by Dave Barry
Of course, if the snake had been something harmless, the dogs would have spotted it instantly. Zippy, for example, goes into a violent barking rage whenever he notices the swimming-pool chlorine dispenser. This is a small, benign plastic object that floats in the pool and has never made a hostile move in its life. But Zippy is convinced that it’s a malignant entity, just waiting for the right moment to lunge out of the water, jaws-like, and dispense lethal doses of chlorine all over its helpless victims.
I tried to notify the dogs about the snake. “Look!” I said, pointing. “A snake!” This caused the dogs to alertly trot over and sniff my finger in case there was peanut butter on it. The snake, continuing to hold still, was watching all this, thinking: “This person will be easy to strangle.”
So now I find myself glancing up nervously whenever I walk across my yard. I’m thinking maybe I should carry an open umbrella at all times, as a Snake Deflector. But that is not my point. By now you have forgotten my point, which involves my car. One day it wouldn’t start, and it had to be towed to our garage, which has two main characters: Bill, who is responsible for working on the car; and Sal, who is responsible for giving you a dramatic account of what was wrong.
“At first we thought it was the (something),” Sal told me, when it was all over. “But when we tried to (something) the (something), all we got was (something)! Can you believe it?”
“No,” I assured him.
“So then,” said Sal, starting to gesture, “we tested the (something), but ...”
He continued for 10 minutes, attracting a small but appreciative audience. Finally, he reached the crucial dramatic moment, where Bill had narrowed the problem down to a key car part, called the “something.” Carefully, Bill removed this part. Slowly, he opened it up. And there, inside, he found: ants.
Yes. An ant squadron was living in my car part and eating the wires. I am not making this up.
“Oh, yes,” said Sal. “Ants will eat your wires.”
This gave me a terrible feeling of what the French call doi vu, meaning “big insect trouble.” Because just a month earlier, the water in our house stopped running, and a paid professional plumber came out and informed us that—I am still not making this up—there were ants in our pump switch.
This is what I mean by nature getting out of hand. It’s not natural for ants to eat car and pump parts. Ants should eat the foods provided by the ecosystem, such as dropped Milk Duds. Something is wrong.
And here’s another scary but absolutely true fact: Lately, I’ve noticed ants going into the paper slot of my computer’s laser printer. Ask yourself. What natural business would ants have with a laser? You can bet that whatever they’re up to, it’s not going to benefit mankind, not after all the stuff i’ve sprayed on them.
So I’m worried. I’m worried in my car; I’m worried in my house; and above all I’m worried when I cross my yard. I’m afraid that one day I’ll disappear, and the police will search my property, and all they’ll find will be a snake who obviously just ate a large meal and is pretending to be a really fat garden hose; and maybe some glowing ants munching on, say, the microwave oven; and of course Zippy, Mr. Vigilant, barking at the chlorine dispenser.
Invasion Of The Money Snatchers
Sometimes, even though we love America, with its amber waves of purple mounted majesties fruiting all over the plains, we get a little ticked off at our government. Sometimes we find ourselves muttering: “All the government ever seems to do is suck up our hard-earned money and spew it out on projects such as the V-22 Osprey military aircraft, which the Pentagon doesn’t even want, and which tends to crash, but which Congress has fought to spend millions on, anyway, because this will help the reelection efforts of certain congresspersons, who would cheerfully vote to spend millions on a program to develop a working artificial hemorrhoid, as long as the money would be spent in their districts.”
I mutter this frequently myself But we must not allow ourselves to become cynical. We must remember that for every instance of the government’s demonstrating the intelligence of a yam, there is also an instance of the government’s rising to the level of a far more complex vegetable, such as the turnip.
Today I’m pleased to tell you the heartwarming story of a group of 10 men whose lives have been changed, thanks to prompt, coordinated government action. I got this story from one of the men, Al Oliver, a retired Navy chaplain. In fact, all 10 are retirees (or, in Al Oliver’s words, “chronologically disadvantaged”).
The men live in the Azalea Trace retirement center in Pensacola, Florida. For years they’ve gathered every morning to drink coffee and talk. In 1988, they formed a pact: Each would buy a Florida lottery ticket every week, and if anybody won, they’d all split the money. They called themselves the Lavender Hill Mob, and stamped that name on their lottery tickets.
For three years they won nothing. Then, in 199 1, one of their tickets had five out of six winning numbers, for a prize of $4,156. Oliver took the ticket to the state lottery office in Pensacola, where he had to fill out Form 5754, indicating who was to get the money. He wrote down “Lavender Hill Mob.”
A while later, he got the form back from the state, along with a letter informing him that the Lavender Hill Mob was a partnership and could not be paid until it obtained an Employer Identification Number, or EIN, from (ominous music starts here) ... the Internal Revenue Service.
At this point you readers are like an audience watching the scene in a horror movie wherein the woman trapped alone in the house at night is about to go down into the basement.
“NO! NO!” you’re shouting to Al Oliver. “Don’t get involved with the IRS! Better to just throw the ticket away!”
But Oliver went to an IRS office and applied for the EIN by filling out Form SS-4. “I had to list everything on all 10 of us except I believe our cholesterol count,” he recalls. The IRS then gave him the EIN, which he sent along with Form 5754 to the state lottery, which sent him the check, which he took to the bank, which, after balking a little, finally gave him 10 cashier’s checks for the Lavender Hill Mob members.
Now you’re thinking: “OK, so it was an annoying bureaucratic hassle, but everything turned out fine.”
