Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits

by Dave Barry

  Step Two in the therapy was when a nurse put me in a little examination room with a paper-covered table, which evidently was emitting some kind of invisible healing rays because they had me sit there alone with it for 43 minutes by my watch. It wasn’t as boring as it sounds because there was a scale in there, so I could weigh myself for amusement.

  To culminate the treatment, the actual doctor took a few moments out from his busy schedule of renewing his subscription to National Geographic and renting additional space for people to wait in and came right into the room with me and actually looked at my tongue. He was in the room with me for 2 minutes and 30 seconds by my watch, at the end of which he told me that my problem was two Latin words, which I later figured out meant swollen tongue. He said I should come back in a week. I considered suggesting that, seeing how I had already been there for almost two hours, maybe I should just spend the week in the examination room, but I was afraid this would anger him and he would send me to the hospital for tests. I didn’t want to go to the hospital, because at the hospital as soon as they find out what your Blue Cross number is they pounce on you with needles the size of turkey basters. Those are the two most popular doctor options: to tell you to come back in a week, or to send you to the hospital for tests. Another option would be to say, “it sure beats the heck out of me why your tongue is swollen,” but that could be a violation of the Hippocratic Oath.

  What I finally did was talk to a woman I know who used to be a nurse but had to quit because she kept wanting to punch doctors in the mouth, and she suggested that I gargle with salt water. I did, and the swelling went right away. Although of course this could also have been because of the paper-covered table.

  I really envy my dog. When she gets sick or broken, we take her to the veterinarian, and he fixes her right up. No Latin words, no big deal. It’s a very satisfying experience, except of course for my dog, who routinely tries to launch herself out of the examining room through closed windows. I find myself thinking: why can’t I get medical care like this? How much more complicated can people be than dogs? I’m kind of hoping my dog’s tongue will swell up, because I’m dying to see how the veterinarian treats her. If he has her gargle with salt water, I’m going to start taking my problems to him.

  The Light Side Of Smoking

  As you are aware, each year the U.S. Surgeon General emerges from relative obscurity into the limelight of public attention and if he sees his shadow, we have six more weeks of winter. No, all kidding aside, what he does is issue his annual report, where he tells you that smoking is bad for you. In fact, for a while, previous surgeons general got so lazy that they were turning in the same report, over and over, until finally one year Richard Nixon got ketchup stains on it.

  Anyway, the result of all this reporting is that the general public at large has gotten very strict about smoking. Hardly a day goes by when you don’t read a newspaper story like this:

  “SAN FRANCIsco-The city commissioners here yesterday approved a tough new anti-smoking ordinance under which if you see a person light a cigarette in a public place, you can spit in this person’s face.”

  I agree with this new strictness. And I’m not one of those holier-than-thou types who go around condemning smoking, drinking and senseless murder without ever having even tried them. I used to smoke cigarettes, plenty of them, sometimes two and three at a time when I had Creative Block and was hoping to accidentally set my office on fire so I could write a column about it.

  And then one morning, four years ago, something happened that I will never forget. I woke up, and I looked at myself in the mirror, because I happened to wake up in the bathroom, and I said to myself: “Dave, you have a wonderful wife, you have a newborn son, you have a good job, you have friends who care about you, you have a lawnmower that starts on the second or third pull—you have everything a man could possibly want, and a whole lifetime ahead of you to enjoy it in. Why not smoke a cigarette right now?” And so I did. I didn’t quit until two years later, at Hannah Gardner’s annual extravaganza eggnog party, when I was overcome by a giant weepy guilt attack while under the influence of Hannah’s annual eggnog, the recipe for which we should all hope to God never falls into the hands of the Russians.

