave Barry

  I think that, as parents, we should be concerned about the fact this type of individual is being employed in our schools. Maybe we should notify the police.

  No, wait.

  Get the (Birthday) Party Started

  TODAY'S PARENTING TOPIC IS: planning a birthday party for your two-year-old child.

  The first thing you must decide, when planning a birthday party for a two-year-old is: Should you invite the two-year-old? Because a child that age can put a real damper on a party. And probably your child doesn't really understand that he or she is turning two. One of the best things about small children is that they have no clue how time works. My two-year-old daughter believes that everything that has ever happened, including her birth and the formation of the solar system, occurred “yesterday.”

  I have a friend named Helene who made excellent use of this phenomenon when her children were small. If they wanted to do something that, for whatever reason, they couldn't do, Helene, rather than argue, would tell them they could do it on “Tuesday.” If her kids wanted to go swimming, and it was January, Helene would say: “We'll go swimming on Tuesday!” And they were satisfied, because they had a definite answer, even though it actually had no meaning. (Airport flight-information monitors are based on the same principle.)

  Unfortunately, as people grow older, they come to understand the concept of time, unless they are my wife. (Just kidding!) (Not really!) But most two-year-olds have no idea what “two years old” means, and would not notice if you held their birthday party after they went to bed.

  Another low-stress option is to wait until your child is invited to some OTHER two-year-old's birthday party, and when you get there, tell your child that the party is actually for him or her. (“Look, Jason! Your name is written right here on the cake! L-I-S-A!”)

  Of course the foregoing suggestions are intended in a purely humorous vein. (Not really!) Unless you are a Bad Parent, you must throw a birthday party for your two-year-old, and you must invite other two-year-olds, and THEY MUST HAVE FUN, even if they don't want to. This is why so many birthday parties feature rental clowns, even though few things are more terrifying to small children than a clown at close range. Stephen King based an entire novel on this concept.

  Another fun thing that two-year-olds do not enjoy is organized activities. Most two-year-olds are happiest when they are free to wander around in a non-organized way. So it can be quite a chore to herd a group of them together for organized birthday fun. But you must do this, or the terrorists will have won.

  When our daughter turned two, we had a big party at our house. That was over a month ago, and we're still finding cake frosting in unexpected places. (“So THAT'S why the VCR doesn't work!”) Our house was filled with two-year-olds, running, falling, yelling, crying, pooping, etc., each with at least one adult in pursuit, trying to organize the child. I honestly didn't know who most of these children were, or how they found out about the party. Maybe the Internet. All I know is, the organized activity we had for them was: art. Yes! We invited small children to our house and DELIBERATELY GAVE THEM PAINT.

  I believe the reason we did this is that our brains had been turned into coleslaw by the bouncy castle. A bouncy castle is a big rubber inflatable thing that you can rent for birthday parties, weddings, congressional hearings, etc. The idea is that children can climb inside and bounce around and have a lot of fun, unless they find the bouncy castle to be even more terrifying than the rental clown.

  My daughter LOVED the bouncy castle. That was the good news. The bad news was, the rental company set it up at 8 A.M., six hours before the party started. Once my daughter realized there was a bouncy castle in her yard, she had to be inside it, bouncing, at all times, and she felt very strongly that there had to be a parent in there bouncing with her. So by the time the guests started arriving, my wife and I had spent about three hours apiece bouncing our IQs down into the low teens, which is why we thought it would be fun to give art supplies to two-year-olds. I'm surprised we didn't let them drive the car.

  Of course, we also gave them cake, because this is mandatory at birthday parties, even though historically there is no known case of any two-year-old ever actually eating so much as a single molecule of birthday cake. In fact, as far as I can tell, two-year-olds never eat anything. I think they nourish themselves via some kind of photosynthesis-like process that involves the direct absorption of Play-Doh.

  In conclusion, holding a birthday party for two-year-olds is both fun and easy. All you have to do is follow a few simple steps! I will cover these on Tuesday.

