Dave Barry Is from Mars and Venus

by Dave Barry

  The laser-tag place was staffed by wholesome-looking young people. They collected $7.50 apiece from us and ushered us into the Briefing Room, along with about a dozen others who would be playing the game—some teenage boys, a family with munchkin-sized children, and two women who looked as though they came directly from work.

  At this point we were just ordinary humans with no interest in killing each other.

  A staff person divided us into a Red Team and a Green Team, then explained the principles of the game, which boil down to: Shoot the other team. (Actually, the staff person, for public-relations reasons, used the term “tag” instead of “shoot.”) Each time you get shot you lose a life; after you lose four lives, you go to the Re-Energizer, where—here’s a major improvement over reality—you get four MORE lives.

  The staff person also said we could use our lasers to deactivate the Enemy Base.

  “Why would we do that?” asked one of the women who looked as though they came directly from work.

  Rob and I smirked at each other, guy-to-guy, trying to imagine the mental state of a person who would not immediately grasp the importance of deactivating the Enemy Base. Our smirks got even smirkier when this woman asked if it was okay to play the game wearing high heels and carrying purses.

  Sometimes you have to wonder what is happening to this nation.

  After the briefing, we went into the Vesting Room, where we each got a laser gun, attached to a red or green plastic vest (the vest has a device that vibrates when somebody shoots you). Then we were led to a big, dark, semi-spooky room with artificial smoke drifting around and a big maze in the middle, full of nooks and crannies where a person could skulk. The two teams went to opposite ends of the room. Then a voice on the loudspeaker said “5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 …” and suddenly the room was filled with extremely loud pulsating music apparently created by musicians beating their amplifiers to death with rocks.

  I am not a violent person. I am a product of the Flower Power sixties. I have actually worn bell-bottomed jeans and stood in a mass of hundreds of people, swaying back and forth, singing, ‘Everybody get together, try to love one another right now,’ having vivid visions of World Peace. (Granted, some of us were also having vivid visions of giant red frogs hopping across the sky, but that’s another issue.) I haven’t been in a fight since seventh grade and have never owned a gun.

  But when the laser-tag game started, a primeval reptile instinct took over my brain, turning me instantly into The Avenging Death Killer of Doom. I made Rambo look like Mister Rogers. I was a wild man—darting through the dark maze, ducking around corners, making totally unintelligible combat-style hand signals to my teammates. At one point, I swear, I signaled to my son, and, without a trace of irony, yelled “Cover me!” My nervous system was on Maximum Overload Red Alert, because I knew that somewhere out there, in that smoky gloom, was The Enemy, and I had to hunt him down without pity, because he was a merciless killer who would not hesitate to …

  BZZZZZZZZZZ

  NO! My vibrator is vibrating! I’ve been SHOT! The Enemy is even more deadly than I thought! He is vicious! He is brutal! He is …

  He is a woman wearing high heels.

  At least she didn’t hit me with her purse.

  I also got nailed repeatedly by the munchkins. The Avenging Death Killer of Doom spent a lot of time skittering back to the Re-Energizer, trailed by a persistent seven-year-old with excellent aim who was making The Avenging Death Killer of Doom’s vest vibrate like a defective alarm clock.

  But I also scored a few hits myself, and at one point—I want this in my obituary—I deactivated the Enemy Base. Overall I found the experience to be far more entertaining than anything currently being funded by the National Endowment for the Arts. And to those of you who feel that this kind of game is bad because it might encourage aggressive behavior in a society that is already far too violent, let me say that, while I understand your point, I also feel that this type of “play-acting” activity can provide a harmless release for aggressiveness and actually reduce violence. So shut up or I’ll kill you.

  LOSING FACE

  Today’s Topic Is: Living Smart

  What do I mean by “Living Smart”? Let’s look at a simple example:

  Suppose that two people—call them Person A and Person B—are late for appointments in New York City and need to cross the street. Person A rushes into the street without looking; he is instantly struck by a taxi going 146 miles per hour (this taxi has engine trouble; otherwise it would be going much faster). But Person B—even though he’s in an equally big hurry—pauses on the sidewalk and looks both ways. While doing this, he is severely beaten by muggers.

  So we see that the choices we make affect the quality of our lives, and we must always try to make the smartest choice, which in this case would be the one made by Person C, who decided to skip his appointment and remain in his hotel room watching the movie Laundromat Lust.

  I’ll give you another example of “living smart,” from my own personal life. On a recent Friday night, my son, Rob, and I were in Miami, playing laser tag, a game wherein you skulk around in a darkened maze, wearing a special electronic vest attached to a laser gun. The object is to shoot your opponent in his vest or gun, thereby scoring valuable points.

  I was standing in the dark, with my back pressed against a wall, a few feet from a corner. I knew Rob was around that corner. Quickly, I ran through my options:

  Option One: Run around the corner with my gun held out in front, thereby exposing it to Rob’s laser fire.

  Option Two: Protect my gun by holding it back and running around the corner with my face out in front.

  Looking back on what happened, I realize that I should have gone with Option Three. “Find some activity more appropriate for a 49-year-old, such as backgammon.”