  Not that it was easy to quit. Not at all. A few months back, I read a newspaper article that said the government, after much research, had decided that nicotine is an addictive drug, even worse than heroin, and I just had to laugh the bitter kind of laugh that Clark Gable laughs in Gone With the Wind when he realizes that the South has been reduced to a lump of carbon. I mean, surely the government has better things to spend its money on. Surely the government could have used these research funds to buy a military toilet seat, and just asked us former smokers about nicotine vs. heroin addiction. We could have simply pointed out that, when a commercial airliner takes off, the instant the wheels leave the ground, the pilot, who you would think would be busy steering or something, tells the smokers that they may light up. He does not tell the heroin addicts that they may stick their needles into themselves, does he? No, he doesn’t, because heroin addicts have enough self-control to survive a couple of heroin-free hours. But the pilot knows that if he doesn’t let the cigarette smokers get some nicotine into themselves immediately, they will sneak off to smoke in the bathroom, possibly setting it on fire, or, if already occupied by other smokers, they will try to get out on the wing.

  So we are talking about a powerful addiction here, and I frankly feel the government’s efforts to combat it are pathetic. The big tactic so far has been warnings on cigarette packages. The government seems to feel that smokers—these are people who, if they run out of cigarettes late at night in a hotel and have no change for the machine, will smoke used cigarettes from the sand-filled ashtrays next to the elevators, cigarettes whose previous owners could easily have diseases such as we associate with public toilet seats—the government believes that these same smokers will read their cigarette packages, as if they needed instructions on how to operate a cigarette, and then they’ll remark, with great surprise: “Look here! It says that cigarette smoking is Hazardous to Your Health!! How very fortunate that I read this package and obtained this consumer information! I shall throw these away right now!”

  No, we need something stronger than warnings. We need cigarette loads. For those of you who were never obnoxious 12-year-old boys, I should explain that a “load” is an old reliable practical joke device, a small, chemically treated sliver of wood that you secretly insert into a cigarette, and when the cigarette burns down far enough, the load explodes, and everybody laughs like a fiend except, of course, the smoker, who is busy wondering if his or her heart is going to start beating again. I think Congress ought to require the cigarette manufacturers to put loads in, say, one out of every 250 cigarettes. This would be a real deterrent to smokers thinking about lighting up, especially after intimate moments:

  MAN: Was it good for you? (inhales) WOMAN: It was wonderful. (inhales) Was it good for you? MAN: Yes. (inhales) I have an idea: Why don’t we BLAM!!

  What do you think? I think it would be very effective, and if it doesn’t work, we could have the Air Force spray something toxic on North and South Carolina.

  Ear Wax In The Fog

  When you talk about the postderegulation airline industry, the three issues that inevitably arise are smoking, fog, and earwax. We’ll take them individually.

  Follow me closely here. You know those little earphones they give you on airplanes so you can listen to old Bill Cosby routines? OK, let’s assume that 20 million people have flown on earphone flights in the past 15 years. Let’s further assume that each person leaves one-sixteenth of an ounce of earwax on these phones (this is an average, of course; Nancy Reagan leaves much less). This means that in the last 15 years alone, the airlines have collected nearly 600 tons. Do you have any idea how large a blob that makes? Neither do I, so I called the folks at the Miami Public Library, who did a little research and informed me that it was the most disgus
ting question they had ever been asked.

  My question is this: Why do the airlines—why does any nonmilitary organization—need a blob of earwax that large? My personal theory is that they’re going to drop it on the radar apparatus at O’Hare Airport in Chicago, just so they can see the looks on the faces of passengers all over America when the ticket-counter agents say: “I’m afraid your flight has been cancelled due to earwax on the radar at O’Hare.” Any problem at O’Hare, even a minor plumbing malfunction, inevitably paralyzes air travel all over the free world. Nobody really knows why this is, but if you ask the ticket agent, he’ll come up with something just to drive you away: “Your flight is supposed to use the plane from flight 407, which is due in from Houston, only it couldn’t take off because the crew was supposed to arrive on flight 395 from O’Hare, but that plane never got to O’Hare because the captain, the handsome, brooding Mark Crandall, had seen Nikki and Paul leave the party together arm in arm and in a rage of jealousy, had decided to seduce Paul’s former lover Brenda, unaware that she had just found out about Steven’s fatal liver disease. So we’re looking at a delay of at least two hours.”

