Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits

by Dave Barry

ANSWER: No. Not here in America. Oh, sure, most of us have heard the story about an American who cooked her dog in a microwave oven, but this was not for the purpose of eating it. What happened (according to the story) was this American had one of those little rodent-size dogs whose main purpose in the Great Chain of Life is to pee on people’s ankles, and it got wet in the rain, so the American quite naturally did what any normal person would do if he or she had one lone kernel of candy corn for a brain, namely stick the dog in the microwave oven to dry out, but apparently the oven was on the wrong setting (it should have been set on “Dog”), so the dog ended up getting dried out to the point of Well Done. The story always stops right there, so we don’t know what happened next. We don’t know whether the spouse came home from a hard day at the office and went, “Mmmmmmm! Something smells deeeelicious! I’ll just look inside the microwave here and GAAAACCCCKKKK!!!!”

  Of course, this needless tragedy could easily have been prevented via legislation requiring that microwave ovens carry a stern federal message such as

  WARNING: THE SURGEON GENERAL HAS DETERMINED THAT YOU SHOULD NOT PUT A DOG IN THIS OVEN AND TURN IT ON.

  On the other hand, this could be one of those stories that everybody tells even though it’s not true, like the one about the teen-aged couple who is parking on a lonely country road and hears on the radio that a homicidal maniac who has a hook instead of a right hand has escaped from the mental institution, so the boy real quick starts the engine and drives right over Reggie Jackson, who was walking his Doberman because it was choking on an alligator from the New York City sewer system. This probably never happened. But it is a fact that my editor, Gene Weingarten, once ate a dog. This was at the 1964 World’s Fair in Flushing, New York (which incidentally is how alligators got into the sewers), and Gene was at the pavilion of some Third World nation and he ordered a dish with an unusual name, and when he asked the waiter (who spoke little English) what it was, the waiter, in Gene’s words, “made it clear by gestures and going ‘woof woof,’ that it was a dog.” Gene said it wasn’t bad. Not that this is any excuse. I want to stress that I personally have never eaten a dog, and I want to remind those of you who have already stopped reading this column to write violent letters to the editor that it was Gene Weingarten, c/o TroPic magazine, Miami Herald, Miami FL 33101, who ate the dog.

  But it is an interesting ethical question, why we get so upset about this. I mean, most of us don’t think twice about eating cows, which are genetically almost exactly the same as dogs in the sense of having four legs and being pretty stupid. Yet if somebody tried to dry a cow out in a microwave oven, we’d all laugh like the dickens—and it would get on “Celebrity Biceps and Boners.” So this is a real puzzle, all right, which is why I am very grateful to Diane Eicher, an alert reader who sent me an article from Nutrition Health Review headlined: “Usefulness Keeps Pets Out of Oven.” I am not making this article up. It concerns Marvin Harris, a University of Florida anthropologist who, according to the article, “studies and tries to make sense of human culture.” (Ha ha!)

  Harris is quoted in the article as saying that the reason we didn’t eat dogs, cats, and horses is—get ready—”These animals are just too darned useful for us to eat.”

  Now I don’t wish to be critical here, but a statement like that makes you wonder if Professor Harris has not accidentally been studying the culture on the planet Zoog, because the last word I would use to describe household pets here on Earth is “useful.” I have owned a number of household pets, mostly dogs, and the only useful thing I can recall any of them ever doing was the time Germaine tried to bite the Amway representative. Other than that it has been basically a long series of indelible rug stains. And I defy anybody to point to a single instance of, for example, a tropical fish doing anything useful, as in:

  ALERT FISH RESCUES WOMAN FROM TRASH COMPACTOR

  Yet we don’t eat the tropical fish, do we? No! Not unless we have a very good reason, such as we have been sitting in our doctors’ waiting room for the better part of the day without food or water. Then we might snack on a couple of guppies, but that is as far as it would go. And I don’t even want to talk about cats.