  It's Oscar Time— Prepare the Blow Darts

  Of all the prestigious awards that the entertainment industry gives to itself in humble recognition of its own sheer fabulousness—the Emmys, the Grammys, the Tonys, the Golden Globes, the Wallys, the Silver Spheres, the Vinnys, the Cubic Zirconium Orbs of Distinction, the Sneezys, and the Award That They Always Give to Kelsey Grammer—there is none so prestigious as the Oscars.

  That's why an estimated 40 billion people will tune in this year to watch the Academy Awards show, which begins at 5 P.M. (Pacific) on March 24, with the climactic announcement of Best Picture scheduled to be announced at 8:30 P.M. (Pacific) on March 28.

  Yes, it will be ninety-nine hours of nonstop entertainment, “Hollywood-style,” broken down as follows:

  • Movie stars reading spontaneous banter from TelePrompTers: 6 hours, 37 minutes.

  • Shots of the always fascinating Jack Nicholson sitting in the audience: 4 hours, 19 minutes.

  • Jokes involving Enron: 1 hour.

  • Memorable, unscripted moments: 3 minutes.

  • People you never heard of thanking other people you never heard of: 87 hours.

  • Of course, this is the “best case” scenario; usually the show runs long. Nothing can be done about this. The producers have tried everything to pick up the pace, including, last year, sharpshooters. As soon as a winner's thank-you speech reached the two-minute mark, FWWWWT! A tranquilizer dart would lodge itself in his or her neck. But this did no good. The winner for Longest Short Foreign Film hung tough for more than 11 minutes, sustaining dart after dart until he looked like a tuxedo-wearing porcupine, but doggedly continuing to thank people, some apparently picked at random from a telephone directory, before staggering off the stage with enough sedative in his bloodstream to immobilize a water buffalo.

  That's the kind of adrenaline rush you get at the Academy Awards. I know because I was there once, in 1987, along with the movie critics, who are very bitter because they know, in their hearts, that their teeth will never look as nice as the teeth of the people they write about. The critics are also angry because, in their opinion, the Oscars always go to the wrong people. Here's how they explained it to me: Each year, the Academy gives the awards to people who really should have won LAST year. The reason they didn't win last year was that the Academy was giving the awards to people who should have won the year before THAT. This has been going on all the way back to the first Academy Awards, which apparently were handed out by total morons.

  Who deserves to win this year's awards? This is an especially difficult question this year, because there were so many fine performances and movies, and I have not seen any of them. My wife and I have a two-year-old daughter, and on those rare occasions when we have a babysitter, we use the time for activities we need to catch up on, such as brushing our teeth.

  So the only movie I've seen this past year is The Sound of Music, from 1965, on DVD. But I've seen it a LOT. It's my daughter's favorite movie. She thinks it's called “Boys and Girls,” as in, “Watch Boys and Girls? Watch Boys and Girls? Watch Boys and Girls?” etc. We watch it eight or more times per day.

  The Sound of Music is the heartwarming story, set in 1937, of the von Trapp family in Austria, where for some reason everybody speaks English with a British accent, except for the oldest von Trapp daughter, Liesl, who has a distinct American accent, possibly as a result of an accident that also caused her
to lose a vowel. There is trouble in the von Trapp family because (a) the children don't know any songs, and (b) World War II is about to break out. Meanwhile Julie Andrews is studying to be a nun, but is having second thoughts because when she asks the head nun for advice, the head nun starts shrieking about climbing mountains in a voice that could bore holes through steel.

  So Julie becomes the governess of the von Trapp children and wins them over by making clothes for them out of hideous draperies. Then she teaches them the song “Doe, a deer, a female deer” etc., which they sing, thanks to the DVD player's handy “repeat” button, over and over and over and over, until the Nazis flee, screaming, never to return. So it's a happy ending, and I hope we can say the same for this year's Academy Awards. Thanks for reading this. I also want to thank my agent, Al Hart, and FWWWWT . . .

  Supersize Your Fries with This Column?

  The Surgeon General has released yet another report warning Americans that we're fat.

