by Dave Barry
Also by Dave Barry
The Taming of the Screw
Babies and Other Hazards of Sex
Stay Fit and Healthy Until You’re Dead
Claw Your Way to the Top
Bad Habits
Dave Barry’s Guide to Marriage and/or Sex
Homes and Other Black Holes
Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits
Dave Barry Slept Here
Dave Barry Turns 40
Dave Barry Talks Back
Dave Barry’s Only Travel Guide You’ll Ever Need
Dave Barry Does Japan
Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up
Dave Barry’s Gift Guide to End All Gift Guides
Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys
Dave Barry in Cyberspace
Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs
Dave Barry Turns 50
Big Trouble
Dave Barry Is Not Taking This Sitting Down
Tricky Business
Dave Barry Hits Below the Beltway
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
I Am Now a Trained Eggbeater
The Avenging Death Killer of Doom
Losing Face
Weight Loss Through Anti-Gravity
The Hot Seat
The Pilgrims Were Turkeys
How to Cure the Drug Problem
Don’t Know Much About History
This Poet Don’t Know It
The Medical Boom
Gobble, Gobble, Eeeeeeeeek!
Message from the Stars
Ready to Wear
Fore Play
Warp Speed
Dashing Through the Snow
Mush!
Something in the Air
Wheel of Misfortune
This One Will Kill You
The Fat Lady Sings
Borrrinnng!
Let’s Do Lunch
The Lobster Rebellion
Animal Rights
Our National Pastime
Here Comes the Bride
The Cigar Avenger
The Incredible Shrinking Brain
Road Warriors
Absolute Madness
Planet of the Apes
Good for What Ails You
Eureka!
Beeware
The New Mad Science
My Summer Vacation
My Son the Teenage Driver
Invasion of the Killer Lawyers
Boy Genius
No Respect
The Name Game
Born to Be Jerks
The People’s Court
Tuned In, Tuned Off
Snuggle Bear Must Die!
Whupping Mr. Whipple
Beware the Eagle Eye
Brain Sludge
Dude, Read All About it!
Invasion of the Tree Sweep
Food Fight
Speed Trap
The Ham Terrorist
I Am Not a Crook
Dave Meets the Death Tree
Up a Tree
One Potato, Two Potato …
The Evil Eye
Conflict Management
Mr. Dave’s Beauty Tips
Stealing the Show
This photo, from around 1952, shows me (left) with my sister, Kate, on a tricycle outside the house where we grew up in Armonk, New York. Between me and Kate is a child I do not recognize. So I’m just going to say it’s Bill Clinton, and if he wants to deny it, let him sue.
Acknowledgments
I, alone, could never have produced this book. I say this mainly in case there are lawsuits. But also I want to give credit to the institutions and people whose help is invaluable to me, yet whose names never appear in my writing, unless of course they do something silly.
First, I thank my readers, a wondrously alert group of people who keep me posted on world events and who, every time I read my mail, remind me that I could not possibly make up a world weirder than the one I already inhabit.
I thank the Miami Herald, and particularly my editors at Tronic Magazine: Tom Shroder, Bill Rose, and John Barry, courageous journalists who do not hesitate to stand up for me when an angry reader calls the paper to complain about something I have written.
“He’s not here,” they say.
I thank Doris Mansour, Tropic’s office manager, a loyal friend who painstakingly proofreads my writing, which is no easy task because the Official Stylebook does not list spellings for words such as “bazootyhead.”
I thank my editor at Crown, Betty A. Prashker, who’s savvy and supportive, and who can make a person feel right at home even when she’s taking the person to lunch at the Four Seasons, a New York City restaurant where the asparagus costs approximately $85 per spear.
I thank my agent, Al Hart, who is a rare combination—wise and enthusiastic—and whose letters are always funnier than mine.
I thank my irreplaceable assistant and research department, Judi Smith, who can find out anything and talk to anybody, and who usually knows what I’m thinking, so I don’t have to.
Above all, I thank my son, Rob, who’s still willing to go out with me and help me test the world’s most powerful head-mounted water gun, even though, unlike his dad, he’s really gotten too mature for that kind of thing; and my wife, Michelle, who makes me endlessly happy and takes me to basketball games.
All these people helped make this book possible. But let me make one thing clear: If there are any errors or omissions in this book, these people are not responsible. In the end, there is only one person responsible for what I write, and that person, of course, is: Donald Trump. Thank you.
Introduction
First, a few words about the title.
It isn’t easy, coming up with book titles. A lot of the really good ones are taken. Thin Thighs in 30 Days, for example. Also The Bible.
Another restriction was that the publisher wanted a title with my name in it. Over the years, most of my book titles have had my name in them (Dave Barry Turns 40, Dave Barry Turns 41, Dave Barry Develops a Nasal Polyp, etc.). I realize this sounds egotistical, but it’s not my idea. I’d be a lot happier if the book titles had a name with more appeal to the mass public, like “Stephen King” or “The Beatles.” If it wasn’t for the potential legal hassles, this book would be called something like Develop Washboard Abs in One Hour with John Grisham and Madonna (As Seen on Oprah).
