JANUARY 1 -- President-elect William Jefferson Rodham Kennedy Clinton, preparing for the task of being the most powerful human on Earth after 4,000 straight months on the campaign trail, sits down with his top aides and a complete set of the World Book Encyclopedia to learn about all these foreign countries. Meanwhile, outgoing President Bush, feeling depressed, visits Somalia to see if he can find out exactly what the beck we are doing there and whether there are any golf courses. 2 -- General Motors hires 75,000 workers and immediately lays them off. 3 -- Depressed outgoing President Bush goes to Russia to see if they have any historic nuclear documents for him to sign. 5 -- In Florida, the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service announces a Frequent Rafter Program. 6 -- Dizzy Gillespie plays his first duet with Gabriel. Rudolf Nureyev makes the Big Leap. 7 -- The Clintons, staunch advocates of public education for ordinary humans, announce that they will enroll their own personal child, Chelsea, in an elite private school. 8 -- Depressed outgoing President Bush arrives in France, which was not expecting him, but which hastily arranges for him and the French prime minister to reach a couple of important accords. 9 -- The U.S. Postal Service releases the new Elvis stamp, which weighs 253 pounds and is affixed to the envelope via peanut butter. The Clintons enroll Socks the Cat in Georgetown law school. 11 -- The White House, seeking to cheer up depressed outgoing President Bush, releases excerpts from his diary supporting his claim that, as vice president, he was not involved in Iran-Contra. A sample entry: "November 4, 1985 -- Well, if we are illegally selling arms to the Iranians and funneling the money to the Contras, I sure as heck don't know about it." 13 -- The nomination of Zoe Baird, Clinton's choice for attorney general, appears to be in trouble following reports that she is an illegal alien. Several major insurance companies announce that, because of losses caused by Hurricane Andrew, they will insure only those Florida homeowners whose homes meet the tougher new standard of being located outside of Florida. 16 -- In a highly symbolic display of symbolism, Bill Clinton and Al Gore begin a historic ride from Monticello, near Charlottesville, Va., to Washington, in the exact same bus that Thomas Jefferson used. Meanwhile, depressed outgoing President Bush shows up unannounced at several Wal-Mart openings in Missouri. Zoe Baird denies allegations that she once stole a truck. 18 -- In a disturbing omen, the Clinton-Gore bus, having changed direction over 250 times, is still in the Monticello parking lot. General Motors lays off another 273,000 workers. Zoe Baird robs a convenience store. 20 -- The Clinton Inauguration (Official Theme: "Let's Beat The Word 'Hope' To Death") goes off without a hitch, except that Depressed Outgoing President Bush shows up in his bathrobe. New President Clinton tells the nation that his "No. 1 priority" will be "jobs, a tax cut for the middle class, deficit reduction, health care, NAFTA, crime, dental hygiene, litter control, jogging, hair care, foreign affairs and establishing control over the weather." The final credits roll for Audrey Hepburn. 21 -- In what observers see as an indication of possible inexperience on the part of the Clinton staff, the new President and his entourage spend six hours trying to locate the White House, and are ultimately forced to spend the night in a Ramada Inn near East Orange, N.J. 22 -- A triumphant Bill Clinton locates the White House and, getting right to work, wipes out what the kitchen staff believed to be a two-year supply of french fries. 23 -- Zoe Baird is forced to withdraw her name from nomination following a tense 18-hour standoff with agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. President Clinton, exploring the White House, goes down into the basement and is shocked to discover a large federal budget deficit. 24 -- Violently anti-American pro-terrorist religious fanatic Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman arrives in New York with a suitcase containing 100 pounds of high explosives and a detailed map of the World Trade Center. He is able to trick Immigration authorities into letting him into the country by claiming that he is here "to see a Knicks game." 28 -- Tackling the critical issues, President Clinton, the Pentagon and Congress get into a raging debate over whether we should change our present policy of saying that we DON'T have gays in the military, even though of course we DO, to a policy of saying that we DO have gays in the military, but they can't ACT gay, or maybe a policy of saying that we're not CRAZY about having gays in the military, but we'll let them in as long as they don't SAY they're gay, and we won't ASK them. Finally, a compromise is reached under which gays ARE allowed in the military, as long as they swear they are NOT gay while at the same time WINKING to indicate that they're LYING, but they may not wink in a SUGGESTIVE MANNER, the exact definition of which will be hammered out by various congressional committees after holding hearings for the next 12 or 15 years. FEBRUARY 1 -- In yet another indication of inexperience on the part of the new administration, the Clintons, returning home after a dinner at the French Embassy, forget how to deactivate the White House alarm system, thereby launching a missile strike against Spain. The President, clearly upset, vows to hold a town meeting. 2 -- Congress, in a move with broad public support, unanimously passes a bill that would permanently ban the Buffalo Bills from the Super Bowl. 5 -- A bill is introduced in the Florida State Legislature that would guarantee the right of mothers to nurse their infants in public. Sen. Bob Packwood flies in to lend his support. 6 -- In another setback for the new administration, President Clinton's second choice for attorney general, Kimba Wood, is forced to withdraw from consideration after the Washington Post reports that she failed to pay the federal tax on people who are named after lionesses. 7 -- General Motors brings 87,000 workers out of retirement so it can lay them off. Arthur Ashe jumps his last net. 8 -- Professional baseball-team owners suspend Cincinnati Reds owner Marge Schott on the grounds of "extreme stupidity, even by baseball-team-owner standards," thereby forcing President Clinton to drop her from his short list of attorney general possibilities. 9 -- President Clinton announces that he is sending troops "into this blue-colored country next to this pink-colored country here." 10 -- In the most important television event in over 500 years, Michael Jackson is interviewed by Oprah Winfrey and reveals that he has a rare skin disease that requires him to hold slumber parties. 12 -- Keeping a campaign promise, President Clinton signs a Family Leave Bill granting employees who have new babies the legal right to leave their families and come to work and get some sleep. 13 -- Hopes dwindle for democracy in Haiti when ousted President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, attempting to return to the troubled island so he can take office and get shot, oversleeps and misses his flight. 15 -- After a frantic search, President Clinton picks Janet Reno to be his attorney general, citing her "tremendous height." Sen. Bob Packwood is hospitalized after he attempts to give Reno what his aides claim was "only a congratulatory hug." 16 -- Revealing his new tax plan, President Clinton states that, because of this deficit thing, he will have to increase taxes, but only on the rich, defined as "anybody who owns more than one shoe." 17 -- Congress, finally getting serious about the deficit, votes to close a large naval base in Dayton, Ohio. 18 -- Military experts point out that there is no large naval base in Dayton, Ohio. Congress votes to build one. 23 -- In a bid to stop the fighting in Bosnia, the U.S. threatens to drop military food on it. All sides immediately agree to hold peace talks. 24 -- Fidel Castro hints that he might retire, fueling speculation that he is probably not thinking in terms of a condo in Miami Beach. 26 -- In a tragedy that shocks the nation, a massive bomb blast rocks the World Trade Center, just two days after the World Trade Center bombing episode of "Beavis and Butthead." 27 -- Following a spate of attacks on tourists, the state of Florida, after years of delay, finally announces that it will stop issuing "Y" and "Z" license plates for rental cars. "From now on," said a spokesperson, "the tags will just say 'TOURISTS.'" 28 -- Near Waco, Texas, agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, suspecting firearms violations in the Branch Davidian compound, smoothly execute an action plan masterminded by Wile E. Coyote. MARCH 1 -- General Motors, having run out of its own workers, lays off 47,000 Chrysler employees. In Florida, an 11-year-old girl sues for the right to leave her parents and live with her grandparents. 3 -- Another snag develops in the effort to restore democracy to Haiti when ousted President Aristide fails to qualify for a discount plane ticket because he cannot promise the airline that he will stay over for at least one Saturday night. 4 -- In Ohio, a 15-year-old boy sues for the right to leave his parents and live with Michelle Pfeiffer. 5 -- President Clinton proposes a public service program under which young people, in exchange for college tuition, would spend two years serving as members of his Cabinet. 8 -- Seeking to reduce violence in the high schools, the New York City School Board, in a move strongly supported by the teachers, votes to ban students. 9 -- A medical researcher at Boston University reports that, after a four-year study of hyperactive children, he needs a drink. 10 -- In Los Angeles, attorneys in the Rodney King assault trial present expert witnesses who state that the officers were influenced by the motorist-beating episode of "Beavis and Butt- head." 11 -- In Vermont, a 7-year-old cat sues for the right to claw the furniture. 13 -- The Storm of the Century blasts the East Coast, snarling traffic and preventing ousted President Aristide from returning to Haiti. 15 -- True Item: Police in Miami, a city plagued by drugs, violent crime and drivers from outer space, announce that they're going to crack down on jaywalking. 16 -- From around the globe, millions of tourists, no longer fearing the specter of becoming victims of random jaywalking, flock to Miami. 17 -- Helen Hayes takes her final bow. 18 -- Police in Miami announce that they have halted their crackdown due to the high percentage of jaywalkers who are armed and capable of turning into jayshooters. 20 -- Scientists for the Tobacco Institute, after a 17- year study, release a report stating that there is "absolutely no scientific evidence" that people who purchase cigarettes do so with the intention of smoking them. 21 -- Treasury Secretary Lloyd Bentsen announces that taxpayers will need to pony up an additional $908 billion to finance a project to search for, and bail out, savings-and-loan institutions on other planets. Abe Hirschfeld purchases The New York Post. 22 -- Tension mounts in Moscow as President Boris Yeltsin and the Russian parliament get into a big fight over who gets to use the government car. Rupert Murdoch purchases The New York Post. 23 -- In a setback for NASA, the launch of the space shuttle Enervator is aborted at the last second when a computer indicates that at least four of the astronauts are still asleep back at the motel. George Steinbrenner purchases The New York Post. 25 -- On a positive note, U.S. government economists report that the job outlook is very strong if you are a U.S. government economist. 27 -- Arthur and Louise Krockenblatt, tourists visiting New York City from St. Louis, attempt to obtain tickets for "Guys and Dolls" and accidentally wind up purchasing The New York Post. 29 -- In what is seen as a blow to law-enforcement authorities, the Supreme Court votes 7-2 to join the Crips. 30 -- In New York, three muggers knock over the Krockenblatts and run off with The New York Post. APRIL 1 -- In what mathematicians call a million-to-one coincidence, Oprah Winfrey, Phil Donahue, Geraldo Rivera and Sally Jessy Raphael all get through their entire shows WITHOUT ONCE MENTIONING AMY FISHER. April Fool. 3 -- General Motors executives announce a project to develop a time machine so they can lay off employees working in the past. 5 -- In another setback for NASA, a planned nighttime launch of the space shuttle Enervator is aborted at the last second when the crew remembers that "Seinfeld" is on. 7 -- Scientists at the Tobacco Institute release a report stating that there is "absolutely no scientific evidence" proving that the Pope is Catholic. Macaulay Culkin purchases The New York Post. 8 -- Marian Anderson joins the heavenly choir. 11 -- In his first major foreign-policy address, President Clinton announces that he has located Somalia on the map and decided that our mission will be to feed starving people and capture the evil fugitive warlord Gen. Mohammed Farrah Aidid so that he (President Clinton) can go over there and have a town meeting and straighten everything out. 14 -- Mia Farrow, through her lawyer, presents documents linking Woody Allen to the World Trade Center bombing. 15 -- U.S. prestige suffers a setback when, because of a communications foul-up, U.S. forces in Somalia deliver food to fugitive warlord Gen. Mohammed Farrah Aidid. In Waco, federal officials attempt to drive Branch Davidian cult members from their compound by using a powerful sound system to play a recording of Vice President Al Gore explaining ozone depletion. Cult members attempt to wave the white flag of surrender, but fall asleep before they can get to the window. 16 -- In the historic Masters golf tournament, Bruce Langer hits a 9-iron par 3 bogey eagle blah blah blah. 17 -- After weeks of deliberation, jurors in the second Rodney King beating trial decide unanimously to purchase The New York Post. 19 -- In Waco, federal authorities, concerned about the safety of Branch Davidian children under the control of apocalyptic suicidal paranoid loons, develop a seemingly flawless plan: ATTACK THE COMPOUND WITH ARMORED VEHICLES. Everybody is shocked when the violent paranoid loons do not respond well to this. 20 -- In another setback for NASA, a planned launch of the space shuttle Enervator is aborted at the last second when a problem develops with the Last-Second Launch Aborter (LSLA). 23 -- Investigators probing the Tailhook convention sex scandal release a 450-page report containing more than 60 photographs -- some of them extremely graphic -- of Sen. Bob Packwood. 25 -- In a tough national-security move, Congress votes to spend $20 million to build new strategic radar facilities in Baghdad so we can bomb them. 28 -- True Item: Officials in Tacoma, Wash., discover that 18-year-old Frank Daltron, scheduled for induction into the Tacoma Youth Hall of Fame, is awaiting retrial on charges of first-degree murder after having admitted that he killed his mother with an ax. The Youth Hall of Fame motto is "Ordinary Youth Doing Extraordinary Things." 30 -- Another True Item: In an effort to raise money to restore fire-damaged Windsor Palace, Queen Elizabeth II decides to allow the public to tour Buckingham Palace for an admission charge. MAY 1 -- True Item: The space shuttle Columbia manages to get aloft, carrying with it a batch of brewing beer as part of a University of Munich experiment to determine, according to an Associated Press story, "whether the weightlessness and intense cosmic rays of space can genetically alter yeast to produce tastier beer." 2 -- Investigators for the Federal Aviation Administration report that in early April there were two consecutive days during which the major U.S. airlines failed to totally revise their fare structures. An alarmed Congress vows to investigate. 3 -- Queen Elizabeth II, pleased with the success of the Buckingham Palace tours, decides to rent Prince Charles out for weddings and bar mitzvahs. 5 -- NASA officials begin to suspect that the crew of the space shuttle Columbia has been messing around with the cosmic beer experiment when a crew member attempts the first nude spacewalk. 6 -- True Item: Just-released government documents reveal that Walt Disney was an informant for the FBI. 7 -- The crew of the space shuttle Columbia refuses to return to Earth for the scheduled landing, instead broadcasting a demand that NASA send up a supply rocket with "some more beer experiments and a couple of pepperoni pizza experiments." Just- released government documents reveal that from 1948 through 1951 Donald Duck was a member of the Communist Party. Also, "Mickey" Mouse is a woman. 8 -- Scientists report that they have isolated the gene that causes people to insist on showing you wallet photographs of their children, but the cure is still years away. 9 -- Buckingham Palace reports "very strong" sales of the three-volume Prince Charles Cellular Phone Tapes. 13 -- In Somalia, U.S. troops are thwarted in their effort to capture warlord Gen. Mohammed Farrah Aidid because Aidid has shrewdly registered under a false name -- "Fugitive Gen. John Smith" -- at the Mogadishu Hilton, where he is staying in the Warlord Suite. 15 -- A record total of 2,537 bargain-hunters call the Home Shopping Network and purchase The New York Post. 17 -- Testing a concept that will soon be available to consumers nationwide, telephone company engineers wire a Chicago neighborhood with a special fiber-optic cable that enables consumers to receive Chinese food over the phone. 22 -- In Los Angeles, President Clinton, acting on the advice of new public-image adviser Ed Rollins, gets a haircut. The Chicago fiber-optic experiment goes awry when a teen-age girl leaves her phone off the hook and a four-bedroom home is completely flooded with wonton soup. 25 -- A New York judge, after hearing extensive arguments from lawyers for Woody Allen and Mia Farrow, awards custody of the children to Marge and Homer Simpson. 27 -- The Clinton administration fires the White House travel staff and, after conducting what a spokesperson describes as "a totally objective nationwide search" to find a replacement, selects, as the new travel director, Roger Clinton. Asked by the press about his qualifications, the President's half- brother states that he has "taken several, whaddyacallem, planes." 30 -- Rodney King wins the Indianapolis 500. JUNE 1 -- In a hopeful sign for democracy in the troubled island nation, Haitian army chiefs purchase The New York Post. 3 -- True Item: A rookie Greyhound bus driver, driving the red-eye from Atlanta to Tallahassee on his first solo trip, gets sleepy and has a passenger take over the wheel for the rest of the trip. The driver is fired when the bus reaches Tallahassee. 4 -- The fired Greyhound driver is immediately hired by Exxon to pilot oil tankers. 8 -- Fighting in Bosnia halts as soldiers for both sides line up to see "Jurassic Park." 14 -- President Clinton, leaving himself open to charges that his administration has "gone Hollywood," nominates Barbra Streisand to the Supreme Court. 15 -- Canada elects a new prime minister, fueling speculation that people live up there. 16 -- In a major boxing upset, heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield is knocked out in the second round of a title fight by Shannen Doherty and six bodyguards. 17 -- True Item: A consumer in Seattle reports finding a hypodermic syringe in a can of Diet Pepsi. 18 -- The U.S. Department of Human Persons releases the results of a $3.6 million study showing that women are six times as likely as men to be named "Midge." Congress vows action. 19 -- True Item: The Washington Post reports that President Clinton has a previously unknown half-brother living in California. 21 -- The Bulls win the NBA championship and Chicago celebrates in what has become the traditional American fashion for this type of joyful occasion. Two are killed. 23 -- A very bad thing happens to John Wayne Bobbitt only hours after the broadcast of the penis-severing episode of "Beavis and Butthead." 25 -- In an alarming trend, police on routine patrols in various locations around the nation find a total of 17 unidentified severed penises. Sales of steel jockstraps soar. Bob Packwood hires armed bodyguards. 28 -- In another deficit-reduction move, Congress votes to go ahead and build a space station, but make it only eight inches in diameter. Philip Morris introduces a low-fat cigarette. Bored U.S. warplane pilots drop water balloons on Baghdad. 29 -- NBC, after a lengthy search for a wacky and zany replacement for David Letterman, announces that it has settled on Ross Perot. 30 -- True Item: To compensate for minor irregularities in the Earth's rotation, official international timekeepers add one second to this day. U.S. law firms adjust their bills. JULY 1 -- A consumer in Detroit reports finding a switchblade knife in a can of Diet Pepsi. 3 -- True Item: In the wake of a massacre at a San Francisco law firm, the head of the California Bar Association says that lawyer jokes are partly responsible. 5 -- In a Long Island courtroom, a stern-faced judge orders Joey Buttafuoco to purchase The New York Post. 6 -- In California, police arrest 23 million people for violating the state's new anti-lawyer-joke law. 8 -- In a major breakthrough, Japanese trade negotiators, after two years of stiff resistance, agree to order an American pizza. 9 -- In a medical breakthrough, surgeons in Houston are able to remove a man's head, take it to a baseball game, then take it back to the hospital and successfully reattach it. A hospital spokesperson states: "We are not sure of the purpose of this procedure, but it is definitely covered by insurance." 10 -- U.S.-Japanese relations suffer a major setback when President Clinton, in Tokyo to finalize the trade talks, eats the entire pizza. 13 -- Massive flooding strikes the Midwest, only days after the massive-flooding episode on "Beavis and Butthead." 15 -- In the flood-ravaged Midwest, the toll of human misery worsens as thousands of houses are blown down by wind from helicopters carrying news crews and political leaders frowning down with concern. 18 -- FBI Chief William Sessions begins to sense that the Clinton administration wants him to resign when his office is surrounded by agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. 22 -- In an extremely controversial decision, President Clinton announces that his nominee for surgeon general is Lorena Bobbitt. 25 -- The Food and Drug Administration announces a ban on products that contain ingredients. 29 -- Bell Laboratories announces that it has developed a telephone device that automatically identifies telephone solicitors, then hunts them down and beats them with sticks. AUGUST 3 -- A consumer in Baton Rouge reports finding a machete in a can of Diet Pepsi. 5 -- Despite allegations that he has used his government access for personal gain, U.S. Commerce Secretary Ron Brown insists that there was "nothing improper" about a transaction in which he received $75,000 from Vietnamese investors in exchange for the Department of Agriculture. 9 -- True Item: The Associated Press reports that a Tucson woman could be President Clinton's previously unknown half-sister. 11 -- In a 7-2 vote divided strictly along gender lines, the Supreme Court rules that it does not want to hear ANYTHING about the John Wayne Bobbitt case. 14 -- After weeks of intense debate, Congress passes, and President Clinton signs, a historic budget agreement under which everybody's taxes will be jacked up retroactive to Jan. 1, 1973, and the federal deficit will absolutely, positively, with no loopholes, be reduced as soon as the polar ice cap reaches Ecuador. Meanwhile, in a totally unexpected development, Burt Reynolds reveals that he is dating Woody Allen. 21 -- In Somalia, U.S. forces are again foiled in their efforts to capture the wily Gen. Aidid when, after appearing on his regular weekly TV show, "The Warlord Hour," he is able to escape from the studio by cleverly disguising himself with a pair of Ray-Bans. 24 -- The Clintons, vacationing in Martha's Vineyard, go sailing with Ted Kennedy and an estimated 4,500 life preservers. 27 -- In another setback for the space program, scientists at the National Aeronautics and Setbacks Administration are unable to contact the Mars Observer space probe. 28 -- Speaking of space probes: Michael Jackson cancels a concert in Tokyo because of what a spokesperson describes as "a headache." The Weekly World News reports that a woman in Omaha is President Clinton's half-mother. 30 -- NASA scientists finally contact the Mars Observer space probe, only to be greeted by an answering machine that does nothing except repeat, over and over, in a very pleasant voice: "Your call is important to us." 31 -- An alarming new study shows that U.S. students are doing worse than ever on standardized math tests because many of them can no longer figure out how to turn on their calculators. SEPTEMBER 1 -- A consumer in Boston reports finding an AK-47 assault rifle in a can of Diet Pepsi. 4 -- In another setback for the space program, NASA discovers that the service warranty has expired on the Mars Observer. 5 -- In a move strongly opposed by the National Rifle Association, the California State Legislature passes a law requiring a five-day "cooling-off" period on purchases of Diet Pepsi. 8 -- President Clinton and Vice President Gore, standing in front of two forklifts laden with enormous piles of government regulations, announce that they are going to reinvent the federal government. Everybody has a good laugh, especially the 23,475 employees of the U.S. Department of Forklift Affairs. 10 -- Congress, acting with unusual speed and urgency, forms 11 new subcommittees that will hold hearings on "reinventing" government just as soon as they hire staffs and complete fact-finding trips to see if, for example, Monte Carlo also has a government. 13 -- In a White House treaty-signing ceremony watched around the world, the Mideast conflict finally comes to an end as Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and PLO Chairman Yasser Arafat, encouraged by President Clinton, engage in a historic handshake. Conflict resumes immediately when Rabin discovers that Arafat is wearing a "joy buzzer." 14 -- Raymond Burr rests for the defense. 16 -- The reinvention of the federal government continues apace as President Clinton signs an order that would eliminate the 250,000 jobs currently held by federal employees who are legally dead. 17 -- David Letterman begins his new show on CBS with a special surprise performance by Gen. Mohammed Farrah Aidid and the Warlords. 18 -- President Clinton rescinds his order under pressure from the powerful Deceased Federal Employees Union. Michael Jackson cancels a concert in Zurich because of what a spokesperson describes as "the hives." 20 -- The airline industry announces that it is tired of slashing fares and from now on is just going to periodically set fire to piles of money. 22 -- Loni Anderson reveals that she is dating Joey Buttafuoco. 23 -- In a major address, President Clinton announces that the nation's current health-care system is bloated, inefficient, unresponsive, overpriced, wasteful and stupid, and that therefore he wants to turn control of it over to the federal government. Extra forklifts are brought to the White House to display the plan for the new, streamlined health-care system. 25 -- Testifying on her health-care reform plan, Hillary Rodham Clinton is a huge hit on Capitol Hill as she is able, under close questioning, to correctly identify all the parts of the lymphatic system. 26 -- The nation is swept by a rumor about a gang initiation ritual in which motorists who blink their headlights at a prospective gang member are allegedly followed home and killed if they oppose NAFTA. Ross Perot has documents proving this, but he left them in his limo. On Capitol Hill, Hillary Rodham Clinton continues to impress congressional committees by dissecting a cadaver. 27 -- In Arizona, the eight crew members of Biosphere 2 emerge from the totally sealed-off environment where they have lived for two years without any direct contact with the outside world. Clearly visible behind them as they walk out is a mound consisting of an estimated 5,000 Domino's pizza boxes. 28 -- The federal government announces that it will participate in a joint effort with the Big Three U.S. automakers to develop a forklift capable of lifting even larger federal plans. 30 -- On Capitol Hill, Hillary Rodham Clinton, continuing to impress members of Congress with her medical knowledge, performs emergency prostate surgery on Sen. Strom Thurmond (R- Deceased). OCTOBER 1 -- A consumer in Phoenix reports finding a nuclear submarine in a can of Diet Pepsi. 2 -- At the government's urging, millions of Americans receive flu shots, administered by Hillary Rodham Clinton. Michael Jackson cancels a concert in London because of what a spokesperson describes as "postnasal drip." 3 -- As tension mounts between the Russian Parliament and President Boris Yeltsin, President Clinton, in what will later be viewed as a strategic error, sends officials of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms over to help out. 4 -- After a tense standoff, the Russian parliament surrenders when agents of the. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Tense Standoffs blasts the parliament building with a recording of Roseanne Barr reading "The Bridges of Madison County." 6 -- True Item: President Clinton announces that he wants to get the U.S. out of Somalia and is therefore sending 2,000 more troops over there. 8 -- In a development that receives more coverage than anything that happened all year in Bosnia, Michael Jordan announces that he will not be playing basketball this year. President Clinton vows to hold several town meetings. 10 -- Michael Jackson cancels a concert in Barcelona because of what a spokesperson describes as a "14-foot tapeworm." 11 -- President Clinton, in a troop-sending mood, sends U.S. troops to Haiti to restore democracy. 12 -- Arriving in Haiti, U.S. troops are met at the docks by several dozen shouting men and what a White House spokesperson describes as "a very large dog." President Clinton orders them to return to the United States and try to restore democracy in Miami. 15 -- True Item: Researchers report that people who are listening to Mozart score higher on tests. 18 -- Researchers report that test-takers who are listening to "New Age" music often cannot figure out how to work the pencil. 19 -- In Somalia, the wily Gen. Aidid again eludes U.S. forces by swapping name tags with another warlord at the Warlords Ball. 21 -- In Los Angeles, the jury in the Reginald Denny beating trial, after much thinking, concludes that Person A is not necessarily trying to kill Person B just because Person A happens to very deliberately bash Person B's skull in with a brick. The verdict is applauded by scientists at the Tobacco Institute. 22 -- Michael Jackson cancels a concert in Rio de Janeiro because of what a spokesperson describes as "problems with his artificial leg." 23 -- An indignant Attorney General Janet Reno warns the TV industry that it had better stop broadcasting displays of gratuitous violence such as the FBI raid on the Branch Davidian compound. 25 -- True Item: Researchers announce that they have developed a cream, derived from an asthma remedy, that will remove fat from thighs. 26 -- Millions of Americans suddenly develop asthma symptoms. 27 -- Wildfires rage through the hills and canyons of Southern California only hours after the broadcast of the wildfire episode of "Beavis and Butthead." 30 -- Michael Jackson cancels a concert in Norway because of what a spokesperson describes as "a problem involving his Siamese twin." Ross Perot claims NAFTA will cause cancer. 31 -- The New York Times reports that, for the first time ever, scientists have divided a human embryo into two, producing two identical clones, thereby raising the tricky ethical question of whether the embryos' made-for-TV-movie rights must be negotiated separately. NOVEMBER 1 -- A consumer in Detroit reports finding a full combat division of the Iraqi army in a can of Diet Pepsi. Ross Perot claims NAFTA will permit "giant Mexican squirrels" to cross the border and bite people. 3 -- The Los Angeles coroner's office reports that an autopsy of actor River Phoenix showed his blood contained traces of cocaine, heroin, alcohol, Valium, marijuana, opium, nicotine, caffeine, NutraSweet, Lavoris, NyQuil, Nestlers Quik, Ortho Weed- B-Gone and Certs. A Los Angeles jury concludes that the cause of death was "acne." 6 -- The Food and Drug Administration bans Certs. 9 -- In a live televised debate over NAFTA, Ross Perot, in what is widely viewed as a tactical error, bites Al Gore on the ankle; the feisty billionaire cannot be pried loose until the Vice President beats him unconscious with a hard-cover copy of "Earth in the Balance." 10 -- True Item: In Irvine, Calif., a cow wanders onto the San Diego Freeway. To subdue the cow, police pump 43 bullets into it. 11 -- A Los Angeles jury indicts the freeway cow for resisting arrest. 13 -- John Wayne Bobbitt goes on trial, and millions of men are forced to go around with wads of cottons stuffed in their ears to avoid hearing the phrase "cut off his penis," which is being broadcast relentlessly, by perky, cheerful female newscasters sounding even more cheerful than usual. 15 -- The Food and Drug Administration bans penises. 18 -- In what many observers see as a veiled threat, Sen. Bob Packwood says that his diary contains entries suggesting that "at least six members now serving in the Senate" are half- brothers of President Clinton. 20 -- Michael Jackson announces that he has become addicted to talking in a squeaky voice and will return to his home planet for treatment. 22 -- On the 30th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's death, a Los Angeles jury views the Zapruder film and concludes that the shooting was a suicide. 28 -- Fox TV purchases the rights to the Bob Packwood Diaries. 30 -- The "Geraldo" show scores the highest ratings in the history of live daytime TV when the plucky and courageous journalist has his penis severed and reattached. He vehemently denies rumors that he used a magnifying lens. DECEMBER 1 -- A consumer in Orlando reports finding the Ark of the Covenant in a can of Diet Pepsi. The National Football League, having somehow got its computer system mixed up with that of the Publishers Clearing House, awards a franchise to Mrs. Noreen P. Glonder of Tepid Springs, S.C. 2 -- The space shuttle Endeavour blasts off on a historic mission to repair the crippled Hubble Orbiting Space Punch Line. 3 -- After months of legal wrangling, the Senate Ethics Committee finally obtains the Bob Packwood diary, but is unable to read it because the pages are stuck together. 4 -- Preparing for its historic repair effort, the space shuttle Endeavour docks at the Orbiting Space Hardware Store to pick up some duct tape. The Food and Drug Administration bans food. 6 -- An alarming new study shows that 14 percent of Americans do not speak English, and the vast majority of them write computer manuals. Prankish U.S. warplane pilots drop a Shetland pony on Baghdad. 7 -- Astronauts aboard the space shuttle Endeavour arrive at the Hubble telescope and discover that it has been smashed beyond recognition in a high-speed collision with the Mars Observer. The astronauts elect to go to the Orbiting Space Convenience Store for coffee. 9 -- The public becomes further outraged about the influence of television on young people following an incident wherein a 4-year-old Cincinnati girl, after watching the House of Representatives on C-Span, accepts large contributions from special interest groups in exchange for introducing favorable legislation. 10 -- In another indicator of the tough anti-crime move sweeping the nation, New Jersey approves the death penalty for talking during movies. 13 -- Archaeologists digging on the site of a 14,000-year- old Native American village in Montana unearth what is believed to be the world's oldest known bingo hall. 15 -- A school board in Georgia votes to ban the alphabet after concerned parents point out that it can be used to spell "Satan" as well as "penis." 18 -- A sheepish President Clinton announces that he finally got around to actually READING the NAFTA agreement, and it turns out that Mexico now has 124 seats in the U.S. Senate. 20 -- Researchers at the University of Minnesota Medical School report that if you feed rats three ounces of beer, six times a day, they (the rats) (also the researchers) have to go to the bathroom. 24 -- The American Medical Association expresses "grave concern" about the new Lorena Bobbitt Extremely Quick Weight-Loss Diet. 27 -- The Senate votes to give Texas back to Mexico. There is surprisingly little public opposition to this. 31 -- In a development that deeply disturbs the international community, the Chicago Tribune reports that the Chinese have agreed to sell nuclear weapons to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. We do not wish to create panic, but this news comes only hours before the scheduled broadcast of the end-of-the-world episode of "Beavis and Butthead." It's best not to think about it. Happy New Year. (Dave Barry is humor columnist for The Miami Herald. ) (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE YEAR IN REVIEW, ACCORDING TO DAVE BARRY Message-ID: Date: 27 Dec 92 02:08:01 GMT Lines: 820 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com X-Takes: 10 ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 908/849; Id: z0443; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 12/27-N/A; TAKES Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: There is a strict embargo on this column until Sunday, Dec. 27. We are moving it early for your convenience. A shorter version of the column will also move today. This column takes the place of Dave Barry's regular column for release Dec. 27. ALSO: Supremes Court in Nov. 11 item is correct.) DAVE BARRY JANUARY 1 -- In the White House, George Bush, during a high-level discussion of possible U.S. responses to a strike by cork harvesters in Portugal, glances out the Oval Office window and notices that the darned U.S. economy is STILL in trouble. He vows to write a stern note to his economic advisers, Wayne and Garth, just as soon as he gets back from the upcoming meeting of The Six or Seven Top World Leaders Club, at which they are expected to agree, after two years of negotiations, on a secret handshake. Meanwhile, Bill Clinton -- a virtual unknown on the national scene, despite the fact that he has been governor of Arkansas since he was 17 -- arrives in New Hampshire with a truck containing 957 separate eight-point policies, a 55-gallon drum of nasal decongestant and enough hair spray to immobilize the Brazilian rain forest. 2 -- True Item: The Middle East is hit by its heaviest snowstorm in four decades. 3 -- In an unprecedented broadcasting development, an entire hour passes during which there is not ONE SINGLE COMMERCIAL featuring Michael Jordan. The FCC vows to investigate. 4 -- In Jerusalem, 47 Arabs and 38 Israelis are injured in the region's worst snowball fighting in four decades. 5 -- True item: A Florida state appeals court rules that Broward County Sheriff Nick Navarro has to stop an operation under which sheriff-department personnel MANUFACTURED CRACK COCAINE, then sold it to citizens, then arrested these citizens for buying it, because of course drugs are bad and need to be eliminated. 6 -- Medical researchers at Johns Hopkins announce that a five-year study of cholesterol has revealed that the letters in ``cholesterol'' can be rearranged to spell ``hooter cells.'' Bacon futures soar. 7 -- The troubled airline industry announces that it will raise fares. In politics, New York Gov. Mario Cuomo calls a press conference to announce that, just in case anybody forgot, he has definitely ruled himself out of the presidential race. In a staggering economic blow to California's largest industry, the Food and Drug Administration calls for a moratorium on breast implants. 8 -- President Bush flies to Japan accompanied by 237 high-level aides, 322 leading U.S. business executives, 517 journalists, 856 security personnel, the first lady, 26 grandchildren and both White House dogs. Left behind, tragically, is the black briefcase containing the presidential Pepto-Bismol. 9 -- Virginia Gov. Douglas Wilder pulls out of the presidential race, sending shock tremors through the estimated 15 people who knew he was running. Mario Cuomo calls an urgent press conference to announce that it will not be necessary for him to drop out, because he was never in. Elvis marks his 55th birthday with an appearance on the ``Larry King Live'' show. 10 -- In Tokyo, President Bush scores an economic coup as the Japanese government, under intense pressure to open its doors to U.S. imports, agrees to purchase a 1992 Chevrolet Caprice. At a formal dinner hosted by the prime minister, the president formalizes the agreement by performing the ceremonial Ralph of Friendship. 16 -- One year after the outbreak of the Gulf War, defeated and crestfallen dictator Saddam Hussein marks the occasion by attending the Invitational Kurd Shoot. 18 -- The Supreme Court votes 6-5 to strike down a federal law requiring audits of Supreme Court voting procedures. 20 -- The Japanese government's Caprice develops transmission trouble. 22 -- The New Hampshire primary campaign is thrown into an uproar when the major news media, having vowed to focus on The Issues, give extensive coverage to allegations by Gennifer Flowers in a supermarket tabloid that, over a 12-year period, she and Bill Clinton repeatedly met in secret to discuss his program for national health insurance. 24 -- An estimated 750 journalists attend an emotional press conference at which Gennifer Flowers plays a tape recording of a man, whom she identifies as Bill Clinton, revealing intimate details of his position on federal alfalfa subsidies. 26 -- In the most surprising Super Bowl finish in the game's 27-year history, the Washington Redskins and the Buffalo Bills agree to stop playing in the third quarter so they can watch Bill and Hillary Clinton discuss their marriage on ``60 Minutes.'' ------ FEBRUARY 1 -- In sports, heavyweight rocket scientist Mike Tyson KO's himself. 2 -- In what has become a Groundhog Day tradition, Pennsylvania's famous furry critter ``Punxsutawney Phil'' emerges from hibernation and appears on ``Larry King Live.'' The troubled airline industry announces that fares will henceforth be based on a complex formula involving the outcomes of collegiate hockey games. Bert Parks leaves to MC that Big Beauty Pageant in the Sky. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 2 OF 10 4 -- True Item: An archaeological expedition, guided by photographs taken from space, locates a ``lost city'' buried under the desert of southern Oman. 7 -- President Bush, responding to allegations that his use of the potent sleeping-pill Halcion has caused him to act erratically, angrily tells reporters that they are ``big Methodist spiders.'' 8 -- The lost city in southern Oman is identified as Toledo, Ohio, which apparently has been missing since 1987, but nobody noticed until now. 10 -- Commemorating the 500th anniversary of Columbus' voyage, authentic reproductions of the sailing ships Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria set out for the ``New World.'' Alex Haley returns to his ``Roots.'' 11 -- In New Hampshire, Bill Clinton's character comes under further scrutiny when the news media obtain a 1969 photograph showing him reporting for a draft physical wearing a dress. Immediately, a new surprise front-runner emerges in the form of former U.S. senator and suspected pod person Paul E. Tsongas, who informs the press, via an interpreter, that, in order for the economy to recover, ``everybody must swim laps.'' Mario Cuomo begins a 27-city bus tour of the Granite State to remind voters that he is not running. 12 -- The Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria sail off the edge of the Earth. 17 -- In Milwaukee, Jeffrey Dahmer is sentenced to life in prison with no refrigerator privileges. 18 -- President Bush's political vulnerability is exposed brutally in the New Hampshire primary balloting when he finishes just barely ahead of Pat Buchanan, and 47 points behind Mrs. Bush. 19 -- A historic accord is achieved in troubled Lebanon when representatives of all 19 warring factions meet to agree on a system of color-coded uniforms so everybody will know whom to shoot at. Elsewhere abroad, the beleaguered Cuban government announces a plan to ration gravity. 20 -- Appearing on ``Larry King Live,'' H. Ross Perot announces that if his supporters put him on the ballot in all 50 states, he will have them all investigated. In Lebanon, the opening session of the Color- Coded-Uniform Conference erupts in gunfire following a dispute over which faction gets to wear teal. 21 -- In Winter Olympics action, NBC elects to simply re-broadcast videotapes of the luge and bobsled events from 1976, since nobody can tell the difference. 25 -- The U.S. Postal Service, bored with trying to deliver the actual mail, announces a plan to spend millions of taxpayer dollars deciding which face to put on the Elvis stamp. 26 -- In Washington, the Supreme Court, in a landmark 9-8 decision, rules that if you pass ``GO,'' you don't HAVE to collect the $200. 27 -- Mario Cuomo calls a press conference to announce that he is withdrawing his face from consideration for the Elvis stamp. 28 -- The troubled airline industry enters the Betty Ford Clinic. ------ MARCH 1 -- Pat Buchanan wins the Austrian primary. 2 -- Saddam Hussein appears on ``Larry King Live.'' 3 -- Business and academic professionals around the world are gripped by panic following dire warnings from numerous experts that tens of thousands of computers could be infected with the dread Michelangelo virus, set to strike on March 6. 4 -- A grim President Bush places U.S. armed forces on Full Red Alert in preparation for the expected onslaught of the dread Michelangelo virus. 5 -- Highways leading from major metropolitan areas are hopelessly jammed by millions of fear-crazed motorists fleeing from the oncoming Michelangelo virus. 6 -- As predicted, the dread Michelangelo virus erupts, wreaking untold havoc on an estimated one computer belonging to Rose Deegle of Rochester, N.Y., whose Christmas-card list is nearly wiped out. Vice President Quayle jets in to oversee the relief effort. 8 -- Michelangelo appears on ``Larry King Live.'' 9 -- True Item: Led by the Surgeon General, U.S. doctors call on R.J. Reynolds to dump the ``Old Joe'' cartoon camel as a symbol for Camel cigarettes, on the grounds that it has great appeal to children. 10 -- Jerry Brown wins the Disneyland primary. 11 -- In New York, the trial of accused Mafia kingpin John Gotti is recessed while the judge considers a defense motion to declare a mistrial because ``The air seems to be running a little low inside the 55-gallon drum where we are keeping your honor's mother.'' 12 -- True Item: Tammy Faye Bakker announces that she is seeking a divorce, saying that waiting for her convicted evangelist troll husband, Jim, to get out of jail is ``too hard on the physical body.'' 13 -- Controversy flares anew over professional baseball's escalating salaries when the Chicago Cubs sign a five-year, $43 million contract with catcher Tom Daily, who died in 1939. 14 -- In a heartwarming display of concern for the health of the young, R.J. Reynolds announces that it will dump ``Old Joe,'' and that Camels will henceforth be represented by ``Old Kermit the Frog.'' DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 3 OF 10 17 -- A ray of sunshine penetrates the gloomy national mood as Americans delight to a hilarious new nightly TV comedy, ``Congresspersons Explain Why They Were Not Responsible For Overdrawing Their Own Personal Checking Accounts As Many As Several Hundred Times In One Year,'' featuring a parade of elected officials maintaining straight faces while offering excuses that make the act of balancing a checkbook appear far more complex than a space-shuttle launch. 18 -- Convicted tax felon and Hotel Queen Leona Helmsley is sentenced to prison. Concerned about the pacing of its games, the National Football League decides to eliminate the ``instant replay'' after a study shows that seven games from the 1991 season are still going on. 19 -- The sergeant-at-arms of the House of Representatives, who had been responsible for the House bank, resigns to accept a key position in the savings-and-loan industry. 20 -- Hotel Queen Leona Helmsley escapes from prison by climbing out a third-floor window and shinnying down what police describe as ``a very large strand of pearls.'' 22 -- New York City police suspect that escaped Hotel Queen Leona Helmsley could be at large in Manhattan following an incident in which a woman wearing a mink ski mask burst into a midtown beauty salon and forced an employee to pedicure her at gunpoint. 24 -- True Item: Mrs. Manuel Noriega is arrested at a Miami department store and charged with snipping 27 buttons off of 10 women's jackets. 25 -- In a major intelligence coup, the U.S. government learns that it might not need to have 300,000 troops defending West Germany from East Germany, because these are now THE SAME COUNTRY. Officials begin planning a lightning military maneuver that could mean that, by 1995, there will be only 150,000 U.S. troops defending Germany from itself. 29 -- Paul Tsongas drops out of the Democratic race and immediately surges ahead in the polls. The school board in Doober County, Ala., responding to pressure from concerned parents, votes to ban ``David Copperfield'' from the high-school curriculum on the grounds that it ``contains words.'' 30 -- Bill Clinton, wooing the weenie vote, says he tried marijuana, but was unable to inhale. 31 -- ``Silence of the Lambs'' is the big winner in the Academy Award ceremonies, which culminate in an emotional moment when Best Actor Anthony Hopkins breaks down on stage and ralphs up what is later identified as a segment of Best Actress Jodie Foster. ------ APRIL 1 -- Members of the U.S. House of Representatives vote to stop getting themselves re-elected by spending billions of taxpayer dollars on unnecessary weapons and military bases and moron projects for purposes such as asparagus research. April Fool. 2 -- True Item: Scientists announce the discovery of a massive, 1,500- year-old fungus in Michigan. It covers at least 37 acres, making it the largest living thing on Earth, after Rush Limbaugh. In New York, John Gotti is convicted on all 13 counts of racketeering and murder; the judge, in an unusual sentence, orders him ``to be more careful next time.'' 3 -- An international arms-inspection team begins to suspect that Iraq may be concealing missiles when they happen to observe several downtown Baghdad ``telephone poles'' blasting into the sky. 4 -- A National Institutes of Health panel on weight control releases its long-awaited report, which unfortunately is unreadable because of chocolate stains. The giant Michigan fungus appears on ``Larry King Live.'' 5 -- Sam Walton experiences the Ultimate Discount. 6 -- True Item: The ceremonial first pitch of the 1992 baseball season, thrown by President Bush in Baltimore's new stadium, lands in the dirt. Isaac Asimov returns to his Foundation. 7 -- Another True Item: The Supreme Court rules that undercover federal agents acted improperly in a ``sting'' operation wherein they spent more than two years relentlessly trying to sell child pornography to a Nebraska man, and then, when he finally ordered some, they arrested him. Legal scholars ponder what would happen if undercover agents accidentally purchased federally distributed kiddie porn with cocaine manufactured by the Broward County Sheriff's Office. 9 -- Great Britain elects an entire new government following a campaign that took less time, total, than U.S. politicians will need, later in the year, to agree on a debate format. 10 -- The Bush administration proposes legislation to shorten the distance between the pitcher's mound and home plate. Convicted savings- and-loan magnate Charles Keating is sentenced to 10 years in prison, but works out a deal wherein he will actually serve only 10 days of his own time, and use depositors' time for the rest of the sentence. 11 -- Sam Kinison has his last laugh. 12 -- In a triumph for the Bush administration following the U.S. invasion of Panama and a trial costing millions of dollars, a Miami jury convicts Manuel Noriega on charges of receiving stolen buttons. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 4 OF 10 13 -- Ross Perot announces that the country is all messed up, but that he has ordered a plan to fix everything and will reveal it just as soon as he takes delivery. His polls soar. 14 -- Bill Clinton's political strategists, concerned that Hillary could be hurting the campaign by appearing to harbor opinions, enroll her in the Donna Reed Housewife Rehabilitation Clinic, where she is confined to the much-feared Heloise Unit. 15 -- True Item: President and Mrs. Bush's tax returns are made public, revealing that in 1991 the President made $2,718 in royalties for his autobiography, whereas First Dog Millie made $889,176 for hers. 17 -- Downtown Chicago is paralyzed for what will turn out to be several days by a massive, multimillion-dollar flood, the cause of which is ultimately traced to the home of Arnold Spooterman, whose last words, according to his wife, were ``We don't need a plumber. I'll just tighten this ...'' 18 -- A closer inspection of the Bush tax return shows a business deduction for $457,756 worth of ``chew toys.'' 21 -- NASA scientists, using sophisticated computer analysis of photographs obtained from the Hubble Space Telescope, report that there is a dead bug on the lens. 25 -- Ross Perot announces that his plan to fix the country up has been delayed because some parts had to be back-ordered, but it should arrive ``within a couple of weeks.'' His polls soar. 27 -- The War on Drugs scores a major victory when U.S. agents, acting on a tip, arrest Peru. 29 -- Riots erupt in Los Angeles after residents obtain an advance copy of the ``Murphy Brown'' script in which she becomes an unwed mother. 30 -- Looting spreads to many areas of L.A., including Rodeo Drive, where witnesses report seeing escaped Hotel Queen Leona Helmsley breaking into a leading boutique by hurling a large diamond against the plate-glass window. ------ MAY 1 -- Political leaders from all over the nation rush to Los Angeles to express their concern for the inner city, until the TV lights go out. 5 -- Ross Perot's poll ratings surge again after he announces that his plan to fix the country finally did arrive, but had to be sent back because of a faulty binding. Hillary Clinton, newly released from a successful treatment at the Donna Reed Housewife Rehabilitation Clinic, declares that the No. 1 concern of the public is ``closet space.'' 6 -- The final credits roll for Marlene Dietrich. 11 -- True Item: United Airlines announces that it will serve McDonald's food on more than 250 flights departing daily from Chicago's O'Hare airport. 14 -- Another True Item: Sen. Dennis DeConcini, D-Ariz., endorsing a balanced-budget amendment, says: ``We're going to finally wrestle to the ground this gigantic orgasm that is just out of control.'' 15 -- Damage is estimated at $3.7 million after a United Airlines pilot attempts to taxi a fully loaded 727 up to a McDonald's drive-thru window. 16 -- Sen. Dennis DeConcini denies any knowledge of a life-size inflatable copy of the federal budget found in his car. 18 -- Halcion gets a clean bill of health when a Food and Drug Administration panel reports that the controversial drug ``poses absolutely no threat to the little talking harmonicas that live in your nose.'' Lawrence Welk passes away, but this is not expected to affect his performing skills. 19 -- Tributes to Johnny Carson dominate the airwaves as the beloved ``Tonight Show'' host, in his last week on the air, is visited by a glittering array of celebrities, including Cher, Newt Gingrich and devastated Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, who tells the late-night legend that he never misses the monologue, ``even when I'm in the bunker.'' 20 -- In a major policy address, Dan Quayle points out that Dumbo's mom was unwed, thereby touching off riots in four major cities. On the ``Tonight Show,'' Johnny's guests include Marky Mark and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. 21 -- In what will later be viewed as a mistake, the crack Middle East Peace Negotiating Team is sent into what used to be Yugoslavia. Johnny Carson plays host to Mother Teresa, the Chicago Bulls, Telly Savalas, Susan Sontag and Weird Al Yankovic. 22 -- In Los Angeles, a judge orders police officers acquitted of beating Rodney King to be re-tried, this time by a jury that is not legally blind. At the White House, Dan Quayle is bitten by Millie, best- selling author and unwed mother. On his much-anticipated final show, Johnny Carson, following a moving tribute by Princess Diana, Orson Welles and six of the original 12 apostles, announces that he has decided not to retire. 30 -- A Milwaukee judge rules that a Chicago man, whose sperm was used to fertilize an egg removed from an Atlanta woman who was paid by a Detroit couple who have since divorced and are now in a bitter court dispute over what brand of refrigerator to keep the embryo in, DOES have the right to be in the first segment when the story is featured on ``Oprah.'' DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 5 OF 10 ------ JUNE 1 -- Uncertainty grips the Middle East as brain surgeons in Jordan work for seven hours on PLO leader Yasser Arafat, but are unable to get that cloth thing off his head. 3 -- Bill Clinton, seeking to improve his image among young voters, goes on ``The Arsenio Hall Show'' and, after donning a pair of dark sunglasses, smokes a joint. 4 -- Thousands of delegates from all over the world jet to Rio de Janeiro for the Earth Summit, an event that scientists predict will severely deplete the planet's dwindling supply of hors d'oeuvres. 8 -- By an unfortunate coincidence, the annual ``Tailhook'' convention of naval aviators happens to be booked into the same Las Vegas hotel as the Association of Women Karate Instructors. ``I had no idea,'' states one observer, ``that an aviator could fly that far without an aircraft. '' 9 -- At the Earth Summit, a day of often-heated debate finally draws to a close when delegates, by an unexpectedly close margin, vote to order the veal scaloppine. Jimmy Hoffa appears on ``Larry King Live.'' 10 -- Doubts arise concerning Ross Perot's claim to be a Washington ``outsider'' after The New York Times reports that the Dallas billionaire owns the Smithsonian Institution, the Lincoln Memorial and an estimated 53 percent interest in the House of Representatives. New ``Tonight Show'' host Jay Leno welcomes special guest George Bush, who seeks to improve his image among younger voters by performing ``Smoke on the Water'' on the ukulele. Earth Summit delegates vote to distribute 680,000 copies of the 571-page Official Earth Summit Manifesto to End Waste and Souvenir Album. 11 -- The U.S. Senate, after intense lobbying by the National Rifle Association, defeats a bill banning handguns in the womb. 12 -- In a landmark decision, a federal judge in Los Angeles rules that if the National Endowment for the Arts is going to use taxpayers' money to buy art, the taxpayers should get to decide what KIND of art. 13 -- Ross Perot, appearing on the David Letterman show, wows young voters with a rendition of ``Stairway to Heaven'' on a nose flute. The National Endowment for the Arts purchases 3.4 million paintings of dogs playing poker. Scientists detect a large new hole in the ozone layer, believed to be caused by fumes from flaming desserts served at the Earth Summit. 14 -- The U.S. House, after a lengthy session during which virtually every member gets up and makes an impassioned speech stating that Something Must Be Done about the deficit, rejects the balanced-budget amendment. 15 -- President Bush's brain trust, seeking some positive press coverage, shrewdly decides to send the President to Panama, where he is welcomed by happy natives who stage an enthusiastic welcoming demonstration until they are driven off by tear gas. 16 -- As the ongoing Iran-Contra investigation enters its 19th year, Special Prosecutor Lawrence Walsh calls a press conference to announce that he is appointing a Special Task Force to try to remember who the ``Contras'' were. 17 -- Seeking to boost the sagging U.S. humor industry, Vice President Quayle gives a spelling lesson. 18 -- True Item: A federal audit shows that William Reilly, the head of the Environmental Protection Agency, which sets strict mileage standards for cars owned by ordinary humans, often drives a federal car that gets 6.3 miles per gallon. 23 -- In yet another indication of public anger, voters in Kansas approve a referendum mandating the death penalty for anybody who runs for Congress more than twice. 27 -- Ross Perot, angered by allegations of former campaign staff members that he pried into their private lives, threatens to release photographs of them naked. The summer's smash movie hit is ``Batman Returns,'' featuring a bizarre array of evil new characters such as ``The Penguin,'' played by Danny DeVito; and the ``Cat Woman,'' played by escaped Hotel Queen Leona Helmsley. EPA head William Reilly is arrested for whaling. Education Vice President Quayle explains to a Detroit high-school science class that airplanes can fly because of ``big bees in the wings.'' ------ JULY 1 -- With the economy mired in a recession and Democrats preparing to nominate a highly skilled campaigner in Bill Clinton, Republican Party strategists realize that their only realistic hope for guaranteeing George Bush's re-election is to mess up Ross Perot's daughter's wedding. 2 -- Financially troubled Braniff Airlines suddenly ceases operations, but officials assure nervous passengers that most flights ``should be able to glide to safety.'' 3 -- In a top-secret nighttime launch, the U.S. military orbits a nuclear-powered $47.5 million state-of-the-art laser-equipped satellite designed to mess up Ross Perot's daughter's wedding. 7 -- A freak tidal wave hits Daytona Beach, Fla., baffling scientists. 8 -- In a hopeful development involving the international debt crisis, Brazil promises world bankers that it will pay them their money ``tomorrow.'' In Daytona Beach, the tidal-wave mystery is resolved when satellite photos detect Ted Kennedy breast-stroking about three miles offshore. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 6 OF 10 9 -- The U.N. Security Council meets in a closed session with representatives of the CIA, the FBI, the Mafia, the Trilateral Commission, the Justice League of America and the Fantastic Four to finalize secret plans for messing up Ross Perot's daughter's wedding. World bankers arrive in South America to discover that Brazil, according to neighboring Argentina, moved out the night before after packing all of its natural resources into a U-Haul truck. 10 -- Bill Clinton, in a shrewd tactical move designed to woo the crucial department-store-mannequin vote, picks Al Gore as his running mate. Meanwhile, the U.S. Sixth and Seventh Fleets, accompanied by seven ``Thumper'' class nuclear submarines and elements of the 4th, 9th, 16th and 28th Tactical Air Flying Bomber Squadrons, proceed at maximum speed toward a secret rendezvous point in the Caribbean, where they receive Urgent Priority Code Red instructions to ``use whatever means necessary, including nuclear weapons, to mess up Ross Perot's daughter's wedding.'' Eric Sevareid goes to heaven, where he will be constantly mistaken for God. 13 -- True Item: In the Pacific Ocean, the U.S. Navy missile cruiser Cowpens messes up during a training exercise and informs an Australian commercial airliner via radio that unless it changes course immediately, ``you will be fired upon.'' 14 -- In New York, delegates to the Democratic Convention, sensing a chance for victory after 12 years out of power, roar with approval when a passionate Mario Cuomo declares that he ``might still be available.'' 16 -- Ross Perot, sacrificing personal gratification to save the nation from the devastation that would inevitably result from the international conspiracy to mess up his daughter's wedding, announces that he does not wish to be president, forcing many of his followers to turn to their second choice, the Rev. Sun Myung Moon. The surprise announcement sends a wave of elation through the Democratic convention in New York, where new nominee Bill Clinton, launching into his acceptance speech, boldly declares that he loves his mom. 17 -- Increasingly suspicious U.N. arms inspectors observe as Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, visiting a street market, purchases a 17-foot- long ``zucchini'' clearly labeled ``50 megatons.'' A grim-faced President Bush threatens to ``send troops partway to Baghdad, then order them to stop.'' In New York, Bill Clinton nears the halfway mark in his acceptance speech. 18 -- Bill Clinton concludes his acceptance speech and sets out on a bus tour of the Heartland with Al Gore, whose body is unable to bend enough to fit in the bus seats, so his aides just stick him up on the luggage rack, still in a waving position. 22 -- The Colombian government's commitment to the War on Drugs comes into question after Pablo Escobar, the world's leading cocaine dealer, manages to escape from the Envigado prison, along with nine henchmen, by telling guards he needs to retrieve his Frisbee. 25 -- Clinton and Gore are forced to abandon their Heartland campaign trip when their bus is ``mistakenly'' fired on by the U.S. missile cruiser Cowpens. 28 -- In the War on Drugs, the hideout of Pablo Escobar is located and surrounded by 2,000 Colombian troops, but the wily cocaine lord manages to make his escape after shouting, ``Your fly is down!'' 29 -- In Olympic basketball action, the Dream Team defeats the Republic of Zwit 563-4, with Charles Barkley scoring 153 points before being ejected late in the second quarter for arson. ------ AUGUST 1 -- This would have been an excellent time for South Floridians to check on their homeowners' insurance. 2 -- In Olympic basketball action, the Dream Team, seeking to save time, defeats teams from Brazil, Poland and Canada simultaneously. 5 -- By a 27-18 vote, the Supreme Court rules that, once on the island, Gilligan is not legally required to obey orders from the Skipper. 6 -- In Olympic basketball, the Dream Team defeats an invading force of Atomic Death Robots From The Planet Dorg. Elsewhere in sports, the San Francisco Giants threaten to move to Tampa Bay. 7 -- True Item: The Environmental Protection Agency declares that lawn mowers are a source of air pollution. All over America, deeply concerned guys have no choice but to abandon their grass-cutting plans and take planet-saving naps. 8 -- Basketball legend Larry Bird retires, citing concern over Ross Perot's daughter's wedding. 14 -- John Sirica receives the Big Subpoena. 18 -- As the Republican Party, facing an uphill fight, gathers in Houston for a crucial convention, millions of issues-conscious American voters focus their full attention on Woody Allen and Mia Farrow. 19 -- Pat Buchanan gives the Bush-Quayle ticket a nice boost, appealing to a broad spectrum of Americans with a speech entitled, ``Vote For Us; We're Better Than You.'' The Giants threaten to move to Dayton, Ohio. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 7 OF 10 20 -- The troubled General Motors Corp. announces that, in an effort to cut costs, it will stop making cars. At the Republican Convention, it's Traditional Family Values night, as delegates burn a suspected witch. 21 -- In a widely praised speech accepting his renomination, President Bush, showing a new awareness of the task ahead, pledges to ``think up some programs or something.'' Hillary Clinton challenges Barbara Bush to a bake-off. 22 -- Vice President Quayle, shrewdly stealing a page from the Democrats' strategy, embarks on an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile Tour of the Heartland. The Giants threaten to move to France. 23 -- Hurricane Andrew approaches South Florida. Desperate residents shop for plywood, batteries, flashlights and canned food. Roofers price luxury cars. In politics, representatives of the Bush and Clinton camps begin negotiating the bake-off format. 24 -- Hurricane Andrew hits the mainland, setting in motion one of the largest domestic relief efforts in U.S. history as public and private organizations send in billions of dollars, tons of supplies, thousands of relief workers, and an estimated two insurance adjustors. 27 -- In politics, bake-off negotiations are stalled when the Clinton camp rejects a proposed all-cookie format; a spokesperson argues that ``there has to be pie representation.'' 29 -- Confusion continues to plague the hurricane cleanup effort as an Army troop convoy, transporting 50,000 tons of relief Spam through an area with no working traffic signals, attempts to obey obscure hand gestures being flashed at intersections by well-meaning but highly nonprofessional volunteer traffic directors, and winds up driving into the Atlantic Ocean, where it is mistakenly fired upon by the missile cruiser Cowpens. ------ SEPTEMBER 1 -- President Bush, in a move that his aides stress has nothing to do with electoral votes, announces plans to build a major naval base in Illinois. 2 -- International arms monitors voice renewed concern when an operable nuclear warhead from the former Soviet Union shows up in the Action Figures section of a Passaic, N.J., Toys ``R'' Us. 4 -- In an effort to make the hurricane recovery more efficient, Dade County, Fla., approves a plan permitting mobile-home manufacturers to set up thousands of new units that have been predestroyed at the factory, thus reducing paperwork later on. The Giants threaten to move to the National Hockey League. 6 -- General Motors offers a credit card. 9 -- In a political scandal that the Bush administration can ill afford, newspapers report that a State Department political appointee has improperly used the Freedom of Information Act to obtain and distribute crucial information concerning Hillary Clinton's brownie ingredients. Bake-off negotiations collapse. In the troubled world currency market, the franc gains sharply against the mark. 10 -- In a controversial decision, Madonna wins the Miss America Pageant. 12 -- A team of surgeons at the Houston Medical Center successfully implants a miniature dinette set inside the brain of a 57-year-old asthma sufferer. ``It won't help him,'' notes a spokesperson, ``but it is covered by insurance.'' In sports, the Giants threaten to move to the 14th Century. 13 -- Due to a manufacturing defect, General Motors is forced to recall 275,000 credit cards. In troubled world currency action, the pound falls sharply against the lira, knocking it into the pfennig, which suffers a minor injury. 17 -- With the nation facing harsh choices on major issues concerning the economy, health care and the ever-spiraling federal budget deficit, the U.S. Congress, long ridiculed for shortsighted political cowardice, stuns its many critics by summoning up the courage and vision to pass, after heated debate, a law regulating cable-TV rates. 21 -- True Item: A high-school teacher in a Chicago suburb reveals that he punishes students by making them listen to tapes of Frank Sinatra. In the ongoing world currency crisis, the yen calls up Domino's and, disguising its voice, has 200 pepperoni pizzas delivered to the peso. 25 -- In a landmark ruling, an Orlando, Fla., judge declares that a 12-year-old boy has the right to select his own parents. He selects Marge and Homer Simpson. 28 -- The political world is thrown into an uproar when Ross Perot, having thwarted the intergalactic plot to mess up his daughter's wedding, hints he may re-enter the presidential race. He invites Bush and Clinton campaign officials to visit him and indicate their views by spelling out words with their tongues on his shoes. 29 -- True Item: Police arrest Eric Adam Kaplan, a candidate for the Florida Legislature, and charge him with firing five bullets into the home of his opponent, incumbent Bob Starks, and wounding Starks' wife in the leg. Kaplan is immediately hired to direct Pat Buchanan's 1996 campaign. World currency troubles continue as the mark claims to have photographs of the franc naked with the pound. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 8 OF 10 30 -- Political observers begin to suspect that something is afoot when Ross Perot, in what a spokesperson describes as ``merely a gesture of appreciation, with no strings attached,'' donates $750 million to the Electoral College. 31 -- Ignore this. September has only 30 days. ------ OCTOBER 1 -- True Item: During a NATO exercise in the Aegean Sea, the U.S. aircraft carrier Saratoga accidentally launches two live missiles at a Turkish destroyer. Bill Clinton, wooing voters without lives, appears on ``As the World Turns.'' 2 -- Ross Perot re-enters the presidential race, pledging to ``clean up this mess in Washington'' and ``get these tiny CIA computers out of my teeth.'' The missile cruiser Cowpens begins steaming toward Turkey. President Bush appears on the Home Shopping Network. 3 -- In a shrewd public-relations move that garners enormous sympathy for her cause, whatever it is, follicly impaired singer Sinead O'Connor tears up a photo of the Pope. 5 -- After more than a month of on-again, off-again negotiations, a debate format is finally agreed upon, and all four major news networks interrupt their prime-time programming to present the first of four scheduled prime-time confrontations between Mia Farrow and Woody Allen. 6 -- Turkey surrenders to the United States. 10 -- True item: The Associated Press reports that a West Virginia man who had been drinking beer decided to clean three handguns, and wound up shooting himself in the foot THREE TIMES. He is immediately hired to direct strategy for the Bush campaign. 11 -- The Pope, appearing on the ``Larry King Live'' show, tears up a photograph of Sinead O'Connor. 13 -- In the first of four presidential debates, Bill Clinton promises to increase spending for jobs, education, health care, the environment, the infrastructure, the outfrastructure and parking, while at the same time reducing the deficit and cutting taxes for the middle class. Bush says Clinton is a bozo. Ross Perot says it's time to cut bait and talk turkey. All three candidates perform well in the Swimsuit Competition. 16 -- The three major vice-presidential candidates debate. Here is the complete transcript: ``MY turn!'' ``No, MINE!'' ``What?'' ``Doodyhead!'' ``Weiner brain!'' ``Where am I?'' ``ARE TOO!'' ``AM NOT!'' ``What's going on?'' ``Liar liar pants on fire!'' ``Nanny nanny boo-boo!'' ``Who are these people?'' 18 -- In Atlanta, during ceremonies opening Game Two of the World Series between the Braves and the Toronto Blue Jays, the Marine Corps color guard carries the Canadian flag upside-down. The Marine Corps stresses that this was ``totally unintentional.'' 19 -- In the second presidential debate, Bill Clinton promises to increase spending on the inner cities, suburbs, rural areas, the wilderness, the ozone layer and the asteroid belt, while at the same time eliminating government waste and heart disease. George Bush says Clinton is a communist whoremonger. Ross Perot says you have to bale hay while the tractor is warm. 20 -- During ceremonies opening Game Three of the World Series in Toronto, a Royal Canadian Air Force marching unit, in a development that the Canadian government later stresses was ``totally unintentional,'' opens fire on the Marine Corps color guard. 21 -- Literature-lovers flock to bookstores to purchase the latest work by respected author and naked person Madonna, featuring photos of a number of celebrities, including Millie and -- in yet another blow to a once-proud institution -- four members of the British royal family. 22 -- Red Barber calls his final out. 23 -- In the third presidential debate, Bill Clinton promises to give every single voter a briefcase full of money, then clean the voter's garage, while at the same time fighting cavities and saving Bambi's mom from the hunters. George Bush says that Clinton is Satan. Ross Perot says you can't feed grits to a dead hog. 24 -- True Item: An astronomer at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics predicts that the comet Swift-Tuttle could strike the Earth in 2126. 26 -- In the fourth and final presidential debate, Bill Clinton promises to give voters a magic pill that will enable them to live forever while at the same time never suffering from hair loss. George Bush bites Clinton on the leg. Ross Perot says it takes two snakes to cross a puddle. A post-debate poll of prospective voters shows that the majority of them believe the Braves should have used their relief pitchers more. 28 -- The Consumer Product Safety Committee orders that the comet Swift-Tuttle be equipped with an air bag. 29 -- Bill Clinton loses his voice and stops talking. He surges in the polls. 31 -- True Item: According to The Toledo (Ohio) Blade, ``Two women who attended a Halloween party dressed as tampons were recovering from burns suffered when their costumes were set ablaze after they apparently came in contact with a cigarette lighter.'' DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 9 OF 10 ------ NOVEMBER 1 -- Pollsters report that the presidential race is tightening as voters swing from Clinton to Bush, with Perot support holding steady. The Food and Drug Administration announces strict new regulations governing tampon costumes. 2 -- Pollsters report that voters are swinging back from Bush toward Clinton, with Perot support dropping slightly. 3 -- Pollsters report that voters are edging back toward Bush, then suddenly darting back toward Clinton, with Perot supporters eating a ham sandwich. 4 -- Pollsters report that the voters, by a statistically significant margin, are saying that the election was yesterday, which means somebody already got elected, although due to the margin of error it will be necessary to conduct more polls to confirm this. 5 -- In post-election activity, President Bush, insisting that he is ``not bitter at all,'' orders the missile cruiser Cowpens to fire a strike against his own campaign headquarters. Meanwhile, Clinton, speaking in sign language, indicates that he may not be able to IMMEDIATELY fulfill all of his campaign promises, but he does expect, within the first 100 days, to ask Congress to declare National Reed Instruments Week. 6 -- News analysts, bored to death, declare that the Clinton presidency has failed. 7 -- Socks the cat appears on the ``Larry King Live'' show. 8 -- Clinton is plunged into the first major controversy of his failed presidency when top-level military officials object to his plan to eliminate the armed forces' long-standing policy against admitting people who have good haircuts. 10 -- The failed Clinton presidency faces yet another crisis, this time a potential trade war that looms when France, in negotiations over the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade, defiantly rejects a U.S. demand that the French Ministry of Agriculture stop subsidizing escargot ranchers. 11 -- The Supremes Court, in a 3-0 ruling, declares that love is like an itching in your heart, and baby, you can't scratch it. 13 -- In sports, Heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield is defeated by challenger Bobby Fischer. 16 -- Bill Clinton angrily defends his choice of Vernon Jordan as transition chief, claiming that Jordan's ties to the tobacco industry will have ``no effect'' on Cabinet appointments. In the worsening Trade War, Hillary Clinton, taking a more aggressive role now that the election is over, orders the missile cruiser Cowpens to fire a strike against the French wine tanker LeSnot. 19 -- In the worsening trade war, leakage from LeSnot causes what the EPA calls the worst wine spill in the nation's history, a 600-mile wide blot of Bordeaux approaching the U.S. mainland and expected to make landfall in Virginia, where angry residents argue that a Cabernet would have been far more appropriate. Clinton names Joe the Camel as secretary of agriculture. 20 -- The trade war ends with a total French capitulation after Hillary threatens to place a 300 percent export duty on Jerry Lewis movies. 26 -- Adding more woes to Britain's troubled royal family, a fire strikes the Queen's clothes closet, destroying 4,317 hats with an estimated street value of $11. Superman dies, probably as a result of wearing the same underwear for 50 years. 29 -- NASA officials hope to see a boost for the troubled space program as the Space Shuttle Adventuresome blasts into space on a daring mission to repair a faulty hose in the $34.3 million Orbital Washer- Dryer orbited in a daring mission the previous month. In other space developments, the Giants threaten to move to Saturn. ------ DECEMBER 1 -- What begins as a friendly transitional get-together between the Bushes and Clintons ends in tragedy when Millie ralphs up what is later identified as Socks the cat. In space, astronauts replace the Orbital Washer hose, only to discover that the Orbital Dryer has lost its $13.6 million Space Lint Filter. The Space Shuttle Opportunity immediately blasts into orbit on a daring resupply mission. 3 -- Professional baseball's owners, meeting to set the 1993 schedule, vote unanimously to eliminate the actual games so everybody can devote full time to contract hassles. 5 -- NASA suffers another setback when both the Shuttle Adventuresome and the Shuttle Opportunity develop severe blockages in their $21.7 million Space Toilets. Space officials order the Shuttle Determined to blast into orbit and attempt a daring mission to deploy the experimental $103.9 million Space Plunger. 8 -- Congress, seeking to ease the pain during difficult times, approves a $34.7 million program to teach defeated and retiring congresspersons how to deal with ordinary civilian life, including courses on Paying For Your Own Meal, Parking With Common People, Not Writing Checks For More Money Than You Actually Have, and How To Buy A Postage Stamp And Attach It To An Envelope. DAVE BARRY RELEASE: 12/27/92 TAKE 10 OF 10 14 -- In Britain, rumors flare anew concerning the troubled marriage of Charles and Diana after a tabloid newspaper obtains a tape-recording of an intimate telephone conversation between Charles and a party he refers to as ``Weejums.'' 19 -- In a surprise Cabinet move, Bill Clinton appoints Gennifer Flowers as secretary of human affairs. In space, NASA's daring space- repair effort comes to naught when the commander of the Space Shuttle Determined, upon reaching orbit, discovers that the craft is unmaneuverable due to the fact that a previous commander accidentally left ``The Club'' on the steering wheel. NASA officials immediately order the Shuttle Reliable to blast into orbit on a daring mission to deliver the key. 23 -- Britain is shocked by the revelation that ``Weejums'' is a polo pony. The Supreme Court votes 53-1 to request more pornography cases. 24 -- The American Medical Association, concluding a 10-year study on why health-care costs are rising so fast, reports that the fundamental cause ``could be a number of things,'' so ``we're going to schedule some tests,'' but there is no need to worry because ``insurance will pay for it.'' Reaching across party lines, Bill Clinton appoints Orrin Hatch as Proctologist General. 25 -- Santa narrowly avoids a missile fired by the Cowpens. 26 -- Allegations of Japanese ``dumping'' on the U.S. auto market flare anew when 9-year-old Jason Loogett of Memphis, Tenn., discovers a Toyota minivan in his Cracker Jacks. In other business news, the Food and Drug Administration announces a ban on molecules. 27 -- Superman returns to life on ``Larry King Live.'' 28 -- In yet another setback for NASA, the Space Shuttle Reliable is rammed by the Space Shuttle Exxon Valdez, which is 357,000 miles off course. 27 -- Saddam Hussein purchases the Giants. 31 -- A grateful nation celebrates the end, at last, of a truly bizarre year, unaware that the crack Middle East Peace Negotiating Team, having done all it can for the former Yugoslavia, is now heading for New York. Meanwhile, bands of white men in dark suits are converging on New Hampshire to begin laying the groundwork for their bids for the 1996 presidential primary. Fortunately, however, serious campaigning is not expected to begin until next week. Until then, have a Happy New Year. ------------------------------------------------------- (Illustrations by Jeff MacNelly to accompany this Barry feature will be mailed automatically to all clients who usually receive the artwork. Others interested in purchasing the MacNelly illustrations for this year-end special should call Tribune Media Services, 800-637-4082 or 312-222-4363.) (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 114 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!decwrl!decwrl!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: TIME IS RIGHT FOR AN UNPRECEDENTED NEW FORCE IN POLITICS: ELECT BARRY FOR PRESIDENT Message-ID: Date: 30 Jun 92 09:17:17 GMT Lines: 76 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 821; Id: z0370; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 07/12-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY The current political situation can best be summed up by the words of Abraham Lincoln, who once said (I believe he said this on the Larry King show): ``You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but if you nominate George Bush and Bill Clinton, the people will barf on your shoes.'' As usual, Lincoln was right. The people are not happy with President Bush, despite his efforts to be the Education President, the Foreign Affairs President, the Domestic Affairs President, the Environment President, the Whatever You Want President, the Bonefishing President and the President Who Communicates Via Sentence Fragments. The people are saying: ``Hey, George, we want you to be The Ex President.'' Meanwhile the Democrats, who are sick and tired of finishing second, have -- against all odds -- figured out a way to come in third. Their man is Bill Clinton, whose most memorable public appearance was when, in an effort to regain credibility, he told Arsenio Hall that he really did TRY to inhale. Now there's an inspiring campaign slogan for you: BILL CLINTON ``He Really Tried To Inhale'' Given the current political climate, political observers feel that the time is right for an unprecedented new force in politics. I refer, of course, to myself. Also H. Ross Perot. We are both ``outsiders'' running for president, and the amazing thing about us is -- get ready for an astounding coincidence -- we hold the same views on everything. It's uncanny. In fact, H. Ross and I think so much alike that, in an effort to save vital paper resources, we have agreed to simply share the same set of views, which we are keeping locked in a safe in H. Ross' office, along with color photos of the entire Bush Cabinet naked. Another area in which H. Ross and I are very similar is campaign financing. He is willing to spend $100 million of his money to get elected; I am also willing to spend $100 million of his money to get elected. More, if necessary. Yet another amazing similarity between H. Ross and myself concerns our views on adultery. Neither of us thinks it has any place in the Oval Office. ``You adulterers get OUT of this office!'' I would tell them in no uncertain terms. ``Use the Lincoln bedroom!'' Also, H. Ross never used drugs, and although I may have had syringes in my arm a few dozen times, I never pushed the plunger. Some of you might be saying: ``But H. Dave, if you and H. Ross are so much alike, why should we vote for you, when he has important qualities that you lack, such as honesty, integrity and no criminal record?'' True. But H. Ross also has a major drawback, namely, stature, as measured in total feet above sea level. And it does not help that he apparently gets his hair cut for free at the School for Hyperactive Children With Power Hedge Trimmers. The result is that, when you see him, you are seized by the playful urge to get him in a headlock and give him a good-natured ``noogie,'' just to let him know that you like him both as a person and as a billionaire. This could lead to embarrassing situations at summit conferences with other world leaders: H. ROSS PEROT: ... and so I am calling upon all of my fellow world leaders to ... HEY! (noogienoogienoogie) C'MON YOU GUYS! (noogienoogienoogie) PUT ME DOWN! (noogienoogienoogie) NOT IN THE PUNCH BOWL!! You are saying, ``Dave, I can see where you come out ahead of H. Ross in the stature department, but what about Family Values, meaning television?'' On this issue, I agree 110 percent with Vice President In Certain Respects Dan Quayle. I am opposed to television. I never watch it. When ``Knots Landing'' is on, I wrap my body in aluminum foil to prevent broadcast rays from entering my body. And of course I do not allow my children to watch television. ``Children!'' I am constantly telling them. ``Don't waste your mind on television! Do what I do! Read a book by a famous dead author such as Marcel Proust!'' ``You're not reading any Marcel Proust,'' they reply. ``You're watching a slow-motion videotape of the `Thighmaster' commercial featuring Suzanne Somers. Also you have only one child.'' This is exactly the kind of breakdown of respect for parental authority and Family Values that makes the Vice President and me get so mad at television. This is why I am asking for your support, not just in the form of money, but also in the form of jewelry. Act now, while we still have some Cabinet posts available. Thighmaster General is taken. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: JUST IN TIME FOR HOLIDAYS: SHELF-STABLE FERMENTED MEATS WITH ENHANCED LIPIDS Message-ID: Date: Sat, 28 Nov 92 18:08:01 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 866; Id: z0388; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 11/29-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 86 DAVE BARRY Knight-Ridder Newspapers Today at the Institute of Military Food Concepts we present the results of our taste test of a new sandwich developed by U.S. Army food engineers for internal use by troops. This sandwich was brought to our attention by retired Army Sergeant Major Willard Clark, who sent in a newspaper article reporting that the Army is developing a new sandwich representing ``a breakthrough in the state-of-the-art technology for intermediate moisture foods.'' The article quotes the Army as stating that this sandwich features ``shelf- stable fermented meats'' mixed into ``a synergistic anti-oxidant system'' offering ``greatly enhanced lipid stability.'' These, of course, are precisely the food qualities that knowledgeable connoisseurs look for when they dine in the finest French restaurants. CONNOISSEUR: Garcon, is the lipid stability of your fermented meats enhanced by a synergistic anti-oxidant system? WAITER: Vous etes darned touting! (``But of course!'') So we called the Army Food Engineering Directorate and asked if we could have one of the new sandwiches for testing purposes. We were told this would require higher-level approval. The military cannot afford to have a state-of-the-art assault sandwich falling into the Wrong Hands. We don't know how far up the chain of command our request went (``It could be a trick, Mr. President!''). But evidently we checked out OK, because several months later the Army sent us a dark-olive-green sealed foil package labeled: SHELF STABLE SANDWICH FLAVOR: PEPPERCORN Accompanying the package was an Information Paper from the Army's Advanced Food Branch. SECURITY ALERT (The following sentence reveals details from the Information Paper concerning the design of the Shelf Stable Sandwich. We are asking foreign espionage agents to skip over it. Thank you.) The Information Paper states that, in the construction of the sandwich, meats are ``formed into cylinders and are encapsulated in the bread to give the appearance of a `Torpedo' roll with a meat center.'' (FOREIGN ESPIONAGE AGENTS MAY RESUME READING HERE.) Our Official Taste Test Panel consisted of ourself; our wife, Beth; our son, Robert; and our primary and auxiliary dogs, Earnest and Zippy. We unwrapped the Shelf Stable Sandwich, which looks sort of like a flattened hot dog, with the meat totally enclosed in the bread. We each took a bite. ``Hey!'' said Robert. ``It's a Slim Jim!'' Of course this is not true. It is a high-tech, intermediate-moisture, eat-out-of-hand food component with enhanced lipid stability and an edible protein film barrier to prevent oil migration. It only TASTES like a Slim Jim. But this is a major improvement over the Army's current standard for combat food, which is the ``Meal Ready to Eat,'' or MRE. For purposes of comparison, our panel also taste-tested an MRE, which was mailed to us a year ago by alert readers Gregg and Chris Schauermann, who undoubtedly obtained it in a totally legitimate manner. The MRE is a triumph of food technology, meeting or exceeding every significant nutritional, logistical, hygienic and longevity standard. Its only drawback is that nobody wants to eat it. Military analysts believe that a major reason why the allies won the Gulf War so quickly is that U.S. troops wanted to stop being fed what appeared to be mislabeled construction materials. Our MRE came in a mud-brown plastic bag. Inside were a number of equally attractive packets, including one labeled ``BEEF STEW.'' We opened this packet, and out oozed our entree. If the federal government wants to eliminate the budget deficit, all it has to do is re-label these MREs and market them to pre-adolescent children under the name ``Big Brown Bag o' Barf.'' ``How come it's so ORANGE?'' asked Beth. She poked around in it a bit with a fork. ``Look!'' she said, at last, holding up what appeared to be a rodent organ. ``I have something here that might be related to meat!'' The humans on our panel thought the stew tasted every bit as good as it looked. The dogs loved it, but they have been known to eat pizza- delivery boxes. Another MRE packet was labeled ``CRACKERS.'' It's difficult for us to imagine how, without the use of rare titanium alloys, the Army was able to manufacture a cracker this hard. Other MRE packets included a ``CHERRY NUT CAKE'' that was as dense as linoleum, but not as tasty; and a ``FRUIT MIX'' that you could ``EAT DRY OR RECONSTITUTE IN WATER.'' We tried it both ways. Dry, it was like chewing an Odor Eater, so we recommend reconstituting it in water, which causes it to completely dissolve, thus enabling you to pour it down a drain. For the record: The dogs loved all of these items, as well as the foil packets. Anyway, our conclusion is that the new Army sandwich definitely tastes better than the MRE. Of course, so does ceiling tile. But still, it's a stride forward, and we wish the Army well with it, and many other military food concepts in the future. All we ask -- and we say this as patriots as well as human beings -- is that these concepts NOT include beer. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. DAVE BARRY In these days of rising taxes, job insecurity and soaring medical costs, more and more Americans are asking themselves a chilling question: ``What happens if, God forbid, I have to get my accordion repaired?'' This is certainly on my mind. I own an accordion. I used to own two of them. I bought them years ago at an auction for $25, which worked out to $12.50 per accordion, which struck me as an unbelievable deal. It's hard to describe the look on my wife's face when I brought them home. It reminded me of her reaction to ``natural'' childbirth. One of my accordions was destroyed when I made the common consumer mistake of leaving it outdoors for 14 months. But I still have the other one, a Hohner ``Student'' model. It sits on a filing cabinet in my office, and sometimes, when I'm having trouble thinking up major issues to have opinions about, I amuse myself by causing it to make a scary wailing noise and swoop down at my two dogs, Earnest and Zippy, who jump up violently and bang their heads against the table they sleep under. Earnest and Zippy hate the Hohner ``Student.'' It's an instinctive reaction they have, dating back millions of years, to when their wild dog ancestors often fell prey to larger, hairier prehistoric accordions. But I like my accordion, although it is not in the best of shape, a fact that has me deeply concerned, in light of an article from The Winona (Minn.) Daily News sent in by alert reader Mike Jones. This article states that the board of Red Wing/Winona Technical College has voted to eliminate, because of low enrollment, the college's accordion repair program -- which happens to be the only such program in the entire United States. I can't believe we would let this happen. We're talking about a vital part of our nation's history, dating back to the early 1800s, when each generation would seek to pass the secrets of accordion repair on to the next. FATHER: Son, it's time for me to pass along the secrets of accordion repair. SON: I'm moving to Utah. That's right: Without accordion repair, Westward Expansion might never have occurred. And let's not forget the critical role that an unrepaired accordion played at the Battle of Gettysburg (``Have the accordion player sound the charge!'' ``He can't, sir! He took a bullet in the bellows during `Lady of Spain!''' ``Good!'') I could go on, but I am clearly lying. This is why, in an unusual effort to include actual facts in this column, I called Red Wing/Winona Technical College and spoke with the accordion-repair instructor, Helmi Harrington. She told me there are ``eight or nine million'' accordions in the United States, and that accordion repair can be ``eminently lucrative.'' Right now, she said, ``there are only a handful of certified accordion technicians,'' the result being that many accordions are being repaired by unqualified people. ``There are a lot of butchers out there,'' said Harrington. I don't know about you, but when I look at the beautiful and innocent young people of today, laughing gaily and tossing their used Slurpee containers on my lawn, it pains me to think that they could grow up in a country where they would be forced to take their broken accordions to some back-alley practitioner. In an effort to find out what the federal government is doing about this, I called U.S. Sen. Bob ``Bob'' Graham of Florida, who is -- and I mean this as a compliment -- the weirdest major politician I have ever met. I first interviewed him back when he was governor of Florida. In an effort to throw him off base, I asked him what I thought was a ridiculous question, demanding to know what he had done, as governor, to promote harmonica safety. Without a moment's hesitation, he delivered a two-minute, well-organized and extremely persuasive speech, featuring statistics, in which he claimed that his predecessor was responsible for most of Florida's harmonica-related deaths. So I figured Sen. Graham was the man to call about this issue. I had barely got the words ``accordion-repair crisis'' out of my mouth when he launched into a lengthy, impassioned oration, from which I got the following quotes, which I swear I am not making up: ``Just last night I ate at an Italian restaurant which, like thousands of other Italian restaurants across America, is now without music, because their accordion is in disrepair and has been returned from Winona, Minn., with postage due.'' ``We are preparing an anti-dumping order against Liechtenstein, which has become the center of accordion repair on a global basis and has developed some ferociously anti-competitive practices.'' ``I don't know whether the actual use of nuclear weapons is called for, but I do think we need a credible military threat.'' (Bear in mind that this man is on the Senate Intelligence Committee.) So some leaders are aware of the crisis. But so far, the failed Clinton administration has said NOTHING about it, despite proposing MILLIONS for saxophone repair, and despite the fact that accordion repair could provide jobs for thousands of unemployed Americans who have no useful skills, not that I am singling out Dan Quayle. What we need is for ordinary Americans like yourself, but with more spare (More...) time, to ``get involved.'' Write to your congressperson. Write to the board of Red Wing/Winona Technical College. Write (what the heck) to your mom. Future generations will thank you. My dogs will hate you. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 18 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: NEW SPORT: THE HUNT FOR THE ELUSIVE CLAIMS ADJUSTER Message-ID: Date: 23 Sep 1992 02:08:01 GMT Lines: 65 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 722; Id: z0973; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 09/23-N/A; Ver: 1/0 Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This is a special BONUS column by Miami Herald humor columnist Dave Barry; it does not replace his regular weekly column. It is for immediate release.) DAVE BARRY MIAMI -- We're waiting for the insurance adjuster. Maybe he'll come today; maybe next month; maybe next year. You never know when your adjuster will turn up, or what he'll do. He's a mysterious, possibly fictional figure, like Batman. Here in South Dade County, speculating about insurance adjusters has become a major activity, ranking up there with trying to decipher the hand signals of well-meaning but sometimes less-than-totally-decisive volunteer traffic directors at major intersections (``KEEP GOING STOP! TURN LEFT STRAIGHT AHEAD YIELD!'') We South Dade homeowners spend a lot of time speculating about insurance adjusters. We listen intently to stories told by homeowners who claim they have actually seen their adjusters. We hear that some adjusters are wonderful: they arrive wearing red suits and riding on sleighs pulled by Donner, Blitzen, etc. They have a big bag filled with large-denomination insurance checks, and they find ALL KINDS of hurricane damage in your house, including hurricane damage you didn't even know about. ``Why, look at this!'' the Santa Adjuster will say, pointing to some dents on your floor that were caused in 1987 when your 4-year-old attempted to kill a palmetto bug with a hammer. ``Looks like wind damage to me! You'll need a whole new floor!'' Or he'll point to the Domino's pizza coupons attached by a magnet to your refrigerator, and he'll say: ``Looks like these discount offers have expired, due to the storm! We'll buy you a new refrigerator! Ho ho ho!'' This is the kind of adjuster we're hoping to get. But we fear that we might get a Grinch Adjuster. This is the kind who doesn't see ANYTHING wrong with your house. Andrew could have turned your house into a six- foot-deep mud-filled hole with crabs mating on what used to be your living-room furniture, and the Grinch Adjuster will say, ``OK, we can reimburse you for a bottle of Windex and MAYBE a roll of paper towels, but you're only covered for the plain white generic kind, so don't try to stiff us for any floral-print Bounty or anything.'' So we want a nice adjuster who will write us a check for a large amount of money, all of which will be applied toward the enormous telephone bill we have run up in a desperate but fruitless effort to get somebody to come out and give us an estimate on our roof. Needless to say, we've given up all hope of ever getting an actual ROOF. All the experienced roofing companies in the Western Hemisphere are booked solid until well after the human race is scheduled to become extinct. You can't even get INEXPERIENCED roofing companies, companies that sprang up immediately after the storm and have names like ``Earl and Al's Roofing and Sno-Cones.'' So we'll settle for roofing estimates. We want them to be written on large, sturdy pieces of paper, which we will use to cover our roof. I'm particularly concerned about the roof over my office, which got hit by a tree and is currently being protected by a piece of plastic that my son and I put up there by lying on our stomachs and squinching our eyes closed whenever we got close to the edge. We fastened the plastic with several thousand staples, and although it's only a temporary repair, I believe it's sturdy enough to withstand the wind force generated by a Category Three moth flying past it. Anything more than that and it's gone. But it's all we've got, and all we expect to have for some time. Perhaps you, too, need a flimsy piece of plastic amateurishly attached to YOUR roof, but have been unable to find anybody qualified to install it. If so, you might consider hiring my new company, Dave Barry & Son Extremely Temporary Roof Covering (``Serving South Dade Since We Found Our Ladder''). Go ahead, give us a call. You'll be answered by a prompt and courteous busy signal. We're booked solid. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 98 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: WHAT COMMERCIALS WOULD LOOK LIKE IF THEY WERE REALISTIC Message-ID: Date: 16 Feb 92 00:01:10 GMT Lines: 83 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 874; Id: z0228; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 02/16-1aed DAVE BARRY I like beer. On occasion I will even drink a beer, to celebrate a major event such as the fall of communism or the fact that our refrigerator is still working. So you'd think I'd be receptive to TV beer commercials. Most of these have the same plot: Some guys open some beers, and instantly the commercial is overrun by friendly seminaked young women resembling Barbie but taller and less intellectual. If you just got here from Mars, you wouldn't know, from watching these commercials, that beer is meant for internal consumption. You'd think it was a chemical Hot Babe Attractant, similar to what moths use to locate each other so they can mate. You'd think that the Swedish Bikini Team was constantly prowling the countryside, sniffing the air for a whiff of Old Suburbs Of Cleveland Beer, or whatever brand it is they're allegedly attracted to. What bothers me is, in more than 20 years of opening beers with guys, I have NEVER seen the Swedish Bikini Team show up. Almost always, the teams that show up in beer-drinking situations consist of guys who have been playing league softball and smell like bus seats. Maybe, to avoid misleading consumers, the beer manufacturers should be required to make realistic commercials. For example: (As the commercial opens, some guys are sitting around in the woods, holding cans of beer.) First Guy: You know, guys, it just doesn't get any better than this. (Nothing happens.) First Guy (raising his voice): I SAID, YOU KNOW, GUYS, IT JUST DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER THAN THIS. (Nothing continues to happen.) Second Guy: There sure are a lot of moths around here. Third Guy: This beer tastes like llama spit. X X X Speaking of realism in advertising, Michael Jordan should be required to make a commercial in which he tries, and fails, to jump over the pile of money that Wheaties pays him to pretend that breakfast cereal has something to do with basketball ability. And while we're at it, I want somebody to explain the current magazine ad campaign for Timex watches. You probably remember the old Timex ads, starring John Cameron Swayze, in which professional watch- abuse technicians would strap a Timex watch to a boat propeller, or a jackhammer, or a British soccer fan. The watch would then be subjected to a severe beating, after which the technicians would hand it to John Cameron Swayze, who would hold it up to the camera and say, in a dramatic voice: ``It broke.'' At least that's what I assume happened the first 35 or 40 times. But eventually they'd get a watch that was still working, and John Cameron Swayze would say: ``Takes a licking and keeps on ticking!'' That was an advertising campaign that I could understand without the aid of narcotics, in stark contrast to the current Timex campaign, samples of which have been sent in by a number of alert readers. These ads consist of photographs of people wearing Timex watches; superimposed on each photo is a paragraph telling you about some horrible thing that has happened to the person. For example, one ad features a photo of an attractive woman, with the following paragraph, which I swear I am not making up: ``Louisa Murray was eating a sandwich when a bowling ball fell off a ledge three stories above and hit her in the head. Doctors gave her a one in a million chance, but she fought back and last spring graduated from college. The ball did leave `a little dent' in her head. Louisa is wearing a striking Timex women's fashion watch. It costs about $50.'' When you, the consumer, read this, a number of questions naturally come to your mind, including: -- There was a bowling ball on a ledge? -- Was this a suicidal bowling ball? -- Or was she eating the sandwich at some kind of new theme restaurant? (``The Eat 'n' Get a Skull Dent Cafe.'') The ad offers no explanation. Other Timex ads feature a rock climber who ``fell 85 feet and landed on her tailbone''; a man who ``was attacked by a 1,200-pound Great White Shark'' that ``tore open his entire upper torso''; and a scuba diver who ``was sucked into an offshore water intake pipe for a nuclear power plant.'' Each victim is modeling a Timex watch. I don't know about you, but the message I get from these ads is: ``Wear a Timex watch, and SOMETHING VERY BAD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU.'' At the drugstore, I find myself edging away from the Timex display case, which I figure must be a powerful disaster magnet. Any moment a Great White Shark could come lunging out from behind the counter, holding a bowling ball. I don't mean to suggest here that ALL advertising is misleading or incomprehensible. There are many informative ads for excellent products, especially the products advertised in this newspaper, all of which I personally recommend and endorse and use in my home. So do my frequent houseguests, the Swedish Bikini Team. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Subject: Dave Barry Date: Tue, 10 Oct 89 14:01:15 EST From: Gene Spafford This is to accompany the "Air Dave" column on my door... ------- Forwarded Message [The following Dave Barry column showed up on the Stanford BBoard via some circuitous route.] Nervous? Hah! NERVOUS?! Forget it! I am not the least tiny little BIT nervous about engaging in air travel these days!! Why even as I write these words, I am boldly sitting in a jet-powered commercia l airplane, and I am cool as a cucumber. This is because we are on the ground at the famous Atlanta airport, which means we will all be dead from starvation long before we take off, because there are 1,450 aircraft ahead of us, includin g a number of biplanes still awaiting clearance to participate in World War I. Sitting next to me are two pilots whose flight was canceled. I am not making this up. They work for Eastern Airlines, one of a growing group of airlines that, as far as I can tell, do not actually own any airplanes. What they own is a large, modern and superbly maintained fleet of excuses for why your flight has been canceled. It's a real thrill to watch the gate crews for these airlines swing into action as departure time approaches: "Ladies and gentlemen," the gate agent proudly announces, "the excuse for canceling Flight 219 is now arriving on our computer screen." Right on time! The aspiring passengers cluster around and watch with nervous excitement as the gate agent frowns at the computer, then says: "Flight 219 has been canceled because of . . . (Dramatic pause) " . . . MAYONNAISE IN THE GYROSCOPE!" Ha ha! A new one! What will they think of next? The aspiring passengers, shaking their heads in wonderment at how far commercial aviation has come in just their own lifetimes, wander off to look for a working vending machine. Not that I am complaining about being stuck on the ground. No, because the aviation industry is operating under a new policy called "deregulation," under which anybody who can produce two forms of identification is allowed to operate an airline, and alarming things can happen to the occasional flight that actually becomes airborne, as evidenced by recent news reports of planes whose engines were turned off when they were not in direct personal contact with the ground; planes taking off without important mechanical parts such as wings; planes bound for Lexingoton, Ky., but landing, due to navigational error, on the Lost Continent of Atlantis; etc. But what really bothers me is the pilots. When I was a boy, all the pilots were much older than I am, but in recent years there has been a disturbing trend -- you may have noticed this -- toward pilots MY OWN AGE. I happen to be my own age, and I would never place a person such as myself in a position of responsibility. I live in constant fear that one day I'm going to get on an airplane, and there in the cockpit, wearing a uniform and frowning at the instruments, will be somebody I went to high school with, somebody like Billy Kirkwood, who once, at the Halloween Dance, on purpose, set fire to his own hair. And let's not even TALK about what happens to luggage. I'm going to have a little sticker made up: YOU CAN CHECK MY LUGGAGE WHEN YOU PRY MY COLD, DEAD FINGERS OFF THE HANDLE. Everybody feels this way. Everybody carries everything on board. You see people stuffing Barcaloungers into the overhead r acks. TRUE ANECDOTE: Recently the remains of Pvt. Eddie Slovik, the only American executed for desertion during World War II, were supposed to be flown via TWA from New York, N.Y., to Detroit, Mich., so naturally they wound up in San Francisco, Calif. This really happened. Fortunately somebody managed to track Pvt. Slovik down before he earned a Frequent Flier bonus trip to the F ar East. Meanwhile, here in the Atlanta airport, we are getting our Safety Lecture. "In the unlikely event that we make it as far as a body of water before we crash," the flight attendant is saying, "you can use your complimentary snack to repel sharks." Next to me, the Eastern pilots -- one of whom is, no question about it, YOUNGER than I am -- are looking at the little safety card from the barf-bag pocket, and they are LAUGHING at it. This is the truth. I ask them what is so funny, and they point to the diagram of the plane floating perkily on top of the water, like a giant inflatable pool toy, while the passengers alertly rescue th emselves. "You mean the plane won't do that?" I ask. "Listen," one of them says. "This plane floats about as well as a boat flies." Finally, days later, we take off. The pilot is talking on the intercom. "Folks," he is saying, "on behalf of your entire flight crew, let me just say that I am setting fire to my hair." I hope the beverage cart gets here soon. Article: 26 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: SOMETIMES, THE BEST CRIME DETERRENT IS A SMALL, EMERGENCY BACKUP DOG WITH DIGESTIVE PROBLEMS Message-ID: Date: 15 Nov 92 02:08:03 GMT Lines: 84 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 906; Id: z0326; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 11/15-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY The man was standing right outside our master bathroom. He couldn't see Beth and me, standing in the hallway, but we could see him clearly. His face was covered with a stocking mask, which distorted his features hideously. He was dressed all in black, and he had a black plastic bag stuck in his back pocket. He was using a screwdriver to open our sliding glass door. You always wonder what you're going to do in a situation like this. Run? Fight? Wet your pants? I'm not experienced with physical violence. The last fight I had was in eighth grade, when I took on John Sniffen after school because he let the air out of my bike tires. Actually, I didn't KNOW that he did this, but he was the kind of kid who WOULD have, and all the other suspects were a lot larger than I was. The man outside our house was also larger than I am. He jerked the screwdriver sideways and opened the door. Just like that, he was inside our house, maybe six feet from where Beth and I were standing. Then he saw us. For a moment, nobody spoke. ``CUT!'' yelled the director. ``Way to go, Ozzie!'' I said to the stocking-masked man. ``Looking good! Looking criminal!'' ``I'm wondering if his bag is too dark to show up,'' said Beth. Everybody wants to be a director. Anyway, as you have guessed, Ozzie wasn't a real burglar. He was part of a production crew that was using our house to shoot a promotional video for the company that installed our burglar alarm. Here in South Florida it's standard procedure to have burglar alarms in your house, your car, your workplace, and, if you've had expensive dental work, your mouth. I like having an alarm in our house, because it gives me the security that comes from knowing that trained security personnel will respond instantly whenever I trigger a false alarm. I do this every day at 6 a. m., when I get up to let out our large main dog, Earnest, and our small emergency backup dog, Zippy. I'm always in a big hurry, because Zippy, being about the size of a hairy lima bean (although less intelligent), has a very fast digestive cycle, and I need to get him right outside. So I fall out of bed, barely conscious, and stagger to the back door, where both dogs are waiting, and I open the door and BWEEPBWEEPBWEEP I realize that I have failed to disarm the alarm system. Now I have a problem. Because within seconds, the voice of the Cheerful Lady at the alarm company is going to come out of the alarm control panel, asking me to identify myself, and unless I give her the Secret Password, she's going to cheerfully notify the police. So I stagger quickly over to the panel. But this leaves Earnest and Zippy alone out on the patio. Theoretically, they can get from the patio to our back yard all by themselves. They used to be prevented from doing this by a screen enclosure around the patio, but thanks to Hurricane Andrew, most of this enclosure is now orbiting the Earth. The hurricane did NOT blow away the screen door, however. It's still standing there, and the dogs firmly believe that it's the only way out. So -- I swear I'm not making this up -- instead of going two feet to the left or right, where there's nothing to prevent them from simply wandering out into the yard, they trot directly to the door, stop, then turn around to look at me with a look that says, ``Well?'' ``GO OUTSIDE!'' I yell at them as I lunge toward the alarm control panel. ``THERE'S NO SCREEN ANYMORE, YOU MORONS!'' ``I beg your pardon?'' says the Cheerful Alarm Lady, because this is not the Secret Password. ``Bark,'' says Earnest, who is trotting back toward the house, in case I am telling her that it's time to eat. ``Grunt,'' says Zippy, as his internal digestive timer reaches zero and he detonates on the patio. We do this almost every morning. We're very dependable. In fact, if some morning I DIDN'T trigger a false alarm, I think the Cheerful Alarm Lady would notify the police. ``You'd better check the Barry residence,'' she'd say. ``Apparently something has happened to Mr. Barry. Or else he's strangling one of his dogs.'' So the alarm people have been very nice to us, which is why we let them use our house for the video. It had a great Action Ending, wherein Ozzie runs out our front door, and an armed security man drives up, screeches to a halt, leaps out, puts his hand on his gun and yells ``FREEZE!'' This is Ozzie's cue to freeze and look concerned inside his stocking. They shot this scene several times, so there was a lot of commotion in our yard. Fortunately in South Florida we're used to seeing people sprint around with guns and stocking masks, so the activity in our yard did not alarm the neighbors. (``Look, Walter, the Barrys planted a new shrub.'' ``Where?'' ``Over there, next to the burglar.'') Anyway, the point is that our house is well-protected. The alarm system is there in case we ever need it, which I doubt we will, because -- thanks to Zippy -- only a fool would try to cross our patio on foot. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. DAVE BARRY Tax time is here, and chances are that you, like millions of other Americans, are busily going over your financial records, adding up columns of figures, trying to determine whether you have enough money left to pay for a house call by Dr. Jack Kevorkian. Ha ha! That was just a little suicide humor to put you in a lighthearted frame of mind for preparing your tax return. You're going to want to be extra careful this year, especially after the big scandal that erupted concerning Zoe Baird, one of the estimated 430 women President Clinton attempted to nominate for attorney general before he found somebody who had never knowingly had children. As you recall, Baird was forced to remove herself from consideration when it was discovered that she had failed to pay the required federal tax on the two little dots she puts over the ``o'' in ``Zoe.'' I'm kidding again. The government does not tax accent marks. Yet. What got Baird in trouble was that she failed to follow the correct federal procedure regarding household help. Let me explain this procedure, using a simple example: Suppose you have a teen-age neighbor who baby-sits for your kids every Saturday night. If you pay this baby sitter more than $50 per fiscal quarter -- which works out to about $3.85 per fiscal week -- federal law requires that you file an SS-4 with the IRS to get an employer identification number; then, every quarter, you must file IRS Form 942, making sure to deduct 7.65 percent of the baby sitter's wages, and adding 7.65 percent yourself to cover Social Security and Medicare taxes. Then, at the end of the year, you must give your baby sitter a W-2 form and send a copy to the Social Security Administration. Outrageous, you say? A ludicrous example of an insanely burdensome and complex tax system raging out of control? Well, perhaps it will surprise you to learn that, according to a recent nationwide investigation, these regulations are being complied with at a level approaching 93 PERCENT by Mr. and Mrs. L. Fieldmont Vanderwacker, of Ames, Iowa. Everybody else, including you, just pays the baby sitter and forgets about it. This means that you are a Tax Law Violator, and, therefore, cannot be in the Cabinet. Pretty soon NOBODY will be clean enough to hold a high government position; we'll have to recruit our federal officials from primitive Brazilian rain forest tribes that have never heard of money (``WASHINGTON -- In a development Thursday that observers believe could indicate a deep rift in the Cabinet, the Secretary of Transportation ate the Secretary of Defense''). Another problem with violating the tax laws is that you might get audited. Fortunately, this is not as bad as it sounds. I know this because I recently viewed an educational videotape provided by the IRS. This tape, which was recommended to me by alert reader Sam Kent, of Boulder, Colo., is titled, ``Hey ... We're Being Audited!'' (I love that title. I think it should serve as the model for other educational government videotapes, like ``Hey ... We're Intervening In Bosnia!'' or ``Hey ... They're Storing Nuclear Waste In Our Neighborhood!'') ``Hey ... We're Being Audited'' looks sort of like a TV sitcom: It features a Typical Suburban Family -- a perky Mom with perfect blond hair, a genial tie-wearing Dad with the IQ of lettuce, and two child actors playing a brother and sister who have clearly been drugged because they never hit each other. Everything is going fine for these people until -- WUH-oh -- they get an audit notice from the IRS. They're very nervous. Fortunately at this point, in comes the wise old grandpa, Fred. Fred has been audited before and seems to have actually ENJOYED it. He says things like: ``The unique thing about our nation's tax system is that it's based on trust.'' (SURE it is! That's why we're being audited!) Fred also says: ``You know, those IRS folks, they're just people.'' As proof of this, the scene switches to the IRS office, where we meet two IRS auditors who LOOK like humans, but talk like Martians. Here is some of their dialogue: FIRST AUDITOR: You know what impresses me? The emphasis on confidentiality! SECOND AUDITOR (chuckling, as though this is a hilarious remark): Oh yes, we're always stressing the importance of preserving the taxpayer's privacy! Anyway, comes the big moment, and Mom and Dad go in to the IRS office. They're doing OK until -- WUH-oh -- the auditor discovers that they used THE WRONG BASIS FOR DETERMINING THE DEDUCTION ON MOM'S HOME OFFICE. Those silly geese! In a wonderful scene, an IRS supervisor hauls out the Tax Code and shows it to Mom and Dad, and they -- this is a triumph of acting skill -- pretend that they can understand it. So it turns out that Mom and Dad owe some money, but not too much. ``THAT wasn't so bad!'' says Dad. ``They never found out about our cocaine smuggling!'' No, I made that last line up. The tape ends with Grandpa Fred saying: ``Our taxes help to maintain our country and the quality of life we enjoy as Americans today.'' They also pay for such vital government programs as producing ``Hey ... We're Being Audited!'' If you'd like to see it, call the IRS Taxpayer Education Office, and they'll send it to you, free. Be sure to return it on time, or they get your house. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 21 Aug 93 17:08:03 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!ub!decwrl!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 08/22/93 Subject: Say Uncle Lines: 93 Summer vacation is almost over, so today Uncle Dave has a special back-to-school "pep talk" for you young people, starting with these heartfelt words of encouragement: HA HA HA YOU HAVE TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL AND UNCLE DAVE DOESN'T NEENER NEENER NEENER. Seriously, young people, I have some important back-to- school advice for you, and I can boil it down to four simple words: "Study Your Mathematics." I say this in light of a recent alarming Associated Press story stating that three out of every four high-school students -- nearly 50 percent -- leave school without an adequate understanding of mathematics. Frankly, I am not surprised. "How," I am constantly asking myself, "can we expect today's young people to understand mathematics when so many of them CAN'T EVEN POINT THEIR BASEBALL CAPS IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION?" I am constantly seeing young people with the bills of their baseball caps pointing BACKWARD. This makes no sense, young people! If you examine your cap closely, you will note that it has a piece sticking out the front, called a "bill." The purpose of the bill is to keep sun off your face, which, unless your parents did a great many drugs in the '60s (Ask them about it!), is located on the FRONT of your head. Wearing your cap backward is like wearing sunglasses on the back of your head, or wearing a hearing aid in your nose. (Perhaps you young people are doing this also. Uncle Dave doesn't want to know.) So to summarize what we've learned: "FRONT of cap goes on FRONT of head." Got it, young people? Let's all strive to do better in the coming school year! But also we need to think about getting these math scores up. A shocking number of you young people are unable to solve even basic math problems, such as the following: A customer walks into a fast-food restaurant, orders two hamburgers costing $2 apiece, then hands you a $5 bill. How much change should you give him? a. $2 b. $3 c. None, because the question doesn't say you WORK there. You could just take the money and run away. The correct answer, of course, is that you should give the customer: d. Whatever the computerized cash register says, even if it's $154,789.62. You young people must learn to handle basic mathematical concepts such as this if you hope to ever become a smug and complacent older person such as myself. I was fortunate enough to receive an excellent mathematical foundation as a member of the Class of 196.5 Billion Years Ago at Pleasantville High School, where I studied math under Mr. Solin, who, in my senior year, attempted to teach us calculus (from the ancient Greek words "calc," meaning "the study of," and "ulus," meaning "something that only Mr. Solin could understand"). Mr. Solin was an excellent teacher, and although the subject matter was dry, he was able to keep the class's attention riveted on him from the moment the bell rang until the moment, several minutes later, when a large girls' gym class walked past the classroom windows, every single day, causing the heads of us male students to rotate 90 mathematical degrees in unison, like elves in a motorized Christmas yard display. But during those brief periods when we were facing Mr. Solin, we received a solid foundation in mathematics, learning many important mathematical concepts that we still use in our professional lives as employees of top U.S. corporations. A good example is the mathematical concept of "9," which we use almost daily to obtain an outside line on our corporate telephones so that we can order Chinese food, place bets, call 1-900-BOSOMS, and perform all of the other vital employee functions that make our economy what it is today. You young people deserve to have the same advantages, which is why I was so pleased to note in the Associated Press story that some university professors have received a $6 million federal grant to develop new ways to teach math to high school students. The professors know this will be a challenge. One of them is quoted as saying: "There is a mentality in this country that mathematics is something a few nerds out there do and if you don't understand mathematics, it's OK -- you don't need it." This is a bad mentality, young people. There's nothing "nerdy" about mathematics. Contrary to their image as a bunch of out-of-it, huge-butted Far-Side-professor dweebs who spend all day staring at incomprehensible symbols on a blackboard while piles of dandruff form around their ankles, today's top mathematicians are in fact a group of exciting, dynamic and glamorous individuals who are working to solve some of the most fascinating and challenging problems facing the human race today ("Let's see, at $2.98 apiece, with a $6 million federal grant, we could buy ... WHOA! THAT'S 2,013,422.82 POCKET PROTECTORS!"). So come on, young people! Get in on the action! Work hard in math this year, and remember this: If some muscle-bound Neanderthal bullies corner you in the bathroom and call you a "nerd," you just look them straight in the eye and say, "Oh, YEAH? Why don't you big jerks ... LET GO! HEY! DON'T PUT MY HEAD IN THE TOILET! HEY!" And tell them that goes double for your Uncle Dave. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!cert!usenet.ins.cwru.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!paperboy.micro.umn.edu!umn.edu!ux1.cso.uiuc.edu!uunet!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: HERE ARE THE FINAL RESULTS OF THE BAD SONG SURVEY Message-ID: Date: 24 Jan 93 07:28:20 GMT Lines: 87 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 897/936; Id: z0802; Sel: tw--; Adate: 01/24-N/A; TAKES Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY I hope you haven't had anything to eat recently, because, as promised last week, today I am presenting the winners of the Bad Song Survey. In analyzing these results, I had to make a few adjustments. For example, the Bob Dylan song ``Lay Lady Lay'' would have easily won as Worst Overall Song, with 17,006 votes, except that I had to disallow 17, 004 votes on the grounds that they were cast by my Research Department, Judi Smith, who tabulated the votes, and who HATES ``Lay Lady Lay.'' To win, a song had to be known well enough that a lot of people could hate it. This is a shame in a way, because some obscure songs that people voted for are wonderfully hideous. One reader sent a tape of a song called ``Hooty Sapperticker'' by a group called ``Barbara and the Boys.'' This could be the worst song I've ever heard. It consists almost entirely of The Boys singing ``Hooty! Hooty! Hooty!'' and then Barbara saying: ``Howdy Hooty Sapperticker!'' Several readers sent in an amazing CD from Rhino Records called ``Golden Throats,'' which consists of popular actors attempting to sing popular music, including William Shatner attempting ``Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds,'' Leonard Nimoy attempting ``Proud Mary,'' Mae West attempting ``Twist and Shout,'' Eddie Albert attempting ``Blowin' in the Wind,'' and -- this is my favorite -- Jack `` Soul'' Webb attempting ``Try a Little Tenderness.'' You need this CD. But now for our survey results. Without question, the voters' choice for Worst Song -- in both the Worst Overall AND Worst Lyrics category -- is ... (drum roll ...) ``MacArthur Park,'' as sung by Richard Harris, and later remade, for no comprehensible reason, by Donna Summer. It's hard to argue with this selection. My 12-year-old son, Rob, was going through a pile of ballots, and he asked me how ``MacArthur Park'' goes, so I sang it, giving it my best shot, and Rob laughed so hard that when I got to the part about leaving the cake out in the rain, and it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again, Rob was on the floor. He didn't BELIEVE those lyrics were real. He was SURE his wacky old humor-columnist dad was making them up. The clear runner-up, again in both categories, is ``Yummy Yummy Yummy (I Got Love In My Tummy),'' performed by Ohio Express. (A voter sent me an even WORSE version of this, performed by actress Julie London, who at one time -- and don't tell me this is mere coincidence -- was married to Jack Webb.) Coming in a strong third is ``(You're) Having My Baby'' by Paul Anka. This song is deeply hated. As one voter put it: ``It has no redeeming value whatsoever -- except my friend Brian yelled out during the birth scene in the sequel to `The Fly' in full song, `Having my maggot!''' Honorable mention goes to Bobby Goldsboro, who got many votes for various songs, especially ``Honey.'' One voter wrote: ``Why does everybody hate Bobby Goldsboro's `Honey'? I hate it too, but I want to know WHY.'' Why? Consider this verse: ``She wrecked the car and she was sad; And so afraid that I'd be mad, but what the heck; Tho' I pretended hard to be; Guess you could say she saw through me; And hugged my neck.'' As one reader observed: ``Bobby never caught on that he could have bored a hole in himself and let the sap out.'' A recent song that has aroused great hostility is ``Achy Breaky Heart,'' by Billy Ray Cyrus. According to voter Mark Freeman, the song sounds like this: ``You can tell my lips, or you can tell my hips, that you're going to dump me if you can; But don't tell my liver, it never would forgive her, it might blow up and circumcize this man!'' Many voters feel a special Lifetime Bad Achievement Award should go to Mac Davis, who wrote ``In the Ghetto,'' ``Watching Scotty Grow,'' AND ``Baby Don't Get Hooked On Me,'' which contains one of the worst lines in musical history: ``You're a hot-blooded woman-child; And it's warm where you're touching me.'' That might be as bad as the part in ``Careless Whisper'' where George Michael sings: ``I'm never gonna dance again; Guilty feet have got no rhythm.'' Speaking of bad lyrics, many voters also cited Paul McCartney, who, ever since his body was taken over by a pod person, has been writing things like: ``Someone's knockin' at the door; Somebody's ringin' the bell; (repeat); Do me a favor, open the door, and let him in.'' There were strong votes for various tragedy songs, especially ``Teen Angel'' (``I'll never kiss your lips again; They buried you today.'') and ``Timothy,'' a song about -- really -- three trapped miners, two of whom wind up EATING the third. Other tremendously unpopular songs, for their lyrics or overall badness, are: ``Muskrat Love,'' ``Sugar Sugar,'' ``I'm Too Sexy,'' ``Surfin' Bird,'' ``I've Never Been To Me,'' ``In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,'' ``Afternoon Delight,'' ``Feelings,'' ``You Light Up My Life'' and ``In the Year 2525'' (VIOLENT hatred for this song). In closing, let me say that you voters have performed a major public service, and that just because your song didn't make the list, that doesn't mean it isn't awful (unless you were one of the badly misguided people who voted for ``The Tupperware Song''). Let me also say that I am very relieved to learn that there are people besides me who hate ``Stairway to Heaven.'' Thank you. P.S. Also ``I Shot the Sheriff.'' Copyright 1993 the Miami Herald Article: 25 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!csn!att!cbnewsc!cbfsb!att-out!rutgers!ub!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: GET OUT YOUR POSTCARDS: IT'S TIME FOR THE BAD SONG SURVEY Message-ID: Date: 8 Nov 92 02:08:05 GMT Lines: 79 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 854; Id: z0335; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 11/08-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY In a recent column I noted that certain songs are always getting played on the radio, despite the fact that these songs have been shown, in scientific laboratory tests, to be bad. One example I cited was Neil Diamond's ballad ``I Am, I Said,'' in which Neil complains repeatedly that nobody hears him, ``not even the chair.'' I pointed out that this does not make a ton of sense, unless Neil has unusually intelligent furniture. (``Mr. Diamond, your Barcalounger is on line two.'') Well, it turns out there are some major Neil Diamond fans out there in Readerland. They sent me a large pile of hostile mail with mouth froth spewing out of the envelope seams. In the interest of journalistic fairness, I will summarize their main arguments here: ``Dear Pukenose: ``Just who the hell do you think you are to blah blah a great artist like Neil blah blah more than 20 gold records blah blah how many gold records do YOU have, you scumsucking wad of blah blah I personally have attended 1,794 of Neil's concerts blah blah What about `Love on the Rocks?' Huh? What about `Cracklin' Rosie?' blah blah if you had ONE- TENTH of Neil's talent blah blah so I listened to `Heart Light' 40 times in a row and the next day the cyst was GONE and the doctor said he had never seen such a rapid blah blah What about `Play Me?' What About `Song Sung' Blah? Cancel my subscription, if I have one.'' So we can clearly see that music is a matter of personal taste. Person A may hate a particular song, such as ``Havin' My Baby'' by Paul Anka (who I suspect is also Neil Sedaka), and Person B might love this song. But does this mean that Person B is wrong? Of course not. It simply means that Person B is an idiot. Because some songs are just plain bad, and ``Havin' My Baby'' is one of them, and another one is ``Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.'' That's not merely my opinion: That's the opinion of many readers who took time out from whatever they do, which I hope does not involve operating machinery, to write letters containing harsh remarks about these and other songs. In fact, to judge from the reader reaction, the public is a lot more concerned about the issue of song badness than about the presidential election campaign (which by the way is over, so you can turn on your TV again). And it's not just the public. It's also the media. I put a message on The Miami Herald's newsroom computer system, asking people to nominate the worst rock song ever, and within minutes I was swamped with passionate responses. And these were from newspaper people, who are legendary for their cold-blooded noninvolvement (``I realize this is a bad time for you, Mrs. Weemer, but could you tell me how you felt when you found Mr. Weemer's head?''). Even the managing editor responded, arguing that the worst rock song ever was ``whichever one led to the second one.'' Other popular choices were ``A Horse With No Name,'' performed by America; ``Billy, Don't Be A Hero,'' by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods; ``Kung Fu Fighting,'' by Carl Douglas; ``Copacabana,'' by Barry Manilow; ```Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,'' by Lobo; ``Seasons in the Sun,'' by Terry Jacks; ``Feelings,'' by various weenies; ``Precious and Few'' by some people who make the weenies who sang ``Feelings'' sound like Ray Charles; ``The Pepsi Song,'' by Ray Charles; ``Muskrat Love,'' by The Captain and Tennille; every song ever recorded by Bobby Goldsboro; and virtually every song recorded since about 1972. ``It's worse than ever,'' is how my wife put it. Anyway, since people feel so strongly about this issue, I've decided to conduct a nationwide survey to determine the worst rock song ever. I realize that similar surveys have been done before, but this one will be unique: This will be the first rock-song survey ever, to my knowledge, that I'll be able to get an easy column out of. So I'm asking you to send me your nominations in two categories: Worst Overall Song, and Worst Lyrics. In the second category, for example, you might want to consider a song I swear I heard back in the late 1950s, which I believe was called ``Girls Grow Up Faster Than Boys Do.'' I've been unable to locate the record, but the chorus went: Won't you take a look at me now You'll be surprised at what you see now I'm everything a girl should be now Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-FIVE! I'm sure you can do worse than that. So write your two nominations (one song in each category) on a postal card -- NOT a letter -- and send it to Bad Song Survey, c/o Dave Barry, The Miami Herald, 1 Herald Plaza, Miami, Fla. 33132. Send your card today. Be in with the ``in'' crowd. We'll have joy, we'll have fun. So Cracklin' Rosie, get on board, because Honey, I miss you. AND your dog named Boo. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 2 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser!cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE GREAT LITERARY BAND TAKES CENTER STAGE Message-ID: Date: 7 Jul 92 10:46:54 GMT Lines: 78 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 817; Id: z0383; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 07/05-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY Recently I played lead guitar in a rock band, and the rhythm guitarist was -- not that I wish to drop names -- Stephen King. This actually happened. It was the idea of a woman named Kathi Goldmark, who formed a band consisting mostly of writers to raise money for literacy by putting on a concert at the American Booksellers Association convention in Anaheim, Calif. So she called a bunch of writers who were sincerely interested in literacy and making an unbelievable amount of noise. Among the others who agreed to be in the band were Tad Bartimus, Roy Blount Jr., Michael Dorris, Robert Fulghum, Matt Groening, Barbara Kingsolver, Ridley Pearson and Amy Tan. I think we all said yes for the same reason. If you're a writer, you sit all day alone in a quiet room trying to craft sentences on a word processor, which makes weenie little clickety-click sounds. After years and years of crafting and clicking, you are naturally attracted to the idea of arming yourself with an amplified instrument powerful enough to be used for building demolition, then getting up on a stage with other authors and screaming out songs such as ``Land of 1,000 Dances,'' the lyrics to which express the following literary theme: ``Na, na na na na, na na na na Na na na, na na na, na na na na'' So we all met in Anaheim, and for three days we rehearsed in a secret location under the strict supervision of our musical director, the legendary rock musician Al Kooper. This was a major thrill for me, because Kooper had been my idol when I was at Haverford College in the late '60s. Back then I played guitar in a band called the Federal Duck, and we tried very hard to sound like a band Al Kooper was in called The Blues Project. Eventually the Federal Duck actually made a record album, which was so bad that many stereo systems chose to explode rather than play it. Anyway, I could not quite believe that, 25 years later, I was really and truly in a band with AL KOOPER, and that he was actually asking for MY OPINION on musical issues. ``Do you think,'' he would ask, ``that you could play in the same key as the rest of us?'' So, OK, skillwise I'm not Eric Clapton. But I was LOUDER than Eric Clapton, as well as many nuclear tests. I had an amplifier large enough to serve as public housing. It had a little foot switch, and when I pressed it, I was able to generate sound waves that will affect the global climate for years to come. We can only hope that Saddam Hussein is not secretly developing a foot switch like this. We practiced six long hours the first day, and at the end, Al Kooper called us together for an inspirational talk. ``When we started this morning, we stunk,'' he said. ``But by this afternoon, we stunk much better. Maybe eventually we can be just a faint odor.'' In the evenings we engaged in literary activities such as going to see the movie ``Alien 3.'' I was concerned about this, because when I watch horror movies I tend to whimper and clutch the person sitting next to me, who in this particular case was Stephen King. But as it turned out, the alien didn't scare me at all; I live in Miami, and we have cockroaches that are at least that size, but more aggressive. The only scary part was when Sigourney Weaver got injected with a hypodermic needle, which on the movie screen was approximately 27 feet long. This caused me to whimper and clutch Stephen King, but I was pleased to note that HE was whimpering and clutching his wife, Tabitha. But the real thrill came when our band finished practicing and actually played. The performance was in a big dance hall called the Cowboy Boogie, where hundreds of booksellers and publishing-industry people had drunk themselves into a highly literary mood. The show went great. The audience whooped and screamed and threw underwear. Granted, some of it was extra-large men's jockey briefs, but underwear is underwear. We belted out our songs, singing, with deep concern for literacy in our voices, such lyrics as: ``You got to do the mammer jammer If you want my love.'' Also a group of rock critics got up with us and sang a version of ``Louie Louie'' so dirty that the U.S. Constitution should, in my opinion, be modified specifically to prohibit it. Also -- so far this is the highlight of my life -- I got to play a lead-guitar solo while dancing the Butt Dance WITH AL KOOPER. To get an idea how my solo sounded, press the following paragraph up against your ear: ``BWEEEOOOOOAAAAPPPPPP'' Ha ha! Isn't that GREAT? Your ear is bleeding. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 87 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apteryx!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE YEAR IN REVIEW Message-ID: Date: 29 Dec 91 00:03:27 GMT Lines: 161 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 860; Id: z1165; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 12/29-1aed Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: The following is the 1,200-word short version of Dave Barry's YEAR IN REVIEW for release Sunday, Dec. 29. The complete 6, 000-word version has also been transmitted to you today.) DAVE BARRY (ATTENTION EDITORS: The following is the 1,200-word short version of Dave Barry's YEAR IN REVIEW for release Sunday, Dec. 29. The complete 6, 000-word version has also been transmitted to you today.) JANUARY 1 -- The new year dawns with Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein arrogantly thumbing his nose at international law. Little does this homicidal bully realize that, although he is riding high now, before the year is over, he will be, um, almost a year older. 16 -- War erupts in the Middle East as massive allied air forces attack Iraq with extremely sophisticated computerized weapons capable of hitting, with pinpoint accuracy, any target except Saddam Hussein. 17 -- The Iraqi air force, rising to the challenge, flies to Iran. 19 -- The air war over Iraq heats up as the U.S. Air Force introduces a Frequent Combat Flier Program, under which after a certain number of sorties, pilots may bomb the target of their choice. Many choose Sam Donaldson. FEBRUARY 8 -- Tensions mount in the Persian Gulf as a grim-faced Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf orders his troops to shoot the next member of the press corps who asks him when the ground war is going to start. 23 -- Ground fighting begins. Hopes are aroused for an early end to the war when 3,500 Iraqi troops surrender to an allied portable field toilet. 26 -- Allied forces push deep into Iraq, toward Baghdad, drawing ever closer to accomplishing the mission of eliminating Saddam, this tyrant, this murderer, this international cancer, this ... Wait! Hold it! New orders from Washington! The new mission is to mail Hussein a certified letter notifying him that he lost the war. MARCH 12 -- Saddam claims that he never got any letter about losing any war. The U.N., after three days of debate, votes to turn the matter over to a collection agency. 27 -- In a move with complex legal ramifications, the California Legislature votes to ban smoking in the past. APRIL 1 -- The U.S. economy is definitely on the mend, announce President Bush's economic advisers, after a two-hour meeting with the Easter Bunny. 9 -- In Palm Beach, tireless social activist Sen. Edward M. Kennedy (D-UMB) leads a historic fact-finding mission of the Select Subcommittee on Fermentation and Nocturnal Reconnaissance. 21 -- Ending 159 years of tradition, members of Yale's exclusive and highly secretive Skull and Bones Club vote to stop wearing women's underwear. MAY 4 -- White House aides become alarmed when President Bush, on his routine jog, suddenly begins speaking in complete sentences. He is rushed to Bethesda Naval Hospital, where doctors begin a series of tests to determine how come, if it's a NAVAL hospital, it's nowhere near the water. 6 -- Medical tests reveal that President Bush is suffering from Graves' disease, which -- in what doctors describe as a one in a million coincidence -- is the same disease afflicting Mrs. Bush AND Millie, the first dog. 8 -- Further tests reveal that, in what doctors say is a one in 378 squintillion coincidence, every tourist who has visited the White House for the past three years also has Graves' disease. 9 -- President Bush announces that, on the advice of his physician, he will stop inviting Graves to the White House. JUNE 7 -- White House Chief of Staff John Sununu, arguing that he is extremely essential to the government and must always be near special communications equipment, defends his decision to travel from Washington to a Boston dental appointment via nuclear submarine. 12 -- Thurgood Marshall announces his retirement from the Supreme Court after realizing that for six months he has been hearing cases in his bathrobe. JULY 1 -- President Bush, who is totally against racial quotas, discovers to his amazement that of all the possible candidates to replace Thurgood Marshall, who is black, the most qualified person is Clarence Thomas, who, in what White House doctors say is a one in 984 hillion jillion vermilion coincidence, ALSO happens to be black. In a news conference, Thomas reveals that he was born in Humble Origins, Ga., and grew up so poor that he could never afford to have an opinion. 3 -- True Item: Searchers in New Mexico use airplanes and helicopters to hunt for a radioactive goat. The ``Atomic Goat,'' as it is known, was one of 62 goats fitted with collars filled with radioactive isotopes as part of a $116,000 federal experiment to track coyotes by following the radiation they emitted after eating the goats. Wildlife experts are concerned that the Atomic Goat might contaminate the environment. 17 -- The U.S. Senate, emitting a ray of sunshine that briefly pierces the growing public gloom over the economy, votes itself a $23,000 pay raise. 29 -- Pee-wee Herman reaches puberty and is arrested. AUGUST 3 -- True Item: Officials at the Oak Ridge, Tenn., National Laboratory issue a warning that radioactive leopard frogs are on the loose. The frogs, about two inches long, grew up in a holding basin for waste water from nuclear research. According to news reports they are ``safe unless eaten.'' 15 -- The Supreme Court rules that John Sununu is so essential to the government that he should be surgically attached to the President. ``He'll be like a giant wart,'' states Chief Justice William Rehnquist, ``but less attractive.'' 22 -- A Soviet coup against Mikhail Gorbachev collapses when thousands of Moscow citizens, in a dramatic confrontation with Red Army tank units, realize that the tank engines have all been traded to Italy for cheese. 23 -- In a sweeping post-coup reform move, Gorbachev abolishes the Communist Party and fires thousands of entrenched, hard-line Kremlin bureaucrats, all of whom are immediately hired by the Internal Revenue Service. SEPTEMBER 1 -- Mario Cuomo hints that he will run for president. 13 -- After three grueling days of Senate Judiciary Committee hearings on the Clarence Thomas nomination, Chairman Joseph Biden completes his first question. Sen. Strom Thurmond asks him to repeat it. 20 -- President Bush, in Portugal to discuss how the U.S. can help fight a fungus that threatens the olive crop, angrily denies the charge that he is neglecting domestic issues. ``I am very concerned about the United, um, whaddycallem, States,'' he says. ``Barbara and I have a summer home there.'' 29 -- Mario Cuomo hints that he will NOT run for president. OCTOBER 1 -- An audit shows that members of the House of Representatives wrote 8,331 bad checks against the House's private bank. 4 -- Congress passes an anti-crime bill mandating the death penalty for anybody who attempts to audit the House of Representatives. 9 -- Round Two of the Senate Judiciary Committee hearings begins with several hundred witnesses, including Mike Tyson, testifying that Anita Hill probably had romantic fantasies about them, thus raising the question of how she found time to get a law degree. 12 -- Geraldo Rivera testifies that both Anita Hill AND Mike Tyson had fantasies about him. 13 -- A clearly exhausted Sen. Orrin Hatch reveals that he has had fantasies regarding Long Dong Silver. 21 -- Mario Cuomo hints that maybe he already IS president. NOVEMBER 1 -- The Middle East peace talks go smoothly until four minutes into the historic session, when the two sides exchange gunfire in a dispute involving the prune Danish. 2 -- The peace talks conclude on a hopeful note, with survivors on both sides agreeing to meet again in a location that has more plasma. 10 -- Mario Cuomo hints that, in a past life, he was the queen of Scotland. 16 -- Faced with a choice between David Duke and Edwin Edwards, Louisiana voters, in a heartwarming demonstration of common sense and good old-fashioned American decency, move to Ohio. DECEMBER 1 -- Sales of Old Milwaukee beer plummet when the public learns that the Swedish Bikini Team, prior to group surgery, was the Norwegian ice- hockey team. 3 -- In the biggest U.S. military action since the Gulf War, an Army division removes John Sununu from the White House. 10 -- A team of surgeons in Minneapolis removes a fertilized egg from a woman's womb, places it in a special container, flies it to Disney World, takes it on the Space Mountain ride, and successfully returns it to the woman's womb. ``We don't yet know the PURPOSE of this procedure, '' states the lead surgeon, ``but we're confident that it will cost a LOT of money.'' 26 -- Mario Cuomo hints that he is a mutant named ``Zomax'' who has the power to communicate with trees. 28 -- President Bush, in yet another foreign-policy triumph, is elected to the British parliament. The rest of us, however, are stuck here. But happy New Year anyway. (C) 1991 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!enterpoop.mit.edu!wupost!uunet!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: CHOOSING THE BEST DRESSED AMONG US IS NO EASY TASK Message-ID: Date: Sat, 13 Mar 93 18:08:01 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 921/947; Id: z0396; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 03/14-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, March 14, 1993, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) (EDITORS: Jornal in 8th graf is correct.) Lines: 92 DAVE BARRY Recently I had the honor of being asked to vote in the International Best Dressed Poll. According to the information accompanying the Official Ballot, this is a worldwide poll, conducted annually since 1940, of 1,000 ``fashion professionals, journalists and others with the daily opportunity to see fashion at its best.'' I was very proud to be asked to vote, although in all honesty I should note that I was not, technically, asked by the Best Dressed Poll Committee. I was asked by Ellie Brecher, who received a ballot because she used to cover fashion for the Miami Herald. She gave me her ballot because she was busy trying to get somebody to adopt an extra dog she had acquired. Ellie collects stray animals. One time she collected a chicken, named Chuck E. Chicken, which she found wandering around as a baby (I mean the chicken was a baby). When you went over to Ellie's place, there would be Chuck, striding nervously around on the floor, trying not to get stepped on, shooting her head forward and back in the manner of chickens and middle-aged people trying to read restaurant menus. Me, I'd never have a house chicken. I'd be afraid that some night, while I was sleeping, the chicken, fed up with almost being stepped on, would hop onto the bed and peck my eyeballs out. Why not? What would stop her? Fear of arrest? No, society has very little hold over chickens, unlike dogs, which are desperately eager to please society, because society, unlike dogs, knows how to open dog-food cans. Speaking of dogs, Ellie has acquired a stray one, a Dalmatian named Maybelline, because, as Ellie notes, ``she looks like she's wearing eye makeup.'' Ellie can't keep Maybelline, because she (Ellie) already has three dogs, including one named Harpo, who has asthma, which means that Ellie has to squirt a nasal inhaler up each of Harpo's nostrils twice a day, a procedure that, if you count the time required to get Harpo calmed down afterward, can consume as much as seven hours per nostril. Thus we see why, what with one thing and another, Ellie simply did not have time to participate in this year's International Best Dressed Poll. To help voters decide whom to vote for, the Poll Committee sent along a recommended list of ``international personalities,'' including princes, princesses, counts, duchesses, entertainment stars, moguls and people with names such as -- this is a real name -- ``Mrs. Sumner Pingree III.'' You just know that a person with a name like that has a monthly footwear budget larger than your mortgage payment. Also included with the ballot was a list of people who have been inducted into the InternationaBest Dressed List Hall of Fame, including Ronald Reagan, Mrs. Henry Kissinger, Queen Elizabeth II and Bianca Jagger. I'm sure these international personalities all deserve the honor, although in all candor the queen does occasionally appear in public wearing what appears to be motel furniture on her head. But we all have fashion lapses. Two years ago, for example, I flew all the way from Miami to California to make a speech, and when I got there I discovered that I had one black shoe and one brown shoe. Fortunately I was speaking to people from the newspaper industry, where you're considered to be at the height of fashion sophistication if you have your pants on frontward, so nobody noticed. Speaking of the newspaper industry and Mrs. Henry Kissinger and nostrils, I feel compelled at this time to tell you about the Nov. 13, 1992, issue of the Brazilian newspaper Jornal Brasil, which was sent in by alert reader James Phillips. The front page features two large color photographs of Mr. Henry Kissinger, former U.S. Secretary of State and winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, aggressively picking his nose at a trade conference in Rio de Janeiro. I am not making this up. The first photo shows Mr. Kissinger sitting with his translation earphones on and a little American flag in front of him. He has that faraway look that guys get when engaged in nasal maneuvers; his whole consciousness appears to be centered in his left pinkie, which is wedged deep into his left nostril. In the second photo, he has the same look on his face, only now he is holding something between his thumb and his forefinger, and his mouth is open, and ... YUCK. The caption under the pictures makes no mention of this. It merely states that Mr. Kissinger is in town for the conference. Apparently the Jornal Brasil did not wish to cause any embarrassment for Mr. Kissinger, other than to run two large color photographs of him on the front page playing Booger Patrol. I felt bad for Henry, so I decided, as a humanitarian gesture, to vote for him in the International Best Dressed Poll. I had a harder time deciding whom to vote for in the women's category, but I finally settled on an individual who has perfected an elegant yet exuberant look, a brand-new ``take'' on the classic black-and-white motif. This is an individual with breeding, personality, soulful eyes and -- above all -- a keen sense of smell. I refer of course to Maybelline Brecher. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. -- This, and all articles in this news hierarchy are Copyright 1993 by the wire service or information provider and licenced to Clarinet Communications Corp. for distribution. Except for free samples, only paid subscribers may access these articles. Any unauthorized access, reproduction or transmission is strictly prohibited. We will reward the first provider of information that helps us stop violators of this copyright. Send reports to reward@clarinet.com. (Note that while we do like to know about people who do the odd reposting to USENET without permission, rewards are not always provided for reports on that, since's it's usually obvious.) From jbs@rti.UUCP Wed Jan 24 13:19:23 1990 From: jbs@rti.UUCP (Joe Simpson) Subject: Re: Who is Dave Barry? In lots of articles <...> a lot of you ask: >Who is Dave Barry? This should answer your question... The World According To Dave Barry (America's most outrageous columnist is dead serious about humor) Article by Eric Zorn Every week, an informed cadre of East Coast residents who, the poor slobs, do not live near a newspaper that carries syndicated humor columnist Dave Barry, logs onto a private computer bulletin board to read Barry's latest assault on journalistic conventions. Maybe this time he's suggested that Mark Goodson, the game-show producer, should have his bowels ripped out by wolves or that Congress should free John Hinckley and pass a law requiring Jodie Foster to date him. Or maybe he's written that once an airplane takes off, the crew usually puts it on automatic pilot and relaxes by trying on women's clothing, or that Mother Nature is a vicious, irresponsible slut. You just never know. Barry, easily America's most preposterous newspaper columnist, weaves a weekly tapestry of mangled facts, ludicrous propositions and penetrating if somewhat warped observations is some 70 papers. Those who dislike his work call it tasteless and sophomoric - a judgment he embraces as though it were praise. Those who like it say it's wonderfully bizarre. Either way, most readers agree they've never read anything quite like it. Here's Barry covering the Miss America pageant last year for the Miami Herald: "After a day of smiling like insane persons and talking about how they would very much like to help handicapped animals, [the contestants] went back to their hotel rooms and unwound by smoking enormous cigars and spitting out the window onto elderly pedestrians." Here's Barry on sports: "Although golf was originally restricted to wealthy, overweight Protestants, today it's open to anybody who owns hideous clothing." And Barry on babies: "A child can go only so far in life without potty train- ing. It is not mere coincidence that six of the last seven presidents were potty trained, not to mention nearly half of the nation's state legislators." Those who read and contribute to the Boston-area Barry bulletin board [there are at least three others nationwide, each associated with large high-tech companies] send in analyses and critiques of these types of observations as well as information on where he has published lately, entries to Dave Barry Write-Alike contests and the poop on petitions and letter-writing campaigns organized to get the Boston Globe to print his column regularly and make unnecessary this underground nonsense. Barry himself is flattered but keeps out of the fray. He's unconcerned that his column is not published by Boston, New York, Washington, D.C., or Los Angeles newspapers and that he has yet to break into the more prestigious periodicals, such as the New Yorker, Esquire and the Atlantic. "I'm just as happy not to be part of the literary establishment," he says in a voice lightly laced with East Coast vowels. "I don't think of myself as remotely literary or deep or even a little bit thoughtful." So there. Dave Barry has other things to worry about. Like on a recent Friday morning when he pondered, over breakfast at Denny's near his home in the Delaware River valley of Pennsylvania, whether he should spend an $800 paycheck he'd just received from Ms. magazine on an electric guitar or on a new sofa. The family clearly could have used the sofa. Barry says that he and his wife "were both born without whatever brain part it is that enables people to decorate their homes" and that the current sofa is "covered with a blanket to keep guests from looking directly at it and being blinded or driven insane." But priorities are priorities. "For 15 years I've been lamenting that when I left college, I sold my guitar," he says, sounding eager rather than remorseful and munching a bite of scrapple, a side-dish indigenous to western Pennsylvania consisting of leftover pig parts fried up to look like Spam gone bad. "I had a Fender Jazzmaster. Great guitar. I would have sold my amp, too, but the night before, a friend and I threw it out the dormitory window. We were really drunk, and all we could say was `The Who! The Who!'" "We did, however, take the time to measure it to make sure it would go through the window. It did. A clean shot. There were at least 30 people gathered outside to watch it land." Choosing to buy a new guitar over a new sofa turned out, in the end, to be easy, Barry, 38, has never really grown up and remains sort of a demented Peter Pan in blue jeans, sneakers and golf shirts. For all that he is a middle-class, suburban family man with professional responsibilities and furniture on his mind, inside he's still the same devious kid who spent hours in high school in Pleasantville, N.Y., plotting the best way to send a truck loaded with dynamite through the front doors of the nearby headquarters of Reader's Digest magazine. He never considered for a minute, of course, that 20 years later the same Reader's Digest would propel him to international celebrity by reprinting part of one of his books. Such are the ironies that run thickly through the life of our most cynical natural resource, a man who rose slowly through the journalistic ranks and only made it when he turned around and ran roughshod over all the sacred canons of the Fourth Estate. "I am hostile, vicious, unsafe and reprehensible," he says, ticking off the adjectives as though they indicated virtues. "There are times when I'll write things I know are offensive just for the sheer thrill of seeing them in a news- paper. I discovered along time ago that you can get away with almost anything if you think it's funny." And get away with it he has. Barry's full-time job is one of the most unusual in journalism. He is a staff writer for the Miami Herald, yet lives in bucolic Glen Mills, Pa., 22 miles outside Philadelphia. He writes one column a week and three or four longer pieces a year for the Herald's Sunday magazine, Tropic, and sends the paper periodic, wry dispatches from major events such as the Super Bowl, the Live Aid concert and political conventions. "Time was when the Democrats were no competition in terms of patriotism," filed Barry from the Republican gathering in Dallas last summer. "They were always nominating their presidential candidates at 3 a.m. amidst clouds of marijuana smoke, and it was always somebody like George McGovern, who would make a speech where he'd call on Cuba to invade the United States, and for the closing ceremony they'd have Eldridge Cleaver spit on a Bible." He flies to Miami several times a year to meet with his editors and work on stories, but the arrangement leaves him plenty of time to dabble in other pro- jects, such as writing satirical self-help tracts for Rodale Press, a normally straitlaced publishing house in Emmaus, Pa. The editors there noticed him when he was still a struggling and little-known humorist and hired him to write do- it-yourself projects to liven up "New Shelter," a magazine for geodesic-done types. They then asked him to stretch it into an entire home repair manual, which became his first book, "The Taming of the Screw," a 1983 paperback. "A common problem is that the lights flicker," he wrote. "This sometimes means that your electrical system is inadequate, but more often it means that your home is possessed by demons... If you're not sure whether your house is possessed, see `The Amityville Horror,' a fine documentary film based on an actual book. He also finds time to write half a dozen snappy, smartypants essays a year for magazines such as Glamour, Redbook, Ms., and Historic Preservation. He has no designs whatsoever on serious prose, fiction, poetry, screenplays or TV scripts. "I don't have a novel percolating in me," he says. "I don't have vision, like Garrison Keillor, nor do I have the patience to work on a slow build-up for a big pay-off. I like a lot of quick yuks. Nothing I'm doing is immortal." "I often describe myself as superficial. People assume I'm being modest, that I really believe I'm a deep thinker with lots of important ideas I'm getting across through comedy. But I really am superficial and I really am a philistine." Well, sort of. It's quickly clear in talking to Barry that he's very serious about being flip - his shallowness runs deep, in other words - and that his iconoclasm is not idle pose. "My motivation in writing is hostility," he says brightly. "I honestly feel a great deal of contempt toward rude and stupid people. I'm not the kind of person who can say, well, it doesn't matter. To me it always matters." Politically, for example, Barry says he is an anarchist. He tosses off the fact lightly at first, as though, well, of course, such a crazy writer would be an anarchist. But press him on the point over a few beers, and he'll say that, yes, he really does believe that government is bad and there should be no laws. His hatred for politicians - he compares them to "brain-damaged turnips" - and his attitude toward organized religion - "a load of horse manure" - are genuine. This from the eldest son of a Presbyterian minister. He and three siblings grew up in Armonk, N.Y., under modest circumstances in a home where, as he writes, "every summer we had huge, brazen ants striding around the kitchen demanding food and running up long-distance telephone charges. My mother spent much of her time whapping at them with brooms and spraying them with deadly chemicals. Nothing worked. The ants used to lie on their backs, laughing at the brooms and the chemicals and calling for more." He was not a particularly athletic youth, so he specialized in practical jokes, minor vandalism and the gray area in between. He became widely admired by his peers at school for flushing a cherry bomb down a toilet and helping carry a VW up the steps into the lobby. The guys used to get together to play loadball, a drunken, disorganized version of tackle football, and Barry's lengthy, detailed and bogus accounts of the games would slip past the faculty advisor onto the pages of the school news- paper. A star was born. As an English major at Haverford College in Pennsylvania, Barry's primary passion was playing guitar and piano. He even cut a record with the Federal Duck, a very minor rock band, but soon realized his true talents lay elsewhere. He wanted to write for the student-run Haverford News but disliked the idea of trafficking in facts. When the editors assigned him a feature story on the local Nixon campaign headquarters, he stayed in his room and made the whole thing up. "I loved to write funny," he remembers. "It was great to see people passing my stuff around the dining room and laughing." But the late 1960's were not a particularly amusing time to be a young man in America. To avoid the draft and stay out of Vietnam, Barry got a deferral as a conscientious objector, largely on the strength of his father's ministerial work and the fact that Haverford College was founded by Quakers. "I would have told my draft board that Daffy Duck was the supreme being, if that's what they wanted to hear," he says. As a CO he had to work two years after graduation drawing up grant proposals for the Episcopal Church in New York City. To amuse himself he fired off memos to the area comptroller and various clergymen proposing that the church give money to absurd, nonexistent charities. "All I wanted to do was write," he says. "Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be like Robert Benchley, who basically got paid for making up short, funny things. I just didn't see any direct, clear way for that to happen. Periodi- cally I would think, `Time to get responsible,' and I'd apply to law school. One time I was even accepted and put a deposit on an apartment in San Francisco." But the voice of reason saved the day. As a leftist and budding anarchist, Barry realized at the last minute he would make a lousy lawyer. So, using contacts from his school days and trading on his experience working college summers as a go-fer and intern on the Congressional Quarterly, he landed a job in 1971 as a reporter for the Daily Local News in West Chester, Pa., a short drive from where he now lives. "I covered a lot of raw sewage," he says. "The only thing suburban people care more about than zoning is sewage." At the same time he contributed once a week to a staff-written column called "Ad Libs," always attempting to write funny and sometimes succeeding. Beth Pyle, a reporter who had started at the paper a week after Barry, was appalled at first by his stinging humor and the way he openly insulted other members of the staff, though they didn't seem to mind because they thought he was only kidding. "He was out of control, just a smartass," she says. "But as I got to know him, I discovered I liked the way he thought. He's one of the most serious people I've ever met. He's got a lot of anger about and impatience with stupidity and ridiculousness in the world. He's deadly serious about the things he lampoons, but it comes out funny in his writing. And sometimes in person." Pyle and Barry became close friends and helped each other through the ends of their disintegrating first marriages. In July 1975, after they were both divorced, they married each other in an informal ceremony that concluded with a back-yard volleyball game. By that time, Barry, who had risen to news editor at the Daily Local News, was working as a correspondent for the Philadelphia office of the Associated Press, a profoundly unfunny organization. "It was all very rote," he says. "I hated feeding information to semi-retarded radio news people, which I did all the time. I hated being polite when some lame cretin who couldn't write a paragraph of his own would call the AP and ask them to do it. I hated dealing with guys calling up and saying, `Hi, this is the Shippensburg Gazette. We got a guy in a yacht race in Monaco - we don't know his name - can you tell us how he did?'" The experience drove Barry out of journalism altogether. After half a year at the AP, he quit to become a business-writing instructor with Burger Associates, a corporate consulting firm run by one of his neighbors. The Barrys still live where they did then, in a green two-story house on a cou- ple of acres in a hilly, wooded area called Tanguy Homesteads. The Homesteads were originally incorporated as a 40-family utopian commune before breaking into what Barry calls "a close-knit suburb." For the next eight years, he was away from home almost half the time, traveling coast to coast extrolling the virtues of clear concise writing to eager business executives. "They all agreed it was worthwhile and a good thing to do, but they would never dream of doing it themselves because of the pressure in great, illiterate cor- porate America to be unclear," he says. "I became a sort of religious figure. I would tell them something they wanted to hear, and it cleansed their spirits." Beth, meanwhile had become features editor at the Daily Local News. She hired her husband part-time to start writing weekly humor pieces again, this time with a photo logo. "It was basically the same column I'm writing today, only less consistently good," says Barry, who is not at all bashful about admitting to being funny. "Eventually I got a bunch of them stacked up to send around to the various syndication services. All the big ones, like the Washington Post Writers Group, sent them back with vomit stains on them." One small California feature syndicate was interested, however, and began selling the column to newspapers, though not very aggressively. Barry conti- nued to teach and freelance, scoring his first significant coup with a 1981 article in the Philadelphia Inquirer magazine about Beth's ordeal giving birth to their son Robert. "It was a vicious attack on natural childbirth that really hit a nerve," he says. "All through the 1970's parents had been bombarded with smarmy nonsense about how beautiful childbirth is and how it doesn't hurt and how all you have to do is breathe right. I just came along and pointed out that it hurts like hell, breathing doesn't do a whole lot and most of what your hear in birthing classes is stupid." The story was widely reprinted, passed around and tacked onto bulletin boards. Big, distant newspapers such as The Tribune and Miami Herald expressed interest is seeing more of his work. The Herald even flew him down to Miami, wined and dined him and offered him a full-time staff job, but he didn't want to move, so the deal fell through. A year later, however, when he decided to quit Burger Associates to write full time, the Herald relaxed its residency rules and agreed to hire him and let him stay in Glen Mills. He chose the Herald over the Philadelphia Inquirer, which also wanted to hire him, because the idea of having his boss more than 1,000 miles away appealed to him. "He is the only humorist I know who makes people laugh out loud," says Tropic editor Bene Weingarten. "He writes these massive exaggerations of fundamental truths that are so familiar to people that they can't help but identify with them." "Purely as a writer he is brilliant. He uses words in thoroughly unexpected combinations, like the time he wrote the the four building blocks of the universe are fire, water, gravel and vinyl." Weingarten snorts. "I can't tell you why that's funny, but it's funny as hell. It's undefinable genius." Barry's columns are the single largest source of letters to Tropic, many of them from outraged and incensed citizens who have taken him literally. The magazine prints without comment parts of these hostile letters, such as one >from a government information office in British Honduras calling Barry an "ugly American" and insisting that agricultural products are the country's main export, not, as he had written, lice. His reputation for nutty journalism has reached the point in Miami that, when he's reporting on a story, normally serious sources such as Florida Gov. Bob Graham, U.S. Rep. Dante Fascell and Florida International University Environ- mental Studies director Jack Parker supply him with wacky quotes: "One way to reduce the traffic damage to I-95 would be to make the exit ramps very high, so the the cars would actually shoot off into space," said Parker when Barry interviewed him for an article on Miami's interstate highway. "Perhaps the exit ramps could be located over Alice Wainwright Park so the cars would go off into the bay, where they would form a reef, which would attract lobsters." When he gets delicious actual quotations like this, Barry is forced to take great pains to emphasize to his readers that, this time, he's telling the truth. But mostly this is not a problem. Indeed his first book, "The Taming of the Screw," contains as nearly as possible no useful or verifiable information, despite the fact that it looks, at first glance, as though it might be just another how-to book from Rodale Press. It was published when Barry was virtually unknown and sold just over 50,000 copies - a reasonably good showing but nothing compared to the 190,000 copies of last year's "Babies and Other Hazards of Sex," an 88-page expansion of the popular article on natural childbirth. "All a newborn baby really needs is food, warmth and love," he wrote. "Pretty much like a hamster, only with fewer signs of intelligence." "Bad Habit," a hardback collection of columns published earlier this year by Doubleday & Co. has sold fewer than 10,000 copies and is generally unavailable in stores. Barry refused to do a publicity tour because his former syndicate stood to see most of the sales proceeds. But Rodale Press, undaunted, has already printed 100,000 copies of "Stay Fit and Healthy Until You're Dead," Barry's irreverent treatment of the exercise craze slated for release this month. "Professional ice hockey is an ideal way for the entire family to keep fit," he maintains within. "The kids will love participating in a loose, freewheeling sport where everybody makes the play-offs and the only activity that is specifically prohibited is selling narcotics to your opponents on the ice." On nutrition he advises: "Each morning you should take a vitamin A pill, followed by a vitamin D, followed by an E, until you spelled the healthful mnemonic phrase, 'A DEAD CAD BAKED A BAD CAKE, ACE.'" He is also branching into television, where he hosted four pilot episodes of "That's My Baby," a parental-help talk show produced by Minneapolis public TV station KTCA. The station will produce and distribute the show as a series if it can find a corporate underwriter. It hired him on the strength of his two guest appearances on "The Tonight Show," which were riotous successes even though he did go on last, "after the pigs who knew how to weave." Privately, though, Beth Barry says life with Dave is not a laugh a minute: "He's just normal at home. He's very disciplined about his writing and takes it very seriously. When we go to parties, people expect him to be a clown, which I think is very demeaning to him. "We were at a party about a year ago with all the up and coming yuppie-type writers and editors in Philadelphia. He felt the pressure to be funny and ended up just making an ass of himself. Later he was really embarrassed about it, and so was I." Beth, who quit the Daily Local News when Robert (now four years old) was born, recently started freelance business-writing and ghost-writing a newspaper column for a butcher. Nothing she composes is humorous. She works all day in an upstairs office, while her husband pecks away on his Radio Shack word processor in a basement office decorated with cartoon drawings and littered with back copies of supermarket tabloids from which he claims to take inspiration. "Beth buys them," he says. "We don't subscribe because if they were to get lost in the mail, we'd get behind on events. Like last week - `COUPLE FLEES TALKING BEAR.' Big story. We could have missed it." She is his toughest critic. Before any of his work is sent out for publication, Beth scrutinizes it for logic, grammar and recycled jokes. She also checks to see if it's funny: only rarely does she laugh out loud. "Whenever I do, he runs up and says, `What, what, what? You laughed. I gotta know exactly what you laughed at and why,'" she says. "Beth has seen all the devices I use," he says. "The jokes about goat waste, the tendency to introduce a subject by going back to the dawn of time, the way I compare stupid people's brains to coleslaw and prune pits, that kind of thing." "Barry kills about one in five columns or budding ideas before they see print, but he retains a strong, almost arrogant confidence that he can take any sub- ject and, just by thinking and working hard, massage it into something funny. "Everything has humor potential except Auschwitz and Ethiopia," he says flatly. "In general I don't worry about being offensive. I never did think of `offen- sive' as a criticism. There's a long, glorious tradition of offending people in American humor writing." It usually takes him three days working from 9 a.m. until early afternoon to put together a 1,000-word column. He writes seven days a week, and both his wife and editor say they are impressed with his dedication. He takes time out each day to chauffeur his son around and to play with the family's goofy new dog, a female Labrador/shepherd named Earnest that several months ago took the place of their old dog, who was run over and killed by a garbage truck. His major hobby is making, and bottling, his own beer - by far his favorite ingestible. He ends up jogging two miles every day up and down Twin Pine Way so he can drink it and not get fat. In the winter he goes to Philadelphia 76ers pro basketball games, where he has season seats at courtside and can holler at the referees. Everything in his milieu - the dog's stupidity, his son's ingenuous charm, beer, jogging, basketball - are grist for his mill and show up in his columns. He's never at a loss for ideas, which generally come from news events, ads, the aforementioned supermarket tabloids or, frequently, mail from his readers. "Over and over and over people write, `I've finally found someone whose mind works like mine,'" he says. "My column jumps out at people because, histori- cally, newspapers have assumed that their readers are idiots. I can't blame them. Most of the people who come to newspaper offices or write to them are the ones who are trying to prove that the Trilateral Commission is putting communist radio transmitters in everyone's teeth. "I write a hipper, less predictable, more offensive column than mainstream humor columnists, who I think are obvious and not particularly funny. I aim at intelligent people. Readers love the idea that a newspaper thinks they're smart enough to get the joke." Though he has carved out a niche as America's least accurate columnist - "Rembrandt's first name was Beauregard, which is why he never used it" - Barry does spend a good deal of time researching the subjects he wades into. The sole purpose, however, is to make sure that his distortions of fact have some sort of internal logic, no matter how screwy. Read enough from Barry's oeuvre in one sitting and you start to see a bit of method in his madness. Aside from playing fast and loose with the facts, other oft-used arrows in his quiver include: *Exaggeration: "The New Right thinks George Bush is Che Guevara." *Oversimplification: "The Army is a place where you get up early in the morning to be yelled at by people with short haircuts and tiny brains." *Gleeful bad taste: "Have you ever stopped to think what life would be like without flowers? I mean, what would you send to dead people? Grapes, maybe. Then there would be something to eat at a viewing." *And something he calls "judo," in which he attempts to make the reader stumble over his expectations: "...the Mayo Clinic, named after its founder, Dr. Ted Clinic." He says he wants his work to read as though he were "drunk, out of control" when he wrote it, though he remorselessly edits and re-edits each piece, and depends very little on inspiration or mood to be funny. He was, in fact, able to crank out a humor column on the day after his father died in April, 1984, an event that prompted the only serious writing he published in many years. It was a rambling, revelatory essay for the Miami Herald, the ending of which read: So I go in for my last words because I have to go back home, and my mother and I agree I probably won't see him again. I sit next to him on the bed, hoping he can't see that I'm crying. I love you, Dad, I say. He says, I love you too, I'd like some oatmeal. So I go back out to the living room, where my mother and my wife and my son are sitting on the sofa, in a line, waiting for the outcome, and I say, He wants some oatmeal. I am laughing and crying about this. My mother thinks maybe I should go back in and try to have a more meaningful last talk, but I don't. Driving home, I'm glad I didn't. I think: He and I have been talking ever since I learned how. A million words. All of them final, now. I don't need to make him give me any more, like souvenirs. I think: Let me not define his death on my terms. Let him have his oatmeal. I can hardly see the road. Readers' response to his public grief was positive and his editors encouraged him to write more in the same vein, an invitation he declined. Asked why, he says, "I don't mind using the device of writing to make people laugh, but I'm suspicious of those who use the device of writing to make people cry. I just don't trust them intellectually. How many different subjects can anyone really say they care about?" Barry calls this his "cop out" and leaves it at that. He doesn't see himself as a crusader or righter of wrongs, and he remains content - more than content, actually - to hang out in the country, drink a few beers, write a few columns and, these days, sit in the living room on a nasty old sofa and play his new electric guitar. It's a Gibson Les Paul model. Great guitar. The amp he bought to go with it "could destroy a greenhouse." Beth didn't mind. There's plenty of time in life to buy a sofa. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Original publication unknown - this was sent to me electronically. -joe Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apple!nntp1.radiomail.net!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: HOW TO ENTERTAIN YOUR DOGS Message-ID: Date: 31 May 92 00:06:21 GMT Lines: 76 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 841; Id: z0387; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 05/31-1aed DAVE BARRY I'm always amazed when people ask, ``What good are dogs, anyway?'' Dogs are extremely useful. Dogs are so useful I'm surprised they're not widely sold in vending machines. (``You got any change? I need a dog.'') This nation was built on the sweat and drool of dogs. When the early pioneer settlers trekked westward in their wagons, they always had pioneer dogs trotting alertly in front of them, keeping a keen eye out for threats, barking at prairie dogs, cactus plants, sunsets, the Moon, suspicious constellations, etc.; never ceasing in their vigilant usefulness until finally they reached the Pacific Ocean and turned around and noticed that they were all alone, because the settlers had been wiped out by bears just outside of Pittsburgh. And the descendants of these courageous canines are still on the job today, protecting American households from deadly dangers such as Easter candy. My friends Gene and Arlene had their house protected from this threat this past Easter by their dog, Clementine, who, the night before, found the Easter candy, and, sensing the potential danger to the children, courageously ate it all, including a pound of jelly beans and 100 Hershey's Kisses with the wrappers still on. Then Clementine went around vigilantly throwing up colorful artistic patterns all over the household until morning, when she climbed up onto little Molly's bed and, in the proud protective tradition of Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, threw up on little Molly. Happy Easter! It's little wonder that dog owners are always looking for ways to say ``thank-you,'' which is why today I'm pleased to announce an exciting new advance: video for dogs. I found out about this when alert readers Emily Johnston and James Moore sent me an advertisement from an outfit called Weekend Shopper, stating that for $19.95, you can order ``Doggie Adventure, The World's First Video For Dogs!'' There's a photograph of a large dog sitting with his nose approximately one billionth of an inch from a TV screen, looking alert. ``AMAZING BUT TRUE,'' states the ad. ``Dog owners across the country tell us their dogs absolutely love this video.'' I had my doubts. Our two dogs, Earnest and Zippy, show no interest in television. They get their electronic stimulation directly from the Dog Satellite, which was secretly launched by NASA in 1972. It orbits the Earth and emits rays that humans cannot detect but that make dogs CRAZY, which is why they're always leaping up and barking angrily for no apparent reason. Nevertheless I ordered ``Doggie Adventure.'' When it came, we brought Earnest and Zippy into the TV room. ``Watch the TV!'' we told them, which of course made them rush up to us, in case we were telling them that we had food. ``No!'' we said, pointing. ``The TV! Look! TV!'' We should have just smeared peanut butter on the screen. Eventually we got them pointed the right way, and we started ``Doggie Adventure.'' It's filmed from a dog's point of view, so you're looking through a camera that's two feet off the ground. The video is 25 minutes long, during which you, as the dog, have various dog adventures, such as waking up, going downstairs, going for a car ride, chasing some ducks, going to a pet store, and making weewee. I am not making this up. The camera trots up to a fire hydrant, sniffs around it, and suddenly, from off-camera, a stream of liquid splashes onto the hydrant. ``I can't believe we're watching this,'' my wife said. ``The dogs aren't watching it,'' my son pointed out. Which was true. Earnest and Zippy, who have higher entertainment standards than we do, were looking out the window and growling at suspicious trees. They totally ignored ``Doggie Adventure.'' For comparison purposes, I also showed the dogs ``King Kong Vs. Godzilla,'' a videotape I purchased at Toys ``R'' Us for $9.99. This is the one with the scene wherein the Japanese army knocks out King Kong by bombarding him with rockets filled with the juice of narcotic berries, which were obtained from an island whose natives are attacked by a giant octopus. Really. There's also an excellent scene in which a group of Tokyo residents are riding in a commuter train, and the conductor makes the following announcement: ``Attention! Attention! Godzilla is approaching!'' It sounds as if this is a regularly scheduled occurrence. Which I suppose it is, around Tokyo. People are probably always asking the conductor, ``Is this a Godzilla or a non-Godzilla train?'' Anyway, the dogs didn't care for this video, either. But my son and I found it far more interesting than ``Doggie Adventure,'' PLUS it's half the price. So if you need a dog video, this is the one we recommend. Or you could just throw a stick. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 11 Dec 93 16:08:01 EST Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!sol.ctr.columbia.edu!destroyer!caen!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Copyright: 1993 by the Miami Herald, R Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 12/12/93 Subject: Barking mad Lines: 86 I want to talk about the hidden lives of my dogs. Until recently, I wasn't aware that my dogs had hidden lives. There were many times, such as when they'd take turns repeatedly eating a deceased lizard and throwing it back up, when I wasn't even sure they had BRAINS. Then I got "The Hidden Life of Dogs," the best-selling book by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, who has some astounding insights into dog behavior. For example, in an effort to find out what dogs do when they're on their own, she spent months following a husky named Misha as he roamed all over Cambridge, Mass. What Thomas discovered was that Misha, who at first appeared to be simply trotting around aimlessly, was in fact earning a degree from Harvard Business School. No, I am joshing. Harvard does not accept huskies unless their parents are extremely wealthy. What Thomas discovered, after much observation, was that Misha spent his time -- and here I will attempt to summarize two full chapters of "The Hidden Life of Dogs" -- sniffing other dogs and peeing a lot. This might not strike you dog-owners as all that deep of an insight. But trust me, it seems like one when you're reading the book. Because where you might see just a plain old dog engaging in non-rocket-scientist behavior, Thomas sees a highly sophisticated organism responding to elaborate socio-biological stimuli and performing complex problem-solving tasks. It's not her fault that the solution to the problem is usually to pee on it. Anyway, reading this book got me to thinking about my own dogs. Did they have a hidden life? If so, could I discover it, and more important -- write a best-selling book? To find out, I removed my dogs from the confined, controlled environment of our house and put them outside, where they were free to reveal their hidden lives. I observed them closely for the better part of a day, and thus I am able to reveal here, for the first time anywhere, that what dogs do, when they are able to make their own decisions in accordance with their unfettered natural instincts, is: try to get back inside the house. They spent most of the day pressing sad, moony faces up against the glass patio door, taking only occasional breaks to see if it was a good idea to eat worms. (Answer: no). Of course, the dogs have important and complex socio- biological reasons for wanting to get back into the house. For one thing, the house contains the most wondrous thing in the world: the kitchen counter. One time a piece of turkey fell off of it. The dogs still regularly visit the spot where it landed, in case it shows up again. There's an invisible Dog Historic Marker there. Another reason is that the house provides a better echo for barking. Dogs employ barking as a vital means of communicating important messages, such as: "bark." Barking also serves a vital biological purpose: If a dog does not release a certain number of barks per day, they will back up, and the dog will explode. (Whenever you hear an unexplained loud noise in the distance, it's probably a dog exploding.) Our large main dog, Earnest, spends her day sleeping directly under my desk, and three or four times a day she'll have a pressure buildup, causing her to wake up, lift her head, release a bark and immediately go back to sleep. Her bark, traveling at the speed of bark, quickly reaches our small emergency backup dog, Zippy, who is sleeping elsewhere in the house. He wakes up and rushes up to the outside of my office door and starts barking at it, because there is clearly something wrong inside. (Why else would Earnest have barked?) This in turn awakens Earnest, who leaps up, bonks her head against the bottom of my desk, then rushes over and starts barking at her side of the door. Each dog is firmly convinced that there is Big Trouble on the other side, possibly involving their arch-enemy, the U.S. Postal Service truck. It comes around every day, and usually Earnest and Zippy are able to drive it off by barking at it and getting spit all over the windows by our front door, but now apparently the truck somehow has GOTTEN INTO THE HOUSE and is ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS DOOR BARK BARK BARK BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!! This is what my dogs are thinking (if "thinking" is the word I want here) as I get up, walk past Earnest, who is now insane with rage, and open the door. Instantly Earnest charges BARKBARKBARK into the hall, narrowly missing Zippy, who is charging BARKBARKBARK into my office. Each one goes about five feet, then -- WAIT a minute!! -- skids to a stop, whirls around, and charges back the other way, still barking. Sometimes they'll pass each other three or four times before they run out of momentum and lie down again, confident that, thanks to their alertness, the house is once again safe. This is the hidden dog world that goes on EVERY DAY in our house. I admit that, socio-biologically, it is not as interesting as the things that Elizabeth Marshall Thomas' dogs do. But Earnest and Zippy are the only dogs I have. Make me an offer. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Wedding season is again upon us, and you brides-to-be are busy as bees, finalizing arrangements for your dress, flowers, catering, clergyperson, shower-curtain-pattern selection, eyebrow- tweezing appointment and the 17 million other details that make planning a modern wedding far more complex than building a space station. Meanwhile, you grooms, for your part, have been entrusted with the responsibility of locating a pair of dark socks. The groom traditionally does not play a major role in the wedding preparations. This may cause him to feel somewhat extraneous: GROOM (on phone): Hello, Mrs. Heemer. This is Ed. BRIDE'S MOTHER: Ed? GROOM: Ed Sneed. The groom. BRIDE'S MOTHER (yelling to the bride): Monica, are we having a groom? BRIDE'S VOICE (after a lengthy pause): Yes. Ted somebody. The reason the groom is not involved in wedding preparations is that, traditionally, the groom is a guy, and guys cannot be entrusted with wedding details. Take centerpieces. When a guy looks at a table, he does not feel an overpowering need to put something in the center of it. If you leave the groom in charge of centerpieces, you're not going to get tasteful floral arrangements; you're going to get either naked tables, or tables decorated with something that the groom considers to have practical and lasting value. BRIDE: How COULD you? GROOM: What? BRIDE: The centerpieces! They're TIRES! GROOM: Hey! Those are RADIALS! Fortunately, you brides get plenty of planning help from the nation's giant wedding industry (Motto: "Your Wedding Is Sacred. It Should Cost A Lot."). You can also rely on leading experts such as Modern Bride magazine and myself. I obtained my expertise by personally serving as the groom in two weddings; for the second one, I was placed totally in charge -- this is true -- of bringing mustard to the reception. So today I wish to present, as my special gift to you brides-to-be, the following Wedding Tips: 1. PLAN YOUR HONEYMOON WARDROBE CAREFULLY. This tip is based on an Associated Press article from the Naples, Fla., Daily News sent in last year by alert reader David Shapiro. The article states that a honeymooning bride and groom from Wisconsin got into what police called a "heated dispute," during which the bride became so upset that she leaped over a nearby railing. This was not a wise honeymoon maneuver, inasmuch as at the time they were aboard a cruise ship in the Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately, a waiter threw the bride a life preserver, and she was rescued. But imagine her embarrassment at being pulled from the sea wearing a drab, ill-fitting flotation device. Your well-prepared bride would have brought several of her own (pastels for daytime; darker solids for evening wear). By the way: It is the responsibility of the groom to tip the waiter. 2. SELECT RECEPTION FOOD WISELY. This tip is based on an item from the St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times, sent in by Kate Denison. The article -- I am not making these articles up -- begins: "TAMPA -- A wedding reception turned violent Saturday when the bride threw a plate of macaroni salad at the groom and the groom shot the bride in the stomach, Tampa police said." Here we see why leading wedding authorities constantly stress that brides should NEVER throw a salad. As etiquette expert Amy Vanderbilt put it: "The bride must always throw a menu item with sufficient density to render an armed groom unconscious, such as prime rib or, ideally, fruitcake." Speaking of throwing food, the most important tip is: 3. DO NOT INVITE CINDY SEIP TO YOUR WEDDING. Cindy is a friend of mine. Last year I wrote about a wedding she attended where a dispute erupted over the catering arrangements, culminating during the reception when the groom, in front of all the guests, threw the cake at the caterer. Cindy told me that not long after that, she attended another wedding, this one in Indiana, and everything went flawlessly, except that -- this is all true -- 1) the hall where the rehearsal dinner was to be held burned down; 2) the minister moved away two weeks before the wedding; 3) the bridesmaids were unable to get their dresses, or their money back, when the owner of the dress-rental store was arrested in a cocaine bust; 4) the bride and groom, who were supposed to drive to Indianapolis, spend a romantic wedding night in a hotel, then fly to Florida the next morning to get on a cruise ship, discovered, upon arrival at the hotel, that they had forgotten the bride's suitcase, and thus spent their wedding night romantically driving back home to retrieve it; and 5) when they finally got to Florida, they were informed that the cruise line had gone bankrupt. This was fortunate. The ship would undoubtedly have sunk. My point is that you should cross Cindy off your guest list, because, the way things are going, the next wedding she attends will end with an Iraqi air strike. Anyway, I hope these tips are helpful, and I'm sure you're going to have a wonderful wedding day, from the moment you wake up, to the moment, 45 seconds later, when you discover your huge new nose zit. It'll be a great day. Just relax, have fun, and remember: For evening weddings, the flak jackets should be formal. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 4 Sep 93 17:08:02 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bcm!wupost!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 09/05/93 Subject: What a Way To Go Lines: 100 Today's Humor Topic Is: Death Eventually everybody has to die, except Elvis. You never know when your time will come. One minute you could be as healthy as a horse, and the next minute you could be killed by exploding bat dung. This is what nearly happened to rangers at Tahquamenon Falls State park in Michigan, where, according to news articles sent in by many altert readers, a building was leveled by a monster blast -- audible 14 miles away --- that resulted when a sump pump spark ignited methane gas that had been generated by large quantities of bat dung. Fortunately nobody was in the building at the time except bats, whose names are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. But even if you do not set foot in Tahquamenon Falls State Park -- and that is certainly my recommendation, at least until after the funeral services -- death can come at any time. In the words of the Old Testament prophet Abner, speaking in the Book of Longitudes, Chapter Nine, Verse Four, Sector Seven: "For whom amongst ye can know the exact day, nor hour, nor minute, nor GAAAACK (thud)." Yes, the Big Moment could come at any time, which is why you should be thinking NOW about making arrangements for your post-death lifestyle. You want to spare your loved ones the pain and agony of having to make funeral arrangements for you later, at a time when, for example, they might have tickets to the playoffs. You also want to avoid the unnecessary expense that can occur when the next of kin are forced to make decisions under emotional stress, a good example being what happened to the widow of the late Egyptian King Cheops: UNDERTAKER: And what kind of a tomb situation were you thinking about, Mrs. Cheops? WIDOW: Oh, I guess a basic tomb. UNDERTAKER (arching his eyebrows): A "basic" tomb? WIDOW: Is there a problem with that? UNDERTAKER: No, I suppose not, although with your basic tomb, you can get your bats in there, and of course bat dung can ... WIDOW: Bats? UNDERTAKER: Oh, you can get all kinds of rodents, with the basic tomb, and even if we really wrap the late Mr. Cheops up pretty good, you can have a situation where ... WIDOW: Rodents? UNDERTAKER: I mean, for me, personally, nothing puts a damper on a quiet reflective moment at a tomb like seeing a rodent scurry out carrying a piece of a loved one, and I ... WIDOW: (thud) * * * When Mrs. Cheops regained consciousness, she naturally chose the top-of-the-line tomb, the "Pyramid" model, which involved roughly 2 million large stones, and which was so expensive that it is still being paid for, probably in part by U.S. taxpayers. Now before I get a lot of irate mail from the funeral industry, let me stress that your modern bereavement councelor is NOT just out to make money. He is a highly trained professional who is interested only in servicing the family of the deceased at a very reasonable cost, if necessary ("Well, Mrs. Deegle, if you're looking to save a few dollars, we offer a 'Basic' package that includes this durable, high-quality, four-ply 'Hefty' bag with a sturdy twist tie to...") So make those arrangements NOW. And be sure to leave explicit written instructions with your next of kin stating what kind of funeral service you want, ESPECIALLY what kind of music. I say this in light of an alarming article from The Star, sent in by Katherine Runyan, listing the most popular recorded songs played at funerals. These include "My Way," sung by Frank Sinatra ("Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention"); and "Ben," sung by Michael Jackson. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but isn't the song "Ben" from the movie "Ben," which is about a rat? Do you want Michael Jackson singing a love song to a RAT at your funeral? Of course not. You want something more suitable, such as -- this would be my selection -- "Mony Mony," by Tommy James and the Shondells. Also you'd want to close with an appropriate inspirational song by James Brown such as: "This is a brand new day, So let a man come in, And do the popcorn." Another thing you definitely should do prior to dying is make sure you have a proper will. According to the nation's largest lawer organization, the American Association Of Aforementioned Legal Professionals, the best way to get a will is to copy down the following paragraph and sign it: "I, (YOUR NAME), being of sound mind and reasonable body, do heretofore set forth the following (hereinafter 'the mortgagee'), and do thereby attest and affirm thereto etc. blah blah blah there is no need to read this too carefully it's all just standard legal "boilerplate' blah blah blah and therefore I bequeath and bestow and begive all my money and everything to Dave Barry blah blah blah so I'll just sign this right now here I go I'm signing it (SIGN HERE). There! That pesky chore has been taken care of! Now you can forget about this morbid topic and get on with your life, have fun, maybe take a nice trip somewhere. Speaking purely as your friend, I recommend some place with bats. Copyright 1993 The Miami Herald Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc. If you don't have enough drama in your life, you need to chaperone a party for a group of seventh-graders. ("Chaperone" comes from the French words "chape," meaning "person," and "rone," meaning "who is aging very rapidly.") We recently had a party for our son's 13th birthday. We rented a Holiday Inn function room, on the theory that it was roomier and less flammable than our house. We hired two nice young DJs to play ugly music really loud so that the youngsters would enjoy it. We ordered a large quantity of cold cuts for the youngsters to ignore, as well as a nice fresh vegetable platter for them to actively avoid. We stood near the door and greeted the guests and their parents as they arrived. There seemed like a LOT of guests, more than we recalled actually inviting. Apparently this party was giving off some kind of powerful airborne adolescent hormonal chemical attractant that was causing 13-year-olds as far away as Homer, Alaska, to demand that their parents drive them to it. People were streaming into the function room. The kids would melt instantly into the throbbing blob of youth that had formed in the middle of the dance floor. Their parents would look us over, trying to discern whether we were decent people or Branch Davidians or what. There was no way we could talk to them, because the sound system was cranked up to KILL ZONE, playing songs that consisted of angry men shouting things like: "This song is PAIN! Makes you inSANE! This song grows big warts On your BRAIN!" So we'd smile at the parents like Ward and June Cleaver and gesture to the vegetable platter as evidence that we were responsible. They'd nod and scurry out of the function room before their ears started to bleed. Meanwhile, in the center of the room, things were getting very dramatic. Of course we had no clue what was going on, because we are grown-ups, and therefore way too stupid to grasp the complexities involved in being a seventh-grader. Later on, our son gave us a much-simplified version, which was that this girl had been going with this boy, but then she dumped him, although she liked him and wanted to still be his friend, but the boy's best friend got angry at the girl and called her a bad name, which caused her to become extremely upset and burst into tears, and she thought that the ex-boyfriend had put the best friend up to this, which he hadn't, in fact he didn't even KNOW the best friend had done this, and now he (the ex-boyfriend) was VERY upset because she thought HE was responsible, and he was also angry at the best friend, who was ALSO very upset because he was just trying to help out his friend and now EVERYBODY was mad at him, so EVERYBODY was upset, and everybody's FRIENDS were upset, and things were just so dramatic and awful that it did not seem possible that life as we now know it could continue on the planet Earth. As I say, it was actually far more complex than this, with dramatic new developments occurring every few seconds and important News Bulletins circulating through the party at well beyond the speed of light. The central throbbing youth blob was constantly pulsating and mutating and splitting into smaller groups and subgroups to whisper, hug, discuss, commiserate or -- if it was a group of boys -- punch. Every few minutes, a group of maybe 14 girls -- at least two of them crying, and at least one of them saying something like, "I can't stand it!" -- would rush past us out the door and into the ladies' restroom. Moments later, a clot of boys would rush out and go into the men's restroom. Then there would be tense diplomatic negotiations between restrooms, with a small party emerging from the men's restroom to talk with a party from the ladies' restroom. ("He just wants to talk to her!" "She's VERY UPSET!") Then everybody would surge back into the function room, and the throbbing blob would change form a few times, and then, suddenly, the Priority Code Red Alert Signal would go out again: BACK TO THE RESTROOMS! At times virtually all the party guests were engaged in high-level restroom conferences, leaving us grown-ups virtually alone with the vegetable tray and the sound system, our eardrums torn to shreds, wondering if next year we should skip the function room and just rent two large restrooms. At one point, as small groups of seventh-graders were streaming urgently past me in both directions, a young lady, having clearly been briefed by her parents on proper etiquette, stopped momentarily and said to me.' "Hi! I'm having a very nice time. So far." The party lasted three hours, which is 46 years in chaperone time. Finally the parents came back and the music (thank God) stopped and the lights came back on and all these urgent, dramatic figures turned back into seventh-graders, politely saying good night and leaving with their parents, going back to the boring old world. Our son told us it was a good party. I kind of wished I had been there. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: ON THE ROAD WITH DAVE Keywords: broadcast Message-ID: Date: 2 Jan 93 22:35:25 GMT Lines: 95 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: regular ANPA: Wc: 851/992; Id: z1462; Sel: bb--; Adate: 01/03-N/A Codes: //bb--l/, bb--l DAVE BARRY By the time I saw Larry King interview the snake, my brain was a whimpering wad of useless tissue. I had been on a book-promotion tour for several weeks, following the standard book-tour schedule, which is designed by publicity experts who do not believe in letting you fritter away valuable time on non-promotional activities such as eating and sleeping. I'd be in, say, Seattle, and I'd ask, ``Do you think I could go to the bathroom?'' And the publicity people would frown at the schedule and say, ``Not today. Maybe in Los Angeles.'' But the hectic pace was worth it, because of all the terrific book publicity I was generating on radio and TV shows. ``So, Dave,'' the hosts would say. ``What do you think of Madonna's book?'' That's right: Through a stroke of good fortune, my book came out on the SAME DAY as Madonna's book, ``Smut.'' I want to stress that I'm not at all bitter about this, nor about the fact that Madonna probably gets to go to the bathroom whenever she wants and has sold WAY more books than I have, even though her book costs as much as TWO Salad Shooters and is nothing but pornographic photographs that decent persons such as myself and the Rev. Pat Robertson would never dream of looking at, especially not the one where she's on the trapeze expressing the literary theme, ``Take a gander at THESE metaphors.'' So, OK, Madonna gets to be rich and naked. But she did NOT get to have my book-tour memories: X X X I'm in a Detroit radio station early in the morning, before I am awake, slurping coffee and listening to Denny McLain. He won 31 games for the Detroit Tigers in 1968, and now he's a Radio Personality, attempting to interview me about my book, which he, in compliance with the Radio and TV Personality Code of Ethics, has not read, or even seen. But he's a good guy and he's giving it his best shot, reading a press release provided by the publicity people. ``In his latest book,'' he reads, ``Dave takes on the mysterious WHAT THE (very bad word) ARE WE DOING HERE??'' ``Glurk,'' I respond, spitting my coffee onto the control panel, because this is a surprise question I am not prepared to answer. Fortunately, it turns out that Denny is talking to his engineer about a technical problem, and this interview is being taped, so we are NOT broadcasting bad words to greater Detroit. Although it occurs to me that he has hit upon the ultimate book-tour question: What the (very bad word) ARE we doing here? X X X Now I'm in Boston, being interviewed by a woman from a cable-TV station with an annual production budget that I would estimate at $4.50. I'm sitting to the interviewer's right; to her left, playing on the floor out of camera range, are her two daughters, ages about 3 and 5. They're not getting along. ``So,'' the woman says to me, ``tell me why you wrote this book.'' ``Well,'' I say, and suddenly I'm talking to the back of her head, because the instant the camera zoomed in on me, she whirled around to face her daughters. ``STOP THAT!'' she is hissing at them. ``YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!'' ``... basically,'' I'm saying to the back of her head, ``my goal was to ...'' ``YOU PUT THAT BARBIE DOWN!'' the back of her head is hissing. ``That is NOT YOUR BARBIE!'' X X X Now I'm in a Washington, D.C., TV studio, waiting to go on ``Larry King Live,'' watching Larry interview a man who has brought on a variety of wild animals, including some fierce predatory birds. I don't know why. Maybe the birds are running for president. I'm too tired to ask. Larry, a Brooklyn boy whose upbringing did not involve any wild creatures larger than cockroaches, does not seem pleased about the animals. Usually he leans forward over his microphone, asking questions directly into the guest's nasal passages, but tonight, with these extremely irate-looking birds standing on his desk, looking like they'd like to peck somebody's eyeballs out, Larry is sitting straight up. He starts to lean backward a little bit when the animal man produces some kind of large cat, which stalks around the desk in a predatory manner. THEN the animal man produces a snake approximately the size of the Hudson River. The snake is writhing all over the desk, waving its head around, sizing Larry up as a possible nationally syndicated hors d'oeuvre, and Larry, his body totally rigid, is leaning away from the microphone at a 45-degree angle, in danger of keeling over backward. He is clearly yearning for 1996 to roll around so he can get Ross Perot back on. He is talking to the man, but his eyes are riveted on the snake. Usually Larry asks questions, but in this case he is making statements. LARRY: This is a boa constrictor. MAN: Yes. LARRY: It kills people. MAN: Yes. X X X These are just a few of my fond book-tour memories. I could recount some more -- including the one about the woman who, during a San Francisco radio show I was on, won two free tickets to a concert by displaying her nipple rings (one per free ticket) in the studio -- but I need some sleep. In closing, I just want to stress that, despite my peevish tone earlier in this column, I do not begrudge Madonna her success with her book. Although it DOES tick me off that, according to today's New York Times, the snake has a best seller. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 81 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apteryx!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE BRAIN-NUMBING QUALITY OF CABLE TV Message-ID: Date: 1 Dec 91 00:02:24 GMT Lines: 87 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 855; Id: z0268; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 12/01-1aed DAVE BARRY When people ask me, ``Dave, what is a good way to turn my brain into suet?'', I always recommend cable TV. That's where you find, for example, your fishing shows. These are shows wherein two guys wearing billed caps stand in a boat and fish. That is the entire plot. As they fish, the guys engage in witty repartee, such as: FIRST GUY: Yes sir, I think I'm gonna cast again. SECOND GUY: I'm fixin' to cast again pretty soon. FIRST GUY (casting): Yes sir, I just now casted. SECOND GUY: These billed caps must have cut off the blood flow to our brains. Every few minutes the action heats up when one of the guys reels in -- surprise! -- a fish. You'd think that, just once, for variety, they'd reel in a brassiere, or Michael J. Fox, but no, it's always a fish. In fact, as far as I can tell it's always the same fish. I believe that at one point this fish was also a regular on ``Hollywood Squares.'' ``That there's a nice fish!'' the guys always say, although in fact it has about 217 holes in its lips from all the other times it has been on this show. The guys display it, then let it go, whereupon I imagine it swims to the lake bottom and reads the script, which says: ``NOW BITE THE OTHER GUY'S HOOK.'' I am fascinated by these shows. I stare at the screen, mouth open, grouper-like, thinking: If people will sit and watch two men fish, what else would they watch? How about two men trying on shoes? Or two men picking their teeth? (``Earl, I'm working on a sliver of pastrami over here.'') Don't laugh. People will watch virtually anything on television, INCLUDING A SHOW MADE UP ENTIRELY OF COMMERCIALS. If you want proof, tune in to the home-shopping shows. Usually you'll see a close-up of a piece of jewelry -- sometimes ugly, sometimes truly hideous -- but always at an AMAZINGLY LOW PRICE. You know this because the announcers tell you. ANNOUNCER: People are looking at this item and asking, ``How can they be selling a gorgeous synthesized magnesium brooch with the solid gold- colored metallicized pin clasp and beautiful four-carat gemlike stone, an estimated retail value of $1,200, for only $5.97?'' The answer is that we are ACTUALLY LOSING MONEY ON THIS DEAL. OTHER ANNOUNCER: That's right, Jim. We failed to take our medication and our brains malfunctioned and now we're DELIBERATELY GOING BROKE SELLING BROOCHES. ANNOUNCER: To prove what a terrific value this is, we have a viewer named Denise on the telephone. Denise, looking at this brooch on TV -- which experts agree is the best way to evaluate an item of jewelry -- would you say that it's an excellent bargain? VIEWER: Oh, Jim, definitely. I saw a very similar brooch in a magazine article about the crown jewels. ANNOUNCER: Really! And what would you say the retail value of the crown jewels is? VIEWER: Oh, Jim, I would say WELL over $2,000. ANNOUNCER: Amazing! We have another viewer on the line. VIEWER: Jim, last week my sister-in-law bought that exact same type of brooch and she paid $1,500 for it. ANNOUNCER: No kidding! $1,500! VIEWER: She wore it to lunch with Elvis. X X X My favorite part of the home-shopping shows is when they sell stereo systems. ANNOUNCER: Doreen, after seeing several close-up shots of this stereo system on TV, would you say that it appears to have excellent audio quality? VIEWER: Oh, Jim, yes. ANNOUNCER: So you'd say that this is a terrific deal? VIEWER: I surely would. ANNOUNCER: And would you also say that Nebraska is made entirely of Spam? VIEWER: Oh, Jim, definitely. X X X I don't have room to discuss all the other excellent shows on cable TV. There are half-hour shows starring Richard Simmons, the whole point of which is to sell you videotapes starring Richard Simmons, who demonstrates exercises that will, if you do them conscientiously, turn you into Richard Simmons. Late at night there are LONG shows wherein men who have acquired great wealth and have all the money they need and never have to get money again offer to tell you their secret, in exchange for money. There's a show called ``Grudge Match,'' where two ordinary people settle a grudge by fighting each other in various events, including one called ``Trash Can Heads,'' where -- I'm not making this up -- they put garbage cans over their heads and butt each other. This is clearly how we ought to settle disputes in the Middle East. We could have Israeli and Palestinian leaders go a couple of rounds of Trash Can Heads, with Ted Koppel as referee, then everybody could buy a brooch and go fishing (``Yasser, I think I'm gonna cast again''). What do you think? I think I need more medication. (C) 1991 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: CHECKING ON OUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS TO THE NORTH Message-ID: Date: 10 Jan 93 02:08:02 GMT Lines: 79 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 873/872; Id: z0381; Sel: tw--; Adate: 01/10-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Jan. 10, 1993, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) DAVE BARRY It's time for Those Amazing Canadians, the popular feature wherein we examine the activities of our friendly neighbors to the North and secretly wonder if they are mixing their prescription medications again. As you may recall, when last we checked in on the Canadians, some of them were in a court of law in Ottawa, trying to induce a python to crawl into a toilet. At the time we thought this was unusual, but we now realize that luring snakes into commodes during judicial proceedings is fairly NORMAL, by Canadian standards. We base this statement on several news items we received from alert reader Marylu Walters, who lives in Alberta, which is one of Canada's provinces (the other one is ``Bernice''). These news items, from The Edmonton Journal, concern the small Alberta town of Glendon, where there is a local food item called the ``pyrogy,'' which is a kind of dumpling that can be stuffed with various foods such as cheese or sauerkraut. Pyrogys are very popular in Glendon, a fact that gave the mayor, Johnnie Doonanco, an idea. See if you can guess what his idea was. (Pause while you think up a pyrogy-related idea.) OK. Did you guess that Mr. Doonanco wanted to market an electric pyrogy-maker? Or hold a pageant to crown the Pyrogy Queen? WRONG. That kind of limited thinking shows why you're stuck with whatever dead-end hairball job you have, while Johnnie Doonanco is mayor of Glendon. His idea was -- we are not making this up -- to build THE WORLD'S LARGEST FIBERGLASS PYROGY. And he did it, too, by raising 62,000 Canadian dollars via private donations and a grant from the province government, which knows a shrewd investment opportunity when it sees one. According to the Journal, the giant pyrogy is ``almost nine metres high'' and ``weighs roughly 2,700 kilograms.'' Converting these figures from the Metric System to the Normal Human System ... let's see, move the decimal over and divide by the cosine ... we see that this is a large pyrogy. There's a color photograph of it in The Journal: It looks sort of like a mammoth white leech, except that the designers put it on the tines of a huge upthrust steel fork, so that onlookers would realize that it is in fact a tasty food item. The purpose of the pyrogy, of course, is to attract tourists. ``Hey, Marge!'' potential tourists as far away as Mobile, Ala., are probably remarking at this very moment. ``There's a giant fiberglass dumpling up in rural Canada! Pack your suitcase!'' Such is the power of this type of attraction. And that explains another Journal news item that Marylu Walters sent us. This one concerns the small Canadian town of Andrew, which recently, with the help of a provincial tourism grant, installed -- get ready -- the world's largest fiberglass duck. The Journal says it has a wingspan of 7.2 meters and weighs ``one tonne,'' which is how you spell ``one ton'' in metric. The story quotes town manager Albert Holubowich as saying that the residents chose the duck as their symbol because Andrew is near a duck sanctuary. ``It was either the duck or a chicken,'' he says, ``but a chicken has no connection or bearing to the village.'' We certainly agree with that. A giant chicken would be ridiculous. But what we're concerned about is this: Suppose some tourists happen to find themselves exactly halfway between Andrew and Glendon. One side of them would be attracted by the giant duck, and the other side would be attracted by the giant pyrogy, and they could literally explode right there on the spot, causing severe damage to the wheat crop. We hate to bring this up, but if we didn't, we'd have to get a real job. And there's another recent Canadian development we feel you should know about. Many alert readers have sent us an Associated Press report that begins as follows (we are still not making this up): ``VANCOUVER, British Columbia -- Female snails in certain polluted coastal harbors have been turning into males and growing penises, a researcher says. Snails undergoing the change, which some scientists think is caused by tin-based contaminants in the water, have been found almost everywhere University of Victoria biologist Derek Ellis and his colleagues looked for them.'' We're sure this alarming development is wreaking havoc in the snail community. A guy snail comes home from a hard day of sliming around, hoping to have an intimate moment with his mate, but when she finally takes off her shell ... YIKES! We hope the Canadian authorities are doing something about this. Their most likely move, of course, would be to build the world's largest fiberglass snail organ. You'd go up to see it, right? We thought so. Don't drink the water. NEXT WEEK: Results of the Bad Song Survey. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 21 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: MORE DECEASED ANIMALS IN THE NEWS Message-ID: Date: Sat, 10 Oct 92 19:08:02 PDT ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 888; Id: x0325; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 10/11-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 82 DAVE BARRY It's time for our popular feature, Deceased Animals In The News. Our big story this week, as you have no doubt guessed, concerns the federal government's program to give away frozen oil-soaked semidecomposed animal carcasses. But first we need to issue the following Safety Advisory: Do NOT go outside. We base this advisory on a news item spotted by alert reader Katherine Keane in a newspaper called (really) the Tillamook, Ore., Headlight-Herald. The item is headlined: EXPLANATION OFFERED FOR FISH FOUND ON LAWN. It states that a woman in Lincoln City, Ore., went outside one morning and found ``a number'' of deceased fish on her lawn. So she went back inside and drank a quart of whiskey. No, that's what WE would do. What she did was notify state wildlife officials, who determined that the fish were Pacific sand lances. An official said that what probably happened was a cormorant, gull or pelican swooped down onto the Pacific Ocean and scooped up more fish than it could digest, so as it flew over the woman's lawn, it did what we always do when we snork down too many Pacific sand lances at a wedding or bar mitzvah, namely, ralph them up. This item alone is not cause for alarm. According to the surgeon general, the odds are that fewer than 17,000 Americans will be killed during this fiscal year by barfed fish falling at 120 mph, and most of these will be people with very large, easy-to-hit heads, such as George Steinbrenner. We can live with that. But what DOES alarm us is another news item, clipped by alert reader June Rimmey from the Centre Daily Times of State College, Pa. The item, headlined COW PARTS ON ROOF, states: ``Parts of a cow were found Tuesday morning on the roof of the Arts Building on the Penn State Campus, according to Penn State police. The parts were arranged in a pattern. Police have no suspects.'' Without suggesting that the fine men and women of the Penn State police have guacamole dip for brains, we wish to point out that what happened is obvious to anyone who has been following national events. Clearly a cormorant, gull or pelican -- and by the way, ``Cormorant, Gull & Pelican'' would be an excellent name for a law firm -- strayed approximately 2,500 miles from the Pacific Ocean, flew over a Pennsylvania dairy farm, mistook a cow for a Pacific sand lance (the two are virtually indistinguishable from the air), swooped down and scooped up the cow (a cormorant, being a member of the ant family, can lift 850 times its own weight), soared to approximately 2,000 feet, realized it had bitten off more than it could chew and woofed on the Penn State Arts Building. We don't yet know who arranged the cow parts into a pattern. Our guess would be art students. But the point is that the size of the deceased animals falling from American skies is definitely trending upward, and it could be months before the federal government can do anything about it. The government is busy right now with the frozen oil- soaked semidecomposed animal carcass giveaway program. We found out about this program thanks to alert reader Jeremy Kniffin, who sent us the Aug. 11, 1992, issue of the Federal Register, which states that the government is making available to the public, for a limited time, the carcasses of thousands of birds and mammals that became deceased in 1989 when the Exxon oil tanker Valdez failed to observe a ``YIELD TO REEF'' sign. The carcasses were used as evidence in the Exxon litigation. The government plans to burn them, but is first making them available to ``qualified applicants'' who might want them for ``scientific, educational or public display purposes.'' Conditionwise, these are not your top-of-the-line carcasses. The Federal Register says they've been stored in large freezers, which have failed several times, so the carcasses have tended to rot and clump together in a frozen, oily mass. We called Anchorage, Alaska, and spoke to the person in charge of the carcasses, Karen Oakley, of the Fish and Wildlife Service. You know how sometimes you stick a leftover tuna casserole in the back of your refrigerator and forget about it for two or three years, and then you finally take it out, and it looks like a young version of the thing that's always trying to eat Sigourney Weaver in the ``Alien'' movies? Multiply that by a billion and you have the situation Ms. Oakley is dealing with. The Leftovers From Hell. ``It's pretty gross,'' she told us. She said she has received three formal applications for carcasses. We asked her who on earth would want these things, and she said it was basically the scientific community. We should have suspected this. The scientific community is always engaging in bizarre activities involving frozen carcasses, subatomic particles, etc., instead of concentrating on practical goals that would benefit mankind, such as training cormorants to distinguish between Pacific sand lances and cows. Somebody should do something about this. But not us. It's time for our lunch. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 103 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: GREETING FROM BEYOND WILL THRILL LOVED ONES LONG AFTER YOU'RE GONE Message-ID: Date: 29 Mar 92 00:03:32 GMT Lines: 82 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 808; Id: z0297; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 03/29-1aed DAVE BARRY Today on Consumer Quadrant we are pleased to announce an exciting new service for those consumers who expect, at some point in the future, to be dead. We found out about this service through an advertisement in Yankee magazine that was sent to us by a number of alert readers. It states: ``JUST THINK ... You passed away months ago ... and yet on every occasion that is important to those you left behind, and on their birthdays, they receive a BEAUTIFUL CARD expressing your warm and loving thoughts to them.'' The ad had a coupon that you could fill in and mail, with a dollar, to a company called ``Cards From Beyond'' of Fairport, N.Y. We did this, and Cards From Beyond sent back a tasteful brochure describing the various cards that you can arrange to have sent to your loved ones on specific annual occasions after you expire, for $25 per card per year. There are cards for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and anniversaries, but -- surprisingly -- none for Halloween. Our personal favorite card is the ``Happy Birthday'' model, which features the following message, which we are not making up: ``On this special day in your life, take joy in the fact that those of us who have gone on before would give anything to be in your shoes.'' What a happy birthday reminder THAT would be. Perhaps, to add to the festive mood, everybody could gather round your loved one and sing: ``Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear (NAME OF LOVED ONE), And don't forget that (YOUR NAME) is still dead!'' We think that Cards From Beyond is a needed service, and we'd like to see it expanded into other areas. For example, we'd be very interested in sending Letters From Beyond To The Sears Appliance Repair Department. We have been trying for the bulk of our adult lives to get an appliance- repair person to come to our house, and we'd like to continue trying after our demise by means of an annual card that would say: ``Although 'tis true that we've been processed By the undertaker We'd still be grateful if you'd come And look at our ice-maker'' Some other services from beyond that we'd be interested in are: Betting On Football From Beyond, Claiming Flagrantly Bogus Tax Deductions From Beyond, Ordering Take-Out Chinese Food From Beyond, and Calling Up Phyllis Schlafly At 4 a.m. And Making Comical Barnyard Noises From Beyond. X X X Speaking of appliances and death, one question that people ask us constantly here at Consumer Quadrant is: ``Is it possible to generate electricity using dead hornets?'' We are pleased to report that the answer is: yes. We have here an article from the Feb. 2 Chicago Tribune, mailed in by alert reader Stephanie McGrath, which states that scientists at Tel Aviv University have discovered that hornets have a special kind of skin that can convert sunlight into electricity. ``Researchers find that they can hook up a circuit of hornets to produce electricity to run small appliances,'' the article states. There's a photograph of a digital clock attached to wires that scientists have connected to six dead hornets. This is exciting news, because unlike ordinary flashlight-style batteries, which are designed to start losing power rapidly the instant you pay for them, hornets represent a natural and renewable energy source that could provide major benefits for all of humanity, including campers: FIRST CAMPER: Darn it! Night has fallen and my flashlight batteries are drained! SECOND CAMPER: Don't worry! I'll just reach into this hornets' nest here and ... HORNETS: BZZZZZZZZ SECOND CAMPER: OUCH! (slap) OWW! (slap) FIRST CAMPER: YOW! (slap) OHHH! SWEDISH BIKINI TEAM: AIEEEE! SECOND CAMPER: Well, that was extremely painful, but I've rigged up a simple 10-hornet circuit here, and as soon as morning comes and sunlight strikes their skin, we'll have light! FIRST CAMPER: Woog. (dies) X X X OK, so maybe we need to work out some ``bugs.'' (Ha ha!) But the important thing is that you, the consumer, are benefiting from the amazing new concepts that regularly spew from the minds of inventive people who may be ingesting more than their share of Halcion. We at Consumer Quadrant promise to monitor these developments and keep you informed just as long as we're around. Even longer, if you want to sign up for our new service, Columns From Beyond. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 4 Dec 93 20:32:33 EST Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!wupost!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Copyright: 1993 by the Miami Herald, R Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 12/05/93 Subject: A BUNCH OF BULL Lines: 90 It is pathetic but true that we Americans hardly ever think about agriculture. We walk into a restaurant and order a hamburger, and we rarely stop to ask ourselves: Where, exactly, did this hamburger come from? And did everybody involved wash his hands? Yes, too many of us take agriculture for granted, failing to realize that, without agriculture, there would be virtually nothing to do in, for example, Nebraska. And that is why today I am going to devote yet another column to an extremely important facet of agriculture, namely, the cow facet. We'll start with a: TROUBLING COW-PRODUCT ADVERTISEMENT This advertisement, which was brought to my attention by alert readers Gloria Bell and Betty Hermsmeyer, appeared on pages 10 and 11 of the February 1993 issue of Beef Today magazine. If you foolishly threw your copy away, I urge you to rush out to the landfill and dig around until you locate it, because this is a fascinating advertisement. It's for a product called "Safe- Guard," which is used to de-worm cows (the headline states: "It pays to question your de-wormer"). There's a large color photograph of two men, clad in overalls and billed caps, standing behind the rear end of the cow (the cow's face is not shown, and you will soon see why). The men look normal and sane, except for one thing: One of them has much of his right arm inside the rear end of the cow. The man does not appear to be at all concerned about this. He's not even looking at the cow. His head is turned casually toward the other man, and he's saying something, perhaps: "I'm afraid I can't go bowling tonight, Ted. There's a cow on my arm." Or: "Hey! I found my dentures!" I wrote to the manufacturer of Safe-Guard, Hoechst-Roussel Agri-Vet Co., asking what the heck was going on in this picture. I got back a letter from a veterinarian named John Paul; he explained that the man in the picture is "palpating" the cow to find out whether it's pregnant. Apparently this is a perfectly legitimate veterinary procedure, although I imagine there are serious risks if you don't know exactly what you're doing: SHERIFF: What seems to be the trouble, boys? MOB LEADER: We caught this varmint palpatin' out at Jess Fooper's place! VOICES IN MOB: Yeah! He's a palpator! SHERIFF: But that's a perfectly legitimate veterinary procedure! MOB LEADER: He was palpatin' a BULL. SHERIFF: String him up. VOICES IN MOB: Let's palpate him first! Meanwhile, out in Pinedale, Wyo., we have a situation involving: ARTISTS PAINTING ON COWS You may have heard about this. Three artists got a $4,000 grant, some of which came from the federal government, to paint words from a pioneer woman's diary on the sides of live cows. I am not making this up. The idea was that the cows, with the words on their sides, would wander around and poop on symbolic representations of U.S. taxpayers. No, seriously, the idea, as explained by one of the artists, was that the wandering cows would scramble the words so as to "create a new text." I think this is a terrific idea, and I believe that the government should seriously consider using wandering painted cows to generate the instructions for filling out federal tax forms. I bet cows would do a MUCH better job than whoever is doing this now (my guess is, hamsters). Speaking of government action, it is clearly time to do something about: COW-PART SPILLS IN MARIETTA, OHIO I have here several issues of The Marietta Times, sent to me by an alert reader named Sheri Fleegle (really). These issues contain a series of front-page stories -- with large headlines such as DUMPED ON AGAIN! and NEW SPILL NO JOKE -- concerning an epidemic of trucks spilling loads of cow parts on the highways in and around Marietta. There are some large, vivid color photographs, including one with a caption that says, "Street Superintendent Richard 'Moose' Mayer removes cow parts from Washington Street," and another one captioned, simply, "Cow heads and feet along Muskingum Road" (this one is directly over a headline that says, CLINTON WORKS ON HIS IMAGE). In a strongly worded editorial, The Times came out foursquare against cow parts on the road, and stated: "It's time for action." I could not agree more. I say the people who are doing this should be arrested and thrown into prison, unless of course it turns out that they are artists, in which case I say they should be given federal grants. But the important thing is that SOMETHING must be done, if we are to maintain our quality of life in this great nation, a nation in which all people, regardless of religious beliefs or ethnic background, have the absolute and fundamental right to question their de-wormers. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 7 Aug 93 18:08:02 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!cert.org!usenet.ins.cwru.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!math.ohio-state.edu!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 08/08/93 Subject: Cardiac Arrest Lines: 96 Home Security. These are two words that we all should have professionally engraved on our brains, especially in light of the terrifying, Stephen-King-esque nightmare that was experienced recently by Judy and Tom Bondurant of Fredericksburg, Va. I learned about this nightmare via a letter I received from Sarah Moser, an alert 12-year-old neighbor of the Bondurants. Sarah put me in touch with Judy and Tom, who told me their chilling story: it was about 1:30 a.m., and the Bondurants were asleep in their second-floor bedroom. Judy was not sleeping soundly, however, because her foot had been bitten by a chigger, and in an effort to keep it (the foot) comfortable, she was dangling it off the bed, outside of the sheets. She was lying there, feeling uncomfortable, when she felt it. Something was touching her foot. "It ws something wet," she recalled. She yanked her foot under the sheets and opened her eyes. There, in the gloom, she saw it. "It was a shape," she said. "A BIG shape." Judy decided to draw this to Tom's attention via the following statement: "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" She then leaped out of the left side of the bed and attempted to exit the room, which was a sound plan, except that she tried to execute it by clawing her way directly through a wall. Meanwhile, over on the right-hand side of the bed, Tom could not help but notice that (a) Judy was screaming, and (b) his foot was touching something. "It was a furry thing," he recalled. Tom did not scream. No sir. It does no good to panic in a situation like that. What Tom did, in a superb demonstration of shrewd judgment and quick thinking under pressure, was leap out of the right side of the bed and run directly into Judy's collection of cactus plants, thus knocking them over; then charge through a screen door, thus wrecking it; and then stumble to a stop just before hurtling off the second-floor balcony. Meanwhile, Judy, still up against the wall, had located a light switch. She turned it on. Now they both could see what was in their bedroom. It was standing on their bed. it was big. It was yellow. It was wagging its tail. It was a Labrador retriever. Happy to be there. Judy and Tom had never seen it before. They don't have any pets. "We left the room very cautiously," Judy said. The dog stayed on the bed. (Why not?) Tom and Judy went downstairs and determined that the dog had nosed open their unlocked front door. They went outside and sat quietly on the front porch for several minutes, thinking about the situation. Finally, Tom had an insight, the kind of insight that you sometimes have when you're trying to solve a complex problem, and you suddenly realize that the answer has been staring you in the face all along. "We have to get the dog out of the bedroom," he said. Tom was able to accomplish this by luring the dog outside with a pork chop. The Bondurants then went back to bed, only to discover, the next morning, that the dog was still hanging around outside. (Why not? There were pork chops here!) The Bondurants decided they liked the dog. "He was very friendly," said judy. "An Old Yeller type of dog," said Tom. His name was Charley, and he had run off during a thunderstorm. Apparently he wandered to the Bondurants' house, found the door open, went up to the bedroom, and decided, based on sniffing Judy Bondurant's foot, that these would be good people to sleep with and possibly live with for the next eight or 12 years. Dogs are very informal this way. They tend to make snap decisions based almost exclusively on smell. Watch two dogs meeting for the first time, and they will have the following conversation: "I'm going to kill you!" "No, I'M going to kill YOU!" sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff "HEY! You're a DOG!" "HEY! YOU'RE a dog!" sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff "Hey! Let's make weewee!" "OK!" ssssssssssssssssssss sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff "HEY! You're a DOG!" And so it goes, in the intellectual world of Man's Best Friend. So anyway, Charley went back to his owners, and the Bondurants are thinking about getting a dog. (Why not?) For the rest of us, there are three major Home Security lessons to be learned from this story: 1. EVERY home should be equipped -- and this advice comes from the National Association of Chiefs of Police, in conjunction with the American Pig Farming Council -- with a licensed and registered pork chop. 2. You should keep an eye on those chigger bites, because they can become infected. 