  That's what your modern Surgeon General does: issue warnings. He sees danger lurking everywhere. Years ago, the Surgeon General was more laid-back; his staff often found him passed out under his desk at 2:30 in the afternoon, reeking of cigars and bourbon. He would go for years at a stretch without issuing a warning. Back then, Americans felt free to smoke, eat fatty foods, drink liquor, and drive cars without seat belts, often all at the same time. Granted, most of them died by age thirty-two. But they were carefree.

  Today, of course, we have vigilant health authorities notifying us hourly that pretty much everything we do is fatal. And so we have the Surgeon General coming out with yet another official report—titled “Americans: What a Bunch of Whales”—which contains these shocking statistics:

  • 61 percent of all adult Americans are overweight.

  • One of these Americans always sits next to me on the airplane.

  • This person uses 140 percent of the armrest.

  • Americans don't really understand percentages, either.

  What is causing these problems? For one thing, the Surgeon General notes, many schools no longer require students to take Physical Education. This is a crime. When I was a student, P.E. class was MANDATORY, with each class lasting 45 minutes, broken down as follows:

  • Changing into gym uniforms: 16 minutes.

  • Roll call, which always indicated perfect attendance because somebody shouted “Here!” in response to every name called, despite the fact that roughly 30 percent of the class was actually out behind the gym smoking cigarettes: 12 minutes.

  • “Jumping Jacks”: 2 minutes.

  • Taking showers, snapping each other with towels, changing back to civilian clothes, causing lifetime psychic damage to some unfortunate student by shoving him out into the hallway stark naked except for an athletic supporter on his head: 15 minutes.

  Yes, it was a demanding physical regimen, and we followed it TWICE A WEEK. Little wonder that we brought the Soviet Union to its knees. So I totally agree with the Surgeon General about bringing back mandatory P.E. And not just for students. Cabinet members should also be included.

  Where I do NOT agree with the Surgeon General is on his dietary recommendations. He's upset that Americans do not follow the Department of Agriculture's Food Guide Pyramid, which tells you in detail how many cups of whole grains, raw leafy vegetables, yogurt, etc. you're supposed to consume per day based on your age, weight, number of teeth, etc.

  Let me respond, on behalf of all Americans, by suggesting, in the politest way possible, that the Surgeon General should go sit on the Food Guide Pyramid. Because out here in the real world, we do not carry cups around with us, nor do we encounter “whole grains,” whatever THEY are. Here in the real world, we face dietary decisions such as: Do we want the Hungry Human Burger 'n' Bacon 'n' Cheese 'n' Egg 'n' Sausage 'n' Slab o' Lard Combo Deluxe with a large order of fries? Or with a REALLY large order of fries?

  Yes, real Americans need a more effective dietary aid than the Food Guide Pyramid. Here's my idea: We should use farmers. Lord knows we pay them enough. In the past five years, the Department of Agriculture paid 92 BILLION TAXPAYER-SUPPLIED DOLLARS in subsidies to farmers, including such hardscrabble sons of the soil as (I am not making this up) Scottie Pippen, who makes $18 million a year playing basketball, and who got $131,575 in farm subsidies; and Ted Turner, who is worth more than $6 billion, and who got $176,077 in subsidies.

  So here's my proposal: Any farmer who (a) receives taxpayer money and (b) is worth more than $1 million should be required to spend ten hours per week actively preventing taxpayers from eating so much. Picture the scene: You're in the convenience store. You grab a package of Hostess brand Ding Dongs. You're heading for the checkout counter, and . . . BAM, you're grabbed from behind by Ted Turner! So you turn around and whomp him on the head with a 16-ounce jar of Kraft brand jalapeño-flavored Cheez Whiz. As he goes down like a sack of whole grain, you grab a bottle of Yoo-hoo brand Yoo-hoo, pay the cashier, and lumber out of the store.

  That's how I'd handle this national weight problem. I have plenty of other ideas for improving our health, so if the Surgeon General is reading this: Sir, please feel free to get in touch. You can reach me under my desk.

