by Jack Handey
A few say I exist, but that I’m actually dead. As evidence, they point to the old gravestone in the cemetery with my name carved on it. But I have apologized for doing that and agreed to do community service.
The truth is, I live in a weird netherworld, somewhere between the dead and those guys who are out riding their bikes, doing stuff like that.
People are always asking if there’s anything they can hold up that will frighten or repel me. One is a screaming baby. The legend also mentions my fear of fire, but come on, who’s not afraid of fire? Man, wise up.
To be honest, just about anything you hold up is going to frighten me. About the only thing I can think of that might not is an ice cream cone, so long as the ice cream isn’t in a scary shape.
Legend says that if sunlight ever hits me, I will wither into a pile of dust. That’s true.
Can I be stopped by bullets or clubbing? Of course I can! What are you thinking?! And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t shine a flashlight in my face.
How did I come to this curse? I’ll tell you. I was bitten, bitten by a wolf. And not an ordinary wolf, but something called a “schnauzer.” A schnauzer owned by my so-called friend Don. Ever since then I am compelled to wander the night, like a schnauzer.
They say my midnight haunts will never end until I am united with my true love. The sad thing is, I don’t even know her name. It’s that French girl from the movie Swimming Pool. But unless I can figure out the area code for France, my love is probably doomed.
Maybe magically the curse will be lifted. I’ll get up bright and early and point to myself in the mirror and say, “You’re going to do great things today.” No, wait, that’s a different curse.
And so I stalk. Usually Friday and Saturday nights are the main times I go stalking, and also, like I said, the moon should be full and mist covering things. But to be honest, it could pretty much be any night of the week.
Hitchhikers
I have a confession to make. About a year ago, I was driving along a country road when I hit a hitchhiker. That it was an accident in no way excuses the pain and suffering I caused.
About a month later, I hit another hitchhiker. A hitchhiker can leave a pretty good dent in your car, so I took it into the shop to get both dents removed. While it was there, I decided to get around by hitchhiking.
Right away, an older gentleman picked me up. He grew tired of driving, and I offered to take over. While I was driving, I hit another hitchhiker. The old man was asleep at the time, so I never told him.
Later, I heard that the hitchhiker had tracked the old man down and, when he went out to check his mailbox, drove by and hit him with his car. How the hitchhiker got a car, I don’t know. Maybe it was a friend’s car, or maybe his car had also been in the shop. But the point is, it’s a weird world out there.
Since hitting that last hitchhiker, I have accidentally hit twenty-eight other hitchhikers. I don’t know what’s going on. Everyone hits at least a few hitchhikers every year, whether you realize it or not. (Have you ever been driving and hit a strange bump and wondered, What was that? That was a hitchhiker.) But, to me, twenty-eight seems like way too many.
I decided to get to the bottom of it. Maybe I was just going through a hitchhiker “phase.” Or maybe it was something more serious.
My eye doctor checked my eyes and said they were fine. I asked him to also look at my car, and although he insisted that he wasn’t a mechanic, he said it looked okay to him.
I wondered if I harbored some secret animosity toward hitchhikers, so I went to a psychiatrist. He gave me a test. First, he handed me a framed picture of a hitchhiker and asked me my thoughts. My first thought was to wonder why someone would frame a picture of a hitchhiker, but he wanted more. “I hope he gets a ride,” I said of the picture, and put it down. Then he gave me a framed picture of a driver. “I hope he has a safe journey,” I said. Then I accidentally dropped the driver picture onto the hitchhiker picture, breaking it. The psychiatrist asked me not to come back, so I guess I passed.
Has drinking been involved? Unfortunately, yes. Not prior to the accidents, but afterward. If you have ever seen the terrifying face of a hitchhiker pressed against your windshield, or heard his angry words as you sped away, then you, too, would need to go home and have a stiff drink.
Some people say, Why don’t you quit driving altogether? It’s funny, but after each hitchhiker you hit, you think, That’s got to be the last one. Then, of course, it isn’t. But even if you stop driving, you can’t avoid hitchhikers. They’re part of our culture. When you walk from one room to another, aren’t you giving “hitchhikers” a ride? (I’m not sure, I’m just asking.)
So what can be done? I believe that, working together, hitchhikers and I can cut down on the number of them I am hitting. For hitchhikers, I would suggest:
Don’t hitchhike on a curve, because a lot of times you can’t control a car when you’re going around a curve, and you drift up onto the shoulder. Don’t stand on a straight stretch of highway either, because sometimes the straightness can make a driver confused, and he’ll start swerving all over the place.
Don’t hold up a sign, because when you read something, you naturally aim for it.
Don’t wave that thumb back and forth, because that can mesmerize a driver.
I am trying to do my part. For one thing, when I drive at night, I always make sure my lights are on. Also, I have installed a loud warning siren on my car, which I blast when I’m close to a hitchhiker. I have a lot of other ideas, which I write down on my notepad while I’m driving.
