People who make me laugh

[Enforcer]

For about 20 years now, I've been a big fan of Dave Barry. He's written some really funny books and he also writes a sort of observational humor column for the Miami Herald, for those who haven't heard of him. I guess he's taking a personal hiatus for a while, and to fill his column during this time, the paper is printing some of his classic columns. This one dates back to 1989, and it's one of my favorites.
I slalomly swear


DAVE BARRY

While Dave Barry joins Dolphins running back Ricky Williams on a spiritual journey to find himself, Herald.com will run one of his classic columns each Sunday. This column was originally published on Feb. 5, 1989.

If you're looking for a vacation concept that combines the element of outdoor fun with the element of potentially knocking down a tree with your face, you can't do better than skiing. My family just got back from a ski trip to Vermont ("The Wind Chill Factor State"), and it was an adventure that I'm sure we will remember fondly for many years while our various body parts heal.

The key to a successful ski trip, of course, is planning, by which I mean: money. For openers, you have to buy a special outfit that meets the strict requirements of the Ski Fashion Institute, namely: (1) It must cost as much as a medium wedding reception; (2) it must make you look like the Giant Radioactive Easter Bunny From Space; and (3) it must be made of a mutant fiber with a name that sounds like the villain on a Saturday- morning cartoon show, such as "Gore-Tex," so as to provide the necessary resistance to moisture, which trust me, will be gushing violently from all of your major armpits once you start lunging down the mountain.

You also have to buy ski goggles costing upwards of $50 per eyeball that are specially designed not to not fog up under any circumstances except when you put them on, at which time they become approximately as transparent as the Los Angeles telephone directory, which is why veteran skiers recommend that you do not pull them down over your eyes until just before you make contact with the tree. And you'll need ski boots, which are made from melted bowling balls and which protect your feet by preventing your blood, which could contain dangerous germs, from traveling below your shins.

As for the actual skis, you should rent them because of the feeling of confidence you get from reading the fine print on the lengthy legal document that the rental personnel make you sign, which states:

"The undersigned agrees that skiing is an INSANELY DANGEROUS ACTIVITY, and that the rental personnel were just sitting around minding their OWN BUSINESS when the undersigned, who agrees that he or she is a RAVING LOON, came BARGING IN UNINVITED, waving a LOADED REVOLVER and demanding that he or she be given some rental skis for the express purpose of suffering SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH, leaving the rental personnel with NO CHOICE but to . . . , " etc.

OK! Now you're ready to "hit the slopes." Ski experts recommend that you start by taking a group lesson because otherwise they would have to get real jobs. To start the lesson your instructor, who is always a smiling 19-year-old named "Chip," will take you to the top of the mountain and explain basic ski safety procedures until he feels that the cold has killed enough of your brain cells that you will cheerfully follow whatever lunatic command he gives you. Then he'll ski a short distance down the mountain, just to the point where it gets very steep, and swoosh to a graceful stop, making it look absurdly easy. It IS absurdly easy for Chip, because underneath his outfit he's wearing an antigravity device. All the expert skiers wear them. You don't actually believe that "ski jumpers" can leap off those ridiculously high ramps and just float to the ground unassisted without breaking into walnut-sized pieces, do you? Like Tinkerbell or something? Don't be a cretin.

After Chip stops he turns to the group, his skis hovering as much as three inches above the snow, and orders the first student to copy what he did. This is the fun part. Woodland creatures often wake up from hibernation just to watch this part
because even they understand that the laws of physics, which are strictly enforced on ski slopes, do not permit a person to simply stop on the side of a snow-covered mountain if his feet are encased in bowling balls attached to what are essentially large pieces of Teflon. So they greatly enjoy watching as the first student cautiously pushes himself forward and almost instantly achieves Warp Speed, becoming an almost-invisible blur as he passes Chip and proceeds on into the woods, flailing his arms like a volunteer in a nerve-gas experiment.