  Instead I went with Option Two, running around the corner face-first, which turned out to not be such a great idea, because Rob had gone with Option One, running around the corner gun-first.

  The result was that my face, specifically my right eye socket, collided violently with Rob’s gun. But at least he didn’t score any valuable points!

  After the collision, I lay on the floor for a while, moaning and writhing, but eventually I was able to get back on my feet, and in just a matter of seconds—the recuperative powers of the human body are amazing—I was back down moaning and writhing on the floor again.

  “You need to go to the hospital,” said Rob.

  “Gnhnong,” I said. “Gnhime gnhowaagh.”

  That was me attempting to say, “No, I’m okay.” In fact, I didn’t feel so hot, but in my experience, if you go to a hospital for any reason whatsoever, including to read the gas meter, they give you a tetanus shot.

  So my plan was to tough it out. Leaning on Rob, I staggered out of the laser-tag place onto the sidewalk, where I had an excellent idea: Why not get down on all fours and throw up for a while? So I did. Nobody paid much attention; in Coconut Grove on a Friday night, it’s unusual to see somebody NOT throwing up.

  By this point Rob had gotten somebody to call a cab, and he insisted that we go to a hospital. When we got there I attempted to explain to a nurse what had happened; this was difficult because (a) I wasn’t totally coherent, and (b) the nurse had never played laser tag.

  “He shot you in the eye with a laser?” she said.

  “Gnhnong,” I said.

  “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?” she said.

  “YES!” I said, demonstrating the brain’s amazing recuperative power to lie in an emergency.

  They stuck some kind of needle in me anyway (hey, rules are rules). Then various doctors had a look at me, and, after a fair amount of peeking and probing, they determined that I had been hit in the face. They also told me I’d be okay.

  And I’m sure I will, although at the moment part of my face is numb, and my right eyeball could pose for the cover of a Stephen King novel. Also I feel sleepy all the time. This made me a little ne
rvous, so I did what medical experts recommend that you do whenever you have a question concerning your health: I called my friend Gene Weingarten, who is a professional newspaper editor and probably the world’s leading hypochondriac.

  Gene spent a day researching my symptoms and called back to tell me that, in his opinion, I have a condition known as “somnolence.” “Somnolence” means, in layperson’s terms, that you feel sleepy Gene recommended that I get a CAT scan, but of course Gene would also recommend a CAT scan for earwax, so I went back to bed.

  But forget about my personal medical problems. The point I’m trying to make is that, by considering your options and making the right decisions—”living smart”—you CAN lead a happy, healthy, and financially successful life. And if you do, please buy a bunch of groceries and have them delivered to me, because I really don’t feel like going out.

  WEIGHT LOSS

  THROUGH

  ANTI-GRAVITY

  I am pleased to report that we finally have a scientific explanation for why everybody in the world is gaining weight. At least I am, and I know it’s not my fault. Granted, I do not have the best dietary habits. Sometimes in a restaurant I will order fried, fatty foods (“Give me a plate of fried, fatty foods, and hurry” are my exact words). But I compensate for this by engaging in a strict exercise regimen of vigorously pounding the bottom of the ketchup bottle for as long as necessary. “No pain, no gain,” that is my motto regarding ketchup.

  Nevertheless, I have been gaining weight, and you probably have, too, which is why you’re going to be happy to learn that neither of us is responsible. The universe is responsible. We know this thanks to a scientific insight that was had by alert fourteen-year-old Massachusetts reader Tim Wing. Tim reports that he was browsing through The Osborne Book of Facts and Lists when he came across the following fact: Every single day, including federal holidays, 25 tons of space dust lands on the Earth. This means that every day, the Earth weighs 25 tons more, which means that it contains a larger quantity of gravity, which as you know is the force made up of invisible rays that cause all physical objects in the universe to become more attracted to bathroom scales.

  What this means, Tim Wing points out, is that “without gaining an ounce, people all over the world are getting heavier.”

  And there is more bad news: At the same time that gravity is increasing, the entire universe is expanding, except for pants. Pants are staying the same size, which means that—and this has been confirmed by extensive scientific tests conducted in my home—a “33-inch waist” pant will barely contain a volume that formerly fit easily into a 31-inch-waist pant. Albert Einstein accurately predicted this phenomenon in 1923 when he formulated his Theory of Pants Relativity, which also states, as a corollary, that as the universe grows older, “It will get harder and harder to find anything good on the radio.”

  But our big problem is this gravity buildup, which has already started to pose a grave threat to public safety. I refer here to an incident that occurred recently in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where, according to a September 16 Miami Herald story that I am not making up, “A loggerhead turtle fell from the sky and hit a man in his white Chevy Nova.”

  (SCENE: The hospital emergency room)

  Doctor: Where was the victim hit?

  Nurse: In his Chevy Nova.

  Doctor: Okay, let’s do a CAT scan, and I want his oil changed immediately.

  Seriously, the man was unhurt, and so was the turtle, which, according to the Herald story, was apparently dropped by a seagull. But that is exactly my point: Since when do seagulls—one of the most sure-handed species of bird—drop turtles? The obvious answer is: Since turtles started getting heavier, along with everything else.