Anyway, the first title actually considered for this book was Another Damn Dave Barry Book. I liked that one, because it was punchy, yet at the same time it said absolutely nothing. But then Crown changed its mind and decided against this title, presumably on the grounds that the word “damn” would offend some people, who would therefore not buy the book. Of course you could argue that this was a good reason to use the title, because people who’d be offended by the word “damn” would probably suffer cerebral hemorrhages if they read the book’s actual contents.
But Another Damn Dave Barry Book was definitely out. Instead, Crown wanted to use Dave Barry Exposes Himself, featuring a cover photo of me wearing only an overcoat, which I would be holding open to display my body, with my strategic parts covered by the title (insert your font-size joke here). After a certain amount of hemming and hawing, as well as faxing, I rejected this title. My argument was that the cover concept was a stale old sight gag, but the real reason was that I didn’t want to expose my body I do not have Washboard Abs; I have Stealth Abs, protected from detection by a strategic layer of radar-absorbing flab.
For a while my editor at Crown, Betty Prashker, tried to argue me into accepting Dave Barry Exposes Himself.
“The way we see it,” she said, “every time you write somethi
ng, you’re exposing yourself.”
This is the kind of thing editors can say, secure in the knowledge that they won’t be appearing on a book cover wearing only an open overcoat.
But I was firm in my opposition. And thus began a spate of title brainstorming. My agent, Al Hart, came up with what I thought was a winner—Dave Barry Wants to Chew Your Hair—but Crown was not receptive. Crown also rejected one of mine that I thought beautifully captured the spirit not only of this book, but virtually my entire body of work: Armpit Noises from the Heart. I also had no luck with:
Who Are You Calling Immature?
By Dave “Booger” Barry
Here are some of the other titles that didn’t make it:
While You Were Holding Down a Real Job,
Dave Barry Was Writing This
A Funny Title Goes Here
Dave Barry Lowers His Standards Even More
How to Remain Sophomoric in the Coming Millennium
This Book Is All True
And Other Lies by Dave Barry
This Book Has Nothing to Do with the 01 Trial
Humor Writers Who Run with Wolves
The Wisdom of Dave Barry
Would Be a Really Short Book, So We Printed This One Instead
And of course:
Moby Dave
But none of these was acceptable to everybody. Finally, just when it was beginning to look as though we’d never come up with a title, and the book would never get published—which would be a tragedy for civilization—we agreed on Dave Barry Is from Mars and Venus. It combines the two most essential elements of a classic book title:
Nobody has any idea what it means.
I don’t have to get naked for the cover.
In addition to a title, this book also has contents, and I’d like to say a few words about them. Mostly what you will find in this book are short essays on a wide variety of important topics that are of concern to the informed, concerned citizen, such as turkey rectums. Because of the breadth of topics I cover in my oeuvre,1 people often ask me what methodology I use in my research and writing. Here it is:
After a hearty breakfast, I scan the Miami Herald and other major daily newspapers, looking for important news developments and making mental notes. (“Huh!” is my exact phrasing.)
Lunch.
I fire up my laptop computer and, after some thought, type out the subject, or “topic idea,” of an essay, such as: “Robot cockroaches.”
Nap.
I fire my laptop computer back up and start “fleshing out” my topic idea by developing possible themes for discussion and amplification (“Robot cockroaches—a bad idea?”).
Lunch.
At this point, heeding the old maxim that “all work and no play makes Jack Nicholson try to kill his family with an ax,” I generally knock off for the day, only to return the next day and start the whole “grind” all over again, taking a harshly critical look at my work output from the day before, revising and polishing it, not stopping until the words convey precisely the message that I have formulated in my mind’s eye (“Robot cockroaches—a bad idea? Or what?”).
Sometimes I also do field research. For example, in researching the essays in this book, I climbed a giant scary tree in a beaver-infested area; experienced Total Brain Lockup while competing on the TV show Wheel of Fortune; played the role of a corpse in an opera in Eugene, Oregon; got hit by a car; nearly drowned with the U.S. Synchronized Swimming National Team; became the only person I know of to be sent to the emergency room with a laser-tag injury; threw up in an F-16 exceeding the speed of sound; and, of course, set fire to my toilet.
I’m not trying to impress you; it’s my job to do this kind of research. I’m no different from other leading columnists such as George Will or William Safire, both of whom set fire to their toilets on virtually a daily basis.
Why do we do these things? I can’t speak for Bill and George, but as for myself, I do them because I believe—call me an idealist if you want—that even in this incredibly complex global society, one lone person, using only his mind and the power of information, can make a difference.
And I definitely do not want that person to be me.
1Literally, “eggs.”
This is me, probably around age four, with a gun that shot Ping-Pong balls. I loved that gun and shot Ping-Pong balls at everything and everybody. Perhaps that is why I had no friends.