Please try not to be such a wienerhead. Of COURSE everything did not turn out fine. In February, Oliver began receiving notices from the IRS demanding to know where exactly the hell were the Lavender Hill Mob’s 1065
forms showing partnership income for 1989, 1990, and 1991. So Oliver went to his CPA, who filled out the forms with zeros and sent them in.
Of course this only angered the IRS, because here the Lavender Hill Mob was just now getting around to filing forms for as far back as 1989, which means these forms were LATE. You can’t allow that kind of flagrant disregard for the law. You let the Mob members slide on that, and the next thing you know they’re selling crack on the shuffleboard court.
So in June the IRS notified the Mob members that, for failing to file their 1989 Form 1065 on time, they owed a penalty of $2,500. Oliver’s CPA, who is not working for free, wrote a letter to the IRS attempting to explain everything. Then in July the Mobsters got another notice, informing them that they owed $2,500 PLUS $19.20 in interest charges, which will of course continue to mount. The notice states that the government may file a tax lien against the Mobsters and adds: “wE MUST ALSO CONSIDER TAKING YOUR WAGES, PROPERTY OR OTHER ASSETS.”
That’s where it stood when I last heard from Oliver. Since this whole thing is obviously a simple misunderstanding, we can safely assume that it will never be resolved. The wisest course for the Mobsters would be to turn all their worldly goods over to the government right now. Because if they keep attempting to file the correct form, they’re going to wind up in serious trouble, fleeing through the swamps around Pensacola, pursued by airborne IRS agents in the new V-22 Osprey, suspended via steel cables from some aircraft that can actually fly.
Reader Alert
This next section is more or less about traveli
ng. It includes an account of my visit to Communist China, where I spent almost an entire day, thereby qualifying as an authority.
There’s also a column I wrote about people who are obnoxious on airplanes. This column was very popular with flight attendants; for quite a while after it was published, whenever I’d take a plane, the attendants would give me free beers. That’s why I got into journalism in the first place: to help people.
Hell On Wings
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 ...
The Great Mall Of China
The World’s Great Capitalists Market to the Old Butchers Who Run China.
They’ve Promised to Be Nice.
If you listen hard, as you wander around Hong Kong, you can almost hear the clock.
Tick tick tick tick tick, it says, over the rushed city sounds of the traffic, the boats, the people.
Tick tick tick tick tick ...
Get ready. It’s coming.
Midnight, June 30, 1997. This will be a very big day for Hong Kong. The biggest ever. Hotel space is already selling out. A lot of people want to be there, to remember what Hong Kong was, to get a glimpse of what it will be.
Then the sightseers will check out and go home, leaving Hong Kong to face ... whatever comes next. Nobody knows for sure what it will be. But it’s coming.
Tick tick tick tick tick ...
Some background. Although Hong Kong is geographically part of China, right now it’s a colony of Great Britain. This arrangement dates back to the 19th-century Opium Wars, which you recall from your high school World History class.
You liar. Probably the only event you remember from World History class is the time Jeffrey Brunderman made a spitball so large that he couldn’t get it out of his mouth without emergency medical assistance. To refresh your memory: In the early 19th century, British traders were making big money getting opium from India and selling it, illegally, in China. In 1839, the Chinese emperor tried to put a stop to this. Britain, which at the time had a vast empire and a major butt-kicking navy, was outraged that some pissant emperor would dare to interfere with the activities of legitimate British businessmen just because they were smuggling drugs.
So Britain sent a fleet to attack. The Chinese were quickly defeated and forced to sign a treaty under which, among other things, Britain got Hong Kong. Over the years Britain added more land to the Hong Kong colony which is ruled by a governor appointed by the crown. Historically, the Hong Kong residents, who are overwhelmingly Chinese, have had virtually no say in their government.
But for a long time Hong Kong didn’t concern itself much with politics, because there was a lot of money to be made. There still is. Hong Kong today is a major international trade and financial center. It’s a busy place—410
square miles supporting six million people, most of them jammed together around the spectacular, hard-working Hong Kong harbor, which we travel writers are required, by law, to describe as “teeming.”
And it is teeming. All day, all night, the dirty brown water is churned
by boa
ts, all sizes and shapes, barely missing each other as they bustle in all directions on urgent boat errands. Many are ferryboats, which cross the harbor constantly, carrying the teeming masses of people—mostly well-dressed, prosperous-looking people—to and from the downtown business district, which looks like a full-size version of an Epcot Center scale model of the City of Tomorrow: dozens of breathtakingly tall, shiny, modernistic buildings, none of which appears to be more than a few days old, with newer ones constantly going up. Connecting these buildings, over the teeming streets, are teeming walkways, which lead to vast, staggeringly opulent shopping centers with gleaming floors and spotless stores teeming with cameras, electronics, silks,jewelry, and other luxury items of all kinds.
This is not a place for quiet reflection. This is the Ultimate Shopping Mall. This is a place where everything is for sale, and you can bargain your brains out. This is a place where you can feel your credit cards teeming in your wallet, hear their squeaky little plastic voices calling, “Let us out! Let us OUT!!” This is a place so rich and modern and fast-paced and sophisticated that it makes New York seem like a dowdy old snooze of a town.
In short, this is a place that screams: “We’re RICH, SUCCESSFUL CAPITALISTS, and we’re DAMNED PROUD OF IT!”
And on June 30, 1997, Britain is going to give it all—the whole marvelous money machine, and all its human dependents—to the People’s Republic of China. China has long claimed that Britain has no right to Hong Kong, and in 1984, after much negotiation between the two nations, Britain agreed to get out in 1997.