3. "Cardiac" is a GREAT name for a dog. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. From basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken.llnl.gov!looking!clarinews Tue Mar 23 08:59:56 EST 1993 Article 47 of clari.feature.dave_barry: Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken.llnl.gov!looking!clarinews >From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: HERE ARE SOME EXCITING DEVELOPMENTS IN CAT CARE Message-ID: Date: Mon, 22 Mar 93 12:05:49 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 0/0; Id: z0420; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 03/21-N/A; Ver: 1/0 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 88 DAVE BARRY Today's animal topic is: Cat Care Over the years, many cat-lovers have asked me: ``Dave, how come you never write about cats? Is it because you don't LIKE cats? Is it because cats are vicious, unprincipled household parasites that will stroll up to the person who has fed them for 17 years and, without provocation, claw this person's shin flesh into lasagna? Is it because they are lazy, ungrateful, hairball-spewing ... HEY! These aren't cat-lover quotations! You're making these quotations up!'' OK, so I do not harbor a great fondness for cats. But I intend to change my ways, because I sincerely, in my heart, want to cash in on the wave of Cat Mania that is sweeping the nation. The cause of this wave is, of course, the Clinton family cat, Socks Rodham Clinton, who was recently confirmed as Official White House Pet following lengthy Senate hearings in which it was determined that he had never knowingly employed illegal aliens. (Socks did, in his youth, experiment with catnip but he did not inhale.) So today I'm going to report some exciting developments in cat care. I'm not making these developments up; they were all brought to my attention by alert, cat-loving readers such as Sharon Boltz, who sent me a newspaper advertisement for: the Cat Tub. This is a cat-washing device, and it's about time somebody invented one, because if you have ever attempted to wash a cat by hand, you are dumber than you look. The Cat Tub ad has a photograph of a cat sitting inside a wire basket; the cat's head and front paws are sticking out the top, through a loose collar. The basket has been submerged, up to the cat's neck, in a clear plastic cylinder filled with water. There's a hose attached to a kitchen faucet so that water circulates around the cat, like a washing machine. You just KNOW how much the cat is enjoying this. The cat is staring at the camera, clearly thinking: ``Somehow, someday, I am going to evolve to the point where I can order a handgun by mail and GET EVEN with the person who invented this.'' I called up this person, a San Diego architectural draftsman named Brad Davis, who told me that he invented the Cat Tub five years ago for his cat, Juan, when he (Juan) developed a flea problem. ``I had to bathe him a lot, and it was VERY difficult,'' he said. ``Cats go ballistic when you put them in water. And they have claws.'' (I just want to note for the record that dogs NEVER scratch you when you wash them. They just become very sad and try to figure out what they did wrong.) Davis said that the Cat Tub restrains the cat ``very humanely,'' so that it has no choice but to sit there and get clean and hate you. Although Davis claims that most cats seem to adjust. ``OK, they don't LOVE it,'' he said. ``But they TOLERATE it.'' Anyway, I think this is a terrific sanitation concept, which might someday be adapted for use with larger hard-to-bathe species such as cows, horses and my son. The Cat Tub retails for $59.95; for more information, write to 2445 Juan St., San Diego, Calif. 92110. Operators, in the form of Brad Davis, are standing by. Another new wrinkle in cat hygiene was brought to my attention by Patricia Southward, who mailed me a newspaper article concerning a senior-citizen talent show in Sanford, Fla. The show featured an act by a woman named Harriett Boyd, her cat ``Streaky,'' and her small dog. The article, by Mark Barfield, states: ``The little dog ran around the stage while Boyd held the cat draped over her shoulder, made it sit and stay on a stand while she walked away and vacuumed it. ``Yes, she vacuumed the cat, to its obvious pleasure. She rubbed the roaring attachment over the cat's back while it stretched in luxurious appreciation.'' Needless to say, this act won the silver talent medal. I would not be surprised to see your big international stars such as Michael Jackson vacuuming cats on stage while a little dog (played by Marky Mark) runs around. Anyway, let's say you have washed and vacuumed your cat, and now you'd like to give it a nice meal. But let's say, for one reason or another, your cat has no teeth. In this case you will want to purchase a product featured in an advertisement sent in by Ellen Feehan. The advertisement has a picture of a scientific-looking device, next to which is the following headline, which I swear I am not making up: ``Only the Polytron reduces an entire mouse to a soup-like homogenate in 30 seconds.'' Like most people, I have always yearned for such a capability, so I called the manufacturer, Brinkmann Instruments, and spoke with a customer-service representative named Jeanette. She told me that the Polytron is used for laboratory-sample preparation by the scientific community, which is constantly striving to achieve important breakthroughs in mankind's ability to do stuff to mice. ``It's kind of like a very strong food processor,'' she said. I asked her if any cat-owners had bought Polytrons so they could provide their pets with nutritious Liquid Mouse Treats, and she said she didn't think so, because the basic model costs over $4,000. This is a lot of money for the average civilian, but your more affluent cat-loving individuals and institutions could easily afford a Polytron. I understand that the White House has ordered six. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Once again, we come to the Holiday Season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice. In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it "Christmas" and went to church; the Jews called it "Hanukka" and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy Hanukka!" or (to the atheists) "Look out for the wall!" -- Dave Barry, "Christmas Shopping: A Survivor's Guide" Article: 82 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apteryx!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: TODAY'S TOPIC: CIRCUMCISION Message-ID: Date: 9 Dec 91 22:42:50 GMT Lines: 81 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: regular ANPA: Wc: 733; Id: z1512; Sel: bb--l; Adate: 12/08-1aed DAVE BARRY I want to warn you right away that today's topic involves an extremely mature subject matter that might offend your community standards, if your community has any. I became sensitive about community standards recently when, at the suggestion of no less than a U.S. Supreme Court justice, I wrote a column about a ground-breaking anti-flatulence product called Beano. Some newspapers -- and I do not wish to name names, but two of them were the Portland Oregonian and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch -- refused to print this column on the grounds that it was tasteless and offensive. Which of course it was, although it was NOTHING like the disgusting trash you hear from the Senate Judiciary Committee. Anyway, those readers who have community standards should leave the room at this time, because today's topic is: circumcision. This is a common medical procedure that involves -- and here, in the interest of tastefulness, I am going to use code names -- taking hold of a guy's Oregonian and snipping his Post-Dispatch right off. This is usually done to tiny guy babies who don't have a clue as to what is about to happen. One minute a baby is lying happily in his little bed, looking at the world and thinking what babies think (basically, ``Huh?''), and suddenly along comes a large person and SNIP WAAAAHHH the baby is dramatically introduced to the concept that powerful strangers can fill his life with pain for no apparent reason. This is excellent training for dealing with the Internal Revenue Service, but it's no fun at the time. Most of us guys deal with this unpleasant experience by eventually erasing it from our conscious minds, the way we do with algebra. But some guys never get over it. I base this statement on a San Jose Mercury News article, written by Michael Oricchio and mailed to me by many alert readers, concerning a group of men in California who are very upset about having been circumcised as babies. They have formed a support group called RECAP. In the interest of good taste I will not tell you what the ``P'' in ``RECAP'' stands for, but the ``RECA'' part stands for ``Recover A.'' According to the article, the members (sorry!) of RECAP are devoted to restoring themselves to pre-circumcision condition ``through stretching existing skin or by surgery.'' I swear I am not making this up. Here is a quotation from RECAP co-founder R. Wayne Griffiths: ``There are a lot of men who are enraged that they were violated without their consent and they want to do something about it. I've always been fascinated by intact men. I just thought it looked nicer. I had friends growing up who were intact. I thought, `Gee, that's what I'd like to be.''' The article states that, to become intact again, Griffiths invented a 7 1/2-ounce skin-stretching device that ``looks like a tiny steel barbell,'' which he taped to the end of his Oregonian and wore for ``four to 12 hours every day, except weekends, for a year.'' Using this method, he grew himself an entirely new Post-Dispatch. Other RECAP members are involved in similar efforts. They meet regularly to discuss technique and review their progress. I'm not sure how I feel about all this. I'm a middle-aged white guy, which means I'm constantly reminded that my particular group is responsible for the oppression of every known minority PLUS most wars PLUS government corruption PLUS pollution of the environment, not to mention that it was middle-aged white guys who killed Bambi's mom. So I'm pleased to learn that I myself am an oppressed victim of something. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get enraged about it. I've asked other guys about this. ``Are you enraged about being circumcised?' I say. ``WHAT?'' they say. So I explain about RECAP. ``WHAT??'' they say. I have yet to find a guy who's enraged. And nobody I talked to was interested in miniature barbells, let alone surgery. Most guys don't even like to TALK about medical procedures involving the Oregonian region. One time my wife and I were at a restaurant with two other couples, and one of the women, Susan, started describing her husband Bob's vasectomy, which she had witnessed. ``NO!'' we guys shouted, curling our bodies up like boiled shrimp. ``Let's not talk about that!'' But our wives were FASCINATED. They egged Susan on, and she went into great detail, forcing us guys to stick wads of French bread in our ears and duck our heads under the table. Periodically we'd come up to see if the coast was clear, but Susan would be saying, ``And then the doctor picked up this thing that looked like a big crochet needle ...'' And BONK we guys would bang our heads together ducking back under the table. So Post-Dispatchwise, I think I'm going to remain an oppressed victim. But don't let me tell the rest of you guys what to think; it's your decision. This is a free country. In most communities. (C) 1991 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. From basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews Thu Feb 11 00:19:16 EST 1993 Article 41 of clari.feature.dave_barry: Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews >From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: HOW BILL CLINTON GOT LOST IN HIS CABINET Message-ID: Date: 7 Feb 93 02:08:04 GMT Lines: 79 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 833/791; Id: z0420; Sel: tw--; Adate: 02/07-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Feb. 7, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) DAVE BARRY Allow me to be the first professional news commentator to point out that the Clinton administration has failed. Look at the evidence. Bill Clinton has been President for over two weeks now, and: The national debt is still enormous. The world is still rife with oppression, famine and genocide. George Steinbrenner is still at large. The time has come to ask: What went wrong? How could failure have come so quickly to Bill Clinton, who started out with so much promise, so many ideas, such a large volume of hair? As is so often true with great historical issues, we will not truly know the answer until we read the next sentence. The answer is, Clinton wore himself out selecting his Cabinet. Previous presidents didn't waste a lot of energy on this task. They appointed Cabinet members pretty much at random from a small pool of wealthy golf-playing respected establishment white males, replacing them as they became indicted. Nobody cared who the specific appointments were. (Ronald Reagan had to wait for the ``World Almanac'' to be published to find out who was in his Cabinet.) It didn't MATTER who the appointees were, because under our constitutional system of government, most Cabinet members have no actual duties other than to pose for their official oil portraits. The only Cabinet members with responsibilities beyond that are: The Secretary of State, who is required to fly to the Middle East every three weeks to deliver a historic peace initiative, to be placed with all the others in the huge, climate-controlled Peace Initiative Storage Facility; The Secretary of the Treasury, who signs all the money; The Surgeon General, who treats the blisters on the Secretary of the Treasury's hand. I bet you can't name one newsworthy thing that a Cabinet member has done since Gerald ``R.'' Ford's Secretary of Agriculture and Rocket Science, Earl Butz, decided that it would be a good idea to tell a bad ethnic joke to a reporter. Sure, sometimes in the news you see Photo Opportunities of the president sitting with his full Cabinet around a big table, everybody frowning and looking important, but you never hear what actually goes ON in these meetings: PRESIDENT: OK, so we want, let's see ... 14 jelly doughnuts and nine powdered sugar, am I right? CABINET MEMBER: And a prune Danish. PRESIDENT: Who the hell are you? CABINET MEMBER: I'm the Secretary of Vegetable and Mineral Affairs. PRESIDENT (suspiciously): Let's see your Cabinet membership card. (He examines the card.) You bonehead! This expired in 1978! You were in the CARTER Cabinet. CABINET MEMBER: Whoops! (General laughter.) Then along came Bill Clinton, who owed his election to the approximately 17,000 feisty special-interest groups we like to call ``the Democratic Party.'' Clinton could not merely select traditional random white males. Instead, he spent what seemed like the better part of 1992 in a grueling effort to select a Cabinet that, as he put it, ``looks like America,'' by which he meant, ``looks like one of those comically artificial TV commercials so determined to exhibit one member of every major minority group that they practically make the actors wear large signs with labels like `ORIENTAL.''' Clinton was obsessed with getting the right mixture, to the point where it seemed to be more important than anything else: CLINTON: I am pleased to announce that I am appointing, to the critical Cabinet post of Secretary of Fisheries and Hatcheries, a person who is not only a person of gender, but is also a learning-disabled diabetic Norwegian-American Southern person of partly Aleutian descent. REPORTERS: What is this person's name? CLINTON: I have no idea. So he was clearly exhausted by the Cabinet-selection process, and that was just the beginning. He also had to find appointees of the correct ethnic genders for the thousands of other key positions in the many crucial agencies that make up the vast, ever-mutating, multitentacled, money-sucking blob we like to call ``the federal government,'' including the Christopher Columbus Commission, the Marine Mammal Commission and, of course, the Inter-American Tuna Commission (these are real federal agencies). This was a MASSIVE job. Imagine trying to determine the gender of a tuna. No wonder that, after all this appointing, Clinton has no energy left to be the actual president. I'm getting tired just THINKING about it. Wake me up when it's 1996. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 28 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!dogmead!looking!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: FOR EVERY GENIUS KID, THERE'S A VERY GOOD-HUMORED, BUT SNEAKY, MOM Message-ID: Date: 22 Nov 92 02:08:01 GMT Lines: 90 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com X-Supersedes: X-Takes: 2 ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 885; Id: z0324; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 11/22-N/A; TAKES Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Nov. 22, and is strictly embargoed until that date.) DAVE BARRY TODAY'S SCARY TOPIC FOR PARENTS IS: What Your Children Do When You're Not Home. I have here a letter from Buffalo, N.Y., working mom Judy Price, concerning her 14-year-old son, David, ``who should certainly know better, because the school keeps telling me he is a genius, but I have not seen signs of this in our normal, everyday life.'' Judy states that one day when she came home from work, David met her outside and said: ``Hi Mom. Are you going in?'' (This is a bad sign, parents.) Judy says she considered replying, ``No, I thought I'd just stay here in the car all night and pull away for work in the morning.'' That actually would have been a wise idea. Instead, she went inside, where she found a large black circle burned into the middle of her kitchen counter. ``DAVID,'' she screamed. ``WHAT WERE YOU COOKING?'' The soft, timid reply came back: ``A baseball.'' ``A baseball,'' Judy writes. ``Of course. What else could it be? How could I forget to tell my children never to cook a baseball? It's my fault, really.'' It turns out that according to David's best friend's cousin -- and if you can't believe HIM, who CAN you believe? -- you can hit a baseball three times as far if you really heat it up first. So David did this, and naturally he put the red-hot pan down directly onto the counter top, probably because there was no rare antique furniture available. For the record: David claims that the heated baseball did, in fact, go farther. But this does NOT mean that you young readers should try this foolish and dangerous experiment at home. Use a friend's home. No, seriously, you young people should never heat a baseball without proper adult supervision, just as you should never -- and I say this from personal experience -- attempt to make a rumba box. A rumba box is an obscure musical instrument that consists of a wooden box with metal strips attached to it in such a way that when you plunk them, the box resonates with a pleasant, rhythmic sound. The only time I ever saw a rumba box was in 1964, when a friend of my parents named Walter Karl played one at a gathering at our house, and it sounded great. Mr. Karl explained that the metal strips were actually pieces of the spring from an old-fashioned wind-up phonograph. This gave my best friend, Lanny Watts, an idea. Lanny was always having ideas. For example, one day he got tired of walking to the end of his driveway to get the mail, so he had the idea of hanging the mailbox from a rope-and-pulley system strung up the driveway to his porch, where he hooked it up to a washing-machine motor. When the mailman came, Lanny simply plugged in the motor, and whoosh, the mailbox fell down. The amount of time Lanny spent unsuccessfully trying to get this labor-saving device to work was equivalent to approximately 5,000 trips to get the actual mail, but that is the price of convenience. So anyway, when Lanny heard Mr. Karl explain the rumba box, he realized two things: 1. His parents had an old-fashioned wind-up phonograph they hardly ever used. 2. They both worked out of the home. So Lanny and I decided to make our own rumba box. Our plan, as I recall it, was to take the phonograph apart, snip off a bit of the spring, then put the phonograph back together, and nobody would be the wiser. This plan worked perfectly until we removed the metal box that held the phonograph spring; this box turned out to be very hard to open. ``Why would they make it so strong?'' we asked ourselves. Finally, recalling the lessons we had learned about mechanical advantage in high-school physics class, we decided to hit the box with a sledge hammer. Do you remember the climactic scene in the movie ``Raiders of the Lost Ark,'' when the Nazis open up the Ark of the Covenant, and out surges a terrifying horde of evil fury and the Nazis' heads melt like chocolate bunnies in a microwave? Well, that's similar to what happened when Lanny sledge-hammered the spring box. It turns out that the reason the box is so strong is that there is a really powerful, tightly wound, extremely irritable spring in there, and when you let it out, it just goes berserk, writhing and snarling and thrashing violently all over the room, seeking to gain revenge on all the people who have cranked it over the years. Lanny and I fled the room until the spring calmed down. When we returned, we found phonograph parts spread all over the room, mixed in with approximately 2.4 miles of spring. We realized we'd have to modify our Project Goal slightly, from making a rumba box to being in an entirely new continent when Lanny's mom got home. Actually, Mrs. Watts went fairly easy on us, just as Judy Price seems to have been good-humored about her son's heating the baseball. Moms are usually pretty good that way. But sometimes I wonder. You know how guys are always complaining that they used to have a baseball-card collection that would be worth a fortune today if they still had it, but their moms threw it out? And the guys always say, ``Mom just didn't know any better.'' Well, I wonder if the moms knew exactly what they were doing. Getting even. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 10 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: LEFT FOOT FORWARD ... Message-ID: Date: 16 Aug 1992 02:08:02 GMT Lines: 81 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 870; Id: z0345; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 08/16-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY My son, who is 11, has started going to dance parties. Only minutes ago he was this little boy whose idea of looking really sharp was to have all the Kool-Aid stains on his He-Man T-shirt be the same flavor; now, suddenly, he's spending more time per day on his hair than it took to paint the Sistine Chapel. And he's going to parties where the boys dance with actual girls. This was unheard of when I was 11, during the Eisenhower administration. Oh, sure, our parents sent us to ballroom-dancing class, but it would have been equally cost-effective for them to simply set fire to their money. The ballroom in my case was actually the Harold C. Crittenden Junior High School cafeteria. We boys would huddle defensively in one corner, punching each other for moral support and eyeing the girls suspiciously, as though we expected them at any moment to be overcome by passion and assault us. In fact, this was unlikely. We were not a fatally attractive collection of stud muffins. We had outgrown our sport coats, and we each had at least one shirttail elegantly sticking out, and the skinny ends of our neckties hung down longer than the fat ends because our dads had tied them in the only way that a person can tie a necktie on a short, fidgety person, which is by standing behind that person and attempting several abortive knots and then saying the hell with it. Many of us had smeared our hair with the hair-smear of choice in those days, Brylcreem, a chemical substance with the natural look and feel of industrial pump lubricant. When the dance class started, the enemy genders were lined up on opposite sides of the cafeteria, and the instructor, an unfortunate middle-aged man who I hope was being paid hundreds of thousands of dollars, would attempt to teach us the Fox Trot. ``ONE two THREE four ONE two THREE four,'' he'd say, demonstrating the steps. ``Boys start with your LEFT foot forward, girls start with your RIGHT foot back, and begin now ONE ...'' The girls, moving in one graceful line, would all take a step back with their right feet. At the same time, on the boys' side, Joseph DiGiacinto, who is now an attorney, would bring his left foot down firmly on the right toe of Tommy Longworth. ``TWO,'' the instructor would say, and the girls would all bring their left feet back, while Tommy would punch Joe sideways into Dennis Johnson. ``THREE,'' the instructor would say, and the girls would shift their weight to the left, while on the other side the chain reaction of retaliation had spread to all 40 boys, who were punching and stomping on each other, so that our line looked like a giant centipede having a Brylcreem-induced seizure. This was also how we learned the Waltz, the Cha Cha and -- this was the instructor's ``hep cat'' dance step -- the Lindy Hop. After we boys had thoroughly failed to master these dances, the instructor would bring the two lines together and order the boys to dance directly with the girls, which we did by sticking our arms straight out to maintain maximum separation, lunging around the cafeteria like miniature sport- coat-wearing versions of Frankenstein's monster. We never danced with girls outside of that class. At social events, girls danced The Slop with other girls; boys made hilarious intestinal noises with their armpits. It was the natural order of things. But times have changed. I found this out the night of Robby's first dance party, when, 15 minutes before it was time to leave for the party, he strode impatiently up to me, wearing new duds, looking perfect in the hair department and smelling vaguely of -- Can it be? Yes, it's RIGHT GUARD -- and told me that we had to go IMMEDIATELY or we'd be late. This from a person who has never, ever shown the slightest interest in being on time for anything, a person who was three weeks late to his own BIRTH. We arrived at the dance-party home at the same time as Robby's friend T.J., who strode up to us, eyes eager, hair slicked. ``T.J.!'' I remarked. ``You're wearing COLOGNE!'' About two gallons, I estimated. He was emitting fragrance rays visible to the naked eye. We followed the boys into the house, where kids were dancing. Actually, I first thought they were jumping up and down, but I have since learned that they were doing a dance called the Jump. We tried to watch Robby, but he gestured violently at us to leave, which I can understand. If God had wanted your parents to watch you do the Jump, He wouldn't have made them so old. Two hours later, when we came back to pick him up, the kids were slow-dancing. Of course the parents weren't allowed to watch this, either, but by peering through a window from another room, we could catch glimpses of couples swaying together, occasionally illuminated by spontaneous fireballs of raw hormonal energy shooting around the room. My son was in there somewhere. But not my little boy. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Date: 8 Mar 92 00:04:52 GMT Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: FIRST RULE OF DATING: NEVER RISK DIRECT CONTACT DAVE BARRY As a mature adult, I feel an obligation to help the younger generation, just as the mother fish guards her unhatched eggs, keeping her lonely vigil day after day, never leaving her post, not even to go to the bathroom, until her tiny babies emerge and she is able, at last, to eat them. ``She may be your mom, but she's still a fish,'' is a wisdom nugget that I would pass along to any fish eggs reading this column. But today I want to talk about dating. This subject was raised in a letter to me from a young person named Eric Knott, who writes: ``I have got a big problem. There's this girl in my English class who is really good looking. However, I don't think she knows I exist. I want to ask her out, but I'm afraid she will say no, and I will be the freak of the week. What should I do?'' Eric, you have sent your question to the right mature adult, because as a young person I spent a lot of time thinking about this very problem. Starting in about eighth grade, my time was divided as follows: Academic Pursuits: 2 percent. Zits: 16 percent Trying to Figure Out How to Ask Girls Out: 82 percent. The most sensible way to ask a girl out is to walk directly up to her on foot and say, ``So, you want to go out? Or what?'' I never did this. I knew, as Eric Knott knows, that there was always the possibility that the girl would say no, thereby leaving me with no viable option but to leave Harold C. Crittenden Junior High School forever and go into the woods and become a bark-eating hermit whose only companions would be the gentle and understanding woodland creatures. ``Hey, ZITFACE!'' the woodland creatures would shriek in cute little Chip 'n' Dale voices while raining acorns down upon my head. ``You wanna DATE? HAHAHAHAHAHA.'' So the first rule of dating is: Never risk direct contact with the girl in question. Your role model should be the nuclear submarine, gliding silently beneath the ocean surface, tracking an enemy target that does not even begin to suspect that the submarine would like to date it. I spent the vast majority of 1960 keeping a girl named Judy under surveillance, maintaining a minimum distance of 50 lockers to avoid the danger that I might somehow get into a conversation with her, which could have led to disaster: Judy: Hi. Me: Hi. Judy: Just in case you have ever thought about having a date with me, the answer is no. Woodland Creatures: HAHAHAHAHAHA. The only problem with the nuclear-submarine technique is that it's difficult to get a date with a girl who has never, technically, been asked. This is why you need Phil Grant. Phil was a friend of mine who had the ability to talk to girls. It was a mysterious superhuman power he had, comparable to X-ray vision. So, after several thousand hours of intense discussion and planning with me, Phil approached a girl he knew named Nancy, who approached a girl named Sandy, who was a direct personal friend of Judy's and who passed the word back to Phil via Nancy that Judy would be willing to go on a date with me. This procedure protected me from direct humiliation, similar to the way President Reagan was protected from direct involvement in the Iran-contra scandal by a complex White House chain of command that at one point, investigators now believe, included his horse. Thus it was that, finally, Judy and I went on an actual date, to see a movie in White Plains, N.Y. If I were to sum up the romantic ambience of this date in four words, those words would be: ``My mother was driving.'' This made for an extremely quiet drive, because my mother, realizing that her presence was hideously embarrassing, had to pretend she wasn't there. If it had been legal, I think she would have got out and sprinted alongside the car, steering through the window. Judy and I, sitting in the back seat about 75 feet apart, were also silent, unable to communicate without the assistance of Phil, Nancy and Sandy. After what seemed like several years we got to the movie theater, where my mother went off to sit in the Parents and Lepers Section. The movie was called ``North to Alaska,'' but I can tell you nothing else about it because I spent the whole time wondering whether it would be necessary to amputate my right arm, which was not getting any blood flow as a result of being perched for two hours like a petrified snake on the back of Judy's seat exactly one molecule away from physical contact. So it was definitely a fun first date, featuring all the relaxed spontaneity of a real-estate closing, and in later years I did regain some feeling in my arm. My point, Eric Knott, is that the key to successful dating is self-confidence. I bet that good-looking girl in your English class would LOVE to go out with you. But YOU have to make the first move. So just do it! Pick up that phone! Call Phil Grant. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 99 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!lll-winken!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: NOBODY CARES ABOUT THE FEDERAL DEFICIT Message-ID: Date: 23 Feb 92 00:02:41 GMT Lines: 79 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 849; Id: z0443; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 02/23-1aed DAVE BARRY It is a proven fact that the average American doesn't care about the federal budget deficit. Sometimes on the ``NBC Nightly News,'' for fun, Tom Brokaw will say, ``Next: the federal budget deficit.'' Then they'll show a 15-minute videotape, without sound, of a dog eating peanut butter. They never get a single phone call, because the instant Tom says ``budget deficit,'' the viewers grab their remote controls and switch to sleazy tabloid shows full of ``news'' about Roseanne Barr Arnold's husband's tattoos and the William Kennedy Smith sex-change operation. Of course YOU'RE different. YOU'RE not an ``average American.'' YOU care about the issues, right? You liar. You're not even reading this paragraph. You're saying to your spouse: ``Hey, it says in the paper that William Kennedy Smith had a sex-change operation!'' Well, he didn't. I just said that to stimulate the sagging libel-suit industry, and to make the point that nobody cares about the deficit. This is good. The deficit doesn't matter. To understand why, let's compare the U.S. government to a typical American family, headed by ``John and Mary Smith,'' who have a combined annual income of $22,000. Let's say that the ``Smiths'' have drawn up a budget, listing what they want to spend in the coming year for various items such as food, housing, and court costs to have the quotation marks legally removed from their names. Let's say that this budget totals $27, 000. This means the ``Smiths'' have an impending budget deficit of $5,000. So what is the only logical thing for them to do? You guessed it: They should spend $30 million to build a moving sidewalk in Altoona, Pa. That's how Congress is handling it. With the federal deficit running at several hundred billion dollars per year, Congress passed a transportation bill that, according to a news report by Reed Karaim of Knight-Ridder Newspapers, includes $30 million for a ``high-tech'' moving sidewalk in Altoona, which happens to be in the district of Rep. ``Bud'' Shuster, the ranking Republican on the surface transportation subcommittee. I don't know about you, but as a taxpayer, I am outraged to discover that, in this day and age, Altoona residents are still being forced to walk around on regular low-tech stationary sidewalks. I'm thinking of maybe organizing a group of us to go there and carry Altoonans around on our backs until they get their new sidewalk. I'm also thinking that maybe we should donate another $10 million or so to build them a high- tech computerized Spit Launcher that will fire laser-guided gobs onto the moving sidewalk, so the Altoonans won't have to do this manually. ``What have I done today to help keep `Bud' Shuster in Congress?'' is a question we all need to ask ourselves more often. We also need to think about Rep. John Paul Hammerschmidt, who inserted a provision into the transportation bill to have taxpayers pay for -- get ready for a crying national need -- erecting signs that will identify part of U.S. 71 in Arkansas as the ``John Paul Hammerschmidt Highway.'' You're saying to yourself: ``What? All he gets named after himself is part of one lousy highway? Can't we do MORE to recognize Rep. Hammerschmidt?'' Yes, we can. We can start a nationwide movement to name things after him. Pets, for example. ``Oh NO!'' we could say. ``Look what Rep. John Paul Hammerschmidt did on the rug! BAD Rep. John Paul Hammerschmidt!'' Or: ``Marge, I think it's high time that we had Rep. John Paul Hammerschmidt spayed.'' I don't mean to single out Bud and John Paul. The transportation bill had over $5 billion worth of special local projects and favors attached to it, lamprey-like, by various congresspersons. But this is good, because these projects will CREATE JOBS. See, when the GOVERNMENT spends money, it creates jobs; whereas when the money is left in the hands of TAXPAYERS, God only knows what they do with it. Bake it into pies, probably. Anything to avoid creating jobs. That's why President George ``Samurai'' Bush flew all the way to Euless, Texas, a round trip of 2,600 miles, at taxpayers' expense, so he could be seen on TV signing the transportation bill at a highway construction site. ``Jobs, jobs, jobs,'' he said, in a quotation that will probably win the award for Best Articulated Reason For Signing A Big Fat Lardbucket Of A Transportation Bill, narrowly edging out ``Wooga, wooga, wooga.'' Of course eventually, down the federally financed road, all this money will have to be repaid, with interest, by somebody. Our kids, in fact. Should we worry about this? Are we placing an unfair burden on them? Nah. Maybe they'll be poor, but any time they want, they'll be able to hitchhike to Altoona and ride the sidewalk. The lucky little Hammerschmidts. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 22 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: SENSIBLE EATING: WE CAN LEARN A LESSON ON DIET FROM TOADS Message-ID: Date: Sat, 17 Oct 92 19:08:02 PDT ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 851; Id: z0307; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 10/18-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 79 DAVE BARRY We can learn a lot about proper eating habits by watching the behavior of wildlife creatures. Take toads. You don't see toads fluctuating wildly in weight and obsessing about food and constantly going on ineffectual diets and then sneaking into the kitchen at 2 a.m. and consuming an entire Sara Lee banana cake (serves 12). No, when a toad gets hungry, it simply flicks out its tongue and snares -- NOT a cheeseburger; NOT a bowl of Lucky Charms breakfast cereal -- but a natural, high-protein, zero preservatives, low-fat moth. The toad gulps the moth down whole, and bang, just like that, it's finished with the whole eating thing. Freed from the tyranny of food obsession, the toad can now get on with other activities, such as pondering the fact that there is a whole live moth in its stomach. This is why toads always look vaguely worried. They have live disoriented insects tromping around inside them, and they (the toads) are thinking that maybe they should chew their food before they swallow it, except that -- Nature can be cruel -- TOADS DON'T HAVE TEETH. This problem led to a groundbreaking 1982 experiment at the University of Wisconsin, wherein biologists, using a $7.3 million federal grant, fitted a group of toads with dentures, then observed them closely over a five-year period, at the end of which they (the researchers) reported that the toads ``seemed to be in a good mood,'' adding that ``there's really no way to tell.'' So we can see how important it is to have a sensible, long-term eating regimen and realistic dietary goals. I myself was on a sensible long-term eating regimen until nearly 10:30 this morning, when I finally achieved my dietary goal of locating where my wife put the box of Cheez- Its. These are my favorite snack crackers because they contain ``riboflavin'' and have a radioactive orange color that makes them easy to locate in the dark. Plus they're good for your heart: Like every other product now sold in the United States, including Drano, they come in a package marked ``LOW CHOLESTEROL.'' Heart care is a top priority with me, so I ate the whole box (serves 20). The problem with doing this is that Cheez-Its also contain calories, which our bodies turn into fat. Of course it could be worse. Imagine if our bodies turned them into, say, linoleum, or surplus body parts: BOB: Hi, Frank! FRANK: Hi, Bob! Say, I notice you have eight noses. BOB: I know. I gotta go on a diet. When Bob (not his real name) does go on a diet, chances are he will eat at salad bars. I eat at salad bars constantly, because that way I can put a little lettuce on my plate and cover it with enough cheese, bacon, pasta, potato salad, Roquefort dressing, etc., to rectify the nutritional shortfall in Somalia, and still be able to say that all I ate for lunch was a ``salad.'' The problem is that I keep getting stuck in line behind Salad Scientists. These are people who make a salad as if it were some kind of nuclear-fission experiment, subjecting each leaf and sprout to intense scrutiny. The worst is when you're behind TWO of them, because then they have to DISCUSS everything: FIRST SALAD SCIENTIST (picking up a string bean): Look. String beans. SECOND SALAD SCIENTIST: I don't care for string beans in a salad. FIRST SALAD SCIENTIST: I like string beans in a salad, but I don't like the looks of this string bean. SECOND SALAD SCIENTIST: No, that looks a little pale to me. But then I don't care for string beans in a salad. FIRST SALAD SCIENTIST (picking up another string bean): Now THIS string bean looks a little better to me. SECOND SALAD SCIENTIST: Well, if you ask me, it's a little on the brownish side. But then I don't caAAIIEEEEE (sound of me stabbing the second scientist with a pair of coleslaw tongs). FIRST SALAD SCIENTIST: I don't care for coleslaw in a salad. X X X Another problem is that many diets simply don't work. Statistics show that people who go on gimmicky or ``crash'' diets will gain all the weight back within a year; whereas people who follow realistic, long- term diet regimens will never lose any weight at all. That's because they're all eating so-called ``frozen yogurt,'' which I strongly suspect is a fraud. Ask yourself: Does ``frozen yogurt'' taste anything like regular yogurt? No, it does not. Regular yogurt tastes healthy, by which I mean, bad. It tastes like something you might use in the field of tent repair. Whereas ``frozen yogurt'' tastes good. I'm positive that if you dug beneath a ``frozen yogurt'' store, you'd find large hidden underground pipes leading directly to a Dairy Queen. Think about it! I'd think about it myself, but this riboflavin is starting to kick in. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 19 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: PRECAUTIONS FOR A HOMEOWNER FACING A NATURAL DISASTER Message-ID: Date: 27 Sep 1992 02:08:13 GMT Lines: 85 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 899; Id: z0384; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 09/27-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY As you are probably aware, especially if you are one of those people whose major appliances are still up in trees, South Florida recently experienced a bad hurricane. So today, as a South Florida homeowner, I want to review some of the lessons I learned from this experience -- lessons that I believe can be useful not only in hurricanes, but in other natural disasters such as floods, earthquakes and children's birthday parties. The most important precaution, for a homeowner facing a natural disaster, is: 1. SELL YOUR HOUSE BEFORE THE NATURAL DISASTER OCCURS. Trust me, this simple step will save you a LOT of trouble. My wife, Beth, and I are still kicking ourselves for not doing it. When we heard that Hurricane Andrew was headed directly at us, we rushed around doing things like putting patio furniture inside, securing doors, etc. What a pair of morons. We should have used that time to sell the house to somebody, and let HIM worry about the patio furniture. Granted, at that point there probably was not a large pool of qualified buyers available, so we might not have gotten absolute top dollar: Us: So, do we have a deal here? Prospective Buyer: Let me get this straight. I get your house, and you get ... my BIKE? Us (driving a hard bargain): AND your skateboard. Prospective Buyer: I have to ask my mom. If you're foolish enough to keep your home, you should definitely: 2. SEARCH THE HOME FOR WORKING DRUM SETS AND DESTROY THEM WITH AN AX. We weathered the hurricane in the home of some friends who are normally sane people, but who had allowed their 11-year-old son, Trey, to purchase a used drum set THE DAY BEFORE THE HURRICANE. Here's the thing about drums: They don't need electricity. They are designed to function perfectly during a natural disaster. This meant that at 2 a.m., when the power went out and the night was black and the wind was shrieking and the eye was approaching and we were sitting in the darkness, rigid with tension, terrified about what was about to happen, fearful that the house might BANG BANG BANG BANG WHAMMMA WHAMMA WHAMMA OHMIGOD WHAT'S HAPPENNING?!!? Ha ha! It was only young Trey, sensing somehow that this was a superb time to practice. So we all had a good laugh, and there is a strong chance that some of our hearts will eventually resume beating. 3. DESTROY YOUR GARDEN HOSE. Few people realize how dangerous a garden hose can be. I found out while attempting to siphon gasoline into a chain saw so I could locate our house, which was somewhere inside a mass of fallen trees approximately the size of Cambodia. We had obtained the chain saw from these men who sprang up all over the place, mushroom-like, immediately after the storm. They were selling truckloads of powerful, potentially lethal chain saws to South Florida homeowners whose experience with dangerous tools was pretty much limited to corkscrews. I watched a TV reporter ask one of the chain-saw sellers if he had any Safety Tips for the viewing audience. The man thought for a second, then said, quote: ``Chain saw don't know the difference between a LAIG and a LAWG.'' Bearing that Safety Tip in mind, I unpacked my new chain saw and determined, using mechanical aptitude, that you had to put gasoline in it. I decided to siphon some out of my wife's car. My wife's car is her pride and joy, and it spent the hurricane inside the garage; a tree landed on the garage, but the car was undamaged. So I cut off a length of garden hose, and I stuck it down the car's gas pipe, and -- I bet this NEVER happens to criminals --it got stuck in there. When I tried to pull it back out, it broke. Which meant there was four feet of alien garden hose somewhere deep inside my wife's car. And you just KNOW the mechanic is going to tell me that the only way to fix it is to replace the engine, perhaps several times. This is why you need National Guard troops in disaster areas. I needed a National Guard troop to come into my garage right then and shoot me in the head. That would have spared me from having to go into the house to tell my wife that on this day -- a day when our trees had been knocked down and our roof damaged and our other car bashed up by roof tiles and our entire neighborhood strewn with debris and our roads blocked and our power knocked out for what looked like several weeks -- that on this day, the first thing I had done, the first step on the long road to recovery, was to screw up her car. When I explain this to the mechanic, he'd better not laugh at me. I'm going to have the chain saw running by then. X X X I want to stress that my family and I are fine. But a lot of people in South Florida aren't. If you want to do something, please send a check to the National Disaster Relief Fund. You can mail it to your local Red Cross Chapter, or P.O. Box 37243, Washington, D.C. 20013. Or call (800) 842-2200 and put it on your credit card. People down here really need your help. I'm not making this up. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sun, 16 May 93 2:28:46 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 05/16/93 Subject: Finally, a cure for ear wax! Lines: 97 Today I want to tell you about an Amazing Home Medical Remedy that you are definitely going to want to try if you are one of the thousands of Americans who have: 1. Ear wax. 2. Fire insurance. I am talking about an ear-wax-removal product called "ear candles." I swear I am not making this product up. Ear candles were brought to my attention by alert reader Marianna Wright- Newton, who sent me an advertisement featuring a cartoon drawing of a man lying down on his side; sticking out of his left ear is a long, tapered object with flames shooting out of the top. This is not a small candle such as you find on birthday cakes. This is more along the lines of the torches that the villagers used to chase the monster out of Dr. Frankenstein's castle. The cartoon man's mouth is wide open, and he has sort of a strange expression; you can't tell whether he's saying, "This certainly is a fine home remedy!" or "Help! My brain is on fire!" I sent my order in immediately. At risk of becoming the celebrity spokesperson for this dreaded condition, let me come right out and state that I am an ear wax victim. There are many of us out here -- lonely, tortured souls, little understood by society. We can't even talk frankly about our condition with each other. EAR WAX VICTIM: Let's talk frankly about our condition. SECOND VICTIM: WHAT? So we suffer in silent isolation, hiding our shameful little secret, doing our best to "fit in," secretly terrified that one day, in a social setting, somebody will get up and say, "I know! Let's all look inside each other's ears!" There is no cure for ear wax. You can temporarily remove it via an unpleasant process involving chemicals and a squeeze bulb, but your body just manufactures more. There is a sound biological reason for this; namely, your body is stupid. Your body is constantly manufacturing things you don't need, such as ear wax, fat and zits. Wouldn't it be nice if, just once, your body would manufacture something you could actually use? BUS DRIVER: You can't get on this bus without a token. YOU: But I don't have a Wait a minute ... YOUR BODY: (Blurp.) (clink.) You: There you are. BUS DRIVER: I'm not touching that. So I sent my order for ear candles off to Quality Health Products, Box 375, Fayette, Ohio 43521, and several weeks later they arrived. There were five candles, which made me wonder about the medical expertise of the folks at Quality Health Products, inasmuch as the typical U.S. resident, according to the most recent census data, has an even number of ears. The candles are actually hollow cones, about 10 inches long, made of cotton and wax. The brochure states: "Basically, an ear candle is put into the ear and lit with a match by a second person. ... The flame creates a vacuum which pulls the wax out of the ear into the ear candle." Under the heading "Can anything go wrong?" appears this: "If the ear candle is not well seated in the ear when you start, you might notice smoke coming out the bottom. Stop immediately. Put it out and start over. It lost its draw and was going the other way." I hate it when that happens. So I followed the instructions very carefully. I cut a small hole in the center of a paper plate -- which I assumed was supposed to protect my head from burning stuff falling from the candle -- then I poked the skinny end of the candle through the hole and seated it firmly in my ear. Then I lay down on my side, with my head under the plate and the candle sticking into the air. My wife and son and our two dogs gathered to watch. It was a tense moment, kind of like just before they ignite the rockets in the Space Shuttle. At my command, my son, Rob, who is 12 and therefore will cheerfully set anything on fire, including his father, lit the candle. It flared right up, and I could hear a hissing sound in my ear, and I thought to myself: What if something goes wrong here? What would the newspapers say? MAN KILLED IN EAR BLAZE Deserved To Die, Authorities Say But nothing bad happened. In fact, it was kind of a nice, old-fashioned scene, the whole family gathered around to bask in the glow of Dad's ear candle. I'm sorry we didn't have marshmallows. When the candle had burned down close to my head, Rob, in accordance with the instructions, extinguished it with a wet paper towel. I then pulled the candle out and unwrapped it. Because this is a family newspaper, I will not go into detail about what was inside, other than to say that everybody was grossed out except the dogs, who displayed the kind of keen interest that they usually reserve for rancid squirrel parts. So I believe that this is a fine product. Even if you're not an ear wax, victim, you'd probably find it to be useful in situations where you wish to receive special attention, such as fine restaurants. ("Waiter, please bring our entrees promptly, as my ear candle is burning down.") At only $2.50 each, ear candles also make a delightful gift for the new graduate or the young woman who has just gotten engaged. ("Will you marry me?" "WHAT?") (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!cert.org!crcnis1.unl.edu!wupost!galileo.cc.rochester.edu!ub!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: BEWARE OF OBJECTS FALLING FROM THE SKY Message-ID: Date: 25 Apr 93 02:08:02 GMT Lines: 90 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 0/0; Id: z0375; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 04/25-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, April 25, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) DAVE BARRY Our policy, here at the Institute Of Things That Might Kill You, is not to cause panic. If we suspect some new health menace, such as a link between brain cancer and the dance routine to ``Achy Breaky Heart,'' we do not make any announcement without first going through the standard scientific procedure of applying for a large federal grant. But there is no time for that now. Not with the reports that have been flooding into the institute concerning a health menace that threatens all Americans who fall into the High-Risk Group, defined as ``Americans who are not already dead.'' We had our first inkling of this menace when alert reader Larry Zygmunt sent us an article from the Oct. 20, 1992, edition of the University of Chicago Newspaper, The Maroon. The article, written by Hugo Soskin, states that two undergraduates were walking out of an apartment building when they were hit by -- get ready -- a falling dishwasher. According to the article, the landlord was installing a new dishwasher on the third floor, and, rather than waste valuable time carrying the old one downstairs, he shrewdly pushed it off the balcony. Your first reaction, of course, is to say: ``What kind of person would do that, and why isn't he Geraldo Rivera's landlord?'' No, seriously, your first reaction is to realize how important it is to keep funding ``Star Wars,'' which we are still spending billions of dollars on, even though the Soviet Union has dissolved into thousands of cough-lozenge-sized nations. But ``Star Wars'' technology could be adapted for civilian use in situations like the one in Chicago. Here's how it would work: The instant the dishwasher started to fall, it would be detected by radar sensors, which would alert a huge centralized computer, which would calculate some angles and flash instructions to a nuclear-powered orbiting satellite, which would activate a powerful laser cannon -- all of this would happen in less time that it takes you to spit out a standard olive pit -- which would shoot a beam of extremely high-energy radiation back down to Earth and, with surgical precision, vaporize a Honda Civic in Hibbing, Minn. So we see there are still some kinks in ``Star Wars,'' which is why we need to keep spending billions on it. We cannot afford to have major appliances falling on our undergraduates. We must never forget, as a nation, that the undergraduates of today are going to be the unemployed people of tomorrow. Fortunately, the Chicago students did not suffer severe injuries, although they were both knocked unconscious, and at first did not know what had happened. As one of them put it, in a quote that I am not making up: ``I could have been hit by a cow for all I knew.'' Little does this undergraduate realize how chillingly true that statement is. We have here another article, this one from the Durham, N. C., Herald Sun, alertly sent in by Judy Kincaid. This article, headlined DOG FALLS FROM PLANE, states that a float-plane pilot had been throwing a ball for his neighbor's playful dog, Baron, and then he (the pilot) got into his plane and took off, unaware that Baron had climbed onto the plane's pontoon. The tragic result, according to the article, is that Baron fell from 1,000 feet, went through the roof of a vacant cottage and ``destroyed the kitchen.'' We cannot help Baron now. Baron has gone to that Big Fire Hydrant In The Sky. But we must ask ourselves: What if, instead of a dog, the pilot's neighbor happened to have a playful pet cow? And what if, instead of a vacant cottage, the pilot flew over a large public gathering, such as a golf tournament? TV ANNOUNCER: He needs this putt, Bill. SECOND ANNOUNCER: Yes, Tom, he ... What's THAT? SOUND FROM SKY: MOOOOOOOOOO FIRST ANNOUNCER: My GOD! It's going to land right on ... (SCREAM) SPLAT FIRST ANNOUNCER: This is not a forgiving golf course, Bill. X X X And consider THIS: According to a news item sent in by many alert readers, ABC-TV got in trouble with U.S. Customs when a ``20/20'' crew, seeking to test drug-smuggling detection efforts, flew up from Mexico and dropped a package of tacos from an airplane. Fortunately, nobody was hurt, but we are talking about Mexican food traveling at over 100 miles per hour. If it had struck a civilian, medical experts inform us, the resulting diarrhea could have lasted for WEEKS. And what if other TV news organizations start dropping food from airplanes? What if ``Dateline NBC'' decides to drop a taco package, which would undoubtedly explode in a deadly and photogenic fireball? Or what if, God forbid, a show decides to drop GERMAN cuisine, a single portion of which, scientists calculate, would create a crater the size of Lake Erie? (Laugh if you will, but experts believe that Saddam Hussein has obtained virtually all of the components necessary to construct a knockwurst.) So we are facing an epidemic of falling items, and the failed Clinton administration continues to do nothing except fritter away valuable time trying to cut the deficit, despite the fact that the odds of the deficit actually getting cut are WAY less than the odds of a cow landing on a member of Congress. And here we are thinking specifically of Jesse Helms. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 17 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: ON THE ALMOST-CUTTING EDGE OF FASHION Message-ID: Date: 20 Sep 92 02:08:02 GMT Lines: 79 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 837; Id: z0371; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 09/20-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY Recently I read an alarming fashion article in The New York Times. I should note that I have never been on the cutting edge of fashion. I'm more on the trailing edge of fashion, or even the discarded cardboard box of fashion that the blade of fashion was originally packaged in. For example, it wasn't until this year that I went out in public with my shirt buttoned all the way to the top, and no tie. Before that I always followed the Official 1961 Guy Fashion Code, which said that if you buttoned your top button, you were a fairy, and Joey Maglio and Steve Stromack might stuff you into your locker and leave you there for the duration of the school year. (Granted, they might do this anyway, but it was more likely if your top button was buttoned.) At some point, I think during the Carter administration, fashions changed and some guys started buttoning their top buttons. But I never had the courage to do this until just recently, when my wife, for my 45th birthday, gave me a very stylish (for me) shirt, which I would describe as ``green,'' and, in a bold birthday mood, I wore it to a restaurant buttoned all the way up. Nothing bad happened, although I did sporadically emit wads of high-velocity, semi-chewed food as a result of constantly whirling around to see if people were laughing at me. So I'm making some progress toward fashion hipsterhood. Someday I may even wear an earring. Of course this would have to be after my death. And even then, I'd want the casket to be kept closed, in case Joey and Steve came to the funeral. My point is that I am not in the avant-garde (literally, ``hot tub'') of fashion. That's why I was so alarmed by an article that appeared in the Aug. 3 New York Times under the headline: ``Women's Designers Unveil A New Ease For Men.'' This article concerns top women's fashion designers who are now making clothes for men. At the top of the page is a photograph of an outfit from Perry Ellis: The model, a broad- shouldered man, is wearing boots, a rugged lumberjack-style plaid shirt and ... tights. No pants. No shorts. Just a pair of tight-looking tights. The model is frowning. He doesn't look like he's experiencing A New Ease For Men. He looks like a man who realizes that he's walking around in public dressed like a cross between a lumberjack and the late Mary Martin starring as Peter Pan. I bet he's also worrying about how he's going to work things out in the men's room. Even more alarming is the look being proposed for men by designer Donna Karan. According to The Times, the program for Ms. Karan's fashion show describes her designs as follows: ``Take the sexiness of Indiana Jones. The earnestness of Mr. Smith in Washington. The relaxed glamour of Gary Cooper.'' The Times article has a photograph of a muscular male model wearing a Donna Karan outfit consisting of a jacket, no shirt, and -- here comes the New Ease For Men part -- a SKIRT. Really. It's a wraparound plaid skirt, quite short. The Times describes it is as a ``sarong''-style skirt, and notes that ``its masculinity is shored up by a garrison belt.'' It most certainly is. I look at this outfit and the image that leaps into my mind is Gary Cooper, standing on some dusty Wild West main street, facing down a gang of bad guys: COOPER: Bart, I want you and the rest of these varmints to get out of town. GANG MEMBER: Hey! He's wearin' a skirt! Sarong-style! OTHER GANG MEMBERS: Let's shoot him! BART: Hold it, boys! That there's a Donna Karan! COOPER (grimly): That's right, Bart. And you'll note that its masculinity is shored up by a garrison belt. BART: First we'll hang him. THEN we'll shoot him. Speaking of varmints, Ms. Karan would also like you men to start covering your heads with designer bandannas, and so would Calvin Klein. The Times printed a photograph of a model wearing one of Calvin's outfits consisting of a head bandanna and an enormous three-piece suit that is spacious enough to easily hold the model and at least one head of cattle. The thing is, right now I can't imagine wearing any of these outfits, but that's exactly how I used to feel about buttoning my top button. I'm wondering if, 25 years from now, I might be stomping crankily around the house, complaining that it's my bowling night and I can't find my official team sarong. So I'm thinking that maybe, instead of making fun of these fashion designers, I should respect them for having the vision and courage to point the way to the future for the rest of us. Maybe it's time I wrote something POSITIVE about the fashion industry. And I will. Just as soon as I see a leading male designer wearing tights. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Technology is improving every facet of our lives. Take the facet of urinals. Not too long ago, I was with my friend Roy in a hotel bar in Anaheim, Calif., and Roy went into the men's room and came back to report that he couldn't figure out how to flush the urinal. "Plus," he said, "it's sending me messages." So I went in there, and sure enough, instead of a flush handle there were some colored lights and a panel with little electronic letters that said "SYSTEM ON." It was the Urinal of Tomorrow. Probably there's a training course you can take to learn how to operate it, but neither Roy nor I had done this. We waved our hands at the panel for a while, in case there was some kind of sensor in there, but the urinal did not flush. Then we tried walking away from it while saying, in loud voices, "Well, we're all done with the urinal now!" But that didn't work either. The panel just kept saying, "SYSTEM ON." Finally we left, at which point the panel probably said, "WHAT A PAIR OF CRETINS," and the electronic hand dryer laughed and laughed. Another facet of our lives being improved by technology is television. You young people will be shocked to learn this, but in my youth, back in the 1950s, when Dwight Eisenhower was president and mastodons roamed the Earth, we had to change TV channels BY HAND. Yes. Our TV set, which I believe was powered by steam, was housed in a humongous wooden cabinet with large doors that opened dramatically to reveal a screen about the size of a lady's wristwatch. When we wanted to change the channel, we had to get up and walk all the way to the set -- sometimes in our bare feet -- and manually turn a knob. It was hard work, but we didn't mind, because we knew that this incredible new marvel was enabling us to witness, right in our living room, something that preceding generations had never seen: gray fuzz. That's what was showing on most of the channels. We didn't care. We were thrilled, because we knew that this fuzz was being transmitted to our home from a distant studio that might also contain big celebrities such as Milton Berle. And sometimes, if the atmospheric conditions were just right and the rabbit-ear antenna (made by hand from the ears of an actual rabbit) was adjusted properly, the fuzz would form into actual shapes that we could sort of recognize. "Look!" we'd shout. "It's Arthur Godfrey! Or possibly Trigger!" We've come a long way since then. Today, thanks to technology, we have advanced solid-state color television sets equipped with cable, so that instead of being forced to choose among just a few fuzzy channels, we can't change channels at all, because we can't find the remote control. You'd think the control would always be somewhere near the TV set, but ours regularly turns up as far away as New Zealand. Apparently remote controls have a biological urge to roam, hoping to locate remote controls of the opposite sex so they can mate and give birth to billions of tiny garage-door openers. But the point is that, when we can change channels, we can choose from as many as 50 of them, offering programs that range across the entire entertainment and intellectual spectrum, all the way from Sally Jessy Raphael (today: "Men Who Wear Brassieres On Their Heads And The Women Who Help Fasten Them") to Phil Donahue (today: "Teenaged Runaways Legally Married To Horses"). Yes, TV is already wonderful, and it's about to get even better, thanks to an invention called "fiber optics." This is, technically, a new kind of wire that will soon come into your home. You can't stop it. It's technology. One night, while you're sleeping, a fiber-optic wire will come slithering under your front door and writhe silently around your house; when it locates a television set it will rear back to strike and ZWEEP your set will be hooked up, and you'll be able to receive 500 TELEVISION CHANNELS. Think of it! Now nobody, not even dead people, will have an excuse not to watch TV. There will be a channel for EVERYBODY. Arnold Palmer has announced that he's going to have a channel devoted just to GOLF. I swear I am not making this up. It will be called The Golf Channel, and it will be on 24 HOURS A DAY. You'll be able to turn your TV set on at 3 a.m. and watch golf-related programs (tonight: "Putters Of Lust"). And that's just the beginning. With fiber optics, you'll also receive first-run movies, sporting events, video games, weather reports, stock quotations, dental X-rays, credit information about your neighbors, the complete Watergate tapes, ransom notes, nuclear secrets, ointments, suppositories and your complete Permanent Record from school. You'll also be able to "tap in" to a vast electronic information bank. Let's say your 10-year-old son has to do a school report on the famous Greek philosopher Beethoven. Instead of looking the information up in a clumsy old-fashioned encyclopedia, he'll simply turn on your TV set, punch a few buttons on a console, and, within seconds, he'll be watching a movie called "Big Panty Party." Don't try to stop him, and above all don't try to turn off the set. The fiber-optic wire will be coiled nearby, watching you, ready to strike. SYSTEM ON. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 93 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apteryx!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE PROBLEMS WITH AIRLINE PASSENGERS Message-ID: Date: 12 Jan 92 00:03:32 GMT Lines: 89 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 907; Id: z0486; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 01/12-1aed DAVE BARRY I'm in an airplane, strapped into my seat, no way to escape. For an hour we've been taxiing around Miami International Airport while lightning tries to hit us. Earlier I was hoping that the plane might at some point actually take off and fly to our intended destination, but now I'm starting to root for the lightning, because a direct strike might silence the two women sitting in front of me. There's only one empty seat between them, but they're speaking at a decibel level that would be appropriate if one of them were in Cleveland. Also, they both have Blitherers Disease, which occurs when there is no filter attached to the brain, so that every thought the victim has, no matter how minor, comes blurting right out. This means that the rest of us passengers are being treated to repartee such as this: First Woman: I PREFER A WINDOW SEAT. Second Woman: OH, NOT ME. I ALWAYS PREFER AN AISLE SEAT. First Woman: THAT'S JUST LIKE MY SON. HE LIVES IN NEW JERSEY, AND HE ALWAYS PREFERS AN AISLE SEAT ALSO. Second Woman: MY SISTER-IN-LAW WORKS FOR A DENTIST IN NEW JERSEY. HE'S AN EXCELLENT DENTIST BUT HE CAN'T PRONOUNCE HIS R's. HE SAYS, ``I'M AFWAID YOU NEED A WOOT CANAL.'' First Woman: MY BROTHER-IN-LAW JUST HAD THAT ROOT CANAL. HE WAS BLEEDING ALL OVER HIS NEW CAR, ONE OF THOSE JAPANESE ONES, A WHADDYACALLEM, LEXIT. Second Woman: I PREFER A BUICK, BUT LET ME TELL YOU, THIS INSURANCE, WHO CAN AFFORD IT? First Woman: I HAVE A BROTHER IN THE INSURANCE BUSINESS, WITH ANGINA. HE PREFERS A WINDOW SEAT. Second Woman: OH, NOT ME. I ALWAYS PREFER AN AISLE. NOW MY DAUGHTER . .. And so it has gone, for one solid hour, a live broadcast of random neural firings. The harder I try to ignore it, the more my brain focuses on it. But it could be worse. I could be the flight attendant. Every time she walks past the two women, they both shout ``MISS?'' It's an uncontrollable reflex. ``MISS?'' they are shouting. ``CAN WE GET A BEVERAGE HERE?'' This is maybe the fifth time they have asked this. ``I'm sorry,'' says the flight attendant, with incredible patience. ``We can't serve any beverages until after we take off.'' This answer never satisfies the women, who do not seem to be fully aware of the fact that the plane is still on the ground. They've decided that the flight attendant has a bad attitude. As she moves away, they discuss this in what they apparently believe is a whisper. ``SHE'S VERY RUDE,'' they say, their voices booming through the cabin, possibly audible in other planes. ``THEY SHOULD FIRE HER.'' ``YES, THEY SHOULD.'' ``THERE'S SUPPOSED TO BE BEVERAGE SERVICE.'' ``MISS??'' It's a good thing for society in general that I'm not a flight attendant, because I would definitely kill somebody no later than my second day. Recently I sat on a bumpy, crowded flight and watched a 40- ish flight attendant, both arms occupied with a large stack of used dinner trays, struggling down the aisle, trying to maintain her balance, and a young man held out his coffee cup, BLOCKING HER PATH, and in a loud, irritated voice said, quote: ``Hon? Can I get a refill? Like maybe today?'' HON. She smiled -- not with her eyes -- and said, ``I'll be with you as soon as I can, sir.'' SIR. Oh, I'd be with him soon, all right. I'd come up behind him and strangle him with the movie-headphone cord. ``Is that tight enough for you, SIR?'' would be the last words he'd ever hear. Then I'd become a legendary outlaw flight attendant. I'd hide in the overhead luggage compartment and watch for problems, such as people flying with small children and making no effort to control them, people who think it's CUTE when their children shriek and pour salad dressing onto other passengers. When this happened BANG the luggage compartment would burst open and out would leap: the Avenging Flight Attendant of Doom, his secret identity concealed by a mask made from a barf bag with holes in it. He'd snatch the child and say to the parents, very politely, ``I'm sorry, but FAA regulations require me to have this child raised by somebody more civilized, such as wolves.'' If they tried to stop him, he'd pin them in their seats with dense, 200-pound airline omelets. Insane? Yes I'm insane, and you would be, too, if you were listening to these two women. ``MISS??'' they are saying. ``IT'S TOO HOT IN HERE.'' ``CAN WE GET SOME BEVERAGE SERVICE?'' ``MISS???'' And now the pilot is making an announcement. ``Well, folks,'' is how he starts. This is a bad sign. They always start with ``Well, folks'' when they're going to announce something bad, as in: ``Well, folks, if we dump the fuel, we might be able to glide as far as the mainland.'' This time the pilot announces that -- I swear I am not making this up -- LIGHTNING HAS STRUCK THE CONTROL TOWER. ``We could be sitting here for some time,'' he says. ``MISS????'' say the women in front of me. No problem. I can handle it. I'll just stay calm, reach into the seat pocket, very slowly pull out the headphone cord ... (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. From csdq122@emx.UTEXAS.EDU Wed Apr 19 15:27:49 1989 Flags: 000000000201 Article 13699 of rec.aviation: >From: zemon@ioctl.dec.com (Art Zemon) Subject: Sure, Flying is ... DUCK! ... Safe Date: 19 Apr 89 13:19:49 GMT Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation Sure, Flying is ... DUCK! ... Safe by Dave Barry [The San Diego Union, April 15, 1989] [Copyright Knight-Ridder News Service - without permission] As the spokesperson for the airline industry, I wish to assure you, the flying public, that there is nothing to be alarmed about. Nothing! Despite the disturbing headlines you may have seen in the newspapers (PLANE CRASHES, ANOTHER PLANE CRASHES, YOUR PLANE IS GOING TO CRASH, etc.) Statistics prove that when you're riding in a commercial aircraft seven miles above the Earth's surface, you're actually three times as safe as when you're riding in an automobile seven miles above the Earth's surface! Oh, sure, there have been problems. Don't think we haven't noticed that large chunks of our airplanes have been falling off in midair. One minute the pilot is telling the passengers on the left side of the aircraft that they can see the Grand Canyon, and the next minute the left side of the aircraft is *in* the Grand Canyon. You will be relieved to hear that this is *not* industry poli- cy. Our new motto, in commercial aviation, is "Only Non-Essential Parts Should Fall Off During Flight," and these proud words are backed by a long-term commitment from whoever actually owns the airline industry this week. We think it's the Pizza Hut corpora- tion, although there are rumors that Mr. Lester ("The Bidet King") Weeberhocker has purchased it as a graduation present for his daughter, Tami. But the point is that the people at the top of the airline industry, whoever they are, are committed to your safety, and this commitment extends right on down to our dedicated workers, who... LOOK OUT! Sorry. Unfortunately, at the moment the airline industry is experiencing a certain amount of labor unrest in the form of dedicated workers throwing heavy objects through our windows. But we can assure you, the flying public, that... HEY! THOSE ARE ENGINE PARTS THEY'RE THROWING! YOU WORKERS PUT THOSE BACK WHERE YOU FOUND THEM RIGHT NOW!! Excuse me. As I was saying, we can assure you flying public that you are getting the safest airline service that is humanly possible given the fact that we all hate each other's guts. Also, our airplanes are very old. Many of them have whalebone fuselages. Oh, we do what we can. On those rare occasions when no labor unrest is scheduled, we have maintenance workers thor- oughly examine the airplanes, and whenever they find a crack large enough for an infant to fall through, they patch it with the hardest, most durable material known to man: the airline omelet. But frankly it's a losing battle, because these planes have been subjected to decades of continuous vibration and pounding caused by the person who always sits directly behind me and drums for the entire flight on his drop-down tray table. You know who you are. Oh, you've tried to disguise yourself -- sometimes as a businessperson, sometimes as a child, once even as a priest -- but I know it's you, because there cannot be two people on this Earth with the hand strength necessary to drum non-stop all the way from Los Angeles to New York, even at 3:30 in the morning when everyone else on the plane is asleep, including the pilot. Fine. Go ahead and pound on our decaying airplanes. Go ahead and leave your gum wads on our seats. But would you mind at least following some simple instructions? Would that be too much trou- ble for you, the flying public? Specifically, when we load the plane, we do it by row number, starting at the back, because anyone with the IQ of suet can grasp that this is the most effi- cient way, right? Wrong! The flying public *cannot* grasp this. When we make our "pre-boarding" announcement, which we clearly state is *only* for people who have small children or need special assistance, all of a sudden it is the Oklahoma Land Rush, as hundreds of adult passengers -- most of them (you know who you are) healthy enough to play linebacker for the Chicago Bears -- barge onto the airplane and block the aisles for days at a time while they stuff the overhead storage compartments with their suitcases, steamer trunks, major appliances, lawn furniture, etc. One day, just for a prank, we're going to make the "pre-bording" announcement before the plane is actually at the gate, and then we're going to stand around swigging liquor from those little airline bottles while all you Oklahoma Sooners, clutching your "carry-on" luggage, go hurtling off the end of the gangway HAHAHA- HAHA. Whew! I feel a lot better now, don't you? In fact, I'd like to continue reassuring you about the airline industry, but right now I have to attend a meeting with our new owner, Miss Tami Weeberhocker, who has this nifty idea for saving money by reducing the number of costly whadyacallems per plane. Wings. Article: 73 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: IS FRAGRANCE THE WAY TO A WOMAN'S HEART? Message-ID: Date: 6 Oct 91 00:07:50 GMT Lines: 82 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 855; Id: z0347; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 10/06-1aed DAVE BARRY Most American guys are reluctant to use fragrances, on the theory that if you start wearing perfume, you're heading down a slippery slope that will inevitably lead to rouge, leotards, watching ``Oprah,'' etc. So most guys prefer to emit only natural male aromas such as B.O. and ketchup. To change this attitude, the fragrance industry has for years been running an advertising campaign based on the theme that a fragrance- wearing guy will need a fully charged cattle prod to fend off semi-naked women. You've seen the magazine ads, which usually feature a guy being stared at by a woman whose facial expression says: ``I am receiving your fragrance! Let's have carnal relations right here in the magazine!'' The thing is, when I hear real women talk about what they find attractive in a man, they never mention fragrance. Women don't care about shallow, superficial qualities. Women care about spiritual issues, such as: Does the man have cute buns? Take my research department, Judi Smith. I want to stress that Judi is happily married to her husband, Tim, a total stud muffin and sex wolverine. But sometimes, for research purposes, Judi puts photographs of male models on the office wall, and these photographs tend to be bun- oriented. So the question is, do male fragrances really attract women? In an effort to find out, I conducted a scientific test of two fragrances for men, starting with: GIORGIO COLOGNE FOR MEN I selected Giorgio because it met my stringent criterion, namely, I got a free publicity sample in the mail. I used the standard scientific test procedure of (1) sneaking up behind the males in my office, (2) firing a burst of cologne at their heads, and (3) sprinting off to a safe distance. The results were as follows: -- The males reacted to Giorgio in exactly the same way that a cockroach reacts to Raid. If there had been a giant refrigerator nearby, they would have scurried under it. -- Females in the vicinity of the Giorgio-treated males definitely experienced a passionate emotion. ``What is that SMELL?'' is how they expressed it. To my knowledge, the office staff went through the entire working day without a single episode of carnal relations. This was bad news for Giorgio, but good news for the human gene pool, considering the guys in my office. I had higher hopes for the next fragrance product: LIQUID MAGNET I found out about this thanks to alert reader Robert T. Germaux, who sent me a mail advertisement that begins: ``Would you like to turn beautiful women on instantly? Would you like beautiful girls to ignore your face and stare at your pants?'' Frankly, no, because of the ravioli stains. But anyway, according to the ad, Liquid Magnet contains a ``rare distilled Swiss pheromone formula'' that is irresistible to women. If you wear it, the ad claims, ``Salesgirls, dental hygienists and other women will try to touch you, and may reach for your private parts!'' I, personally, would not be thrilled if I were having my teeth cleaned, with a suction hose in my mouth and drool all over my bib, and a dental hygienist wearing gloves and a mask suddenly lunged for my personal region. Especially if she were holding a sharp instrument. But I felt it was important to test this product, so I generously sent off $39.95 of my newspaper's money. Weeks later I received a small, crushed, torn, oozing brown package that looked as though it had been delivered by Edward Scissorhands. Inside was a leaking cheap plastic spray bottle containing a yellowish fluid that you might mistake for public-restroom deodorant if you didn't know it was a rare distilled Swiss pheromone formula. I sprayed some on myself and a colleague, John Dorschner; then, in a courageous act of journalism, we walked into the newsroom, despite the very real danger of attack by gangs of lust-crazed women. The results were striking. We walked by at least two dozen women, engaged in their normal work routines, and the instant we got close, EVERY SINGLE ONE of these women continued to engage in her normal work routine. We were forced to lean close to some of them, so they could become crazed with lust. ``Notice anything?'' we said, arching our eyebrows. ``Yuck,'' they said, moving away. ``That's even worse than Giorgio,'' announced Judi, who refused to remain in the same room with Liquid Magnet. We are forced to conclude that either (1) these particular pheromones work only on Swiss people, or (2) Liquid Magnet is a scam. Maybe fragrance is not the way to a woman's heart after all. Maybe we men, instead of using superficial tricks, should concentrate on becoming more sensitive and loving and caring. Although I personally would recommend surgical bun augmentation. (C) 1991 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. (This column was originally published in 1987.) 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 doooooooooogggg 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 is 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! YAYYYYYYY!! 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 of 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 where 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 tuna-fish 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. MASTER: Will you hurry UP? 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 WEEWEE! Right here in the yard! MASTER: EARNEST! ADVENTURE DOG: Sniff 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 WEEWEE! 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! YAAAYYY! MASTER: DOWN, dammit! THEME-SONG SINGER: Adventure Dog, Adventure Doooooooooogggg ... 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." (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. You men will be relieved to learn that fashion designer Donna Karan has come out with a list of menswear items that you must have. This is a big load off my mind. I HATE making my own menswear decisions. I hate everything about buying menswear. Especially pants. I can never find pants in my size, which is 33-31 (these numbers refer to what are technically known as the "waist" and the "instep"). I would call this an average size, but for some reason, the pant industry makes only about two pairs of 33-31 pants per year, and they're always gone by the time I get to the department store, leaving me to paw through the Mutt and Jeff Designer Clothing Collection. In an effort to find something at least close to my size, I end up trying on a lot of pants in those changing booths with the postcard-sized swinging doors that offer you the same level of privacy as you'd get if you tried on pants while standing on a counter in Ladies' Cosmetics. (Actually, you'd get MORE privacy in Ladies' Cosmetics, because the customers have all been temporarily blinded by complimentary fragrance samples.) Privacy is a problem, because there are always women lurking around the changing area, making sure their husbands buy pants that fit. They know that their husbands HATE trying on pants, and will, if left alone, purchase the first pair they put on, even if it does not have the correct number of legs. So the women stand just outside of the changing area, peering in, trying to get Pant News Updates: WOMAN: Michael? How do they fit? MAN: They fit fine. WOMAN: Michael, I want to see them. MAN: I said they fit FINE. WOMAN (barging into the changing area, causing guys in there to scurry, ratlike, around their booths, attempting to cover themselves with shopping bags): LET ME SEE THEM. I personally consider this kind of behavior to be degrading to the husband. I never shop for pants with my wife. This is why I personally own several dozen pairs of pants that don't fit. I'd like to buy just one set of clothes, the RIGHT clothes, and never have to buy any again. That,s why I'm so pleased about the new Donna Karan Fashion Essentials catalog of "must-have menswear items." This catalog, according to an accompanying press release, is being distributed "to select consumers." You will be pleased to learn that the Fashion Essentials catalog does NOT include a skirt. This is good news, because Donna Karan does sometimes have her male models appear in fashion shows wearing skirts. But for now, at least, you will not be required to purchase one, although this could change; the release states that "Karan will re-evaluate each Essential item to make sure that the product mix remains current." I was surprised to note that the Essentials catalog also does not include underwear, which most guys I know view as an essential clothing item, both for formal occasions and for mopping up beer spills. What the catalog DOES include is a 100 percent Scottish cashmere jogging-suit ensemble, consisting of a "hooded zip-front jogger" for $1,960 and a "drawstring sweat pant" for $1,465. I know what some of you men are thinking. You're thinking that you're not going to spend $3,425 on a jogging suit unless it also comes with a car. I'm sorry, men, but that is exactly the kind of bad attitude that keeps you off the list of select consumers. This jogging suit is essential, and so are all the other items in the Donna Karan Essentials catalog, including the cashmere crew ($650), the biker jacket ($1,200) with cotton mock knit (it doesn,t say cotton mock knit WHAT, but whatever it is, it costs $135), the leather vest ($495), the balmacaan ($860), the silk pajamas ($600) and the cashmere robe ($1,925). Altogether, the catalog features 25 essential garments, requiring a basic fashion investment of $18,452.50. (No, I don't know what a "balmacaan" is. Just shut up and buy it.) I am certain that all the essential garments in the catalog are very attractive. Unfortunately, I can't really see them. Most of them are, of course, black, and they have been photographed under dim light against a black background. The catalog is a festival of gloom. In most of the photographs, the only thing you can see clearly is the ghostly, floating face of the model, who, like most male fashion models, has a facial expression normally associated with prostate surgery. He's staring into space, as if thinking: "Hey! I'm not wearing any underwear!" But that's his concern, men. Your concern is bringing your wardrobe up to minimum acceptable fashion standards. So I want you to sell that extra kidney, go to a store that carries the Donna Karan Menswear line, and start purchasing your fashion Essentials. While you're there, pick me up a size 33-31 balmacaan. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Now that my son has turned 13, I'm thinking about writing a self-help book for parents of teenagers. It would be a sensitive, insightful book that would explain the complex, emotionally charged relationship between the parent and the adolescent child. The title would be: "I'm a Jerk, You're a Jerk." The underlying philosophy of this book would be that, contrary to what you hear from the "experts," it's a bad idea for parents and teenagers to attempt to communicate with each other, because there's always the risk that one of you will actually find out what the other one is thinking. For example, my son thinks it's a fine idea to stay up until 3 a.m. on school nights reading what are called "suspense novels," defined as "novels wherein the most positive thing that can happen to a character is that the Evil Ones will kill him BEFORE they eat his brain." My son sees NO connection between the fact that he stays up reading these books and the fact that he doesn't feel like going to school the next day. "Rob," I tell him, as he is eating his breakfast in extreme slow motion with his eyes completely closed, so that he sometimes accidentally puts food into his ear, "I want you to go to sleep earlier." "DAD," he says, using the tone of voice you might use when attempting to explain an abstract intellectual concept to an oyster, "you DON'T UNDERSTAND. I am NOT tired. I am SPLOOSH (sound of my son passing out face-down in his Cracklin' Oat Bran)." Of course, psychologists would tell us that falling asleep in cereal is normal for young teenagers, who need to become independent of their parents and make their own life decisions, which is fine, except that if my son made his own life decisions, his ideal daily schedule would be: Midnight to 3 a.m. -- Read suspense novels. 3 a.m. to 3 p.m. -- Sleep. 3:15 p.m. -- Order hearty breakfast from Domino's Pizza and put on loud, hideous music recorded live in hell. 4 p.m. to midnight -- Blow stuff up. Unfortunately this schedule would leave little room for, say, school, so we have to supply parental guidance ("If you don't open this door RIGHT NOW I will BREAK IT DOWN and CHARGE IT TO YOUR ALLOWANCE"), the result being that our relationship with our son currently involves a certain amount of conflict, in the same sense that the Pacific Ocean involves a certain amount of water. At least he doesn't wear giant pants. I keep seeing young teenage males wearing ENORMOUS pants; pants that two or three teenagers could occupy simultaneously and still have room in there for a picnic basket; pants that a clown would refuse to wear on the grounds that they were too undignified. The young men wear these pants really low, so that the waist is about knee level and the pants butt drags on the ground. You could not be an effective criminal wearing pants like these, because you'd be unable to flee on foot with any velocity. POLICE OFFICER: We tracked the alleged perpetrator from the crime scene by following the trail of his dragging pants butt. PROSECUTOR: And what was he doing when you caught up with him? POLICE OFFICER: He was hobbling in a suspicious manner. What I want to know is, how do young people buy these pants? Do they try them on to make sure they DON'T fit? Do they take along a 570-pound friend, or a mature polar bear, and buy pants that fit HIM? I asked my son about these pants, and he told me that mainly "bassers" wear them. "Bassers" are people who like a lot of bass in their music. They drive around in cars with four-trillion-watt sound systems playing recordings of what sound like above-ground nuclear tests, but with less of an emphasis on melody. My son also told me that there are also people called "posers" who DRESS like "bassers," but are in fact, secretly, "preppies." He said that some "posers" also pose as "headbangers," who are people who like heavy-metal music, which is performed by skinny men with huge hair who stomp around the stage, striking their instruments and shrieking angrily, apparently because somebody has stolen all their shirts. "Like," my son said, contemptuously, "some posers will act like they like Metallica, but they don't know ANYTHING about Metallica." If you can imagine. I realize I've mainly been giving my side of the parent- teenager relationship, and I promise to give my son's side, if he ever comes out of his room. Remember how the news media made a big deal about it when those people came out after spending two years inside Biosphere 2? Well, two years is NOTHING. Veteran parents assure me that teenagers routinely spend that long in the BATHROOM. In fact, veteran parents assure me that I haven't seen ANYTHING yet. "Wait till he gets his driver's license," they say. "That's when Fred and I turned to heroin." Yes, the next few years are going to be exciting and challenging. But I'm sure that, with love and trust and understanding, my family will get through them OK. At least I will, because I plan to be inside Biosphere 3. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. "See, when the GOVERNMENT spends money, it creates jobs; whereas when the money is left in the hands of TAXPAYERS, God only knows what they do with it. Bake it into pies, probably. Anything to avoid creating jobs." -- Dave Barry Article: 72 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: MISTER LANGUAGE ANSWERS PRESSING GRAMMATICAL QUESTIONS Message-ID: Date: 30 Sep 91 19:41:42 GMT Lines: 99 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: regular ANPA: Wc: 766; Id: z0578; Sel: sd--w; Adate: 09/29-1aed DAVE BARRY It's time for another edition of ``Ask Mister Language Person,'' the column that answers your questions about grammar, vocabulary and those little whaddyacallem marks. Q. What are the rules regarding capital letters? A. Capital letters are used in three grammatical situations: 1. At the beginning of proper or formal nouns. EXAMPLES: Capitalize ``Queen,'' ``Tea Party'' and ``Rental Tuxedo.'' Do NOT capitalize ``dude,'' ``cha-cha'' or ``boogerhead.'' 2. To indicate a situation of great military importance. EXAMPLE: ``Get on the TELSAT and tell STAFCON that COMWIMP wants some BBQ ASAP.'' 3. To indicate that the subject of the sentence has been bitten by a badger. EXAMPLE: ``I'll just stick my hand in here and OUCH!'' Q. Is there any difference between ``happen'' and ``transpire''? A. Grammatically, ``happen'' is a collaborating inductive that should be used in predatory conjunctions such as: ``Me and Norm here would like to buy you two happening mommas a drink.'' Whereas ``transpire'' is a suppository verb that should always be used to indicate that an event of some kind has transpired. WRONG: ``Lester got one of them electric worm stunners.'' RIGHT: ``What transpired was, Lester got one of them electric worm stunners.'' Q. Do you take questions from attorneys? A. Yes. That will be $475. Q. No, seriously, I'm an attorney, and I want to know which is correct: ``With regards to the aforementioned'' blah blah blah. Or: ``With regards to the aforementioned'' yak yak yak. A. That will be $950. Q. Please explain the expression: ``This does not bode well.'' A. It means that something is not boding the way it should. It could be boding better. Q. Did an alert reader named Linda Bevard send you an article from the Dec. 19, 1990, Denver Post concerning a Dr. Stanley Biber, who was elected commissioner in Las Animas County, and who is identified in the article as ``the world's leading sex-change surgeon''? A. Yes. Q. And what did Dr. Biber say when he was elected? A. He said, quote: ``We pulled it off.'' Q. Please explain the correct usage of ``exact same.'' A. ``Exact same'' is a corpuscular phrase that should be used only when something is EXACTLY the same as something. It is the opposite (or ``antibody'') of ``a whole nother.'' EXAMPLE: ``This is the EXACT SAME restaurant where Alma found weevils in her pie. They gave her a whole nother slice.'' Q. I am going to deliver the eulogy at a funeral, and I wish to know whether it is correct to say: ``Before he died, LaMont was an active person.'' Or: ``LaMont was an active person before he died.'' A. The American Funeral Industry Council advises us that the preferred term is ``bought the farm.'' Q. Where should punctuation go? A. It depends on the content. EXAMPLE: Hi Mr Johnson exclaimed Bob Where do you want me to put these punctuation marks Oh just stick them there at the end of the following sentence answered Mr Johnson OK said Bob``.!''.``?''``,,''.. ``!''. The exception to this rule is teen-agers, who should place a question mark after every few words to make sure people are still listening. EXAMPLE: ``So there's this kid at school? Named Derrick? And he's like kind of weird? Like he has a picture of Newt Gingrich carved in his hair? So one day he had to blow his nose? Like really bad? But he didn't have a tissue? So he was like sitting next to Tracy Steakle? And she had this sweater? By like Ralph Lauren? So Derrick takes the sleeve? And he like ...'' PROFESSIONAL WRITING TIP: In writing a novel or play, use ``foreshadowing'' to subtly hint at the outcome of the plot. WRONG: ``O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?'' RIGHT: ``O Romeo, Romeo! I wonder if we're both going to stab ourselfs to death at the end of this plot?'' - - - ATTENTION SHOPPERS: The holiday season is lumbering toward us like a giant festive armored personnel carrier. Soon thousands of shoppers will be bustling to the malls to buy holiday gift items that will cause their friends and loved ones to exclaim with delight: ``HEY! I already GOT this!'' Yes, finding ``something different'' can be a real challenge, which is why this year we will again be publishing our annual Holiday Gift Guide. You probably remember last year's guide, which featured such unique and memorable items as: -- Hideous Republican Golfing Pants. -- A bag of genuine owl vomit. -- A working thermometer attached to some kind of giant mutant vegetable. And much more. We want this year's gift guide to be EVEN BETTER, which is why WE NEED YOUR HELP. If you know of any gift item or service that you think we should include, please send a description of it to: Gift Guide, c/o Tropic Magazine, Miami Herald, 1 Herald Plaza, Miami, FL 33132. If your suggestion is accepted, we will include your name in the gift guide and you will probably never again be able to get a decent job. One final note: Remember that this guide is meant to be in the true spirit of the holiday season, so we request that you do NOT submit any suggestions that might be construed as being tasteful. Thank you. (C) 1991 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 4 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!cluster!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: ARMED AND DANGEROUS: MORE ASSAULTS INVOLVE FROZEN ANIMALS AS WEAPONS Message-ID: Date: 19 Jul 92 22:09:41 GMT Lines: 78 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 804; Id: z0423; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 07/19-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY Knight-Ridder Newspapers I was not particularly alarmed when I received word of the assault with the frozen kangaroo tails. Perhaps you read about this. Here is the Associated Press report, which was sent to me by many alert readers (I am not making any of the following news reports up): ``ALICE SPRINGS, Australia -- Aborigines attacked three policemen with frozen kangaroo tails bought at a local store. ... A police spokesman said the kangaroo tails won't be introduced as evidence because they were eaten by the aborigines after the alleged attack.'' As I say, this report did not alarm me. ``Sounds like a routine assault with frozen kangaroo tails that were later eaten by the alleged assailants, or, in standard police-radio code, a 10-398,'' I recall saying to myself. Then readers sent me this AP report: ``SACRAMENTO, Calif. -- A man who hit his wife with frozen squirrels was jailed on suspicion of spousal abuse, police said Monday.'' The report states that the couple was having an argument, and the man ``walked into the kitchen and took several frozen squirrels from the freezer,'' then struck his wife with them. ``It was unclear why the squirrels were in the freezer,'' states the report, thus proving that American journalism remains a haven for people with peach pits for brains. I mean, where else are you going to keep squirrels? Your sock drawer? Anyway, I attached no great significance to either the squirrel or the kangaroo-tail assault, until readers started sending me another AP report, which begins: ``CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa -- A Cedar Rapids man was charged with assault after he allegedly hit another man with a frozen fish.'' The report states that the men had been arguing, and the assailant ``armed himself with a fish from his freezer and started swinging.'' At this point I was starting to become mildly alarmed. I was thinking, OK, maybe we need to take some action, such as imposing a five-day ``cooling-off'' period on the purchase of freezers. Then I received a report from the San Jose Mercury-News, headlined: MAN ATTACKED WITH GOLDFISH The report states: ``A 28-year-old San Francisco man got so mad at his roommate that he tried to stuff a live goldfish in the roommate's mouth.'' The roommate was treated at a medical center and released. The goldfish died. Now I was really worried. There's an old saying in the law- enforcement profession: ``When the criminals cross the fine line between assaults with frozen fish and assaults with live ones, then it is only a matter of time before they start using members of the marsupial family. '' And sure enough, I received a news report from the Ventura County (Calif.) Star-Free Press, headlined: MAN ARRESTED FOR WIELDING OPOSSUM AS WEAPON This report states that two Oxnard, Calif., officers on patrol encountered a man who came at them wielding a live opossum, ``its teeth gnashing alarmingly.'' The officers apprehended the man, but during the struggle, ``the opossum broke free and disappeared into the night.'' I doubt that they'll ever apprehend it. By now it's probably in another state, disguised as an otter, or an inexpensive hairpiece. And then I received this chilling report from the Syracuse (N.Y.) Herald-Journal, headlined: WOMAN HURLS DEAD RACCOON AT LAWYER The story states that a woman was arrested following a scuffle with her neighbor, who is a lawyer (this occurred, by the way, on ``Pork Street''). The woman claims the lawyer knocked her down onto a road kill, so she threw it at him. My reaction to this tragic and totally unnecessary incident -- I'm sure you feel the same way -- was shock and anger. ``Wait a minute,'' I said. ``Are you telling me it's against the law to throw dead raccoons at lawyers?'' This is just another example of how the healthy gum tissue of our liberty is being eaten away by the periodontal disease of government regulation. We are no longer allowed to exercise the fundamental human right to throw dead raccoons at lawyers, and meanwhile criminals walk our streets, flaunting their opossums, openly laughing at us. And I don't have to tell you what it's like to be openly laughed at by an opossum. So I'm fighting back. That's right: I have purchased a mail-order wolverine. I'll use it if I have to. You can take it from me when you pry my cold, dead fingers out of its mouth. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 11 Sep 93 17:08:02 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!ub!decwrl!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 09/12/93 Subject: The Federal Government Is Looking Out For Us In Truly Remarkable Ways Lines: 99 There are times when, as a taxpayer, I just have to put my head between my legs and weep with joy at the benefits I am receiving from the federal government ("Official Motto: This Motto Alone Cost $13.2 Billion"). You'll feel the same way when I share some news items sent in by alert readers concerning government agencies servicing the public in ways that the public could never have thought of itself without the aid of powerful narcotics. (As is often the case when discussing the government, I need to stress that I am not making any of these items up.) Our first item concerns: EAR CANDLES You may recall that a few months back I wrote a column about ear candles, an old home remedy consisting of wax-covered cotton cones that you insert into your ears, after which you set them (the cones) on fire. This is supposed to create a draft that sucks the wax out of your ears. I got a lot of letters in response to that column; many people claimed they've used ear candles for years with great results; some people claimed the whole thing is a fraud, and all the "earwax" is actually produced by the candles. Then several alert readers sent me an article from the July 29 Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch, written by Graydon Hambrick and headlined: FEDERAL AGENTS SEIZE EAR CANDLES IN RAID. The article states that on July 28, U.S. marshals and agents of the Food and Drug Administration "swooped in" to a Columbus health store and "seized about 100 candles." An FDA spokesperson said the candles were seized because they did not have FDA approval, which is required for "anything used for treatment or prevention of disease in humans or animals." An official said that the raid was part of a wider ear-candle crackdown. I, personally, am sleeping better, knowing something is being done about this menace. I'd like to see the FDA program dramatized in a TV series, "Ear Candle Patrol," wherein each week federal agents would confront dangerous, law-violating health- store clerks ("Look out, Matt! She's got a ginseng root!") Another menace that your Food and Drug Administration is protecting you from is: NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION REGARDING TEQUILA-FLAVORED LOLLIPOPS CONTAINING DEAD INSECTS Perhaps you have seen these novelty lollipops, which consist of a clear, tequila-flavored hard candy, inside of which is what appears to be a dead worm. If so, you no doubt asked yourself: "What assurance do I have, as a consumer, that this worm is identified with proper federal terminology?" Rest easy! The FDA is on the case! According to the May 13, 1993, issue of Food Labeling News, sent in by Steve Stockum, the FDA sent a warning letter to S.S. Lollopop Co., manufacturers of the "Sugar-Free Hotlix Tequila Flavored Candy With Genuine Worm," because the company failed to properly identify the worm as "insect larva." Not only THAT, but the FDA says that the product is NOT sugar-free. We can only try to imagine how much harm has already been done to innocent consumers who purchased this product in the mistaken belief that it complied with nutritional programs requiring the consumption of low-calorie-candy-encased worms that are NOT insect larva. Perhaps, as a token of our concern, we should ask the government to set up a program to locate these victims and award each of them $1.4 million. Why not? We're taxpayers! But before we do anything, let's salute the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) office in Idaho for its prompt action regarding: IMPROPERLY ATTIRED RESCUE PERSONNEL Here's what happened, according to an article in The Idaho Statesman written by Martin S. Johncox and set in by Joe Auvil: On May 11, two employees of DeBest Inc., a plumbing company, were working at a construction site in Garden City, Idaho, when they heard a backhoe operator yell for help. They ran over, and found that the wall of a trench -- which was NOT dug by DeBest -- had collapsed on a worker, pinning him under dirt and covering his head. "We could hear muffled screams," said one of the DeBest employees. So the men jumped into the trench and dug the victim out, quite possibly saving his life. What do you think OSHA did about this? Do you think it gave the rescuers a medal? If so, I can see why you are a mere lowlife taxpayer, as opposed to an OSHA executive. What OSHA did -- remember, I am not making t his up -- was FINE DEBEST INC. $7,875. Yes. OSHA said that the two men should not have gone into the trench without 1) putting on approved hard hats, and 2) taking steps to insure that other trench walls did not collapse, and water did not seep in. Of course this might have resulted in some discomfort for the suffocating victim ("Hang in there! We should have the OSHA trench-seepage-prevention guidelines here within hours!") But that is the price you pay for occupational health and safety. Unfortunately, after DeBest Inc. complained to Idaho Sen. Dirk Kempthorne, OSHA backed off on the fines. Nevertheless this incident should serve as a warning to would-be rescuers out there to comply with ALL federal regulations, including those that are not yet in existence, before attempting to rescue people. ESPECIALLY if these people are in, say, a burning OSHA office. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Americans are very upset about crime. It has become such a serious problem that even the U.S. Congress has taken precious time away from campaign fund raising to pass a tough Anti-Crime Bill, which will make the streets safer for decent, law-abiding citizens by imposing harsh mandatory minimum penalties on Sen. Bob Packwood. But government action alone is not the answer. I believe that, to fight this crime wave, we need to remember what our pioneer foreparents did when they were settling the Wild West, and there were few lawpersons around to defend civilians from the cattle rustlers and the gunslingers and the highwaypersons and the roving outlaw gangs of Amway distributors. In those days, ordinary civilians sometimes had no choice but to form posses, saddle up their horses and bring lawbreakers to justice at the end of the barrel of a gun. I realize that what I'm about to say is highly controversial, but maybe it's time we did the same thing. That's right: If the police can't protect us, then maybe it's time we exercised our constitutional right to keep -- and bear -- horses. A criminal is going to think twice about entering your bedroom if he knows there's a horse in there. Especially if he (the criminal, also the horse) has new shoes. Another option, of course, is to buy a handgun. This is a controversial issue, so let me state out front that whatever YOU think about the handgun issue, it is my firm belief that -- and you may call me a courageous individual if you wish -- you are 100 percent correct. But whatever opinion we jointly hold, we need to consider the implications of a handgun-related news item that was reported recently by Tom McNiff of The Ocala (Fla.) Star-Banner. This item, which I am not making up, describes a tragic incident involving a Marion County, Fla., commissioner named Norm Perry, whose wife, Betty, was getting ready for a weekend visit to Miami. Needless to say, Norm was nervous about this, because Miami has a reputation for having a bad crime problem. AUDIENCE: How bad is it? It's so bad that this punch line has been stolen. (Rim shot, answered by gunshots.) Seriously, I happen to live in South Florida, and the crime situation down here is really not that bad, as long as you take certain basic precautions -- locking your doors, avoiding poorly lit areas, moving to Idaho, etc. But life down here can be unnerving. For example, a while back we rented one of those warehouse storage lockers, so we could store some of our stuff in there for a couple of years before throwing it all away. The rental guy asked me to sign a piece of paper, and he said (this is a real quote): "This just says you're not going to use it to store any, like, drugs or human bodies." I looked at him. "You'd be surprised," he said. You would be surprised. Here's another true Miami story: On Thanksgiving Day, some workers were trying to fix a clogged toilet at a rental duplex, and they found A PERSON IN THE SEPTIC TANK. (This person was deceased. Fortunately for him.) Police don't know how the body got there, but it's a safe bet that it wasn't an accident, unless we're talking about one of those EXTREMELY high-suction toilets. But getting back to Commissioner Perry and his wife: The Star-Banner reports that, at Commissioner Perry's suggestion, Mrs. Perry was planning to take a handgun with her to Miami. As she was packing, however, she discovered that the gun was jammed; so she brought it to Commissioner Perry, who was standing in front of his closet, deciding on what to wear. He was working on the gun when suddenly, unexpectedly, it went off. You have probably already guessed what happened: The bullet -- in yet another of the senseless tragedies that we read about all too often these days -- went through nine of Commissioner Perry's dress shirts. "Those shirts are $25 to $30 apiece," he told The Star- Banner. A terrible waste, you say? Yes. But sometimes you must pay a price for vigilance. In today's crime-ridden society, there could very easily have been a criminal hiding in the back of Commissioner Perry's closet, planning to steal enough money to afford air fare to Miami. And this criminal could easily have been penetrated by Norm's bullet, which would have meant that he (the criminal, also the horse, if Commissioner Norm kept one in there) would no longer be roaming the streets and victimizing innocent people. Instead, he would be successfully suing Commissioner Perry for millions of dollars. So let me just state, as a South Florida resident, how grateful I am to Commissioner Perry for caring enough about his wife's safety to want to send her down here with a handgun. The one thing we need more of down here is armed people, which is why, on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce, I am urging EVERYBODY who is thinking of visiting South Florida to feel free to bring the weapon of his or her choice, although we do remind you that, before you travel with a gun, you should take the standard precaution of test-firing it in Commissioner Perry's closet. Also, flush with care. (C) 1994 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 111 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (David Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: MEN NEED LESSONS IN COMMUNICATING WITH WOMEN Message-ID: Date: 7 Jun 92 00:04:14 GMT Lines: 80 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 833; Id: z0337; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 06/07-1aed DAVE BARRY Today's Topic For Guys is: Communicating With Women. If there's one thing that women find unsatisfactory about guys -- and I base this conclusion on an extensive scientific study of the pile of Cosmopolitan magazines where I get my hair cut -- it is that guys do not communicate enough. This problem has arisen in my own personal relationship with my wife, Beth. I'll be reading the newspaper, and the phone will ring; I'll answer it, listen for 10 minutes, hang up, and resume reading. Finally Beth will say: ``Who was that?'' And I'll say: ``Phil Wonkerman's mom.'' Phil is an old friend we haven't heard from in 17 years. And Beth will say, ``Well?'' And I'll say, ``Well what?'' And Beth will say, ``What did she SAY?'' And I'll say, ``She said Phil is fine,'' making it clear by my tone of voice that, although I do not wish to be rude, I AM trying to read the newspaper here, and I happen to be right in the middle of an important panel of ``Calvin and Hobbes.'' But Beth, ignoring this, will say, ``That's ALL she said?'' And she will not let up. She will continue to ask district-attorney- style questions, forcing me to recount the conversation until she's satisfied that she has the entire story, which is that Phil just got out of prison after serving a sentence for a murder he committed when he became a drug addict because of the guilt he felt when his wife died in a freak submarine accident while Phil was having an affair with a nun, but now he's all straightened out and has a good job as a trapeze artist and is almost through with the surgical part of his sex change and just became happily engaged to marry a prominent member of The New Kids On The Block, so in other words he is fine, which is EXACTLY what I told Beth in the first place, but is that enough? No. She wants to hear EVERY SINGLE DETAIL. We have some good friends, Buzz and Libby, whom we see about twice a year. When we get together, Beth and Libby always wind up in a conversation, lasting several days, during which they discuss virtually every significant event that has occurred in their lives and the lives of those they care about, sharing their innermost feelings, analyzing and probing, inevitably coming to a deeper understanding of each other, and a strengthening of a cherished friendship. Whereas Buzz and I watch the playoffs. This is not to say Buzz and I don't share our feelings. Sometimes we get quite emotional. ``That's not a FOUL??'' one of us will say. Or: ``You're telling me THAT'S NOT A FOUL??? I don't mean to suggest that all we talk about is sports. We also discuss, openly and without shame, what kind of pizza we need to order. We have a fine time together, but we don't have heavy conversations, and sometimes, after the visit is over, I'm surprised to learn -- from Beth, who learned it from Libby -- that there has recently been some new wrinkle in Buzz's life, such as that he now has an artificial leg. (For the record, Buzz does NOT have an artificial leg. At least he didn't mention anything about it to me.) I have another good friend, Gene, who's going through major developments in his life. Our families recently spent a weekend together, during which Gene and I talked a lot and enjoyed each other's company immensely. In that entire time, the most intimate personal statement he made to me is that he has reached Level 24 of a video game called ``Arkanoid.'' He has even seen the Evil Presence, although he refused to tell me what it looks like. We're very close, but there is a limit. I know what some of you are saying. You're saying my friends and I are Neanderthals, and a lot of guys are different. This is true. A lot of guys don't use words at ALL. They communicate entirely by nonverbal methods, such as sharing bait. But my point, guys, is that you must communicate on a deeper level with a woman, particularly if you are married to her. Open up. Don't assume that she knows what you're thinking. This will be difficult for guys at first, so it would help if you women would try to ``read between the lines'' in determining what the guy is trying to communicate: GUY STATEMENT: ``Do we have any peanut butter?'' INNER GUY MEANING: ``I hate my job.'' GUY STATEMENT: ``Is this all we have? Crunchy?'' INNER GUY MEANING: ``I'm not sure I want to stay married.'' If both genders work together, you can have a happier, healthier relationship, but the responsibility rests with you guys, who must sincerely ... hey, guys, I'm TALKING to you here. Put down the sports section, OK? HEY! GUYS! (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Mon, 7 Jun 93 10:31:15 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 06/06/93 Subject: Hair club for cars Lines: 110 By Dave Barry TODAY'S FASHION TOPIC FOR MEN IS: Hair In A Spray Can. No doubt you've seen the TV commercials for hair- in-a-spray-can on television, wherein they treat balding men's heads with what looks like spray paint, and you've wanted to order this product, but you never got around to it for one reason or another, such as that you are not a complete idiot. That's where I come _in. _At the suggestion of alert reader Tom Guyot, I called the toll-free number and told the operator I wanted a can of New Hair. She gave me my color options, and I chose Medium Brown. The can cost $19.95, plus $9.95 to cover shipping and the extra salary they have to pay the operators for not laughing directly into the phone. Several weeks later, I received my New Hair. It looks exactly like a can of spray paint, except the label says "AS SEEN ON TV," and features "before" and "after" pictures. The "before" picture shows a man's head, viewed from above and behind; the man has a bald spot about the size of a fried egg. The "after" picture shows what appears to be the same man's head after it has been dipped in roofing tar. It's totally black and featureless. No light is escaping this head. It's a Black Hole head. It looks like a large lump of coal wearing a collar. The label says New Hair is a "Hair Volume Enhancer with Color" that "works for men and women" who have "fine and/or thinning hair" or "small to medium large bald spots." (It also says: "No Animal Testing," which is good, although frankly you don't see a lot of animals that are concerned about balding.) Accompanying the can of New Hair was a small plastic spray bottle of Hair Finishing Sealer, which you spray on your New Hair to keep it from coming off. I decided to first test New Hair on myself, although I have a large quantity of hair. This is not necessarily good, because my hair has a severe behavioral disorder. It is the Hannibal Lechter of the hair world. Nobody can control it. It's extremely straight and wants to lie down very flat in a certain genetically fixed pattern that is unfortunately not recognized by the United Nations International Commission on Hairstyles for Grown-ups. Sometimes I go to a licensed professional hair stylist, who uses powerful chemicals to batter my hair into submission just long enough for me to pay her, at which point everybody in the hair salon dives to the floor and SPROING my hair springs violently back into its natural style, which is identical to the style worn by tornado-stricken wheat fields. But I do have a head of hair, which is why I decided to test New Hair on my forearms. I have virtually zero forearm hair, and I have long felt insecure about this, as a male. I spent most of high school staring at my forearms, waiting for hair to sprout, which is why to this day I do not understand the purpose of the "cosine." So I sprayed the New Hair on both forearms, and I have to say, the results were amazing. Within seconds, my forearms were transformed from looking naked to looking as though I had not washed them in 30 years. They were covered with what appeared to be reddish- brown dirt. It was not an appealing look. You rarely hear women say, "Give me a man with forearm dirt!" I was able to brush the New Hair right off, because fortunately I had not sealed my forearms. Next, I tested the New Hair on the head of my co- worker John Dorschner, who was an ideal subject because (1) the top of his head is down to just a few wisps, and (2) being a professional journalist, he has no self- respect. A crowd of onlookers gathered to watch and poke fun, but as I voided roughly half the can of New Hair onto John's head, their snickers quickly turned to severe bladder-control problems. John looked as though a professional baseball team had used his head to groom the infield. His scalp looked like my forearms, and his wisps had turned a color usually associated with traffic cones. John chose not to have his head sealed. The consensus at this point was that, although New Hair was clearly a fine product AS SEEN ON TV, it perhaps was not suitable for use on actual humans. So I decided to test it on Ray Bubel's car. Ray is another co-worker of mine, and he drives what I believe is the worst-maintained car in North America. It looks like an armpit bacteria that grew to 975,000,000 times its normal size and somehow acquired a Florida license plate. It has an advanced case of car leprosy, so there's no point in locking it, because a car thief could easily stick his hand directly through the body, although no sane thief would do this. I sprayed the remainder of the New Hair on the roof and hood of Ray's car in an artistic orangeish-brown pattern. I called him the next day to see what happened when he drove home. "Did you feel more confident?" I asked. "Did you feel that your car was more attractive to other people such as women?" "I don't know," Ray said. "It was dark." So we do not have conclusive results on this product. Probably the best thing for you to do is to try it for yourself. Call now! Operators are standing by! The number is 1-800-STUPID. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 15 Jan 94 16:08:02 EST Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!ub!decwrl!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Copyright: 1993 by the Miami Herald, R Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 01/16/94 Subject: Football Fever Lines: 90 It is the time of year when we put the holiday season behind us; a time when we suck in our stomachs, leave the cozy confines of our homes, go back out into the working world, purchase some beer, return to our homes, lie down in front of our TVs and let our stomachs protrude back out. It's time for the pro football playoffs. I love to watch football on TV, and I will tell you exactly why: I have no idea. Perhaps the appeal of this violent game stems from some basic biological urge that guys have, dating back millions of years to when primitive spear-carrying men would go into the forest to hunt game for their families, and their very survival depended on their ability to operate a remote control. Whatever the attraction is, a lot of women seem to be immune to it. I have seen women walk right past a TV set with a football game on -- and this always amazes me -- not stop to watch, even if the TV is showing replays of what we call a "good hit," which is a tackle that causes at least one major internal organ to actually fly out of a player's body. The average guy cannot ignore something of this importance. He is going to stop and watch, even if he's supposed to be doing something else, such as reporting that his house is on fire. The average guy might not be able to name the secretary of state, but he can tell you who made the hit that turned Joe Theisman into a human Gumby -- an injury so horrible to watch that the TV people basically canceled the rest of the season so they could show close-up replays of it in slow motion. (Just for the record: The player who made this hit is Lawrence Taylor. The secretary of state is a dweeb.) Every Thanksgiving, my family attends a gathering at the home of our friends Gene Weingarten and Arlene Reidy. The women all gather in one room and talk about careers, relationships, world events, etc., while the guys, most of whom see each other only once a year, all gather in front of the TV and stare, cowlike, at the football game. We even watch the pickup-truck commercials, despite the fact that most of us are journalists who rarely haul any payload larger than, say, a bagel. We do not talk, except to analyze the fine points of the game. FIRST GUY: Whoa! Look at that! What IS that? SECOND GUY: I think that's his spleen. THIRD GUY: No, a spleen that travels that far is going to rupture. That has to be a kidney. I don't want you to think that all we guys do at this gathering is watch football. We also PLAY football, in the back yard. It's a demanding game. For one thing, each player has recently consumed his weight in onion dip. For another thing, the Weingarten-Reidy yard is not a regulation football field: It is a small hillside covered with thousands of regulation dog doots, provided courtesy of two large, high-output, retriever-style dogs, Harry Truman and Clementine, who add to the complexity of the game by racing around in frantic circles at high speeds, like subatomic particles in the Superconducting Super Collider, but not as intelligent. We play Standard Back-Yard Touch Football Rules, which require that, on each down, the offensive players must spend a minimum of five minutes in the huddle, devising a pass play more complex than the Clinton health plan, calling for curls, hooks, slants, feints, cutbacks, laterals, running all the way around the house, diving into the hammock, giving the ball to a small child and instructing the child to cry if an opposing player comes near, etc. Once we designed a play that involved spitting on the defensive backs. When the ball is snapped, everybody forgets about the play and concentrates on (a) not falling down, and (b) avoiding the pass rush, which is a threat to players on both sides inasmuch as it is provided by Harry Truman, a relentless competitor who will definitely bite your leg. The main difference between our games and pro football is that sometimes we score a touchdown. This virtually never happens in the NFL. The referees won't allow it. They're jealous of the players, because the players get to wear sleek athletic uniforms, whereas the referees have to wear dorky little hats and pants that make them appear to have enormous butts. They look like they're smuggling mattresses back there. So if a player scores a touchdown, the referees immediately call it back and make a complex announcement over the loudspeakers ("OK, WE HAVE HOLDING ON NUMBER 84, WHICH IS OFFSET BY AN ILLEGAL PARAMETER ON NUMBER 73, WHICH IS FURTHER COMPOUNDED BY A FAILURE TO DECLARE NON- ACCRUABLE DIVIDEND INCOME ON THE PART OF NUMBER 143, ALTHOUGH THIS IS SOMEWHAT MITIGATED BY ..."). My suggestions for making the NFL more exciting are: 1. Allow the refs to wear cool uniforms and participate in end-zone dances, or 2. Allow the players to tackle the referees. ("OK, WE HAVE -- WHAM.") Speaking on behalf of a lot of guys, I urge the owners to consider these sensible changes. Also, while they're up, they should get me a beer. (C) 1994 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Message-ID: Date: Sun, 2 May 93 2:09:57 EDT Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Subject: The Dave Barry health care reform package: Good for what's ailing you Lines: 92 By Dave Barry For several months, the nation's top political, legal and medical minds, under the direction of Hillary Rodham Jefferson Clinton, have been working around the clock to develop a long- overdue plan for reforming the nation's troubled health-care system. This is stupid. The reason our health-care system got so troubled in the first place is that it is infested with political, legal and medical minds. What we need is some human minds working on this problem, which is why today I am going to present my Health Care Reform Package. In case you're wondering about my qualifications, I happen to be a 1965 graduate of the prestigious Pleasantville (N.Y.) High School, where I studied Health under Mr. Beatty, under whom I also studied gym. Mr. Beatty taught us many fundamental health concepts, the main one being that if you were having a private conversation in class, Mr. Beatty would come up from behind and whack your head in an educational manner. I also took Mrs. Wright's biology course, wherein I learned that a leading cause of unhealthiness is worms. Mrs. Wright spent a LOT of time on parasites. It turns out that there are little worms everywhere -- in the ground, in the water, in pork, floating around in the air -- trying to get into your body so they can munch on your innards and attain lengths of up to 257 feet. And when I say "your body," I of course mean "my body." Every time Mrs. Wright brought up a new worm, I became obsessed with the idea that it was occupying me. I even experienced some of the symptoms. My Mom: Do you want some more stew? Me: No th ... Muffled Voice From Inside My Body: YES! (CLARIFICATION: Before I get deluged with angry, strong- smelling letters from members of the American Pig Farming Council, let me stress here that it is perfectly safe to eat pork, provided that you cook it thoroughly, then, if it's still moving, whack it with a crowbar.) Another reason why I'm qualified as a health-care expert is that I have a son whose life's goal is to obtain at least one suture in every emergency room in North America. This means I spend a lot of time filling out medical forms and reading correspondence from the insurance company. You know how scientists have spent years beaming powerful radio signals into space, trying to contact alien life forms? Well, they could save themselves a lot of trouble by simply visiting my insurance company, because the correspondence I receive clearly is not being generated by earthlings. ("Explanation: Your total in-network, out-of-pocket nonredeemable disqualifiable deductible exemption may not have already exceeded by 12 percent or less the patient exacerbation fee or the cosine of the remainder, whichever would be harder for you to grasp.") So I definitely know something about the health-care system. Here is my program for reforming it: POINT ONE: Everybody give me 50 push-ups RIGHT NOW. No, wait, that's Mr. Beatty's health-care program. Mine is as follows: POINT ONE: Every American citizen, regardless of age or income group, has the absolute and fundamental right not to have to listen to any other American citizen describe his or her medical problems. POINT TWO: Medical science should stop coming out with new disorders. We already have plenty of disorders, but every time you open a newspaper you see an article about how medical science has discovered, say, carpal tunnel syndrome, which nobody ever heard of before and which actually sounds like a fish disease, but which suddenly afflicts one out of every six Americans. If medical science won't stop doing this, we should gather one out of every six Americans together in a large auditorium and tell them to stop reading the newspaper. POINT THREE: Companies should stop attempting to educate adult employees about health and safety issues via campaigns that are geared, intellectually, for pre-school children. This is dangerous. My company, The Miami Herald, once had a program based around a cartoon character named "Safety Bear." Safety Bear appeared on educational posters, giving us helpful tips like: "Don't drop heavy metal objects on your foot!" and "Don't fall on your head from a great height!" After a couple of weeks of exposure to Safety Bear, most of us were looking for ways to have industrial accidents. POINT FOUR: If you have an appointment to see a doctor, and you have to wait for more than 30 minutes, then you get to give the doctor a shot. POINT FIVE: There should be some reading matter in the waiting room besides an issue of Sports Illustrated devoted to the question of who will win the 1987 Super Bowl. POINT SIX: The term "reading matter" does not exclude the swimsuit issue. POINT SEVEN: There needs to be a LOT more research on these worms. Muffled Voice From Inside My Body: NO! (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. What's wrong with this country, aside from "light" beer, is that Americans don't know anything about foreign affairs. Your average American can't even answer basic questions about geography, such as.' 1. In which direction does the Nile River flow? 2. What can the letters in "Great Britain" be rearranged to spell? (Answers: 1. Downhill; 2. "Big Titan Rear.") Tragically, we Americans are too busy sitting around watching worthless juvenile mind-rotting TV situation comedies such as "Dave's World" (Monday nights, CBS, check your local listings) to learn about foreign affairs. This is bad, because what happens abroad can greatly affect our lives. For example, if tensions were to mount again in the Middle East, fighting could break out, and it could escalate to, God forbid, nuclear war, and this would almost definitely affect our TV reception. This is why today I'm going to present a Foreign News Update, starting with an important story from the Sept. 2, 1993, Times of India, sent in by alert reader Tapash Chakraborty. This article, which I am not making up, states: "Villagers of Khajuria in Ganjam district worshipped a frog on Monday to please the rain god Indra, as the dry spell continued to delay cultivation." The article further states that "a big live frog tied with a bamboo stick was carried by villagers who roamed in and around the village chanting couplets in honor of the wife of Lord Indra." The article does not give the exact wording of the couplets. Probably they went something like: We need rain; your wife is great Here's a frog; let's cultivate! The article also doesn't state whether this effort resulted in rain, but I'm sure it did. If you're a rain god, and you have people waving a frog around and chanting about your wife, you're definitely going to dump something on them. But whether or not it worked, the point is that the villagers of Khajuria DID something about their problem. They did not just sit back and wait for "the other guy" to worship the frog. We need more of that kind of gumption in this country. Take the economy. People have been whining about the economy for years, but nobody does anything about it. I'm not saying we could get the economy going again by worshipping a frog. Please do not take me for a total idiot. We have a huge, complex economy, and we'd need a much larger amphibian, such as a manatee, or, if he is available, Sen. Edward M. Kennedy. Speaking of frogs, many alert readers sent in an Associated Press report concerning an incident in Manchester, N.H., which is not technically a foreign country, but you'll want to know about this incident anyway, because it involves a woman who opened a bag of pretzels and pulled out a pretzel with a oneinch frog baked onto it. The AP sent out a photograph showing the actual pretzel, and sure enough, there's a frog sort of welded onto it, looking crouched and ready to hop away, except of course that frogs become very poor hoppers after being subjected to the pretzel-baking process, as has been verified in countless laboratory experiments. My first thought, when I saw this article, was that maybe the frog had been put there on purpose. We live in an era of increasingly complex snack-food variations, such as Jalapeno Cheddar 'n' Onion Graham Crackers ("Now With Avocado!"). It's entirely possible that marketing experts at the pretzel company were simply enhancing their product line ("Now With Frogs!"). But apparently that was not the case with these pretzels, so the woman took them back to the food store, which gave her a handsome baked prince. No, seriously, the store gave her a refund, so all's well that ends well. But that does not mean we should relax, not with these alarming cheese-related developments that are taking place in England. I refer to a May 26, 1993, UPI report, sent in by alert reader Clyde E. Morgan, which begins: "Fourteen people were injured taking part in the annual Double Gloucester cheese- rolling race." I am still not making this up. The article states that this race takes place every year, and it involves "rolling large round slabs of cheese down a hill," with individual cheeses "reaching speeds of up to 50 kilometers per hour." Last year, 27 people were injured. The question is: What if this kind of semideadly activity catches on in this country? I, personally, am not worried, because I live in South Florida, which is extremely flat; plus, even if you could get a large cheese rolling down here, passing armed motorists would blow it to smithereens. But what if people start rolling cheeses in, say, Colorado? What if you get one of those big babies hurtling down a Rocky mountain, straight toward -- to pick a worst-case scenario -- a John Denver concert? ... friends around the campfire, And everybody's hiiiEEEE (SPLAT) Is that the kind of nation you want your children to grow up in? Me, too. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!cert.org!crcnis1.unl.edu!wupost!enterpoop.mit.edu!world!uunet!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE RULES OF HELICOPTER PILOTING, ACCORDING TO DAVE BARRY Message-ID: Date: Sat, 17 Apr 93 19:08:02 PDT ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 0/0; Id: z0394; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 04/18-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 95 DAVE BARRY TODAY'S AVIATION TOPIC IS: How to fly a helicopter. Although flying a helicopter may seem very difficult, the truth is that if you can drive a car, you can, with just a few minutes of instruction, take the controls of one of these amazing machines. Of course you would immediately crash and die. This is why you need to remember: RULE ONE OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: Always have somebody sitting right next to you who actually knows how to fly the helicopter and can snatch the controls away from you. Because the truth is that helicopters are nothing at all like cars. Cars work because of basic scientific principles that everybody understands, such as internal combustion and parallel parking. Whereas scientists still have no idea what holds helicopters up. ``Whatever it is, it could stop at any moment,'' is their current feeling. This leads us to: RULE TWO OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: Maybe you should forget the entire thing. This was what I was thinking on a recent Saturday morning as I stood outside a small airport in South Florida, where I was about to take my first helicopter lesson. This was not my idea. This was the idea of Pam Gallina-Raissiguier, a pilot who flies radio reporters over Miami during rush hour so they can alert drivers to traffic problems (``Bob, we have a three-mile backup on the interstate due to an overturned cocaine truck''). Pam is active in an international organization of women helicopter pilots called -- Gloria Steinem, avert your eyes -- the ``Whirly Girls.'' She thought it would be a great idea for me to take a helicopter lesson. I began having severe doubts when I saw Pam's helicopter. This was a small helicopter. It looked like it should have a little slot where you insert quarters to make it go up and down. I knew that if we got airborne in a helicopter this size in South Florida, some of our larger tropical flying insects could very well attempt to mate with us. Also, this helicopter had no doors. As a Frequent Flyer, I know for a fact that all your leading U.S. airlines, despite being bankrupt, maintain a strict safety policy of having doors on their aircraft. ``Don't we need a larger helicopter?'' I asked Pam. ``With doors?'' ``Get in,'' said Pam. You don't defy a direct order from a Whirly Girl. Now we're in the helicopter, and Pam is explaining the controls to me over the headset, but there's static and the engine is making a lot of noise. ``... your throttle (something),'' she is saying. ``This is your cyclic and (something) your collective.'' ``What?'' I say. ``(something) give you the controls when we reach 500 feet,'' Pam says. ``WHAT?'' I say. But Pam is not listening. She is moving a control thing and WHOOAAA we are off the ground, hovering, and now WHOOOOAAAAAA we are shooting up in the air, and there are still no doors on this particular helicopter. Now Pam is giving me the main control thing. RULE THREE OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: If anybody tries to give you the main control thing, refuse to take it. Pam says: ``You don't need hardly any pressure to ...'' AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ``That was too much pressure,'' Pam says. Now I am flying the helicopter. I AM FLYING THE HELICOPTER. I am flying it by not moving a single body part, for fear of jiggling the control thing. I look like the Lincoln Memorial statue of Abraham Lincoln, only more rigid. ``Make a right turn,'' Pam is saying. I gingerly move the control thing one zillionth of an inch to the right and the helicopter LEANS OVER TOWARD MY SIDE AND THERE IS STILL NO DOOR HERE. I instantly move the thing one zillionth of an inch back. ``I'm not turning right,'' I inform Pam. ``What?'' she says. ``Only left turns,'' I tell her. When you've been flying helicopters as long as I have, you know your limits. After a while it becomes clear to Pam that if she continues to allow the Lincoln statue to pilot the helicopter, we are going to wind up flying in a straight line until we run out of fuel, possibly over Antarctica, so she takes the control thing back. That is the good news. The bad news is, she's now saying something about demonstrating an ``emergency procedure.'' ``It's for when your engine dies,'' Pam says. ``It's called `auto- rotation.' Do you like amusement park rides?'' I say: ``No, I DOOOOOOOOOOOOO ...'' RULE FOUR OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: ``Auto-rotation'' means ``coming down out of the sky at about the same speed and aerodynamic stability as that of a forklift dropped from a bomber.'' Now we're close to the ground (although my stomach is still at 500 feet), and Pam is completing my training by having me hover the helicopter. RULE FIVE OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: You can't hover the helicopter. The idea is to hang over one spot on the ground. I am hovering over an area approximately the size of Australia. I am swooping around sideways and backward like a crazed bumblebee. If I were trying to rescue a person from the roof of a 100-story burning building, the person would realize that it would be safer to simply jump. At times I think I am hovering upside-down. Even Pam looks nervous. So I am very happy when we finally get back to the ground. Pam tells me I did great, and she'd be glad to take me up again. I tell her that sounds like a fun idea. RULE SIX OF HELICOPTER PILOTING: Sometimes you have to lie. Message-ID: Date: Sat, 4 Dec 93 16:08:02 EST Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!headwall.Stanford.EDU!lll-winken.llnl.gov!bb3.andrew.cmu.edu!usenet.ins.cwru.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!paperboy.micro.umn.edu!umn.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance Copyright: 1993 by the Miami Herald, R Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com RELEASE: 12/5/93 Subject: Dave Barry's gift guide Lines: 619 Things have been busy, busy, busy, here at the Holiday Gift Command Center. For months now, our cheerful elves have been hard at work in their cozy workshop, hammering and sawing, drilling and sanding, transforming sturdy blocks of wood into rocking horses, toy soldiers and spinning tops designed to elicit squeals of happiness from lucky little boys and girls. These toys, painted in bright primary colors, are lined up in neat, gleaming rows, waiting for that Very Special Night when we gather them all up and take them in big trucks to the Morphex-Glomco Corp., which burns them to generate the heat needed to cause the chemical reactions required to produce the high-grade plastics that are necessary to manufacture the toys that modern children actually want, such as Mortal Kombat XIV, the video game in which your character eats the enemy character's pancreas. We have repeatedly tried to explain to the elves that all we really need is the sturdy blocks of wood, but we get nowhere. They may be cheerful, but they have the average IQ of a Salad Shooter. Some of them have been working here for over 250 years without once asking if we have a dental plan. All we have to do, to keep them happy, is every now and then give them some Purina Elf Chow. But forget about them. The Holiday Retail Frenzy Season is upon us, and you need to be thinking about what special gift items you will be purchasing for those special people on your list. And that is why, for the fourth consecutive year, we have taken time out from our busy schedule to put together our annual Holiday Gift Guide. We don't want to "toot our own horn," but we happen to think that this is the best Gift Guide ever, as measured in total elapsed time required to put it all together -- 43 minutes, a new Gift Guide record. THIS YEAR'S OFFICIAL GIFT GUIDE THEME Our theme this year is "Gifts That Do Not Cost a Lot of Money, Yet Are, at the Same Time, Cheap." We are pleased to report that the average item in this year's guide costs LESS THAN $20. But don't let the low prices fool you! If you purchase these items and give them as gifts, the lucky recipients will never guess that you paid so little. The lucky recipients will guess that you found these items in a dumpster. Nevertheless, we want to stress that every item meets our Gift Guide Standards of Quality Excellence, which means: 1. THESE ARE REAL ITEMS THAT YOU CAN ACTUALLY BUY. We swear we did not make any of them up, NOT EVEN THE NOSE SPREADER. 2. THESE ITEMS HAVE PASSED OUR RIGOROUS INSPECTION PROGRAM. Before we include any item in the Gift Guide, we always inspect it carefully to see if maybe it is something that we might actually want to take home. So far, we never have. 3. THESE ITEMS ARE BACKED BY OUR EXCLUSIVE 100 PERCENT BUYER PROTECTION PLAN. If you purchase a Gift Guide item, and for any reason you are dissatisfied, you may obtain a full cash refund merely by sending the item to us, along with your receipt and a color photograph of Tipper Gore naked. Ha ha! We are just kidding, of course. Black and white is fine. CRACKER THROWER $19.50 from Orvis, Historic Route 7A, P.O. Box 798, Manchester, Vt. 05254-0798, phone (800) 541-3541. Suggested by Carol Bellinger of Spokane, Wash. This is the perfect gift for anybody on your holiday list who has a need for a mechanical device capable of throwing round crackers great distances. According to the Orvis catalog, this device was designed "to launch crackers into the air as challenging, biodegradable targets for trap shooters." But the catalog notes that you can also use it "at the beach as a sea gull feeder." The catalog states that this device -- which comes in both right-handed and left-handed models -- is capable of throwing a cracker "up to 60 yards at incredible speeds." This leads us to think of a couple of additional uses for it, such as: PERSONAL PROTECTION. In today's crime-ridden urban environment, you can give no more precious gift to a loved one than the gift of security. And think how secure your loved one would feel if he or she had the Orvis cracker thrower, preloaded, tucked away in his or her pocket or purse, ready to be pulled out the instant that trouble arises. Your hardened urban criminals are definitely going to have second thoughts about attacking a potential victim who is capable of launching a high-speed cracker at close range, especially if it is one of the technologically advanced high-impact assault crackers now available to the general public. ("UH-oh! Sesame seeds! Let's get out of here!" "Yeah! Those things really sting!") DINNER PARTIES. A major headache for the modern host or hostess who does not have domestic help and is trying to keep an eye on things in the kitchen while at the same time making sure that the guests have plenty to nibble on. Think how convenient it would be for the host or hostess on your gift list if, instead of wasting valuable time walking all the way from the kitchen to the living room to replenish the hors d'oeuvres tray, he or she could simply load a cracker -- perhaps even with a fairly adhesive topping on it -- into this device and transport it directly to an appreciative guest at speeds normally associated with air-to-air missiles: HOSTESS (from the kitchen): Roger, how about some more liver pate? GUEST: Well, I guess I could eat one more (ZINNNGGGGGGG) GACK (thud). OTHER GUESTS (hastily): None for us, thanks! BANANA TREE $3.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544-8503, phone (402) 474-5174. Our feeling here at the Holiday Gift Command Center is that a person can never have too many ludicrously specialized kitchen devices. That is why we own a Tupperware deviled-egg transporter, which we have conscientiously packed up and taken from house to house with us as we have moved over the years, even though we have never, to the best of our recollection, actually transported any deviled eggs in it. On those extremely rare occasions when we make deviled eggs, we always consume them immediately. Sometimes we just whip up the yolk-and-mayonnaise part and eat it directly out of the bowl with a spoon and throw the white part away. But still we hang on to our deviled-egg transporter. We also have -- among many other kitchen accessories -- a fondue set, a waffle iron, a wok, a bread-maker and a Cuisinart with specialized attachments for every conceivable food-related activity including liposuction. Going through our kitchen equipment, you would probably get the impression that we actually use these things. Whereas in fact the primary function of our kitchen is to provide us with a place to leave our car keys so we can find them quickly when it's time to go out and locate food that has been prepared by professionals. But the point is that you cannot have too many kitchen implements, and neither can anybody on your holiday gift list, which is why we are so excited about this banana tree. It's made of high-quality white plastic and consists of two parts: (1) a base part, and (2) a part that you stick into the base part and hang your bananas on. There are many, many advantages to hanging your bananas, rather than placing them in a fruit bowl. Here is just a partial list of these advantages: 1. Your bananas will not get any bowl-transmitted diseases. We could go on and on, but there simply is not enough space. Suffice it to say that this is a great gift idea, and since it's also very inexpensive, you can buy banana trees by the dozen, thereby killing numerous holiday gift-giving birds with one stone. Suppose, for example, that you are an employer. Imagine how excited your employees would be if, instead of getting the same old boring holiday cash bonus, each one received a shiny, brand- new banana tree! They would be VERY excited, in our opinion. You'd probably want to have a loaded cracker-thrower on hand to subdue them. Please note that, according to our tests, this banana tree can also be used for socks or fish. DOG LIFE VEST $16.95 from The Safety Zone, 2515 E. 43rd St., Chattanooga, Tenn. 37422-7247, phone (800) 999-3030. Suggested by George Mundstock of Miami, Fla. Ask yourself this question: How often do you pick up the morning newspaper, read a story about yet another tragic drowning incident involving a dog, then slam your fist down and say- "Can nothing be done to STOP this?" If you answered, "Four or five times per week, at minimum," then you simply MUST purchase this dog life vest, both for yourself and for the dog-owners on your list. Perhaps you are saying: "Wait a minute. Don't dogs know how to swim?" Yes, they know. Theoretically. But dogs know a LOT of things, theoretically. We happen to have two dogs, and they theoretically know that they are not allowed to eat food off the coffee table. Nevertheless there have been a number of times when, having left the living room on a brief errand, we have returned to discover large sectors of pizza missing, and both of our dogs looking guilty and desperately pressing their bodies into the floor, hoping that we will not notice them, or mistake them for large, collar-wearing dustballs. Yes, dogs are fully capable of forgetting the things that they theoretically know, and swimming could be one of these things. We feel that NO dog, in a so-called civilized society, should be allowed to go anywhere NEAR a body of water (including toilets, if it is a small dog) without wearing a life vest. We also think that the federal government should consider requiring that all dogs wear crash helmets. Our larger dog, Earnest, while in pursuit of real or imaginary woodland creatures, routinely runs headfirst into large inanimate objects, such as our house. This could theoretically result in damage to her brain, if she had one. DOGGIE BAG $24.95 from Collar Craft, P.O. Box 490, Mt. Vernon, Mo. 65712, phone (800) 548-0908. Suggested by Mary McDonough of Columbia, S.C. Do you know what's wrong with small dogs? Well, yes, they DO have the intelligence of chewing gum and a tendency to express their love by peeing on your feet. But that is not what we are getting at. We are getting at the fact that small dogs, because of a foolish design oversight on the part of Mother Nature, do not have handles. Thus you generally have to carry them with both hands, which means that you do not have a hand free to carry, for example, a briefcase. This is why so many small-dog owners are unable to take their dogs with them to work. And that is why you will want to give this item to the dog-owner on your gift list. This item is basically a nylon harness with a handle; it instantly converts an ordinary small dog into a small dog that can easily be carried anywhere, not just to the office, but also to restaurants, health clubs, theaters, weddings, bar mitzvahs and funerals. You need NEVER AGAIN be without your dog. You can take your dog EVERYWHERE -- just like your cellular phone! In addition to constant companionship, a portable dog can be a powerful deterrent to hardened urban street criminals. FIRST CRIMINAL: Stick 'em up! YOU (calmly holding up your dog): I'd put that gun away if I were you. SECOND CRIMINAL: Look out, Earl! It's peeing on your feet! FIRST CRIMINAL: Yikes! Let's get out of here! DOG SWEAT SUIT $17.98 from Harriet Carter, Dept. 43, North Wales, Pa. 19455, phone (215) 361-5151. More and more we are coming to realize that dogs are not just stupid moron animals who go around barking violently at air molecules and sniffing each other's private parts for hours at a time. Thanks to best-selling books such as "The Hidden Life of Dogs," we are now becoming aware that dogs are in fact complex, subtle and sensitive creatures with deep emotional needs. And their No. 1 need, scientists now believe, is to wear sweat suits. It is a known fact that dogs left alone in the wild, with no humans to care for them, will form into highly organized packs and spend hours making sweat suits for each other. Granted, these are primitive garments, many of them lacking elastic, or even basic washing instructions. But still they reveal a powerful instinct that is certainly also present in domesticated dogs. That is why we are certain that your dog would love nothing more this holiday season than to receive this handsome dog sweat suit. We're also sure that even though your pet cannot say "thank you" in so many words, he or she will find some way to express his or her gratitude to you. ("Hey Mom! Rex pooped in his sweat suit again!") FIGURE-FORMING BRIEF $9.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb.68544-8503, phone (402) 474-5174. We cannot think of a nicer way for you to send that Special Someone on your gift list the following message: "You have a really flat butt." For far too long, few options have been available to buttocks-impaired individuals. Yes, they can do what thousands of top models such as Cindy Crawford do, namely, stuff wads of newspaper down the back of their underwear to achieve a fuller look. Unfortunately, however, newspaper ink tends to rub off, which can lead to embarrassment during intimate moments ("Darling, it's not that I don't find it attractive, but how come you have a picture of Ziggy on your behind?"). We can kiss this problem goodbye, however, thanks to this exciting new advance in buttocks enhancement. Not only do these briefs enable the wearer to LOOK good, but they also provide vital protection to those unfortunate individuals -- and there are over 17 million of them, according to U.S. Labor Department statistics -- whose jobs require them, for one reason or another, to sit on thumbtacks. You will undoubtedly want to purchase a set of these briefs for every fashion-conscious person on your list -- female OR male. (We understand that Don Shula has 14 pairs.) FASHIONABLE EMERGENCY HEAD COVERING $9.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544-8503, phone (402) 474-5174. This is one of those gift ideas that is so wonderful that we have developed a large welt on our forehead from constantly smacking ourselves for not having thought of it first. It couldn't be simpler. You start with a simple turban-style hair covering made from an attractive type of cloth material such as might be used to make bedspreads for a Motel 6. Then you take a set of bangs made from synthetic fibers that could very easily pass for real human hair if viewed from an aircraft flying overhead at an altitude of 35,000 feet at night. You put these two fashion elements together, and voila, you have this extremely attractive fashion head covering. According to the Carol Wright catalog, this is the "perfect cover-up" to make you "look terrific" when you don't have time to wash and set your hair. We will vouch for this. In fact, we will go even further: We contend that this fashion accessory will produce a stunning visual effect even if you have washed and set your hair. We talked a number of individuals into trying on this fashion cover-up, and we can honestly state that every one of them, male or female, was instantly and dramatically transformed into what appeared to be an aging Russian peasant woman from space. So this is the perfect gift not only for the fashion- conscious individual on your holiday gift list, but also for the individual who is in the Federal Witness Protection program. It's also ideal for the well-known public figure who does not wish to be recognized, we understand that Sylvester Stallone never goes to the mall without this cap on his head. (Although the rest of him is naked.) CHIN FIRMER 84.99 from Walter Drake and Sons, 53 Drake Building, Colorado Springs, Colo. 80940, phone (719) 596-3853. Suggested by Jessica Bernstein of Alexandria, Va. Most employers will tell you that the most important factor that they consider, when making decisions about hiring and promotions, is chin firmness. That is why this chin-firming device is the ideal gift for everyone on your holiday list who is looking to "get ahead," particularly in those jobs where personal appearance is critical, such as TV anchorperson, U.S. senator, ballerina and astronaut. The beauty of this device is that it can be worn anywhere and will be virtually unnoticed except for the fact that it covers a large part of the face and head. Thus the person looking for chin improvement can keep this device on for great lengths of time. It is our understanding that Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf virtually never took his off when he was directing military operations in the Persian Gulf. BEAUTY MASK $3.89 from Miles Kimball, 41 W. Eighth Ave., Oshkosh, Wis. 54906, phone (414) 231-4886. Suggested by Roz Marottoli of New Haven, Conn. Here is a very practical idea for the person on your holiday list who takes pride in her or his appearance. This is a hood that covers the wearer's entire head, like a beekeeper's hood. The purpose, according to the catalog, is "to protect your hairdo and keep your makeup from smearing" while you're getting dressed. But why stop there? Why run the risk that your hairdo and makeup might get mussed AFTER you are dressed? We here at the Gift Guide Command Center believe that a person who truly wants to look his or her best will simply leave the Beauty Mask hood on at all times, even on dates, unzipping it only when it is necessary to insert food, or spit. For maximum appearance protection, we feel that the beauty mask should be left on EVEN DURING SEX. ("Oh, Marcia, that feels so ... HEY! Who IS this?" "This is Ed! Who is THIS?") INDUSTRIAL BACK SUPPORT $19.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544-8503, phone (402) 474-5174. You have probably noticed that many people wear these back-support devices, and you may have asked yourself why. The answer is simple: THESE PEOPLE HAVE REAL JOBS. Unlike yourself, they sometimes have to perform actual physical labor, such as lifting things. (Yes! It still happens! Even in America!) But just because you are, let's face it, a slug, that doesn't mean that you and the people on your holiday gift list can't LOOK like contributing members of society. All you need to do is order this handsome industrial back support with crisscrossing suspenders. You can wear this support over your business suit to indicate that, just because you have a sedentary white-collar office job, that doesn't mean you're not a hard- working individual. "Whoa!" you could announce loudly, within earshot of your boss and co-workers. "I need to make three copies of the quarterly sales report, which is five pages long, and the collator is broken! I'd better tighten up my crisscrossing suspenders!" We strongly suspect that, as the concept of appearing to work hard for a living catches on, these back supports are going to become a very popular fashion accessory, and not just during business hours. It is our understanding that Ralph Lauren will soon be coming out with a signature line of industrial back supports for resort and evening wear. ART MASTERPIECE NIGHT LIGHT $28 from Touch of Class Catalog, 1905 N. Van Buren St., Huntingburg, Ind. 47542-9595, phone (800) 457-7456. Suggested by Charlotte Minor of Lafayette, Colo. Ever since the great Greek or Roman philosopher Aristotle first set down the Rules of Attractiveness, mankind has known that the two essential elements for the perfect work of art are: 1. A cat. 2. A toilet. But despite thousands of years of effort by such leading artists as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and LeRoy Neiman, it was not until the Touch of Class catalog came out that these two artistic elements were finally brought together in the form of this unique night light. It is made of porcelain -- the same material used for the finest dental spittoons -- and it depicts a Siamese cat looking down into a toilet. We don't know why the cat is doing this. Perhaps there are fish in there. Why not? It is a known fact that various forms of wildlife show up in people's toilets all the time. For example, here at the Holiday Gift Guide Command Center we have received countless articles about people finding snakes in their toilets, sometimes LARGE snakes. In fact, this particular night light could be depicting a cat watching with great interest as its owner is being pulled down into the toilet by a snake. Perhaps the only part of the owner still above water is the head, which is shouting to the cat: "Boots! For God's sake, go get help! Please! Go glub." And of course the cat, being a cat, is just sitting there, watching calmly and thinking, "Who does she think I am? Lassie?" We are sure that many people on your holiday list would love to own this item. As opposed to an actual cat. TONGUE CLEANER $4.95 from The Mystic Trader, 1334 Pacific Ave., Forest Grove, Ore. 97116, phone (800) 634-9057. Suggested by Dana Preston of Santa Rosa, Calif. Most of us rarely give any thought to cleaning our tongues. Yet each year more than 34 million Americans develop some kind of serious physical problem that could easily have been prevented with adequate tongue hygiene, according to statistics that recently came to us in a dream. This is not surprising at all, when you consider the kinds of things you routinely put into your mouth, such as peanut butter, Chinese food, pizza, gumbo and clams. Most of these things slide down into your stomach, where they are broken down by amino acids and turned into useful body parts, except of course for the clams, which are expelled from your body untouched and often go on to lead long and healthy lives in the sewer system. But a certain amount of food residue remains on your tongue. Over the years, layer upon layer of this residue -- scientists call it "crud" -- builds up on your tongue, and eventually it becomes disgusting. Of course you are unaware of this. What with the demands of career and family, you rarely have time to examine your tongue. But believe us when we tell you that your friends, family and co- workers see your tongue all the time, and they are really grossed out. "Did you SEE that??" they ask each other as soon as you leave the room. "It looks like (your name) is trying to swallow the creature from the motion picture 'Aliens III!'" That is why we strongly recommend that you purchase this tongue cleaner for yourself and every person whom you truly care about on your holiday list. The Mystic Trader catalog states that tongue cleaners have been "used in Eastern countries for over 2,000 years." We are not making this quotation up. We are also not certain whether it means that people in these Eastern countries have been using the SAME tongue cleaners for 2,000 years, or whether the tongue cleaners are changed regularly. Either way, we consider this a powerful argument for this item, because if there is one thing that Eastern countries have always been associated with, it is clean tongues. It is a known fact that top entertainment figures such Clint Eastwood and Zsa Zsa Gabor -- people who have a professional interest in always looking their best -- never finish a meal at a swank Hollywood restaurant without immediately, right at their tables, having their tongues cleaned by their personal assistants, who carry tongue cleaners at all times in special little holsters. You and the people on your gift list may not have personal assistants, but you can certainly look just as good. Even better, in the case of Zsa Zsa. CAP DISPLAY CADDY $9.98 from Taylor Gifts, 355 E. Conestoga Rd., Wayne, Pa. 19093-7500, phone (800) 536-3683. Suggested by David Barnett of Pleasant Hill, Calif. Collecting sports memorabilia is all the rage these days - - and not just for kids! Many grown men are spending countless hours, and large chunks of their disposable income, on collecting baseball cards, jerseys, autographed jockstraps, etc. Perhaps there is somebody like this on your gift list this year. If so, we know just what this person needs: A life. Just kidding! What this type of serious collector needs is a Cap Display Caddy. This is a clear plastic container designed to protect souvenir baseball-style caps -- caps that have been signed by actual baseball players and are therefore worth more to the serious collector than any two of his children -- from the elements. That way, the caps will still be in mint condition when, years from now, the serious collector dies, and his widow cuts them into tiny pieces and flushes them down the toilet, along with all 17,500 of his baseball cards. Then, whistling happily, she slams the toilet seat down for good. INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE CHRISTMAS-TREE ORNAMENT $11 from The Treasury Historical Association, P.O. Box 28118, Washington, D.C. 20038-8118, phone (202) 895-5250. Suggested by Miriam Howe of Crownsville, Md. This item is so wonderful that we feel obligated to remind you we are not making it up. This is a Christmas-tree ornament created to mark the 80th anniversary of the establishment of the income tax. It's gold-plated metal, and it depicts a 1913 IRS form (which was one page). At the bottom it says: "Eighty Years of Income Tax" and "Many Happy Returns." (Ha ha! Get it?) This unique gift idea was created by the Treasury Historical Association, a nonprofit organization that will use the proceeds to purchase new cattle prods for needy IRS agents. No, we are kidding. The proceeds will be used to help restore the Old Treasury Building in Washington, D.C. This is certainly a worthy cause, so you will want to purchase this ornament for a special taxpayer on your holiday list. Remember, however, that if you do not order this ornament in time for holiday gift-giving, you MUST order Extension Ornament 2093-3J on or before the sixth fiscal week of the holiday season unless you are a joint taxpayer giving gifts singly. If we were you, we would contact our lawyer immediately. FLAME JET WEEDER $14.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544-8503, phone (402) 474-5174. Suggested by Nathan M. Brooks of Arlington, Va. This is the perfect gift idea for the person who has: 1. A garden or yard. 2. Insurance. What this item is, basically, is a blowtorch with a long metal tube attached. This means that, instead of having to bend all the way over and pull out those nasty weeds by hand, you simply fire up your Flame Jet Weeder and stride around your garden or yard, incinerating weeds, insects, worms, squirrels, small dogs and any other life form in your path. If you have an adolescent son, we're betting he'll be MORE than willing to do a LOT of yard work, if he can use the Flame Jet Weeder, thereby freeing you to relax and watch TV until it's time to call the fire department. We think this could also be the ideal item for the single men on your holiday gift list who would like to be able to pick up women in bars by lighting their cigarettes from as many as three bar stools away. ("Here, allow me ... WHOOPS!" "EEEKK!! MY HAIR!!!!" "Sorry!") HEAD LICE COLORING BOOK $.25 each (minimum order 25) from the National Pediculosis Association, P.O. Box 149, Newton, Mass. 02161, phone (800) 446- 4672. Never before, in all our years of doing the Holiday Gift Guide, have we encountered a gift idea for children that was so reasonably priced and yet involved parasites. This is a very attractive 12-page coloring book about head lice, sold by the National Pediculosis Association ("pediculosis" is the medical term for "coloring book"). Its pages depict the activities of a group of lice who arrive on a human head and settle in. ("We glue our eggs to your hair," they state.) It also explains how the child can get rid of these pesky creatures via a simple medical technique involving the Flame Jet Weeder. No! Just kidding! The coloring book contains safe medical advice. We are certain that this item will provide the youngsters on your holiday list with 20 or even possibly 30 seconds of enjoyment. We are hoping to see this concept developed further, perhaps ultimately involving a Saturday-morning cartoon show about a family of head lice who have wacky adventures with their friend Toby the Tapeworm. We might add that the National Pediculosis Association also sells (really) a line of lice-related T-shirts. Although we ourselves would be extremely reluctant to put one on. BLINKER COCKTAIL LIGHTS $1.75 per set of two from American Science & Surplus, 3605 Howard St., Skokie, Ill. 60076, phone (708) 982-0870. Technology is constantly improving our lives. Look at the cellular telephone. Just 10 years ago, virtually nobody was able to get into a car crash caused by trying to steer and dial at the same time, today, people do this all the time. Yet there are still certain areas of our lifestyles in which, due to a lack of technological advancement, we are still "back in the Stone Age." One such lifestyle area is the way we order drink refills. For millions of years now, personkind has been using the same old labor-intensive, time-consuming and often grueling method of lifting a finger at our waitperson or bartender. Many evenings we ourselves have been forced to perform this grueling act repeatedly, and the intense physical effort involved has left us feeling really awful the next morning. Sometimes even our HEAD hurts. That is why we are so thrilled about this gift item, which is featured in the American Science & Surplus Catalog. This is a little battery-powered light with a pocket clip on it. The catalog states: "It was designed to be hung on your glass in a dark bar to signal when you want a refill. This is not a joke!! That,s what it's for!!" You can just imagine how suave a person would look, clipping a blinking light onto his or her empty drink glass. This would be the ideal gift for the foreign traveler who goes to elegant restaurants in places such as Paris, France, where it is always a good idea to impress the staff with your suaveness and sophistication ("Garcon! Blinker is on! Fill 'er up!") COW PARTS GAME $16.50 from Nasco, P.O. Box 901, Fort Atkinson, Wis. 53538-0901, phone (800) 558-9595. When you are talking about riotous party fun, you are talking about trying to name the parts of a dairy cow. That is the idea behind this exciting game. There can be up to six players, each of whom is represented by a different breed of cow, such as Holstein, Ayrshire, etc. As they (the players) move around the playing board, they must correctly identify the cow parts indicated on each of the spaces. These parts include the "dewlap," the "pastern," the "fore udder attachment," the "median suspensory ligament," the "hock," the "stifle" and of course the "teats." We are certain that the host or hostess on your holiday gift list would be thrilled to receive this item, which is certain to get any social occasion moving. ("It's 1:30 a.m.! Aren't these people EVER going to go home?" "I know! Let's get out the cow- parts game!" NOSE SPREADER $18 from Robert Sullivan, 3127 Kentwood Dr., Eugene, Ore. 97401, phone (503) 686-6650. Suggested by Carol Tomashek of Eugene, Ore. There is an old saying in the holiday-gift business: "Good things come in small packages that you remove the things from and then stick them up your nose." That could not be more true of this item, the Sully Nose Spreader. This is a real item conceived of and manufactured by a retired engineer, businessman and inventor named Robert Sullivan of Eugene, Ore. The Sully Nose Spreader is a device for people who have trouble sleeping because their noses close up when they lie down to go to sleep (this is known as "nose collapse"). Sullivan's press release states: "The spreader is made of chrome steel, the same material used for braces to straighten teeth. Medically safe. To use this spreader, just before you go to bed, insert it into your nose. Go to bed and go to sleep, there is no feeling after you insert the spreader in your nose." When we ordered the official Gift Guide nose spreader from Sullivan, he sent it with a handwritten letter recounting the following inspirational anecdote: "One 60-some-year-old woman came to my home and asked me if I could help her (she lives in England). I told her I would try, she came in and told me she had not breathed through her nose in 25 years. ... She put one in her nose and she could breathe. (Through her nose.)" We actually inserted our nose spreader into our personal nose, and we must say that we have never before experienced this degree of comfort with a wire thing up our nose, once we overcame the momentary terror that we would need surgical help to get it back out. Based on this experience, we strongly reconunend this item as the ideal gift for anybody on your holiday list who needs to breathe. But please make sure that the recipient reads the directions before attempting to use this device. ("No no NOt You were supposed to insert it in your NOSEl") (Dave Barry is a humor columnist for The Miami Herald. Write to him c/o Tropic Magazine, The Miami Herald, One Herald Plaza, Miami, Fla. 33132.) (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: SON CELEBRATES 12th BIRTHDAY WITH HELIUM, DONALD DUCK AND HOSPITAL STAFF Message-ID: Date: 20 Dec 92 02:08:02 GMT Lines: 88 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: regular ANPA: Wc: 859/963; Id: z1783; Sel: bb--l; Adate: 12/20-N/A Codes: //bb--l/, bb--l Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Dec. 20, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) DAVE BARRY If you're planning a party for your 12-year-old child, my main piece of advice is: Allow plenty of time for the CAT scan. I learned this important parenting lesson recently when my son, Rob, decided he wanted to celebrate his 12th birthday by holding a dance party. So we rented a hall used for exercise classes and hired a disc jockey. (``I won't play anything with dirty words,'' the disc jockey assured us. ``Unless of course you WANT me to.'') Our plan was to decorate the hall with crepe streamers and helium- filled balloons, so several hours before the party, we went to a store that rented helium tanks. The man asked us whether we needed a small, medium or large tank. ``Large,'' said Rob instantly. BONUS TIP FOR PARENTS: Never allow your child to make a decision regarding helium-tank size. We ended up staggering out to the car with a helium tank the size of a Polaris missile, but heavier. It was the same size tank that the Goodyear company rents to refill the blimp. We lugged this into the dance hall, where Beth and I began putting up streamers while Rob and a friend set about the task of not filling balloons with helium. The reason they were not doing this, of course, is that they were too busy doing what young people always do when they get hold of helium; namely, inhaling it and then talking in Donald Duck voices. What fun! It was such fun that Rob did it a number of times in a row. The problem was that helium does not contain any oxygen, which is one of the minimum daily nutritional requirements recommended by the American Medical Association for growing children. Parenthood is not unlike the Space Mountain ride at Disney World, in the sense that both experiences involve zooming along in a carefree manner, then suddenly having your stomach get collapsed like a stomped- on Dixie cup by violent, unexpected, high-speed turns. One minute Beth and I were putting up streamers while our child was talking like Donald Duck; the next minute he had keeled over, taking care to whonk his head against the concrete wall on the way down, and was on the floor, forehead bleeding, body twitching spasmodically in what we later found out is called an ``anoxic seizure.'' Yes sir! This was shaping up as the most exciting birthday party EVER, topping even the one wherein we filled the wading pool with Jell-O! Rob quickly regained consciousness and appeared to be thinking clearly (``I'm gonna MISS MY PARTY!''). Beth and I agreed that, since it was too late to tell the party guests not to come, she'd stay at the dance hall. I took Rob to the hospital emergency room, where a nice medical person assured me that children are always injuring themselves immediately before carefully planned family events, and that many families traditionally celebrate all their important occasions right there in the emergency room. Another nice medical person informed me that Rob needed a CAT scan and a plastic surgeon to sew up his forehead gash, and that these things, plus the paperwork, could easily take four or five hours. So I explained that this was a Medical Emergency, meaning that in one hour, Beth would be a lone 45-year-old woman in a darkened hall containing 10 large pizzas, a disc jockey born in 1971 and 40 hormonally crazed 12- year-olds. Realizing the extreme medical seriousness of this situation, the Emergency Room crew swung into action, and within minutes Rob was strapped into the CAT-scan machine, a device that looks like it was designed to beam people to the Planet Foombar (provided they have medical insurance). A medical person named (really) Dr. Gallow used this machine to look inside Rob's skull. He let me see the pictures. ``Hey, Rob!'' I said. ``It turns out you have a brain!'' ``Shut up, Dad,'' he said, from inside the CAT-scan machine. I don't know where he gets this flippant attitude. Anyway, the CAT scan was negative, meaning, in layperson's terms, positive, so it was time for the plastic surgeon to sew up Rob's forehead. This turned out to be a simple procedure, although the next time Rob needs it, I intend to request total anesthesia for myself. We raced back to the dance hall and got there just as the party started. A sympathetic exercise class had helped Beth finish decorating the hall, and it looked great, just like the Junior Prom, with enough reserve helium to fill approximately 375 million more balloons should we need them. Rob's friends all gathered around to hear what happened and admire his injury and the cool bloodstains on his shirt. The DJ turned his amplifier volume knob to ``KILL ZONE'' and started playing the kind of music that young people like today, meaning, in layperson's terms, ugly. After a while Beth said: ``You know, the DJ SAID he'd play some oldies. Then we both voiced the same chilling thought: ``Maybe these ARE the oldies.'' But the kids liked the music; some of the boys even stopped punching each other and DANCED WITH GIRLS. Beth and I sat in the next room, watching the kids, marveling at their energy, pondering the fact that Rob was a year older. Whereas WE had picked up at least five years apiece. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 113 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!apple!nntp1.radiomail.net!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS TO THE HIGH-SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS OF 1992 Message-ID: Date: 21 Jun 92 00:03:51 GMT Lines: 75 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 815; Id: z0398; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 06/21-1aed DAVE BARRY As I look out over your shining faces, I am reminded of the Bartlett's familiar quotation by the great Greek philosopher Socrates, who said, ``Eventually your skin will clear up and your faces won't shine so much.'' As is so often the case with great philosophers, he was lying. Your skin is a lifelong enemy, young people. It has millions of hardy zit cells that will continue to function perfectly, long after the rest of your organs have become aged and decrepit. Remember Ronald Reagan? No? Well, he used to be the President, off and on, and in 1985, after undergoing a medical procedure on his nose, he met with the press and made the following two statements, which I swear to you young people that I am not making up: 1. ``It is true I had -- well, I guess for want of a better word -- a pimple on my nose.'' 2. ``I violated all the rules. I picked at it and I squoze it and so forth and messed myself up a little.'' And President Reagan was no spring chicken at the time. I believe that, at one point in his acting career, he actually was in a movie with Socrates. The point I am making, young people, is that your skin will NEVER ``clear up.'' People have been known to break out with embarrassing blemishes at their own funerals. But postmortem acne is not what you young people should be thinking about today as you prepare to go out into the world, leaving behind the hallowed halls of your school, but not before sticking wads of gum on virtually every hallowed surface. Perhaps you think you have gotten away with this. You may be interested to learn that, thanks to a Used Gum Tracing procedure developed by the FBI, school authorities can now analyze the DNA in the dried spit molecules and, by cross-referencing with your Permanent Record, determine EXACTLY WHO WAS CHEWING EVERY SINGLE WAD. This means that some day in the future -- perhaps at your wedding -- burly officers of the Gum Police will come barging in and arrest you and take you off to harsh prisons where you will be forced to eat food prepared by THE SAME PEOPLE WHO RAN YOUR HIGH-SCHOOL CAFETERIA. Yes, young people, modern technology promises an exciting future. But you must also learn from the wisdom of your elders, and if there is one piece of advice that I would offer you, it is this: Burn your yearbook right now. Because otherwise, years from now, feeling nostalgic, you'll open it up to your photo, and this alien GEEK will be staring out at you, and your children will beg you to tell them that they're adopted. It is a known science fact that, no matter how good your yearbook photo looks now, after 15 years of being pressed up against somebody else's face in the dark and mysterious yearbook environment, it will transmutate itself into a humiliating picture of a total goober. This is true of everybody. If, in early 1991, the U.S. government had quietly contacted Saddam Hussein and threatened to publish his yearbook photo in The New York Times, he would have dropped Kuwait like a 250-pound maggot. Yes, young people, old yearbook photos can be a powerful force for good. Yet the horrifying truth is that sometimes newspapers publish the yearbook photos of TOTALLY INNOCENT PEOPLE. Yes! In America! I know what I'm talking about, young people, because it happened to me. The March 1992 issue of Panther Tracks, the newspaper of my alma mater, Pleasantville (N.Y.) High School, has an article about me, and although I definitely remember looking normal in high school, there's a photograph of this solemn little Junior Certified Public Accountant wearing glasses styled by Mister Bob's House of Soviet Eyewear. People I hadn't heard from in years mailed me this picture, along with heartwarming and thoughtful notes. ``Dave!'' they'd say. ``I forgot what a DWEEB you were!'' Or: ``Who styled your hair? Bigfoot?'' This is unfair, Class of '92. Let me assure you that I was very ``hip'' in high school. I distinctly remember an incident in 1964, when Lanny Watts and I got a stern lecture from the assistant principal, Mr. Sabella, because we showed up at a school dance with our sport-jacket collars turned under, so the jackets looked like they didn't HAVE collars, because this was the style worn by the Dave Clark Five. Remember the Dave Clark Five, young people? No? Sure you do! You must! They had that big hit with the drum part that went: WHOMPA WHOMPA WHOMPA Wasn't that a great song, young people? Hey, are you LAUGHING at me? STOP LAUGHING AT ME, YOU LITTLE ZITFACES! Thank you. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!lll-winken!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry,cli.wcerror Subject: DAVE BARRY'S HOLIDAY GIFT GUIDE Message-ID: Date: 12 Dec 92 07:07:25 GMT Lines: 545 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: regular ANPA: Wc: 865; Id: z1745; Sel: bb--l; Adate: 11/29-N/A Codes: //bb--l/, bb--l DAVE BARRY For the third consecutive year, despite numerous threats of federal prosecution, we are proud to present our Holiday Gift Guide. You have no idea how much work we put into this. The effort began way back in April, when we assembled our team of Gift Guide buyers, gave each one an unlimited expense account, and sent them off to scour the globe in search of the ultimate in unique and tasteful gift concepts. We have learned to ``expect the unexpected'' from our highly-trained shopping professionals, but even WE were amazed when, six months later, none of them returned. We have NO idea where they are now, although the State Department has notified us that at one point they threw a party that resulted in considerable damage to Belgium. What this means is that, for the third consecutive year, we do not have any tasteful gift concepts for our Holiday Gift Guide. But this setback has not dampened our holiday spirits. We are like the ``Whos'' -- the cute and plucky little critters who had their Christmas stolen away from them by the mean old Grinch in the Dr. Seuss story ``How the Grinch Stole Christmas.'' Even though the Grinch took away all the Whos' material things -- their gifts and trees and decorations and food -- he could not take away their holiday spirit. And thus the Whos were able, in the story's heartwarming conclusion, to put together a Holiday Gift Guide and charge advertisers a lot of money to be in it. That is the spirit that drives us here at the Holiday Gift Command Center. We canceled all our regular appointments and spent close to a full hour assembling the collection of gift items you are about to see. We want to stress that we're not making any of these items up; they are real things that we purchased with Miami Herald money that might otherwise have been used by real reporters to gather actual news. We also want to stress that we never put ANY item into the Gift Guide until it has been subjected to rigorous testing procedures. So we feel confident in offering our unique Lifetime Consumer Satisfaction Guarantee: If you purchase an item featured in this Gift Guide, and at any point during your lifetime you become for ANY REASON less than 100 percent satisfied with it, then nyah nyah nyah. And we stand behind those words. ------ AUTO-SECURITY SPIDER -- $24.95 from Aahs!!, 14548 Ventura Blvd., Sherman Oaks, Calif. 91403, phone (818) 907-0300. Consider this: In the United States, an automobile is stolen EVERY 14.7 SECONDS. If that statistic scares you, think how we felt when we made it up. Because we were fully aware that the actual statistic could be even worse. That's why chances are there's somebody on your holiday gift list who would like nothing better than to receive a quality car-security device. But which one? Probably the best-known car-security device is ``The Club.'' This product is advertised extensively via a TV commercial wherein a person claiming to be a police officer tells you that he's standing on a spot from which a car has just been stolen. What bothers us about this commercial is this: If the police officer knows the car has just been stolen, WHY ISN'T HE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT? Why is he just standing there, yammering away about The Club? Is that what the taxpayers are paying him to do? Shouldn't he be chasing the car thief? Or could it be that -- we don't want to start rumors, but we have to consider every possibility -- the thief has stolen THE POLICE OFFICER'S CAR? In that case, we have to ask ourselves if The Club is really all it's cracked up to be. We have to ask ourselves if there is perhaps ANOTHER car-security product on the market that would offer superior automotive protection, PLUS certain other useful qualities, such as being able to float in a swimming pool. Fortunately there IS such a product: The Spider. This is a high- quality piece of limp plastic that can be easily wadded into a standard glove compartment. When you park your car, you simply remove The Spider, spend a pleasant and relaxing 10 or 15 minutes blowing it up, and voila (French, meaning, ``eek''), you have a large, inflated arachnid on your hands. To arm your security device, you simply fasten The Spider's legs around your steering wheel, using the convenient Velcro strips. You can now walk away in a carefree manner, knowing that even the most hardened professional thief is going to think twice before messing with your vehicle. He'll take one look at The Spider, and wisely elect to move on to a more vulnerable car, such as one protected by The Hamster. We are not just blowing smoke when we make these claims. We tested The Spider in a ``real-world'' environment involving an actual car. We observed the car for a full minute, and absolutely nothing happened -- despite printed statistics indicating that, during that time, the average car should have been stolen four times. But there's more: The Spider can also be used as a personal security device. Yes. If you find yourself in a neighborhood frequented by violent criminals, simply inflate The Spider, fasten it around your neck, and stroll confidently on your way as the criminals give you a wide berth, for fear of coming in contact with your saliva. COMPARISON CHART: THE SPIDER vs. THE CLUB PRICE The Club: Over $50 The Spider: $24.95 INFLATABILITY The Club: No The Spider: Yes NUMBER OF LEGS The Club: None The Spider: Eight MEAN-LOOKING EYEBALLS? The Club: No The Spider: Yes FEMALE EATS MALE AFTER MATING? The Club: No The Spider: Yes ------ BOOKS BY THE YARD -- $62 from Eximious, 54 E. Oak St., Chicago, Ill. 60091, phone (800) 221-9464. Suggested by Jeff Ross of Silver Spring, Md. Nothing makes a room look more impressive and intellectual than a bookshelf lined with leather-bound books. The problem is that most books contain an enormous quantity of words, which are printed on pages, which add bulk to the book yet CONTRIBUTE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO THE DECORATING SCHEME. It's high time that somebody did something about this, and fortunately, somebody has. We're talking about Books by the Yard, an interior-decoration breakthrough that makes the ideal gift for the person with good taste who wishes to appear to be well-read but is too busy being tasteful to waste time actually reading. Here is a direct quotation from the sales literature for Books by the Yard: ``Give your library the proper look for elegant book-clad shelves without even needing a book! The whole thing is a lovely camouflage. Books by the Yard are actually a layer of book spines, one inch thick, moulded in resin from real antique books. Applied to a flat surface between strips of wood used to simulate shelves, it looks exactly like a library shelf filled with an impressive array of antique volumes. ``No one will ever know -- unless someone decides to try and read a book!'' Ha ha! There's no chance of THAT. So Books by the Yard are a great idea, although we should warn you that they're not cheap. We paid $62, plus shipping, and all we got was a thin 8-inch by 10-inch slab pretending to be volumes III through VII of ``The History of England.'' So you'd have to spend several thousand dollars minimum to have a really impressive-looking pretend library. And you might want to dress that library up still further by contacting Intellectuals by the Pound, a company that will sell you, on a weight basis, live college graduates, who will sit in your library smoking pipes and pretending to be impressed by your intelligence. No, we're just kidding about Intellectuals by the Pound. But we're NOT kidding about Books by the Yard, and we urge you to place a large holiday order today. And it would not occur to us for one single second to suggest that you should use a pretend name. ------ BULL SCROTUM -- $35 from Goode Company Barbeque, 8911 Katy Freeway, Houston, Texas 77024, phone (713) 464-1901. Ladies, here's a unique item that's bound to cause the men on your gift-giving list to wince with holiday joy. We found this item in the great state of Texas (motto: ``Where Good Taste Originated Someplace Else''). We were in Houston, at a cafeteria- style restaurant called Goode Company Barbeque, and when we brought our tray to the cashier, we saw, hanging overhead, a large selection of these odd-looking THINGS. At first we thought they might be some kind of rare hairy prairie coconuts. But when we read the label and found out what they were, we were so overcome by excitement that we nearly dropped our pork platter. Because this item, according to the label, is ``an actual scrotum of the King of the Range.'' That's right: This is an extremely personal, private part that somebody was able to obtain -- we don't even want to THINK about how -- from an actual bull. Judging from the size of this item, the bull was an EXTREMELY masculine animal. We've been in a lot of major-league locker rooms in our day, and we have never seen anything APPROACHING the capacity of this particular item, as measured in cubic feet. So we think it would be the perfect gift for a woman to give to that ``special man'' to express the romantic message: ``Darling, this reminds me of you, only much larger.'' (We understand that Sylvester Stallone has 14 of these.) The bull scrotum also has many practical uses around the home. You can put things into it. You can even wear it on your head, assuming you have a certain amount of what the French call joie de vivre (literally, ``soybean curd for brain''). Each bull scrotum comes with a convenient leather carrying strap so you don't have to touch it. Don't be fooled by cheap imitations. This is the ONLY bull scrotum endorsed by the League of Women Voters and the Rev. Pat Robertson. ------ EIGHT-FOOT BEEF STICK -- About $3. Manufactured by Bridgford Food Corp., 170 N. Green St., Chicago, Ill. 60607, phone (312) 733-0300. A constant headache this time of year is deciding what to feed your holiday guests. On the one hand, you want a dish that is easy to prepare; on the other hand, you want something that takes an extremely long time to chew. Well, look no further, because this eight-foot beef stick is exactly the holiday food product for you. We purchased our beef stick at an Iowa City, Iowa, K mart. It was part of a nice display at the cash register, to attract those impulse buyers who get to the checkout counter and say to themselves: ``Hey, I could GO for eight feet of beef stick right about now.'' And that's the beauty of the beef stick: You can eat it anytime. It says right on the package: ``READY TO EAT.'' It also says: ``BHA, BHT & CITRIC ACID ADDED TO HELP PROTECT FLAVOR,'' so you know that even if you save it for several years in, for example, your glove compartment, the flavor will still be great, or at least protected. We taste-tested our beef stick at the Holiday Gift Command Center, and we can enthusiastically report that although the tangy taste is ``not for everybody,'' it disappears almost entirely after just a few days. ------ WORM BLOWER -- Around $2. Manufactured by Lindy-Little Joe Inc., Box C, 1110 Wright St., Brainerd, Minn. 56401. Suggested by John Cahill of Alexandria, Va. A fisherperson's worm says a lot about him. When he's out fishing with his buddies, he does not want to reach into his bait bucket, grope around, and pull out a pale, limp, flaccid worm; he wants a worm he can be proud of, a vibrant, glistening, throbbing worm, a worm that will cause the buddies to spit enviously and say: ``Whoa! Check out NORM'S worm.'' And the fisherperson on your holiday gift list will be sure of having the night crawler of his dreams every time, if you give him this Worm Blower from the Lindy line of fine fishing accessories. As the package states: ``Blowing up a crawler not only keeps it off the bottom, but can make a skimpy, shriveled up crawler look like a super worm.'' Basically, the worm blower is a plastic squeeze bottle with a syringe-type needle on it. The sportsperson simply sticks the needle into the worm, squeezes the bottle, and, voila, the worm explodes. No, ideally that does not happen, although apparently it is a danger, because the directions state: ``SQUEEZE WORM BLOWER BEING CAREFUL NOT TO RUPTURE CRAWLER.'' But we still think the worm blower is a very thoughtful gift idea for any man who is concerned about the size and perkiness of his worm. (We understand that Sylvester Stallone has 22 of these.) ------ CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS TRICK CANDY -- Card of six is 95 cents. Manufactured by Accoutrements, Box 30811, Seattle, Wash. 98103, phone (206) 782-9450. Suggested by Katy Spear of San Jose, Calif. We will come right out and say it: This is one of our absolute all- time favorite Gift Guide items, and that statement includes the giant fiberglass goose from last year. This item is so wonderful that we're STILL not convinced that it originated on the planet Earth. The best way for you to appreciate this item is if we just quote, verbatim, the information on the package, which we swear we are not making up: ``QUALITY ... SINCE 1492,'' CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS BRAND TRICK CANDY Looks like candy ... but open one up and EEEE! Vermin! Hidden inside each wrapper is a quality rubber mouse, bug, spider or snake. This same joke was used during the voyage to the New World to keep the crew amused.'' This makes a lot of sense to us. We can just imagine the tense situation on that fateful voyage 500 years ago: ``For weeks the ships have been sailing into the unknown, with the safety of home far, far behind them and only the unknown ahead. As supplies dwindle and no sign of land appears on the vast, empty ocean, the crew becomes restive, nagged by the growing, cold, gut-clenching fear that they're being led to their deaths. Finally a mob of angry sailors confronts Columbus, threatening to mutiny if he doesn't turn back. With nerves stretched to the breaking point, and the threat of violence hanging heavy in the air, Columbus offers the men some candy. Hesitantly, suspiciously, they open the bright foil wrappers and EEEE! Ha ha! Instantly the tension is broken as the men gaily pelt each other with quality rubber vermin.'' ------ CAP BUDDY -- $5.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544, phone (402) 474-5174. Suggested by Kathryn Godlewski of Racine, Wis. Baseball-style caps present a real cleaning challenge to the conscientious homemaker. One major challenge, of course, is getting the cap off of the head of the person who wears it. We do not wish to single out any specific gender here, but a lot of men NEVER take their caps off -- not in restaurants, not at funerals, not in bed, not while undergoing brain surgery. And even if you DO get the owner to remove the cap, you find that it's encrusted with a thick layer of grime that has been formed into a kind of mortar by dried sweat. This poses a real cleaning problem, and until recently the only proven way to solve it was to make a paste mixture of baking soda and kerosene, rub it thoroughly into the cap, then set fire to it. The problem with this approach is that then the man has to go get a whole new cap, and some models -- especially the ones with advanced features such as the adjustable brim -- can run as high as $2.79. But fortunately it is no longer necessary to lay out that kind of money, thanks to the amazing new Cap Buddy. We can't understand how come, in a supposedly advanced country, it took so long for somebody to think this up. What it is, basically, is a plastic thing that you put a cap in, so that you can wash the cap in the dishwasher. Then you just run your dishwasher normally, and bang, all that icky grime has been washed off the cap and spewed all over your silverware. So maybe you'd better wash the cap all by itself. We think this is a terrific product concept, and we are hoping to see new items added to the Buddy line, including the Sock Buddy, the Shoe Buddy and the Jockstrap Buddy. Eventually we may see the day when you can wash ALL your clothes in the dishwasher, and somebody will develop products that enable you to wash your dishes in the washing machine. ------ HIGH-TECH SIREN LOUDSPEAKER HAT -- $7.50 from American Science and Surplus, 601 Linden Pl., Evanston, Ill. 60202, phone (708) 475-8440. You need this item. Everybody who sees this item in action at the Holiday Gift Command Center immediately says: ``Hey, I NEED one of those.'' And no wonder. This is a plastic hat with a battery-powered light and loudspeaker mounted on the top and a microphone dangling down. If you press a button on the side of the microphone and speak into it, your amplified voice comes out of the loudspeaker on top of your head with INCREDIBLY LOW FIDELITY. That alone would make this item worth owning, but there's another switch on the microphone, and you can use it to make THREE KINDS OF SIREN NOISES, plus you have a flashing red light. Trust us, when you put this hat on, everybody pays attention to you. You have a distinct advantage over ordinary humans, most of whom don't even have loudspeakers, let alone sirens. We think the president of the United States should wear one of these hats to give him an ``edge'' when he meets with foreign heads of state for high-level negotiations. U.S. PRESIDENT (through his loudspeaker): And another thing. We want you to leave the Kurds ALONE. SADDAM HUSSEIN: Now wait just a minute. You're talking about the internal affairs of a ... U.S. PRESIDENT (turning on his siren): WOOOP WOOOP WOOOP WOOOP ... SADDAM HUSSEIN: OK! OK! This hat is also great for communicating at loud cocktail parties. And successful businesspersons tell us that wearing this hat around the office greatly enhances their stature. (We understand that H. Ross Perot owns 4,000 of these.) ------ HIGH-FASHION SLIPPERS -- $29.98 from Taylor Gifts, 355 E. Conestoga Rd., Wayne, Pa. 19087-0206, phone (800) 551-3900. NiteMates suggested by Annette Eubank of Gardenville, Pa., and Tom Ward of Fall River, Mass. Did you ever wonder what your leading tasteful fashion designers such as Oscar ``D'' La Renta do when they get home after a hard day of designing clothes that ordinary dirtball humans such as yourself cannot afford? The answer is, they kick off their shoes and put on a pair of slippers shaped like giant Budweiser cans. Yes! Budweiser slippers are all the rage this year in both New York and Paris. (We understand that Ms. Ivana Trump owns 46 pairs.) Another slipper that is extremely popular among tasteful jet-set fashion cognoscenti is the headlight slipper, which has a battery- powered electric light in the toe. This amazing slipper advance means that if a cognoscente is awakened in the middle of the night by an urgent phone call informing him that he must immediately fly to Paris to handle a fashion emergency involving, for example, trouser pleats, he can just switch on his headlight slippers, and they will light his way as he scoots around packing his valise. (When a fashion emergency arises, there generally is not enough time to turn on the room lights.) Probably you are saying: ``It's all well and good to have slippers with lights in them, but what I am really looking for, by way of a gift item, is a slipper that makes NOISE.'' Fortunately, hard-working slipper-industry research scientists have anticipated this need. Either that or they have been mixing their prescription medications again. It's hard to think of another explanation for the development of NFL cheering slippers. These are attractive plush slippers with the logo of your favorite NFL team on the side. The large, bulging toes are intended to look like football helmets, although in fact they are much hairier than the helmets that real NFL players use, so it looks as though you're walking around with a pair of overweight badgers clinging to your feet. But that is not the good part. The good part is that concealed inside one of the slippers is an electronic battery-powered device, which, when you stomp your feet, makes a noise that sounds exactly like a stadium crowd roaring! (We're talking about a small, battery-powered stadium crowd.) You can just imagine how handy it would be to have a pair of slippers that make noise with every step, especially when the slipper-owner is trying to creep into the bedroom without disturbing a sleeping spouse (Creep ROAR creep ROAR ... ``WHAT'S THAT?'' ``Oh, did I wake you? Sorry. '') You may recall that last year's Gift Guide featured slippers that made a flatulent sound when trod upon. Now, just one short year later, we have cheering slippers. This rapid advance in slipper technology -- and by the way, Japan is years behind the United States in this area -- makes us wonder what amazing development the slipper industry will spring on us next. Cappuccino-machine slippers? Drill-press slippers? Slippers containing a combination fax machine and ant farm? This is a great time to be alive. ------ FINGER LIGHT -- $3.25 from American Science and Surplus, 601 Linden Pl., Evanston, Ill. 60202, phone (708) 475-8440. This is the perfect gift for the person on your holiday list who: 1. Has a finger. 2. Needs to have an electric light attached to it. This item consists of a battery case that you strap to your wrist, and is attached by a wire to a little light bulb that clips onto your finger, so that wherever you point, you get a little beam of light. Just think of all the practical uses for such an item! Go ahead! We'll wait right here! (Lengthy pause) OK, we thought of one: Gesturing. Let's say you're in an argument, and you're trying to make an important point. If you DON'T have a light attached to your finger, you could lack the forcefulness you need: YOU: ... and I'm telling you for a fact that Plastic Man did NOT have a secret identity. YOUR OPPONENT: Oh, yeah? But notice the difference when you are emphasizing your point by gesturing with a finger light: YOU: ... and I'm telling you for a fact that Plastic Man did NOT have a secret identity. YOUR OPPONENT: Ow! My eyes! Also we believe that the finger light would provide a suave and sophisticated way to attract the eye of a waiter at an expensive French restaurant: ``Hey garcon! You got any ketchup?'') ------ GIFT GUIDE CHILDREN'S ITEM BOOGERS -- Suggested by Diane Currie Richardson of North St. Paul, Minn. When we here at the Holiday Gift Command Center evaluate a possible gift item for children, the No. 1 question we ask is: ``Is this item educational?'' That's why we were so excited when we found out about Boogers (``From The Planet Nose''). This is exactly the kind of toy that we believe the Youth of Today should be playing with, so as to help insure that they will be mentally unfit to compete with us older persons in the Job Market of Tomorrow. This item consists of a large plastic nose that can be stuck, via a suction cup, onto any smooth surface, such as a refrigerator, automatic bank teller machine, marble tombstone, etc. Inside this nose is a ``Booger,'' which is a creature made from a space-age material that looks and feels disgusting but is actually perfectly sanitary. We hope. Anyway, the child can pull the Booger out of the nose through a nostril, and then do educational things with it that we don't want to think about. ``Pull me out and put me into action,'' exclaims the Booger on the package. There are actually six Boogers, including ``Sputo-jock,'' ``Snotly Gru'' and ``Clem and Phlegm.'' Your child will want to collect them all, if we have anything to say about it. This is the finest toy concept we have ever evaluated that is based on a mucus-related theme, and that is saying something. BULLETIN: URGENT SHOPPER ADVISORY -- After this item was selected for the Gift Guide, we contacted the manufacturer and were informed that Boogers are NO LONGER AVAILABLE. Unfortunately at that point we had no choice but to include the item in the Gift Guide anyway, because of certain technical considerations; namely, we are much too lazy to find another item. We regret the inconvenience. But frankly not much. ------ DUCK BUTTS -- $5.99 per pair from Knutson's Recreational Sales Inc., 164 Wamplers Lake Rd., Box 457, Brooklyn, Mich. 49230, phone (800) 248- 9318. Suggested by Phil Smith of Richmond, Va. If you have a sportsperson on your holiday gift list, the chances are excellent that he would love to have a duck butt. And no wonder. As you are no doubt aware, a major problem with traditional duck decoys is that they are all in the upright position; whereas real ducks periodically stick their heads underwater to look for snails or car keys or whatever it is that ducks are looking for underwater. This means that if you have a set of ordinary decoys, all in the upright position, they don't look natural. Ducks flying overhead are eventually going to become suspicious. ``Hey,'' they are going to say. ``How come those so-called `ducks' down there are all in the upright position?'' Granted, this probably will not happen until several billion years from now, when ducks have evolved to the point where they can talk. But it never hurts to be prepared, which is why we're certain that the sportsperson on your list will be thrilled to receive this gift, which is an exact replica of a duck butt, weighted so the tail sticks up. This will definitely lend an aura of realism to any decoy flotilla, thus attracting the attention of real ducks flying overhead. (``Hey! How come some of those so-called `ducks' down there never come up for air?'') Bonus Tip For Home Entertainers: These duck butts can also add ``a touch of class'' to a punch bowl. ------ INSPIRATIONAL NIGHT LIGHT -- $3.95 from Carol Wright Gifts, 340 Applecreek Rd., Lincoln, Neb. 68544, phone (402) 474-5174. If you're in the market for a tasteful night light shaped like a major religious figure -- and who isn't? -- this is the item for you. We're not making any claims about this night light having special powers. We're not suggesting, for example, that if you brush your teeth in front of this night light, YOUR GUM PROBLEMS WILL BE MIRACULOUSLY HEALED! Or that the rays from this night light can PERMANENTLY ELIMINATE UNWANTED BODILY HAIR! Nor would we suggest that this night light can IMPROVE YOUR LOVE LIFE! and cause you to WIN THE STATE LOTTERY! as well as LOSE UP TO 75 POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS WITHOUT DIETING! It's just a night light, that's all, and you should feel free to disregard the fact that RALPH WHELKMONGER OF AKRON, OHIO, DECIDED NOT TO BUY THIS NIGHT LIGHT, AND THE NEXT DAY HE WAS DISMEMBERED IN A FREAK FERRIS WHEEL ACCIDENT. ------ KENTUCKY THUMBSTICK -- $48 from The J. Peterman Company, 2444 Palumbo Dr., Lexington, Ky. 40509, phone (800) 231-7341. Suggested by Agnes Potter of Old Greenwich, Conn. This item is featured in the J. Peterman Company catalog, which has a section headed ``Philosophy,'' in which J. Peterman makes these observations: ``People want things that are hard to find. Things that have romance, but a factual romance, about them. ... I think that giant American corporations should start asking themselves if the things they make are really, I mean really, better than the ordinary.'' We certainly see this philosophy being put into practice in the Kentucky Thumbstick. According to the J. Peterman catalog description, this is a piece of ``solid maple, approx. 57 inches long'' that has been ``hand cut and hand stripped of bark. Knots cut and smoothed by hand. Sealed and finished with two coats of a secret Kentucky solution. Price: $48.'' We're sure you're reacting to this description with the same excitement that we felt. ``Wait a minute,'' you're saying. ``These people are charging nearly $50 for a STICK?'' Of course not. Don't be silly. This is not just a STICK. This is a THUMBstick. It has an exclusive feature, which, without going into a lot of highly technical detail, we will describe here as a ``fork'' or ``Y. '' Thanks to this feature, the hiker is able -- pay close attention here, because this is the very essence of the the Thumbstick concept -- to REST HIS OR HER THUMB IN THE ``y'' WHILE HIKING. This prevents the hiker's hand from sliding down the stick, which is a leading cause of hiking- related falls. So we're not talking about a company charging an absurd amount of money for a mere stick. We're talking about a company charging an absurd amount of money for a stick with a fork in it, which is totally different. We really, and we mean really, wish that giant American corporations would stop screwing around making products such as refrigerators and automobiles, and start producing more items like this, and we look forward with eagerness to other factual yet romantic products from J. Peterman, such as the Kentucky Throwing Rock, the Kentucky Bag of Dirt and the Kentucky Dead Insect. ------ THOSE AMAZING LEECHES by Cheryl M. Halton -- $13.95 from MacMillan Publishing Company, 100 Front St., Box 500, Riverside, N.J. 08075-7500, phone (800) 453-2665. Suggested by Topher Gee of Medford, Mass. This is our 1992 Holiday Gift Guide Literary Selection, and one look at the cover tells you why: It features two large leeches sitting on a human foot, cheerfully sucking blood out of a toe that has some kind of repulsive purplish inflammation. ``Yum,'' the leeches are clearly thinking. Yes, if there is a friend or loved one on your gift list who has a hankering to know more -- MUCH more -- about slime-covered bloodsucking parasites, we cannot think of a more appropriate gift than this book. It contains many Amazing Leech Facts -- did you know, for example, that some leeches grow to be MORE THAN A FOOT LONG? -- and it has chapters entitled, ``A Visit to a Leech Farm'' and ``Collecting and Keeping Leeches.'' This is an opportunity for the science-minded young person on your holiday gift list to get into the fast-growing hobby of leech breeding. (``Mom, I can't find Rex.'' ``Well, where did you see him last?'' ``Crawling into Jessica's nose.'' ``EEEE!'') (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. We at ClariNet apologize for the delay. -- This, and all articles in this news hierarchy are Copyright 1992 by the wire service or information provider and licenced to Clarinet Communications Corp. for distribution. Except for free samples, only paid subscribers may access these articles. Any unauthorized access, reproduction or transmission is strictly prohibited. We will reward the first provider of information that helps us stop violators of this copyright. Send reports to reward@clarinet.com. (Note that while we do like to know about people who do the odd reposting to USENET without permission, rewards are not always provided for reports on that, since's it's usually obvious.) Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (David Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: 'TIS THE SEASON TO BE WARY Message-ID: Date: Sat, 5 Dec 92 18:08:01 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 827; Id: z0401; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 12/06-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Dec. 6 and is strictly embargoed until that date.) Lines: 75 DAVE BARRY 'Tis the holiday season -- a time when writers openly use words like ``'tis'' and even ``'twas''; a time when throngs of excited parents bustle into the Toys Sure ``R'' Costing ``U'' Plen-``T'' store and club each other with sturdy Tonka trucks in fierce holiday struggles over who gets to purchase the only remaining unit of the toy industry's hottest new product concept, Baby Fester Face (``The Doll That Develops REAL BOILS!''); a time when festive gatherings of loud, eggnog-impaired people attempt to sing ``The Twelve Days of Christmas'' despite the fact that nobody ever remembers what my true love gave to me after day five: ``... drummers milking ``EIGHT leapers leaping ``SEVEN figgy puddings ``SIX snakes a-molting ... '' Yes, the holiday season is a time of traditions, and here in the newspaper industry we have a cherished tradition of reminding you, the public, of all the holiday-related ways in which you can get injured or killed. We also perform this service for you on Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. (``Enjoy your turkey dinner, but remember: This year, 250 Americans will choke on their giblets.'') So today I want to discuss a potential holiday disaster that was brought to my attention by alert reader Debby Denniston, who sent me an Associated Press article that appeared last December in the Albany (N.Y. ) Times Union. The article, which I am not making up, begins: ``FREMONT, Neb. -- A 10-year-old boy trying to keep his dog from throwing up on a rug was pinned when the family Christmas tree fell on top of him.'' This incident should come as no surprise to anybody who has ever owned a dog. Throwing up on rugs is the primary function of dogs, as a species. If you were to put a dog in the middle of the Sahara, the dog would immediately start trotting in a straight, purposeful line, and it would continue night and day, traveling thousands of miles if necessary, defying exhaustion, starvation and thirst, until it located a rug, which it would throw up on. So anyway, when this Fremont, Neb., dog -- whose name, according to the article, is ``Pookie'' -- started to woof, the boy shoved him off the rug. Naturally, this caused the Christmas tree to fall. Christmas trees have some kind of inner-ear problem that renders them incapable of standing erect for any significant length of time. In their natural forest environment, they grow horizontally on the ground, like zucchini. Compounding the problem is the fact that Christmas trees are known to be among the most vicious members of the plant community. They become especially hostile after they've spent weeks tied up tightly at the Christmas-tree sales lot while holiday shoppers repeatedly lift them up and pound them down to see if any needles fall off. So when Dad brings a tree home, cuts its ropes and tries to jam it into one of those ludicrously flimsy, ashtray-sized ``tree stands'' -- which are barely adequate to handle a small floral centerpiece, let alone an enraged, full-grown conifer -- the tree, freed from its restraining ropes, will immediately start lunging violently in all directions, while Mom, trying to be helpful, says, ``OK, now it's leaning to the left ... OK, now it's leaning to the right ... OK, now it's leaning back to the left ... OK, now it's ...'' Meanwhile, Dad, somewhere down on the floor under the thrashing branches, pine sap smeared in his hair, is fighting for his life, bleeding from hundreds of tiny pine-needle stab wounds and saying many non-holiday words. At least that's the tradition in our house. But getting back to the Associated Press article: There the boy was, alone in his house, trapped under a highly aggressive Christmas tree. Fortunately, Pookie saw what was happening, trotted alertly over to the boy, and, in the heroic tradition of resourceful canines Lassie and Rin- Tin-Tin, threw up. No, seriously, the article states that the boy was able to reach a phone and call 911, whereupon ``police and firefighters pulled the tree off the boy, who was not injured.'' The article does not state whether the police used tranquilizer darts on the tree. So fortunately this story has a happy ending, which is good, because the holiday season should be a happy time. So before we create the impression that there's nothing more to this very special time of year than tree attacks, we'd like to wish you the best, and leave you with this holiday thought: Both holly AND mistletoe are poisonous. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!enterpoop.mit.edu!micro-heart-of-gold.mit.edu!wupost!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: IT DOESN'T TAKE LONG TO MAKE A NEW HOUSE A HOME Message-ID: Date: Sun, 28 Feb 93 23:46:38 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 899/919; Id: z0599; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 02/28-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Note: (ATTENTION EDITORS: This column is for release on or after Sunday, Feb. 28, and is STRICTLY EMBARGOED until that date.) Lines: 89 DAVE BARRY Knight-Ridder Newspapers Recently I stood in the kitchen of our new home, amid hundreds of cardboard boxes, all helpfully labeled ``BETH,'' and watched my wife, Beth, open a box. She cut through several layers of tape, opened the box flaps and pulled out an object that had been laboriously wadded up inside roughly 2,000 square feet of white paper. She unwrapped it, layer by layer, until finally she got to the object that had been so carefully protected: a coffee mug. With coffee still in it. If you're wondering why we packed a mug with coffee in it, the answer is, we are not that stupid. We are MUCH stupider than that. What we did was PAY SOMEBODY to do this. I am of course referring to moving professionals. They're all trained at a special school. Here's a sample question from the final exam: You are packing up a customer's possessions, and you find a human body with multiple stab wounds. You should: a. Call an ambulance. b. Notify the police. c. Wad it up in white paper and stuff it in a box. The correct answer is ``c.'' Professional movers wad EVERYTHING in white paper. If, in 1990, George Bush had sent in professional movers to resolve the Kuwait problem, today the entire Iraqi military force, tanks and all, would be individually wadded up inside several million cardboard boxes strewn all over the desert, each box labeled with only the word ``IRAQ.'' (Or possibly ``BETH.'') It would take Saddam Hussein DECADES to unpack his army. (``Let's see what's in this box ... more corporals! Where the HECK did they put the enlisted men?'') That's pretty much our situation. We're in a new, extremely box- intensive house. We moved because our old house got whomped by Hurricane Andrew. We thought about fixing it up, but then we got some estimates from contractors: CONTRACTOR: OK, you see this? US: What? CONTRACTOR: Where the tree landed on this truss. US: Houses have TRUSSES? CONTRACTOR (to his assistant): Go back to the truck and fetch me some more zeros for this estimate. It turned out that our old house needed major work. To get it back to its original condition, we would have had to go through a three-step process: STEP ONE: We move out. STEP TWO: We move into temporary lodgings. STEP THREE: We die there of old age. The reason for Step Three, of course, is that major home renovations -- ask anybody who has been through them -- are never completed within your personal lifetime. Major renovations are something you do for posterity. CLERGYMAN: And so today we pay our last respects to a person who had a dream -- the dream that someday, somehow, her house would once again have working bathrooms. (Roars of laughter from the audience, especially the plumbing contractor.) So we decided to sell our house in what is legally known as ``whomped condition.'' The buyer, who is named Frank, was not troubled by this at all. Frank is a positive, optimistic individual, by which I mean he is clinically insane, although of course I would never say this in print because he bought our house. Frank is totally unafraid of major home renovations. He strides confidently around and says things like, ``I'm gonna move the kitchen HERE, put another bathroom HERE, put an escalator THERE; then I'm gonna move the entire house NEXT DOOR for a few days while I dig a new basement, and then I'm gonna ...'' We admire Frank's zeal, and we plan to say so at his funeral. Meanwhile, we're adapting to our new house. We've never had a brand-new house before, where everything works and the walls and floors are spotless and there is no lingering odor coming from behind the cabinets where apparently a mouse has died. (Don't worry, Frank! After a while you get used to it!) And so when we entered our new house for the first time as the owners, we felt a sense of euphoria that lasted for a full 10 seconds, which is how long it took for our small auxiliary backup dog, Zippy, to locate a white carpet and poop on it. I am not making this up. I believe the sound of the door closing was still echoing through the empty house when Zippy let loose. I don't hold this against him. Inside his brain, which is made of the same material as his toenails, he believed he was doing the right thing, according to the laws of Dog Logic, as follows: 1. It is bad to poop inside our house. 2. This is not our house. 3. Therefore, this is a good place to poop. Of course we plan to do much more with our new home. We're going to put gouges in the floors, and we plan to do a LOT with hand smudges. But we like to think that, in terms of our basic decor theme, Zippy set the tone. We can't wait to get started, and we're looking forward to many happy years here, during which we hope to eventually locate the box containing our son. (C) 1993 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Congratulations! You have purchased an extremely fine device that would give you thousands of years of trouble-free service, except that you undoubtably will destroy it via some typical bonehead consumer maneuver. Which is why we ask you to PLEASE FOR GOD'S SAKE READ THIS OWNER'S MANUAL CAREFULLY BEFORE YOU UNPACK THE DEVICE. YOU ALREADY UNPACKED IT, DIDN'T YOU? YOU UNPACKED IT AND PLUGGED IT IN AND TURNED IT ON AND FIDDLED WITH THE KNOBS, AND NOW YOUR CHILD, THE SAME CHILD WHO ONCE SHOVED A POLISH SAUSAGE INTO YOUR VIDEOCASSETTE RECORDER AND SET IT ON "FAST FORWARD", THIS CHILD ALSO IS FIDDLING WITH THE KNOBS, RIGHT? AND YOU'RE JUST NOW STARTING TO READ THE INSTRUCTIONS, RIGHT??? WE MIGHT AS WELL JUST BREAK THESE DEVICES RIGHT AT THE FACTORY BEFORE WE SHIP THEM OUT, YOU KNOW THAT? -- Dave Barry, "Read This First!" Article: 24 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!decwrl!looking!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: MEN AND HOUSEWORK, WOMEN AND JOCK ITCH Message-ID: Date: Sat, 31 Oct 92 18:08:01 PST ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 847; Id: z0341; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 11/01-N/A Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q Lines: 78 DAVE BARRY Today I want to talk to you husbands about housework, and the importance of helping your wives with ... HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, MEN. I see you trying to sneak out of this article. Get back in here and listen up: The International Labor Organization, an agency of the United Nations, recently did a survey asking women around the world how much help we men give them with the housework. According to the results, most women think we're doing a splendid job. I'm joking of course. The women basically said that, in terms of sharing the housework burden, having a man around is like having a 197- pound lint ball permanently bonded to the sofa, operating the TV remote control and periodically generating dirty underwear. This kind of criticism is nothing new. Somebody is always surveying women about men, and men ALWAYS come out looking bad. Just once I'd like to see a survey with questions that would tend to put men in a more positive light, such as: -- ``Which gender, on the average, is more likely to demonstrate the patience and perseverance necessary to teach a small child how to spit?'' -- ``In the event of a family emergency, which gender is most likely to be able to remember -- coolly, calmly and without panic -- what position Clarence `Choo Choo' Coleman played?'' But surveys never ask this type of question. They always ask about female-oriented qualities such as maturity, sensitivity, communication, commitment, ability to remember the names of all the children, etc. -- as if those were the only issues that mattered; as if men did not have unique needs and problems of their own; as if there were NO SUCH THING as jock itch. Just recently my wife and I were in South Miami Beach, sitting at an outdoor cafe with a lovely view of palm trees and the beach, and directly in front of us, about 25 yards away, was a man clearly experiencing a life-threatening need to scratch himself. Unfortunately he was in a wide-open area, wearing nothing except a bathing suit about the size of a lady's wristwatch. Trying hard to look casual, he lay down sideways, pretending to be a guy relaxing in the sun. He glanced around to see if anybody was watching and then GROPE, he made a lighting-fast move to ease his discomfort, and then he glanced around again, and then GROPE, and then another glance, and then GROPE and then a glance and then GROPEGROPEGROPEGROPE he lost control of himself and plunged in frantically with both hands, too absorbed in his task to realize that he had now surpassed the Atlantic Ocean as a local tourist attraction, with a large crowd watching him and small banner- towing airplanes making U-turns to come back for a second look. I know you men are thinking: ``Whoa, I can definitely feel for that guy, so to speak.'' On the other hand, my wife, a member of the so- called ``sensitive'' gender, was LAUGHING. But does the International Labor Organization do a survey about this sensitive issue? No, it picks housework, which happens to be a weak point with us men. This is not our fault. We spent millions of years functioning as the food providers in the family, and thus we are temperamentally and biologically more suited to aggressively physical, strenuous, hunter-gatherer types of activities, such as golf. Plus, on those rare occasions when a man does attempt to help out with some household responsibility, such as getting the kids dressed for school, he often discovers that his wife has established a lot of picky, technical rules, and if he doesn't do everything exactly right, he gets corrected, until finally he just gets fed up. ``Wait a minute,'' he snaps. ``Are you telling me that they have to wear shoes EVERY SINGLE DAY?'' And then he stomps off and tries to calm himself down by gripping his putter. Another problem is that TV commercials for housework-type products are always aimed at women. We need commercials that would make housework appealing to guys. For example, there could be one where a guy opens up his refrigerator and sees ... The Swedish Bikini Team! They're trapped! Their feet are stuck in the dense brown goo that formed when barbecue sauce spilled onto the hydrator! So the guy grabs some Pine Sol and uses its exclusive grease-cutting formula to rescue the Bikini Team members, who gather around him and express their gratitude by leaning over a lot. Yes, the advertising industry could definitely be doing a better job. But in the end, men, it's up to you to make more of an effort to help out around the home. At the same time, you women out there need to become more aware of an important fact, and one that is often overlooked amid the endless day-to-day hassles involved in running a household: ``Choo Choo'' Coleman was a catcher. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 6 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: basser.cs.su.oz.au!cluster!stanford.edu!bcm!wupost!uunet!uunet.ca!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: KEEPING CALM AND FLYING HIGH Message-ID: Date: 26 Jul 92 02:08:06 GMT Lines: 82 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 858; Id: z0312; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 07/26-N/A Codes: //tw--q/, tw--q DAVE BARRY This summer millions of Americans are traveling by air, sometimes all on the same flight. This is the result of the airfare war that occurred recently when major U.S. airlines, in the continuing industry-wide effort to go bankrupt, started offering unbelievable bargains, like $29 round-trip tickets between any two cities with electric lights. Fares were reduced still further by the traditional airline discount of 40 percent for people who can prove that they are dumber than mud, which is designed to insure that every flight has passengers who believe that they can fit garment bags the size of mature bison into the overhead luggage compartment. So everybody's flying, including possibly you. If you're apprehensive about this, let me assure you, as a frequent flier, that few experiences are more enjoyable than being seven miles above the Earth's surface in a crowded aging piece of machinery held aloft by principles of physics that you do not even dimly grasp while giant invisible gravity rays pound relentlessly on the roof. The key to enjoying this experience is to relax, remain calm, and -- above all -- DO NOT THINK ABOUT THE FOLLOWING POSSIBILITIES, none of which I am making up: 1. THE PILOT MAY BE LOST. Last March I was in Salt Lake City, riding in a hotel courtesy van to the airport, and sitting behind me, talking shop, were two pilots, both from major airlines. I could not help but overhear them, because I was eavesdropping as hard as I could. This is what they said: FIRST PILOT: We were lost. I mean we were LOST. It (some kind of navigation thing) could tell us where we had BEEN, but it couldn't tell us where we were GOING. SECOND PILOT: One time we had a horrendous static surge, and all our (some kind of navigation things) went out. We had an alternate (something) system, but it took us an hour's flying time to figure out how to use it. (Both pilots laugh.) Did you hear that? They were lost for an HOUR. Do you think they told the passengers? Don't be an idiot. They probably continued to make authoritative, pilot-style announcements. ``Those of you on the right side of the aircraft,'' they said, ``can see Lake Ontario.'' Meanwhile, in the cockpit, they probably were frantic. ``Where the hell is the Owner's Manual?'' they were shouting. And: ``That's not Lake Ontario! That's Brazil!'' And: ``Which one is the right side of the aircraft?'' 2. THE ENTIRE FLIGHT CREW MAY BE UNCONSCIOUS. According to a 1986 study, commercial airline pilots often become extremely drowsy, and there have been flights where EVERYBODY IN THE COCKPIT WAS ASLEEP. On one transcontinental flight, the plane flew right past California, and the crew didn't wake up until they were out over the Pacific Ocean. (``What the hell is THAT?'' ``Looks like Lake Ontario!'') 3. KEY PLANE PARTS MIGHT FALL OFF. A senior airline pilot told me this at a party: One time he and his co-pilot heard a warning signal, indicating something seriously wrong with the No. 3 engine. They were shutting the engine down when a flight attendant burst into the cockpit and said: ``The No. 3 engine is gone.'' The pilots, sounding authoritative, said yes, we're aware of it, implementing normal procedures, nothing to worry about, etc., at which point the flight attendant said: ``You don't understand. The (very bad word) engine is GONE.'' What had happened was, one of the plane's toilets leaked, so a chunk of frozen waste formed outside the plane, and it broke off and slammed into the engine, which, unbeknownst to the pilots, fell off the plane. (From time to time, large blue chunks of frozen airline waste come hurtling out of the sky, like lethal missiles from the Death Commode Planet. Don't think about this, either.) 4. ON-BOARD COWS MAY OVERHEAT. I have here a Toronto Star article, sent in by alert reader Jim Cunningham, stating that last October a Lufthansa 747 passenger jet was forced to land in Iceland ``after fire extinguishers went off twice en route, dousing 20 head of cattle in the airplane's cargo compartment.'' A Lufthansa spokesperson is quoted as saying: ``That's what happens when you get a lot of cows together -- you get a lot of heat being generated. '' That's right: They sometimes put cows on passenger flights. But don't think about it, especially not the potential for methane-gas buildup. There are other things you shouldn't think about -- recently I was on a Washington-to-Miami flight during which the pilot announced that we were taking an alternate route because of (I swear) ``missile testing'' -- but I will not mention them here. Because I want you to enjoy the air- travel experience as much as possible, from the moment you get on the plane, until the moment you begin the emergency evacuation. Remember: Women and heifers first. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 96 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: THE TROUBLE WITH LANDLORDS -- AND TENANTS Message-ID: Date: 26 Jan 92 00:00:13 GMT Lines: 78 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 851; Id: z0247; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 01/26-1aed DAVE BARRY If you were to make a list of the most unpopular professions, you'd have to include landlord, which generally ranks, in public-opinion polls, down with attorney, journalist and salmonella. I myself have had some unpleasant experiences with landlords, most notably back in the early 1970s when I shared an apartment with Randall Shantz. One Saturday night we hosted a party (theme: ``Many People In A Small Loud Room'') that was a major social success as measured by the number of National Guard units ultimately involved. Mankind can be certain that there are no other advanced life forms in the universe, because if there were, they would have complained about this party. Everybody else did. The next day, Randall and I received a snippy note from our landlord suggesting that we would probably be happier renting a more appropriate habitat, such as the Gobi Desert. This was typical of my youthful experiences as a tenant, the result being that, like many people, I had a negative opinion of landlords. Until I became one. This happened about 15 years ago, when some friends and I, in an effort to become wealthy real-estate investors -- similar to Donald Trump, but warm-blooded -- obtained a loan and purchased two small apartment buildings in West Chester, Pa. We set out to be Nice Guy landlords. We listened to the tenants' complaints and fixed up their apartments and went over immediately whenever they called with problems. I was the Plumbing Specialist, which was unfortunate because our apartments were equipped with highly complex toilets containing millions of parts that were constantly decaying due to some kind of deadly toilet leprosy. Also, inappropriate items kept mysteriously getting lodged in them. I'd respond to a toilet alarm in the middle of the night, and, using techniques that are too disgusting to reveal here, I'd determine that the toilet had been clogged by, say, a frozen chicken, or a bowling shoe. I'd show the item to the tenants, who always appeared to be amazed. ``How did THAT get in there?'' they'd say. It was as though that jolly old elf, Toilet Claus, had been going around leaving little surprises. So we found that it wasn't easy being Nice Guys, and it didn't help that about half of our tenants viewed paying the rent as an optional part of the deal, like leaving a tip. The rent would be overdue, and we'd come around to collect it, and our tenants, who operated on a strictly cash basis, would say things like, ``I had it Tuesday night, but you weren't here,'' in an accusing tone of voice strongly suggesting that it was our fault for not showing up when they had the money, thereby leaving them with no viable option but to buy 17 cases of beer. At one point I took one of our tenants, Julius, to the bank and helped him open a checking account. Unfortunately, he didn't grasp the concept: He thought that all he had to do was correctly fill out the blank spaces on the checks, and the bank would provide money in infinite quantities. Julius thought this was a swell system. He couldn't believe it took him so long to find out about it. He's probably in Congress today. Our tenants were full of surprises. One time a tenant who went by the name of ``Fud'' called to complain that there were holes in his ceiling. So my partner Buzz and I went over, and sure enough, there were holes in his ceiling. Bullet holes. They were put there when Fud, after a few beers purchased with rent money, decided that the apartment was as good a place as any to shoot his gun. So Buzz and I, hearts pounding, rushed up to the apartment above, which was occupied by Julius. Julius was very comfortable with the fact that he had bullet holes in his floor. ``Oh yes,'' he said, cheerfully. ``Fud was shooting his gun.'' Another time Fud's wife called Buzz at 2 a.m. and mumbled something. ``What?'' said Buzz, trying to wake up. ``What?'' Finally he figured out that she was saying: ``The fireman wants to know the name of the landlord.'' Fortunately it was a smallish fire. It wasn't nearly as bad as the bats. We found out about the bats one night while watching the local TV news out of Philadelphia. ``Coming up next,'' the anchor person said, ``bats in West Chester.'' This was followed by a story about how tenants in a West Chester apartment building had been terrified when, suddenly and mysteriously, a huge colony of bats -- literally thousands of them -- had come swarming out of the attic and dropped to the ground, dead. Of course we recognized the tenants and the building. If mystery suicide bats were going to live in an apartment building, it naturally had to be ours. We never did find out what caused them to die. But I'm glad they're gone. They never paid their rent. (C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC. Article: 97 of clari.feature.dave_barry Path: cluster!stanford.edu!lll-winken!dogmead!clarinews From: clarinews@clarinet.com (Dave Barry) Newsgroups: clari.feature.dave_barry Subject: HOW GUYS DO LAUNDRY Message-ID: Date: 2 Feb 92 00:06:25 GMT Lines: 87 Approved: clarinews@clarinet.com ACategory: lifestyle Slugword: barry Priority: advance ANPA: Wc: 853; Id: z0241; Sel: tw--q; Adate: 02/02-1aed DAVE BARRY I have here a letter from Alison Schuler of Albuquerque, N.M. (motto: ``The City That Is Probably Spelled Wrong''). Ms. Schuler is concerned about the issue of How Guys Do Laundry. She relates the following anecdote: ``My husband announced one morning that he had discovered the previous night, on the eve of a two-day business trip, that he was out of underwear. Why he told me, I do not know. I never tell HIM when I'M out of underwear. Anyway, he decided to remedy the situation in true guy fashion, by washing exactly three sets of underwear, thus disregarding the bulging hamper full of the rest of his underwear, which, presumably, would wash itself during his absence.'' Ms. Schuler's letter serves to remind us of the importance of not engaging in sexist stereotyping. We must never make blanket gender-based statements such as: ``Men always hog the blanket.'' Just because Ms. Schuler's husband doesn't do the laundry, that doesn't mean that there aren't millions upon millions of males who DO do the laundry, then hang it out to dry under the three suns of the Planet Xoomar, where they live. Most males here on Earth, however, do not do any more laundry than they absolutely have to. A single-sock load would not be out of the question, for a guy. A guy might well choose to wash ONLY THE REALLY DIRTY PART OF THE SOCK. At first glance, this behavior might seem to be reprehensible, but in fact there's a simple, logical explanation for it: Men are worthless scum. No, seriously, the explanation is that many men are AFRAID to do laundry, especially laundry belonging to people of other genders, because they (the males) might get into Big Trouble. I know I would. In our household we have a lot of sensitive garments with laundering- instruction tags full of strict instructions like: DO NOT MACHINE-WASH. DO NOT USE BLEACH. DO NOT USE HOT WATER. DO NOT USE WARM WATER. DO NOT USE ANY WATER. DO NOT TOUCH THIS GARMENT WITHOUT SURGICAL GLOVES. PUT THIS GARMENT DOWN IMMEDIATELY, YOU CLUMSY OAF. I'm intimidated by these instructions. I developed my laundering skills in college, where I used what laundry scientists call the Pile System, wherein you put your dirty undershorts on the floor until they form a waist-high pile, thus subjecting the bottom shorts to intense heat and pressure that causes them to become, over several months, clean enough to wear if you're desperate and spray them with Right Guard brand deodorant. As a married person, I use the Hamper System, which is similar to the Pile System except that the clothes really do get clean, thanks to magical hamper rays. No, I of course realize that hamperized clothes are cleaned by a person such as my wife, Beth, or Alison Schuler of Albuquerque, N.M. But I also know that Beth follows a complex procedure involving sorting and pre-soaking and 27 different combinations of water temperatures and chemical compounds such as fabric softener, stain remover, fabric hardener, cream rinse, plutonium, etc. Beth wouldn't LET me do her laundry unless I underwent years of training, because she assumes I'd screw it up and cause our garments to shrink down to cute little Tinkerbell clothes, or transmaterialize in the dryer, similar to what happened to that unfortunate man in the movie ``The Fly,'' so we'd wind up with, for example, a brassiere that had pant legs. Beth's re