"That was good!" shouts Chip, grateful that he is wearing waterproof fibers inasmuch as he will be wetting his pants repeatedly during the course of the lesson. Then he turns to the rest of the group and says: "Next!"

The group's only rational response, of course, would be to lie down in the snow and demand a rescue helicopter. But these are not rational beings; these are ski students. And so one by one they, too, ski into the woods, then stagger out, sometimes with branches sticking out, antlerlike, from their foreheads, and do it again. "Bend your knees this time!" advises Chip, knowing that this will actually make them go faster. He loves his work.

Eventually, of course, you get better at it. If you stick with your lessons, you'll become an "intermediate" skier, meaning you'll learn to fall before you reach the woods. That's the level I'm on now, in stark contrast to my 8-year-old son, who has not yet studied gravity in school and therefore became an expert in a matter of hours. Watching him flash effortlessly down the slope, I found myself experiencing both pride and hope; pride in his accomplishment, and hope that someday, somehow, he'll ski near enough to where I'm lying that I'll be able to trip him with my poles.

[steve(thelil)]

Dave Barry can make humor writing seem so effortless. Often when I laugh at something writtin by Barry (and also by Larry, btw) I say to myself "Now, THAT's how it's done!"

[RainyDay]

I'd have to go with Jon Carroll in the SF Chronicle. Sometimes I embarrass myself laughing on BART while reading his columns. On the other hand, he also writes some fairly biting socio-polical commentary, from the leftist perspective. Here's a rather tame offering for today:

JON CARROLL

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Well, lucky me -- I have a "pre-approved mortgage quote for the Carroll's." For the Carroll's what? Don't ask. It's the floating apostrophe, deemed appropriate for any word that ends in "s." Plurals or possessives -- who really cares?

Wholesale Home Lenders has sent me a letter promising that I will save $838.37 per month on my mortgage payments. I could use the extra money, this letter points out, for a "kitchen and bath remodel" or a "dream vacation."

The interest rate? One percent! See, well, no wonder.

How can they do this? Oh, because they lend so much money that they can operate on a small margin. (Do they lend more money than, say, Citibank? Ah, but Citibank is probably just in it for profit. Damn those big banks.) Better yet, there are no forms to fill out. (You might suspect that, in the lending business, forms might be a good thing, but how can you turn down all that extra cash?)

Oh dear, there's some small print on the back of the letter. "Initial rate of 1 percent is a variable rate that may increase after consummation." Consummation? Do I want the mortgage company in my bedroom? "Certain loan to value and credit restrictions may apply. Rates and terms are subject to change without notice." So the letter on the other side is, what's the word I'm looking for? Ah: meaningless.

It's a scam. It's a legal scam -- that small print inoculates them against almost any complaint -- but it's still a scam. It's designed to deceive. It didn't deceive me because I have a high school diploma and because I know that the world does not offer 1 percent loans, but I am not the target.

Things like this -- and I get a couple every week -- are designed to fool the easily confused and the ignorant. Old people are often easily confused, through no fault of their own, and they are often worried about money. Ignorant people often have badly paying jobs, and thus ditto. And the myth of easy money is always with us.

Well, it's the Darwinian thing, isn't it? It's a jungle out there, and if you don't pay attention, you're going to be trapped. The old and the stupid --

let them go bankrupt. They knew the rules when they started playing the game.

Do I think there should be a law against letters like this? No, I like the First Amendment -- although I sure wish credit companies of all sorts were better regulated. But we can hope that good information drives out bad, and I'd love to see some more good information in the marketplace.

The government has a department designed for "consumer protection," but it is underfunded and underactive. (The exception is various agencies prosecuting stock fraud, because that crime affects the Blessed Marketplace). Besides, we want to get the government out of people's lives, so that the lame, the halt and the blind are free to be fleeced without interference.

But look: Many younger people are the caretakers of older people; every community college and extension program should have a Scams 101 course. It would be great if television stations not directly affected by sleazeball advertiser dollars -- public television and premium cable -- would have "This Week in Deception" programs.