  And as space dust continues to land on Earth, the situation will only worsen, with chilling results. According to my calculations, at the current rate of gravity buildup, by the year 2038, an ordinary golf ball will weigh the equivalent, in today’s pounds, of Rush Limbaugh. Even a professional golfer, using graphite clubs, would need dozens of strokes to make such a ball move a single foot. An average round of golf would take four months—nearly twice as long as today.

  Is that the kind of world we want our children to grow up and develop gum disease in? I think not. This is why we must call upon the scientific community to stop puttering around with global warming and immediately develop a solution to the gravity problem.

  (30-second pause)

  Well, we see that the scientific community has once again let the human race down, leaving it up to us civilians to deal with the situation. Fortunately, I have come up with a practical answer in the form of a:

  Gravity Reduction Plan

  Follow my reasoning: The problem is that 25 tons of stuff is landing on the Earth every day, right? So the obvious solution is to put 25 tons worth of stuff into a rocket every day and blast it into space. It couldn’t be simpler!

  Perhaps you’re saying: “But, Dave, how are we going to find 25 tons worth of stuff every single day that is so totally useless that we can just send it into space with total confidence that it could never possibly in any way benefit humanity?”

  I can answer that question in three simple words: “Fourth Class Mail.” Every day at least 25 tons of this material is painstakingly mailed all over the United States and thrown away immediately upon receipt. Solid-waste experts estimate that 78 percent of our nation’s landfill capacity is currently occupied by sincere unopened letters from Ed McMahon informing people that they have almost definitely won $14 million. Why not just load this material directly into rockets? And consider this: If we send up MORE than 25 tons a day, the Earth would actually LOSE gravity. I calculate that every human being on the planet would instantly be six ounces lighter if we also sent Ed up there, not that I am necessarily proposing this.

  So I say let’s fire up the rockets and get this program going before gravity gets so strong that all we can do is lie on the ground, helpless, while turtles rain down upon us. If you agree, write to your senators and congresspersons today and let them know where you stand. Stress the urgency of the situation. Stress their responsibility as public officials. Above all, stress that there’s room in the rocket with Ed.

  This certificate proves that I was confirmed at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on December 18, 1960. The church evidently had much lower standards in those days.

  THE HOT SEAT

  If you were to ask me how I came to set my toilet on fire, I would answer you in two simple words: Reader’s Digest.

  I am referring specifically to the February 1995 issue of Reader’s Digest, which was sent to me by alert reader Jeff Jerrell, who had spotted a startling article originally written for Health magazine by Mary Roach.

  The article is about germs, which are extremely tiny organisms—many of them smaller than the artist formerly known as Prince—that can be found in huge quantities virtually everywhere. To get an idea of what I mean, conduct the following:

  Scientific Germ Experiment

  Get a microscope and some spit. Put the spit on a glass slide and put it under the microscope lens. Now look through the eyepiece. You’ll notice, if you look closely, that you can’t see anything, because you have no idea how to operate a microscope. But while you’re looking, billions of germs, left on the eyepiece by the previous microscope user, will swarm into your eyeball—which to them is a regular Club Med—and start reproducing like crazy via wild bacterial sex. You’ll probably need surgery.

  Getting back to Reader’s Digest: The February article concerns leading University of Arizona germ scientist Chuck Gerba, Ph.D., who is a serious student of bacteria found in bathrooms. Consider the following absolutely true facts:

  He routinely goes into public rest rooms, unarmed, and takes bacteria samples from the toilets.

  His son’s middle name is “Escherichia,” after Escherichia coli, also known as E. coli, which is a common type of fecal bacteria.

  Needless to say I had to call this man.

&nbs
p; “You named your son after bacteria?” was my opening question.

  “He finds that it’s a good conversation starter,” Gerba replied. “If we’d had a girl, we were going to name her ‘Sally Salmonella.’”

  Gerba told me that there are definite hazards associated with his line of study.

  “When you spend a lot of time taking samples on your knees in the stalls of public rest rooms,” he said, “people tend to call the cops on you. I’ve had to do some fast talking. I tell the cops, ‘It’s okay! I’m a scientist!’ And they say, ‘Yeah, right, we arrested a couple of scientists in this stall just last night.’”

  Gerba told me that, in the course of his studies, he has learned some Amazing Toilet Facts:

  Toilet Fact No. 1—Based on scientific measurements of the holes in public-toilet seats, “Americans have the biggest butts in the world.”

  Toilet Fact No. 2—In any group of public toilets, the first stall is likely to have the least bacteria, and the middle ones are likely to have the most, because more people use them. (In determining the rate of usage, Gerba went into public toilets and numbered the toilet paper squares.)

  Toilet Fact No. 3—The cleanest public toilets are found in national-chain restaurants; the worst are found in gas stations.

  “I’m surprised,” Gerba said, “that no new life form has ever evolved from a gas-station toilet.”

  Toilet Fact No. 4—Every toilet user leaves a unique bacterial pattern; we know this thanks to a breakthrough technique Gerba developed called (I am not making any of this up) the Commode-A-Graph.