I AM NOW A
TRAINED EGGBEATER
ATLANTA—There’s an old saying in journalism: “Be careful of what you make fun of, because you could find yourself upside down attempting a Vertical Split while your lungs rapidly fill with water.”
There’s a lot of truth in this saying, as I found out when I took the Synchronized Swimming Media Challenge.
Here’s what happened: Ever since Synchronized Swimming became an official Olympic sport, we journalists have ridiculed it. The thrust of our gist is: “Exactly what is so athletically impressive about people swimming around in circles while smiling like recently escaped lunatics? ANYBODY could do that!”
Eventually the Synchronized Swimming community got tired of hearing this, and responded as follows: “Oh YEAH? Well how about if YOU try it, Expense Account Butt?”
And thus I found myself at Emory University, wearing nose clips and goggles, in a pool about the size of Lake Huron, only deeper, with a dozen young and extremely fit members of U.S. Synchronized Swimming National Team One, who will basically be the U.S. Olympic Team for the 2000 Games in Sydney, Australia.
Also in the pool was my synchronized media partner and Herald colleague, sports columnist Dan Le Batard. Dan and I, knowing that the full masculine studliness of our bodies would be on display, had prepared for the challenge via a grueling fitness regimen of not having eaten a single Snickers bar for the entire previous hour. I estimate that our body fat content had plummeted to somewhere around 87 percent.
The spokesperson for U.S. Synchronized Swimming, Laura LaMarca, had told me earlier that we fit the basic profile of journalists who had taken the Challenge.
“Floating is definitely not a problem for the media,” she said.
That may be true, but I was pleased to see that there were two lifeguards on hand.
“That’s standard procedure,” LaMarca said. “A one-to-one ratio of lifeguards to journalists.”
The Kitchen Utensil Stroke
With our safety assured, Dan and I started learning our synchronized maneuvers. The first one was called Eggbeatering, which is when you move your legs around like an eggbeater, so you can keep your head and shoulders above the pool surface while you raise your arms gracefully into the air.
At least that’s how it worked for the members of National Team One. When Dan and I gracefully raised OUR arms, our entire bodies, arms and all, immediately sank like anvils. So when we all tried the maneuver together, there was a circle of a dozen young women, smiling and raising their arms, and in the middle of the circle there was this bubbling, violently turbulent patch of water, underneath which were Dan and me, trying desperately to eggbeater our way back to the surface before our lungs exploded.
After we gave up on eggbeatering, we tried the Ballet Leg, which is when you lie on your back and raise your leg gracefully into the air. When the synchronized swimmers did this, their bodies remained absolutely steady and horizontal, they appeared to be lying on floats. When Dan and I attempted it, we hit the pool bottom so hard we left dents.
At this point I noticed that the lifeguards were standing much closer.
My favorite maneuver was the Vertical Split, which is when you get yourself upside down in the water, then do some kind of arm thing that causes you to shoot up, Polaris-like, so that your legs and hips come all the way out of the water, at which point you execute a graceful split. We attempted this as a group, with Dan and me again in the middle, and I will never forget the sight from the bottom of the pool, where I of course immediately found myself. All around me were the national team members
, their bodies upside down and perfectly vertical, submerged only from head to waist, their legs high in the air; next to me, also on the bottom, was Dan, both of us flailing as hard as we could, trying frantically to gain some altitude, but managing to get only our toes out of the water.
That’s the only maneuver you’d see, if the media ever did get a team together: Synchronized Toes.
Anyway, after about 45 straight minutes of alternately eggbeatering and sinking, I came to the surface, and, using what little air I had left in my lungs, shouted, “THIS IS THE HARDEST SPORT IN THE WORLD!”
Then, and only then, did they let us out of the pool.
THE AVENGING DEATH
KILLER OF DOOM
I found out about laser tag from a guy I know named Woody Woody is in public relations, despite the fact that he looks like—and I say this as a friend—a street person who has failed to take his medication since 1972. I believe this is the secret of his success: When Woody approaches business people, they expect him to ask them for spare change, and possibly throw up on their shoes, and when he doesn’t, they’re so relieved that they agree to let him handle their public relations.
Anyway, Woody represents this outfit that operates a laser-tag game, and he’d been bugging me to try it.
“It’s really cool,” he said. “Everybody runs around and tries to shoot everybody else.”
“Woody,” I said, “that doesn’t sound like a game. That sounds like Miami.”
But finally I decided to look into it, because I’m a journalist, and in my line of work, you never know when you’re going to come across a socially significant new phenomenon, except that this will definitely not happen to you if you’re playing laser tag.
And thus on a Friday afternoon I went with my son, Rob, to the laser-tag place, Q-Zar, in Coconut Grove, which is a part of Miami where busloads of European tourists go to enjoy the unique South Florida tropical experience of meeting and mingling with other European tourists, sometimes from completely different buses.