Curiously, some children's TV shows teach kids how to view ads more critically; no similar service exists for adults. Infomercials are on TV because they work, which means that there are people out there who believe that you can lose 20 pounds in four weeks without tedious exercise, annoying diets or painful amputations.

It might even be possible to teach people how to judge statements by candidates, officials and bureaucrats. The phrase "Cui bono?" could be translated to good effect. There are more of us than there are of them; we just have to get smarter.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Reader, if you do not want to win a million dollars, please, stop reading this column right now.

Yes, I can I make you younger, richer and taller -- send lots of cash to jcarroll@sfchronicle.com.

[Gentle Giant]

I no longer read him regularly, but I've always loved Dave Barry. His book that's supposed to be like a travelogue is shooting-liquid-out-your-nose funny

[groover]

Posted on Sun, Jan. 02, 2005
The last word, for now; humorist gives jokes a rest:
http://www.miami.com/mld/miamiherald...0546245.htm?1c

[graypencil]

His colleague at the Herald , Carl Haaisen, can also be very funny at times ( particularly in his novels )

[tippy]

Geez, don't they teach beginners how to snow plow in Vermont? Ha ha. Very funny article.

[Pete C]

So I said, yet a little while, at the rate things are going,
and I won’t be able to move, but will have to stay,

where I happened to be, unless some kind person comes

and carries me. For my marches got shorter and shorter

and my halts in consequence more and more frequent

and I may add prolonged . . . And I still remember the

day when, flat on my face by way of rest, in defiance of

the rules, I suddenly cried, striking my brow, Christ,

there’s crawling, I never thought of that. But could I

crawl, with legs in such a state, and my trunk? . . .

And now, let us have done. Flat on my belly, using

my crutches like grapnels I plunged them ahead of me

into the undergrowth, and when I felt they had a hold,

I pulled myself forward, with an effort of the wrists . . .

And in this way I moved onward in the forest, slowly,

but with a certain regularity, and I covered fifteen

paces, day in, day out, without killing myself. And I

even crawled on my back, plunging my crutches

blindly behind me into the thickets, and with the

black boughs for sky to my closing eyes. I was on my

way to mother . . . But there was always present to

my mind, which was still working, if laboriously, the

need to turn, to keep on turning, and every three or

four jerks I altered course, which permitted me to

describe, if not a circle, at least a great polygon, per-

fection is not of this world, and to hope that I was

going forward in a straight line, in spite of everything

day and night, towards my mother . . . And even my

little changes of course were made blindly, in the dark.

The forest ended in a ditch, I don’t know why, and it

was in this ditch that I became aware of what had

happened to me. I supposed it was the fall into the

ditch that opened my eyes, for why would they have

opened otherwise?

[Kevin Bresnahan]

I started archiving Dave Barry's articles back when they started deleting them at the Herald website. I have a whole sheet of them somewhere... Ahhh, here it is. I'll add one of my favorites. And yes, Dave has made me spew coffee out of my nose on ocassion.

Posted on Sun, Aug. 18, 2002

We made it through thanks to luck, prayer and not breathing too much
BY DAVE BARRY

When I think back to the terrible night when Hurricane Andrew ravaged southern Dade County, two words come to my mind -- two words that will forever be linked in my mind to that frightening time.

Those words are "dog flatulence.''

I think of these words because my family spent that night hunkered in the home of some neighbors, who had a dog, whose name was Prince. Prince evidently had sensed that a major storm was coming, and had prepared for it by eating something really rancid, even by dog standards. This must be some kind of dog protective instinct, based on the tactical principle: "To fight a strong wind, you must make a strong wind.''

Whatever it was that Prince ate, it festered inside him all evening, gaining potency, and when Andrew finally arrived, the extreme low pressure of the storm system somehow interacted with the high-pressure system inside Prince, who began to emit industrial quantities of a gas with an odor that could corrode steel. It was bad.