  Nevertheless Professor Harris feels pets have many useful functions:

  “Modern day household pets can’t match the entertainment value of lions attacking elephants or people in the Roman circus,” he said, “but cats chasing imaginary mice, or dogs retrieving bouncing balls are at least as amusing as the late night movie.”

  I think we can all agree that pets are not as entertaining as watching lions attack humans, but I have to wonder how many of you couples out there in our listening audience have ever said to each other: “The heck with Casablanca, let’s watch Beaner retrieve a bouncing ball.” So we indeed have a very complex ethical issue here, but unfortunately we no longer really care.

  “Adventure Dog”

  I have this idea for a new television series. It would be a realistic action show, patterned after the true-life experiences of my dog, Earnest. The name of the show would be “Adventure Dog.”

  The theme song would go: Adventure dog, Adventure doooooooggg, Kinda big, kinda strong, Stupid as a log.

  Each episode would be about an exciting true adventure that happened to Earnest. For example, here’s the script for an episode entitled: “Adventure Dog Wakes Up and Goes Outside”:

  It’s 6:17 A.M. Adventure Dog is sleeping in the hall. Suddenly she hears a sound. Her head snaps up. Somebody is up! Time to swing into action! Adventure Dog races down the hall and, skidding on all four paws, turns into the bathroom, where, to her total shock, she finds: The Master! Whom she has not seen since LAST NIGHT! YAYYYYYY!!

  ADVENTURE DOG: Bark!

  MASTER: DOWN, dammit!

  Now Adventure Dog bounds to the front door, in case the Master is going to take her outside. It is a slim chance. He has only taken her outside for the past 2,637 consecutive mornings. But just in case, Adventure Dog is ready.

  ADVENTURE DOG: Bark!

  Can it be? Yes! This is unbelievable! The Master is coming to the door! Looks like Adventure Dog is going outside! YAAAYYY!

  MASTER: DOWN, dammit!

  Now the Master has opened the door approximately one inch. Adventure Dog realizes that, at this rate, it may take the Master a full three-tenths of a second to open the door all the way. This is bad. He needs help. Adventure Dog alertly puts her nose in the crack and applies 600,000 pounds force to the door.

  MASTER: HEY! DOOR: WHAM!

  And now Adventure Dog is through the door, looking left, looking right, her finely honed senses absorbing every detail of the environment, every nuance and subtlety, looking for ... Holy Smoke! There it is! The YARD! Right in the exact same place it was yesterday! This is turning out to be an UNBELIEVABLE adventure!

  ADVENTURE DOG: Bark!

  Adventure Dog is vaguely troubled. Some primitive version of a thought is rattling around inside her tiny cranium, like a BB in a tunafish can. For she senses that there is some reason why the Master has let her outside. There is something he wants Adventure Dog to do. But what on Earth could it be? Before Adventure Dog can think Of an answer, she detects ... is this possible? Yes! It’s a SMELL! Yikes! Full Red Alert!

  ADVENTURE DOG: Sniff sniff sniff.

  MASTER: Come on, Earnest.

  ADVENTURE DOG: Sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff.

  No question about it. The evidence is clear. This is a smell, all right. And what’s more, it’s the smell of—this is so incredible—DOG WEE WEE! Right here in the yard!

  MASTER: EARNEST!

  ADVENTURE DOG: Sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff.

  Adventure Dog is getting the germ of an idea. At first it seems farfetched, but the more she thinks about it, the more she thinks, hey, why not! The idea is—get ready—Adventure Dog is going to MAKE WEE-WEE! Right now! Outside! It’s crazy, but it just might work!

  MASTER: Good GIRL.

  What was that? It was a sound! Definitely.
A sound coming from over there. Yes! No question about it. This is unbelievable! It’s the MASTER out here in the yard! YAAAYY!

  MASTER: DOWN, dammit!

  THEME SONG SINGER: Adventure Dog, Adventure Dooooooggg ...

  ADVENTURE DOG: BARK!

  MASTER: DOWN!