  North Dakota Wants Its Place in the Sun

  North Dakota is talking about changing its name. I frankly didn't know you could do that. I thought states' names were decreed by the Bible or something. In fact, as a child I believed that when Columbus arrived in North America, the states' names were actually, physically, written on the continent, in gigantic letters, the way they are on maps. I still think this would be a good idea, because if an airplane's navigational system failed, the pilot could just look out the window and see exactly where the plane was. (“Okay, there's a huge ‘W' down there, so we're over Wyoming. Or Wisconsin.”)

  But apparently states can change their names, and some North Dakotans want to change “North Dakota.” Specifically, they don't like the word “North,” which connotes a certain northness. In the words of North Dakota's former governor, Ed Schafer: “People have such an instant thing about how North Dakota is cold and snowy and flat.”

  We should heed the words of the former governor, and not just because the letters in “Ed Schafer” can be rearranged to spell “Shed Farce.” The truth is that when we think about North Dakota, which is not often, we picture it as having the same year-round climate as Uranus.

  In contrast, SOUTH Dakota is universally believed to be a tropical paradise with palm trees swaying on surf-kissed beaches. Millions of tourists, lured by the word “South,” flock to South Dakota every winter, often wearing nothing but skimpy bathing suits. Within hours, most of them die and become covered with snow, not to be found until spring, when they cause a major headache for South Dakota's farmers by clogging up the cultivating machines. South Dakota put a giant fence around the whole state to keep these tourists out, and STILL they keep coming. That's how powerful a name can be.

  I'll give you another example. I live in Florida, where we have BIG cockroaches.

  Q. How big are they?

  A. They are so big that, when they back up, they are required by federal law to emit warning beeps.

  These cockroaches could harm Florida's image. But we Floridians solved that problem by giving them a new name, “palmetto bugs,” which makes them sound cute and harmless. So when a guest walks into a Florida kitchen and screams at the sight of an insect the size of Charles Barkley, we say: “Don't worry! It's just a palmetto bug!” And then we and our guest have a hearty laugh, because we know there's nothing to worry about, as long as we do not make any sudden moves toward the palmetto bug's sandwich.

  So changing names is a sound idea, an idea based on the scientific principle that underlies the field of marketing, which is: People are stupid. Marketing experts know that if you call something by a different name, people will believe it's a different thing. That's how “undertakers” became “funeral directors.” That's how “trailers” became “manufactured housi
ng.” That's how “We're putting you on hold for the next decade” became “Your call is important to us.”

  And that's why some North Dakotans want to give the state a new name, a name that will give the state a more positive, inviting, and forward-looking image. That name is: “Palmetto Bug.”

  No, seriously, they want to drop the “North” and call the state, simply, “Dakota.” I think this change is brilliant, and could also work for other states with image problems. New Jersey, for example, should call itself, simply, “New.”

  Be advised that “Dakota” is not the first shrewd marketing concept thought up by North Dakotans. Are you familiar with Grand Forks, North Dakota? No? It's located just west of East Grand Forks, Minnesota. According to a letter I received from a Grand Forks resident who asked to remain nameless (“I have to live here,” he wrote), these cities decided they needed to improve their image, and the result was—get ready—“The Grand Cities.”

  The Grand Cities, needless to say, have a website ( grandcities. net), where you can read sentences about The Grand Cities written in MarketingSpeak, which is sort of like English, except that it doesn't actually mean anything. Here's an actual quote: “It's the intersection of earth and sky. It's a glimpse of what lies ahead. It's hope, anticipation, and curiosity reaching out to you in mysterious ways. Timeless. Endless. Always enriching your soul. Here, where the earth meets the sky, the Grand Cities of Grand Forks, North Dakota, and East Grand Forks, Minnesota.”

  Doesn't that just make you want to cancel that trip to Paris or Rome and head for The Grand Cities? As a resident of Florida (“Where the earth meets the water and forms mud”) I am definitely planning to go to Dakota. I want to know what they're smoking up there.