Q. How bad was it?

A. It was so bad that we seriously considered opening the windows, even though the wind was blowing somewhere around 140 miles per hour, and pieces of the house were coming off.

Fortunately, we made it through that night, thanks to a combination of luck and prayer and not breathing too much. In the morning we went outside and found that Andrew had thoroughly trashed our neighborhood. It was a depressing time for everybody, except Prince, who was feeling pretty good, which is understandable, seeing as how, in his opinion, he had personally made the storm go away.

Another Andrew smell I remember vividly is gasoline. We had no electricity, and there were trees down everywhere, so we needed generators and chain saws. We bought these from guys who magically sprang up all over the place after the storm -- like mushrooms, but with fewer teeth -- providing generators and chain saws to us storm victims out of the goodness of their hearts, asking nothing in return except large quantities of cash.

I wound up with two generators and a chain saw, and I was constantly refueling these machines, which meant that for more than a month I reeked of gasoline. This was probably good, because the gasoline fumes somewhat masked my underlying B.O., which is another aroma I associate with Andrew. We were not a good-smelling group, down there in the hurricane zone. I went weeks without a real shower. I considered bathing in the swimming pool, but it was a giant vat of warm putrid algae slime, beneath which lurked piles of sharp aluminum pool-enclosure shrapnel, tree limbs, and at least 150,000 frogs.

So I had the personal hygiene characteristics of a dumpster, and it did not help that I spent many hot and humid days sweating in my yard, clearing storm debris and using my chain saw to fend off the guys who wanted to re-roof my house. Post-Andrew Dade County was swarming with guys who had suddenly realized, only hours earlier, that their true calling was to be roofers. They were going house to house with their arsenal of professional roofing equipment, which generally consisted of a hammer and a six-pack. I did not hire these guys, but some homeowners did, and the new roofs actually held up surprisingly well, unless of course you slammed a door, in which case your roof would slide onto your lawn.

Amateur roofers were not the only scary beings roaming in the hurricane zone. There were also escaped research monkeys, or so we all heard. And there were looters. We had National Guard troops around for a while, and a curfew, which I accidentally violated one night. I had gone on an important humanitarian mission, which was to deliver a cold beer to a friend farther down in the zone, whose house was wrecked way worse than mine. There had been a lot of looting in my friend's neighborhood, and he was spending his nights in his garage, sitting on a lawn chair, holding a pistol. I stayed and talked for a while, then headed home after dark.

About two blocks from my house, I was stopped by a soldier who demanded to see some ID, then gave me a stern lecture about how I should not violate the curfew. I wholeheartedly agreed with him, because I am a law-abiding citizen. Also he was holding a weapon the size of a railroad tie.

Yes, it was an exciting time, and it remains one of the most unforgettable experiences in my life. Even now, 10 years later, when I think about it, many vivid memories come flooding back. I'm going to take a shower.

[GoodSpeak]

Awake! The time is nigh to sink a putt.

by Dave Barry


It's a gloriously sunny day in Miami, and I'm standing in a semicircle of maybe 500 people on a carpet of lush, sweet-smelling, green-glinting grass, the kind that makes you want to get naked and roll around on your back like a dog.

But the people around me are not doing that. They're silent and solemn, like a church congregation, except that a lot of them are smoking cigars. They're staring intently at some tiny figures way off in the distance. I'm staring, too, but I can't quite make out what the figures are doing.

Suddenly the crowd murmurs, and 500 heads jerk skyward in unison. I still can't see anything. The crowd holds its breath, waiting, waiting, and then suddenly...plop...a little white ball falls from the sky, lands in the middle of the semicircle and starts rolling. Immediately the crowd members are shouting at it angrily.

"Bite!" they shout, spewing saliva and cigar flecks. "BITE!!" This is how they tell the ball they want it to stop rolling.

The ball, apparently fearing for its life, stops. The crowd members applaud and cheer wildly. They're acting as though the arrival of this ball is the highlight of their lives.

Which maybe it is. These are, after all, golf fans. And this ball was personally hit by - prepare to experience a heart seizure - Jack Nicklaus.