  Bear in mind that this is only one episode. There are many other possibilities: “Adventure Dog Gets Fed,” “Adventure Dog Goes for a Ride in the Car and Sees Another Dog and Barks Real Loud for the Next 116 Miles,” etc. it would be the kind of family-oriented show your kids could watch, because there would be extremely little sex, thanks to an earlier episode, “Adventure Dog Has an Operation.”

  Slow Down And Die

  I think it’s getting worse. I’m talking about this habit people have of driving on interstate highways in the left, or “passing” lane, despite the fact that they aren’t passing anybody. You used to see this mainly in a few abnormal areas, particularly Miami, where it is customary for everyone to drive according to the laws of his or her own country of origin. But now you see it everywhere: drivers who are not passing, who have clearly never passed anybody in their entire lives, squatting in the left lane, little globules of fat clogging up the transportation arteries of our very nation. For some reason, a high percentage of them wear hats.

  What I do, when I come up behind these people, is the same thing you do, namely pass them on the right and glare at them. Unfortunately, this tactic doesn’t appear to be working. So I’m proposing that we go to the next logical step: nuclear weapons. Specifically I’m thinking of atomic land torpedoes, which would be mounted on the front bumpers of cars operated by drivers who have demonstrated that they have the maturity and judgment necessary to handle tactical nuclear weapons in a traffic environment. I would be one of these drivers.

  Here’s how I would handle a standard left-lane blockage problem: I would get behind the problem driver and flash my lights. If that failed, I’d honk my horn until the driver looked in his rear-view mirror and saw me making helpful, suggestive hand motions indicating that he is in the passing lane, and if he wants to drive at 55, he should do it in a more appropriate place, such as the waiting room of a dental office. If that failed, I’d sound the warning siren, which would go, and I quote, “WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP.” Only if all these measures failed would I proceed to the final step, total vaporization of the car (unless of course there was a BABY ON BOARD!).

  Too violent, you say? Shut up or I’ll break your legs. No, wait, forgive me. I’m a little tense, is all, from driving behind these people. But something has to be done, and I figure if word got around among members of the left-lane slow-driver community, wherever they get together—hat stores would be my guess—that they had a choice of either moving to the right or turning into clouds of charged particles, many would choose the former.

  It is not entirely their fault. Part of the problem is all those signs on the interstates that say SPEED LIMIT 55. I am no psychologist, but I believe those signs may create the impression among poorly informed drivers that the speed limit is 55. Which of course it is not. We Americans pretend 55 is the speed limit, similar to the way we’re always pretending we want people to have a nice day, but it clearly isn’t the real speed limit, since nobody, including the police, actually drives that slowly, except people wearing hats in the left lane.

  So the question is, how fast are you really allowed to drive? And the answer is: Nobody will tell you. I’m serious. The United States is the only major industrialized democracy where the speed limit is a secret. I called up a guy I know who happens to be a high-ranking police officer, and I asked him to tell me the real speed limit, and he did, but only after—this is the absolute truth—he made me promise I wouldn’t reveal his name, or his state, or above all the speed limit itself. Do you believe that? Here in the United States of America, home of the recently refurbished Statue of Liberty, we have an officer of the law who is afraid he could lose his job for revealing the speed limit.

  When things get this bizarre, we must be dealing with federal policy. Specifically we are dealing with the U.S. Transportation Secretary, who is in charge of enforcing our National Pretend Speed Limit. The Transportation Secretary has learned—you talk about digging out the hard facts!—that motorists in a number of states are driving faster than 55 miles per hour, and she threatened to cut off these states’ federal highway funds. So, to keep the Transportation Secretary happy, the police have to pretend they’re enforcing the 55 limit, when in fact they think it’s stupid and won’t give you a ticket unless you exceed the real speed limit, which varies from state to state, and even from day to day, and which the police don’t dare talk about in public for fear of further upsetting the Transportation Secretary.

  I told my friend, the high-ranking police officer, that this system creates a lot of anxiety in us civilian motorists, never knowing how fast we’re allowed to go, and he said the police like it, because they can make the speed limit whatever the hell they want it to be, depending on how they feel. “It used to be,” he said, “that the only fun you had in police work was police brutality. Now the real fun is to keep screwing with people’s heads about what the speed limit is.”