  But the airlines won’t use the earwax just yet. No, that’s their trump card, and they won’t play it until more people wise up about the fog. I figured it out several years ago. See, I live in an area that is never blanketed by fog. People often remark on this at parties. “Say what you will,” they remark, “but this area is never blanketed by fog, ha ha!” Except when I am trying to get back home from a distant airport, at which time it is always pea soup. “I’m afraid your destination is completely fogged in, Mr. Barry,” the ticket agent says, in the tone of voice you use when somebody else’s destination is fogged in and you’re going home in a half-hour to have a drink and watch Johnny Carson.

  Here’s how they do it: They have an agent permanently assigned to lurk in the bushes outside my home, and when he sees me walk out the door carrying a suitcase, he gets on the walkie-talkie. “Looks like he’s going to try to make a round trip via airplane again!” he whispers. This alerts his superiors back at airline headquarters that they should stop drilling holes into the heads of small furry woolen creatures and arrange to have a dense fog blanket transferred down from Canada via weather satellite.

  Ask yourself this question: If Charles Lindbergh, flying with no instruments other than a bologna sandwich, managed to cross the Atlantic and land safely on a runway completely covered with French people, why are today’s airplanes, which are equipped with radar and computers and individualized liquor bottles, unable to cope with fog? Are they concerned about passenger safety? Then why not let the passengers decide? Why not get on the public-address system and say: “Attention passengers. Your destination is very foggy. We think you’ll make it, but there’s always a chance you’ll crash on a remote mountaintop and be eaten by wolves. Your other option is to stay here in the airport for God knows how long, sitting in these plastic seats and eating $3.50 cheese sandwiches manufactured during the Truman administration. What do you say?” The gate agents would have to leap up on the counter to avoid being trampled by the hordes barging onto the plane.

  Which leads us to the question of whether smoking should be allowed on airplanes. The Founding Fathers, who had bales of foresight, specified in the U.S. Constitution that people could smoke on airplanes, but they had to sit near the toilets. Now, however, there’s a move afoot to ban smoking altogether on flights that last less than two hours. The cigarette industry is against this ban, their argument being that there is no Hard Evidence that cigarettes are anything short of wonderful, according to the highly skilled research scientists that the cigarette industry keeps in small darkened cages somewhere. Another strong anti-ban argument was raised by Congresssman Charlie Rose of North Carolina, who warned the Civil Aeronautics Board recently that people would sneak into the washrooms to smoke and might start fires. “There’s a significant problem if they were to go into washrooms for a smoke and forget where the used paper towels are stored,” observed Congressman Rose, who evidently feels that many smokers have extremely small brains.

  But I think he has a point. I think that if the CAB decides to ban smoking, it should require the airlines to install smoke detectors in the washrooms, so that if a person sets one off, it will activate an unusually powerful toilet mechanism that will flush the smoker right out of the plane. Of course, if I know the airlines, they’ll rig it so he lands on the radar apparatus at O’Hare.

  1987: Look Back In Horror

  January

  2—In College Bowl action, the University of Miami loses the national championship to Penn State when Vinny Testaverde, after selecting the

  “History” category, identifies World War II as “a kind of fish.”

  3—Oral Roberts tells his followers that unless they send him $4.5 million by the end of the month, God will turn him into a hypocritical money-grubbing slime bag.

  5—In response to growing pressure from the United States, the government of Colombia vows to track down its major drug dealers and, if necessary, remove them from the Cabinet.

  8—The Federal Aviation Administration announces that, in response to a routine questionnaire, 63 percent of the nation’s air traffic controllers stated that their primary career goals was “to defeat the forces of the Planet Wambeeno.”

  10—In the ongoing war against the federal deficit, the Reagan administration submits the first-ever $1 trillion budget.