This exciting moment in sports occurred at the Doral-Ryder Open golf tournament, an event on the professional golf tour, wherein the top golfers from all over the world gather together to see who can take the longest amount of time to actually hit the ball.

I don't know about you, but when I play golf - which I have done a total of three times in my life - I don't waste a lot of time. I just grab a club, stride briskly to the ball, take a hearty swing, then check to see if the ball has moved from its original location. If it hasn't, I take another hearty swing, repeating this process as necessary until the ball is gone, which is my cue to get out another ball, because I know from harsh experience that I will never in a million years find the first one. I keep this up until there are no balls left, which is my cue to locate the part of the golfing facility where they sell beer. In other words, I play an exciting, nonstop-action brand of golf that would be ideal for spectators, except for the fact that most of them would be killed within minutes.

Your professional golfer, on the other hand, does not even THINK about hitting a ball until he has conducted a complete geological and meteorological survey of the situation - circling the ball warily, as though it were a terrorist device, checking it out from every possible angle; squatting and squinting; checking the wind; taking soil samples; analyzing satellite photographs; testing the area for traces of O.J. Simpson's DNA, etc. Your professional golfer takes longer to line up a six-foot putt than the Toyota corporation takes to turn raw iron ore into a Corolla.

I know that it may sound boring to watch grown men squat for minutes on end, but when you see a pro tournament in person - when you're actually watching these world-class golfers line up their shots - it is in fact unbelievably boring. At least it was for me. I would rank it, as a spectator sport, with transmission repair.

"HIT THE BALL ALREADY!" is what I want to shout to Jack Nicklaus, but I did not, because the crowd would have turned on me, and my lifeless body would have been found later buried in a sand trap, covered with cigar burns. Because these fans worship the golfers, and they seem to be truly fascinated by the squatting and squinting process. The more time that passed with virtually nothing happening, the more excited the golf fans became, until finally, when Jack got ready to take the extreme step of actually hitting the ball, everybody was nearly crazy with anticipation, although nobody was making a peep, because putting is an extremely difficult and highly technical activity that - unlike, for example, brain surgery - must be performed in absolute silence.

And so, amid an atmosphere of tension comparable to that of a Space Shuttle launch, Jack finally bent over the ball, drew back his putter and gently tapped the ball.

"GET IN THE HOLE!" the crowd screamed at the ball. "GET IN THE HOLE!"

The ball, of course, did not go in the hole. Your world-class golfers miss a surprising number of short putts. Too much squatting, if you ask me.

"NO!" shouted the crowd, when the ball stopped, maybe an inch from the hole. Some men seemed to be near tears; some were cursing openly. These people were furious at the ball. They did not blame Jack. Jack worked *hard* to line up this putt, and here this idiot ball *let him down*.

But Jack was magnanimous. He tapped the ball in, and the fans applauded wildly, as well they should have, because it is not every day that you see a person cause a little ball to roll six feet. When Jack acknowledged the applause, the next famous world-class golfer in his group, John Daly, began considering the many, many complex factors involved in his putt, which he will probably be ready to attempt no later than June. Let me know if he makes it. I'll be in the grass just beyond the refreshment area, rolling around like a dog.

[GoodSpeak]

I own every book the man has ever written.



Hilarious stuff

[Monte Smith]

Dave Barry always seemed to me to be like training wheels for people who don't have a sense of humor themselves.

[Dr Dave]

The one, the only.

[GoodSpeak]

Originally Posted by Monte Smith

Dave Barry always seemed to me to be like training wheels for people who don't have a sense of humor themselves.

You must be his biggest fan.

[Ron Thorne]

Originally Posted by Monte Smith

Dave Barry always seemed to me to be like training wheels for people who don't have a sense of humor themselves.

Holy crap. Will the profundity never cease?

[John L]

Originally Posted by Dr Dave

The one, the only.