  Ha ha! He was just kidding, I am sure. Nevertheless, I think we need a better system, and fortunately I have thought one up. Here it is: The state should say the hell with the federal highway funds. They could make a lot more money if they set up little roadside stands where you could stop your car and pay $5, and a state employee would whisper the speed limit for that day in your ear. What do you think? I think it makes more sense than the system we have now. Of course, the Transportation Secretary wouldn’t like it, but I don’t see why we should care, seeing as how the Transportation Secretary probably gets chauffeured around in an official federal limousine that is, of course, totally immune from traffic laws. Although I imagine it would be vulnerable to atomic land torpedoes.

  Sacking The Season

  It’s football season again, and I know I speak for everybody in North America when I make the following statement: rah. Because, to me, football is more than just a game. It is a potential opportunity to see a live person lying on the ground with a bone sticking out of his leg, while the fans, to show their appreciation, perform “the wave.”

  And football breeds character. They are constantly scrubbing the locker rooms because of all the character that breeds in there. This results in men the caliber of famed Notre Dame player George Gipp, played by Ronald Reagan, who, in a famous anecdote, looked up from his deathbed and told Pat O’Brien, played by Knute Rockne, that if things ever really got bad for the Fighting Irish, he (O’Brien) should tell “the boys” to win one for the Gipper. Which O’Brien did, and the boys said: “What for? He’s dead.” Ha ha! This is just one reason I am so excited about the upcoming season.

  Before I unveil my Pigskin Preview, however, I must say a few serious words here about a problem that, regrettably, has reached epidemic proportions in the world of sports fans. I’m talking about male cheerleaders. I don’t know where you grew up, but where I grew up, there were certain things a guy absolutely did not do, and cheerleading is about six of them. A guy who led cheers where I grew up would have been driven around for a few hours inside somebody’s engine compartment. Most likely Steve Stormack’s.

  So you may call me insecure if you wish, but I am deeply troubled when I see young men on TV bouncing up and down on their tiptoes and clapping like sea lions, and the fact that they get to hug the female cheerleaders and sometimes pick them up by their personal regions is not, in my view, an adequate excuse. I am calling on you sports fans to write letters to U.S. Attorney General Edwin Meese urging him to appoint a federal commission to issue a concerned and bulky report about this issue, so that we sports writers can put it behind us once and for all and get back to writing stories about what should be the topic of interest on the sports pages: drugs.

  Drug testing is very big in football. This is because football players are R
ole Models for young people. All you young people out there want to grow up and have enormous necks and get knee operations as often as haircuts. That’s why the people in charge of football don’t want you to associate their sport in any way with drugs. They want you to associate it with alcohol. During televised games, you’ll see announcements wherein famous athletes urge you not to take drugs alternating with announcements wherein famous ex-athletes urge you to drink beer. Good luck, young people!

  Now let’s take a look at what kind of action we can expect to see this season on the actual “grid-iron” per se. As in previous years, football will be divided into two major sectors, “college” and “professional,” the difference being that professional players receive money, whereas college players also receive complimentary automobiles, although many teams will be hard-hit by strict new academic regulations requiring that a player cannot compete unless he can read most of the numbers on his gearshift knob. Nevertheless, I look for an action-packed college season in which major teams featuring linemen named Dwight who have the size and vocabulary skills of cement trucks trash a series of amateur schools by scores ranging as high as 175-0, which will earn them the right to play in such New Year’s Day classics as the Rose Bowl, the Orange Bowl, and the Liquid You Drain Out of a Can of Artichoke Hearts Bowl, although unfortunately not against each other.

  In professional football, I look for a very exciting and competitive season until about a third of the way through the first game, when Injuries will become a Factor. These injuries will of course all be caused by artificial turf, which is easily the most dangerous substance in the universe. If we really wanted to protect Europe, we would simply cover the border regions with artificial turf, and the Russians would all be writhing on the ground clutching their knees within seconds after they invaded. And then the Europeans could perform “the wave.”