I don’t blame hitchhikers. They’re simply doing what nature intended. Hitchhiking is not evil, but neither is it the panacea some people think it is. I foresee a day when I will spot a hitchhiker on the side of the road, and I will wave politely as I drive by. Or I will pull over, throw open the door, and say, “Hop in, buddy.” And I won’t stop the car too late, so that I bump the guy and send him sliding on his back in the gravel and then he angrily runs up and grabs onto my rear bumper as I try to get away, and I have to fishtail back and forth to shake him off. That day is not quite here, but it’s coming.
The Respect of the Men
As leader of the expedition, I have come to realize that there is one thing more important than any other—and that is the respect of the men. It is more valuable than your gun, or your knife, or the blue terry-cloth slippers that keep your feet so toasty around the campfire at night.
In fact, the respect of the men can be even more important than the success of the mission itself. So if you’re not exactly sure what the mission is, you may not want to ask the men, because you might lose their respect.
You don’t get the respect of the men right away. You can try, by getting down in the dirt and begging them for it, or by kissing their boots, or by doing your funny cowboy dance for them. But trust me, these are not going to work.
No, respect is something that has to be earned. And earned slowly, like a fine, respectful wine. You can’t try to earn it all at once, maybe by doing something like yelling out, “Hey, watch this!” and then rolling all the way down the side of a hill. Even if you explain to the men that there could have been snakes and bees where you rolled, but you didn’t care, it won’t impress them.
Rather, respect is earned by little things. Let’s say you are leading the expedition through the bush, and you announce “I can’t go on any farther!” But you do, for about five more hours, until you fall exhausted in the sand. Then you get up and make the men a nice dinner. Things like that.
Or later that night, around the campfire, you are toasting one of your marshmallows, using a stick that you broke off a tree with your bare hands. The marshmallow catches fire, and you wave it around to put it out. Even though it is out, the marshmallow is still smoky-hot and sparky. But you just pop it straight into your mouth.
Or let’s say you are riding your horse over some sharp rocks, so you get off to walk your horse, even though the rocks are really roug
h on your terry-cloth slippers. The men notice things like that. “You’re gonna tear up those house shoes,” one of the men might say to you. “I know,” you mumble, because your mouth is still sore from the burning marshmallow.
That night you might check outside your tent to see if there is a present from the men, which, if you opened it, would be a new pair of slippers. But there isn’t. And you smile to yourself, because you realize that the respect of the men is not the same as the love of the men.
But if it is difficult to gain the men’s respect, it is easy to lose it. And the worst part is, you don’t even know what it was you did. Was it trying to mash nine burning marshmallows into your mouth at once? Was it telling the men that you laugh at danger, but then you don’t see any danger so instead you laugh at mountains and trees and horse manure? And Curtis’s hat? Was it asking them about the hideous howls during the night that sounded like the lost souls of Hades shrieking in agony and torment, and the men not knowing what you’re talking about, then having one of the men say, “Maybe it was a tree frog”?
You can never know for sure. But one thing is certain: You can’t win back their respect with cheap parlor tricks or, say, a magic trick. Even if you take hours to learn the trick, and you gather the men around the campfire to perform it, and you use a little magic table that you made yourself, and even if you think the trick is performed pretty well, this is not going to rekindle the men’s respect. You can tell from the looks they give one another, and the lack of applause. You may get a little respect if you get mad and throw the table and the trick parts into the fire, but that’s about it. And you may get some respect from the dove for letting him go. But still you are wondering, What’s wrong with these men? Come on, that was a good trick.
The respect of the men can be a cruel mistress and a harlot. But at other times it can be a nice mistress and a happy slut. You can’t think about it too much. But if you ignore it, it can sneak up and coldcock you, like an angry prostitute.
You know it won’t be easy, but one day you will again have the respect of the men. You don’t know when or how. And you can’t help thinking that maybe if you could explain to the men just how difficult the magic trick was, it would go a long way toward getting the whole respect thing going again.
More Favorite Deep Thoughts
Laurie got offended that I used the word “puke.” But to me, that’s what her dinner tasted like.
If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is “God is crying.” And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is “Probably because of something you did.”
There’s a world we know nothing about, that we can only imagine. And that is the world of books.
Blow ye winds,
Like the trumpet blows;
But without that noise.
As I bit into the nectarine, it had a crispy juiciness about it that was very pleasurable—until I realized it wasn’t a nectarine at all, but a HUMAN HEAD!!
If you ever reach total enlightenment while you’re drinking a beer, I bet it makes beer shoot out your nose.
The wise man can pick up a grain of sand and envision a whole universe. But the stupid man will just lay down on some seaweed and roll around until he’s completely draped in it. Then he’ll stand up and go, “Hey, I’m Vine Man.”
There is probably one question that drives just about every vampire crazy: “Oh, do you know Dracula?”
If you’re an ant, and you’re walking across the top of a cup of pudding, you probably have no idea that the only thing between you and disaster is the strength of that pudding skin.
If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mister Brave Man, I guess I am a coward.
Children need encouragement. So if a kid gets an answer right, tell him it was a lucky guess. That way, he develops a good, lucky feeling.