  14—In New York City, officials of the justice Department’s Organized Crime Task Force announce that Anthony “Grain Embargo” DiPonderoso and Jimmy “Those Little Pins They Put in New Shirts” Zooroni have agreed to enter the Federal Nickname Exchange Program.

  16—In his first press conference since 1952, President Reagan, asked by reporters to comment on persistent allegations that he is “out of touch,” responds: “Thanks, but I just had breakfast.”

  18—The People’s Republic of China announces that “Deng Xiaoping” means “Big Stud Artichoke.”

  21—The Audi Corporation is forced to recall 250,000 cars after repeated incidents wherein parked Audis, apparently acting on their own, used their mobile phones to purchase stocks on margin.

  26—President Reagan tells Iran-contra scandal investigators that he “might have” approved the sale of arms to Iran.

  28—In the Middle East, Syria has its name legally changed to “Jordan.” A welcome calm settles over Beirut as the six remaining civilians are taken hostage.

  30—In Washington, the Internal Revenue Service unveils the new, improved W-4

  form, which is such a big hit that the experts who thought it up are immediately put to work on developing a policy for the Persian Gulf.

  February

  1—A new policy requiring random drug testing of all airline pilots runs into a snag when nearly half of the Delta pilots are unable to hit the specimen bottle.

  2—Miami City Commissioner Rosario Kennedy, responding to a Herald report that taxpayers spent $111,549 to decorate her office says—we are not making this quotation up—”there’s not one item that really stands out. It’s not the Taj Mahal.” Donations of clothing and canned goods pour in from concerned taxpayers.

  3—In the ongoing war against the federal budget deficit, Congress gives itself a pay raise.

  4—The United States yacht Stars and Stripes recaptures the coveted America’s Cup when the Australian entry, Kookaburra, is sunk by a Chinese-made

  “Silkworm” missile. The U.S. Sixth Fleet steams toward the troubled region with orders “to form humongous targets.” Liberace goes to the Big Candelabra in the Sky.

  6—In a White House ceremony marking his 76th birthday, President Reagan attempts to blow out the hot line.

  7—Famed Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward reveals that, in a secret hospital interview, dying entertainer Liberace revealed that Woodward’s upcoming book, Veil, would be “a real page-turner.”

  8—True item: Senator Lloyd Bentsen, chair
man of the Senate Finance Committee, sends out a letter telling lobbyists that for $10,000 each, they can attend monthly breakfasts with him.

  9—Representative Arnold LaTreece announces that for $15,000 each, lobbyists can kiss him on the lips.

  10—George Bush announces that he is available for $12.50.

  11—President Reagan tells Iran-contra scandal investigators that he did not approve of the arms sale to Iran.

  15—George Bush reduces his price to $3.99, including the souvenir beverage mug.

  17—In Colombia, police arrest Carlos Lehder for jaywalking and discover, during a routine search, that his pockets contain 1,265,000 pounds of cocaine. Lehder claims to have “no idea” how it got there.

  19—Mario Cuomo announces that he doesn’t want to be president and immediately becomes the Democratic front-runner.

  22—George Bush announces that he doesn’t want to be president, either.

  22—Andy Warhol goes to the Big Soup Can in the Sky.

  23—Panic grips the nation as a terrorist group seizes 150,000 new, improved

  W-4 forms and threatens to send them to randomly selected Americans through the mail.

  23—Famed Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward reveals that, in a secret hospital interview, dying artist Andy Warhol revealed that Woodward’s forthcoming book, Veil, would be “available in bookstores everywhere.”

  24—President Reagan announces that he cannot remember whether he approved the sale of arms to Iran. In a quotation that we are not making up, the president tells White House reporters: “Everybody that can remember what they were doing on August 8, 1985, raise your hand.”

  25—White House reporters examine their diaries and discover, to their shock, that on August 8, 1985, they approved the sale of arms to Iran. They are immediately arrested.