[patricia]

While I like Dave Barry a lot, David Sedaris [latest book is "Dress Your Family In Courduroy And Denim"] makes me laugh out loud.
His books are hilarious, but he is one of the few humourists whose audio tapes are better than just reading his books for myself. His voice is unique and his delivery is priceless!!!
One of his funniest bits grew out of his father's interest in jazz and his attempt to form a family jazz group, having been inspired by Dave Brubeck. David was assigned the guitar and was sent to a midget to take lessons.
Sedaris' sense of the ridiculous and his observation of the human condition is amazing.

[claude]

Never heard these guys before today, but this did make me laugh:

http://www.blueshado.com/deadhamster.shtml

[Pete C]

I've never "gotten" Barry either.

I generally find humorists and stand-up comics trite and obvious.

One of the funniest writers I've ever read is Peter DeVries. I also love writers who can be hilarious while writing "seriously" about something, like Jeffrey Steingarten or Calvin Trillin on food.

I think, in generally, when one's main goal is to be funny, the results are less than satisfactory. When a funny person sets out to do something with a bit of purpose other than just aiming for laughs--be it Beckett, Pinter, Swift, Voltaire, Twain--then we're talking.

One of the funniest films I've seen in recent years is Benigni's "Johnny Stecchino."

Nothing annoys me more than "A Prairie Home Companion." Yuck.

[Joe Milazzo]

[Monte Smith]

Originally Posted by Pete C

One of the funniest films I've seen in recent years is Benigni's "Johnny Stecchino."

Yes! The scene where Benigni is opening the drawer but he has to make his hand shake because the insurance investigator comes in: bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam! Now that is good physical comedy.

Like patricia, I also admire David Sedaris. He is so archly screwed up, so frigging funny.

[Chris D]

Originally Posted by Monte Smith

Like patricia, I also admire David Sedaris. He is so archly screwed up, so frigging funny.

His sister Amy is a trip too. I like the story of their adolescence: "Don't smoke pot. Don't smoke pot in the house. Don't smoke pot in the living room."

[jazzy mary]

Originally Posted by Dr Dave

The one, the only.

Right on, Dr. Dave. No one has even come *close* to the genius of Richard Pryor!

Oh, Larry Nagel always makes me laugh. I love him! (as we all know)

[Monte Smith]

Originally Posted by Chris D

His sister Amy is a trip too. I like the story of their adolescence: "Don't smoke pot. Don't smoke pot in the house. Don't smoke pot in the living room."

Indeed. I hear rumor that they are making a Strangers With Candy movie. The Comedy Central show was hilarious, but I sort of fear seeing what Amy Sedaris and Stephen Colbert will do with the freedom that comes with an R rating. Gulp. Scary.

[Jimmy Cantiello]

[walto]

Ian Frazier

[BFrank]

Harry Shearer
Jon Stewart
Stephen Colbert
Larry David

[GoodSpeak]

Originally Posted by Pete C

I've never "gotten" Barry either.

I generally find humorists and stand-up comics trite and obvious.

One of the funniest writers I've ever read is Peter DeVries. I also love writers who can be hilarious while writing "seriously" about something, like Jeffrey Steingarten or Calvin Trillin on food.

I think, in generally, when one's main goal is to be funny, the results are less than satisfactory. When a funny person sets out to do something with a bit of purpose other than just aiming for laughs--be it Beckett, Pinter, Swift, Voltaire, Twain--then we're talking.

One of the funniest films I've seen in recent years is Benigni's "Johnny Stecchino."

Nothing annoys me more than "A Prairie Home Companion." Yuck.

Hm.

How do you stand on Mike Royko or Art Buchwald?

[Joey X]

I like Mel Brooks and Steve Martin.
Joey X

Originally Posted by graypencil

His colleague at the Herald , Carl Haaisen, can also be very funny at times ( particularly in his novels )

And on top of that, he is quite the Floridian historian.

Take that from someone who lived in Florida for 32 years AND enjoyed many a Haaisen article.

Jimmy Buffett owes a lot to this man.