You know what would make a good story? Something about a clown who makes people happy, but inside he’s real sad. Also, he has severe diarrhea.
The Draculas
I knew the Draculas. They called themselves Count Dracula and the Bride of Dracula, but I just called them the Draculas. “Well, if it isn’t the Draculas,” I’d say.
I met them when I moved in next door. You can get these great old country houses for next to nothing now in Romania. Some families have lived in these houses for hundreds of years, but now they can’t pay the taxes, so you can scoop up some great deals.
The Draculas, I have to tell you, were weird. For one thing, all they seemed interested in was blood. I’m not kidding. Blood. That’s all they wanted to talk about. If you talked about something else, you could see their eyes sort of glaze over. Every once in a while, I’d drop the word “blood” randomly into the conversation, just to keep it going.
Once, as a gag, I came running out of the kitchen with ketchup smeared on my hand. “I cut myself!” I yelled. I don’t think they thought it was very funny. But how was I to know that Mrs. Dracula would actually lick my hand? Or that she was allergic to ketchup? Man, her face really swelled up. Her teeth look funny anyway, but the swelling made her look extra funny.
The Draculas were also weird about bats, the flying kind. We’d be out back, having martinis at sunset, and the bats would start flying around. I’d light up a Roman candle and fire it at the bats, you know, for fun. I never hit any (except for that one). But I had to stop, because the Draculas would get all upset.
The problem with the Draculas was, they didn’t know how to relax. I’d try to get them to play croquet. But when you’d hand them the wooden stake, they’d act like it had cooties or something. Count Dracula would be gingerly tapping it into the ground, and I’d have to go over with my mallet and whack it hard two or three times. “Like that!” I’d say.
Even though the Draculas dressed sexily, I don’t think they had much interest in sex. I myself have performed in a couple of adult films, and I offered to loan them copies, but they declined. You’d ask them what good adult films they’d seen lately, but they’d just sort of stammer and change the subject.
I think part of the problem was they were just plain unhealthy. They looked pale and drawn all the time. Maybe it was from sleeping all day and being up all night. I’d go over to their place in the morning and pound and pound on their big wooden door. Sometimes I’d pound for hours. When I’d see the Draculas again they’d seem annoyed and ask if that was me pounding. Of course it was me! Who else would it be?
So, yes, they were creepy. But I kind of liked them. That’s why it was so tragic what happened to them: they moved away.
It all started with my big Fourth of July party. I had invited the Draculas, but they said they couldn’t come because they were going to a Fourth of July party at Petru Cozma’s house. Which was weird, because Petru Cozma was coming to my party.
Long story short, a couple of big skyrockets from my party got away from me and slammed into the Draculas’ place. It started a fire, the fire trucks came, the whole works. I guess all the fire attracted some bats, because a couple of them flew over and got knocked out of the air by the force of a fire hose. I gave the fireman a thumbs-up, because I know how hard it is to hit a bat with a projectile.
I went over, because I like to watch fires, and standing off to one side were the Draculas, soaking wet. “Hey, Draculas,” I said. They seemed sad. They said several old paintings and tapestries had burned up. “At least they were old,” I said. I asked if they had insurance, but they seemed confused. “What you need,” I advised, “is one of those policies with a personal-effects rider.”
I would have liked to have stayed, because the fire went on for quite a while, but I had to get back to my party. A few days later I heard the Draculas had left, in the middle of the night. Just pulled out, without even saying good-bye. Like I said, weird. But here’s another weird thing. Lately I’ve had this strange craving. For ketchup. That’s right, ketchup. I’ve started
using it on different foods. I had forgotten how much I like it. So, if I ever hear from the Draculas, I’ll have to thank them.
Stunned
As I looked through the telescope, I could hardly believe my eyes: There before me, in the constellation of Virgo, circling a medium-sized star, was a planet. And not just any planet. It had oceans and landmasses and polar ice caps, just like Earth.
And then it hit me: Not only was this planet a lot like Earth—it was exactly like Earth! It was an exact twin of our very own planet!
I was stunned. I had to walk away from the telescope. An exact copy of Earth! Were there people there? Were they like us? Did they have the same problems, the same hopes? When I finally summoned the courage to look again, I realized that I had been wrong. It wasn’t exactly like Earth. The continents didn’t have anywhere near the same shapes as ours, the oceans were different, and many other features were dissimilar. Still, it was a planet, and the first conclusive evidence of such outside our own solar system.
Then it hit me: According to my calculations, the entire planet—oceans, continents, and all—was only a mile in diameter, and rotating at more than twenty times per second. It was a world in miniature, spinning at a phenomenal rate of speed!
I was stunned. I sat back in my chair and rubbed my face in bewildered disbelief. After rechecking my calculations, I realized that I had been off on the size of the planet. It wasn’t a miniature planet but was instead about the size of our own Earth. And it wasn’t spinning as fast as I had originally calculated. In fact, it was spinning much slower—a little bit slower than our own planet. But that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm.