DAVE BARRY IS NOT TAKING THIS SITTING DOWN

by Dave Barry

REPORTER: I see.

  CUSTOMER: Also, my name isn’t “Irving.”

  REPORTER: Back to you, Bill.

  ANNOUNCER: In another important tradition, the supermarkets are jammed with panicked consumers buying bottled water, as you see in this videotape that we have shown during every potential storm since 1973. Now let’s go back to the FearPlex WeatherCenter for an update from meteorologist Dirk Doppler.

  METEOROLOGIST: Bill, as you can see from this satellite photograph, Tropical Depression Vinny has not moved at all, which means we are now expanding the potential disaster area to include mainland China. The satellite is also reporting the entire planet Earth is surrounded by a cold, airless void extending for trillions of miles in all directions. It looks very bad, Bill.

  ANNOUNCER: We now go to the National Hurricane Center, where we’ll be speaking with the director, Harmon Wankel, who has been sitting in the same chair for 68 straight hours without food or sleep, staring into bright lights while being relentlessly interviewed by TV news people about this potential storm. Harmon, what’s the latest word?

  HURRICANE CENTER DIRECTOR: I hope you all die.

  ANNOUNCER: Thank you. Now we’re going to go to the White House, where we understand President Clinton is about to make an emergency statement.

  THE PRESIDENT: As you can tell by my big, sad moony face, my heart goes out to all of those who have the potential of being devastated by this potentially devastating storm. I have ordered the mandatory evacuation of North and South America, to be enforced by strafing, and I have personally instructed Vice President Gore to get into a helicopter and fly around until everybody in his entourage is airsick. I am also hereby offering clemency to every convicted felon in New York State. Let us all bite our lips and pray that this terrible potential disaster proceeds directly to the home of Kenneth Starr.

  ANNOUNCER: Let’s go back to the FearPlex WeatherCenter, where Dirk Doppler has an Urgent News Bulletin on Tropical Depression Vinny.

  METEOROLOGIST: Bill, according to our latest satellite images, Vinny is gone! It was right here, and now, pffft, there’s no sign of it!

  ANNOUNCER: Does this mean we can stop panicking?

  METEOROLOGIST: Of course not. Vinny could be anywhere. It could be in your house. Everybody should get under the bed NOW. Also we need to start worrying about potentially lethal Tropical Breeze Xera, which is forming over here. See it?

  ANNOUNCER: No.

  METEOROLOGIST: YES YOU DO! IT’S RIGHT THERE! YOU’VE GOT TO BELIEVE ME!

  ANNOUNCER: We go now to Dan Rather, courageously standing on a beach, wearing a slicker.

  The Wait for the Tub Is Forever Since the Frogs Moved In

  I’m wondering if any of you readers out there have noticed any suspicious behavior on the part of frogs. I ask because the ones at my house are definitely up to something.

  I live in South Florida, which has a hot, moist, armpit-like climate that is very favorable for life in general. Everything down here is either already alive, or about to be. You could leave your toaster out on your lawn overnight, and by morning it would have developed legs, a tail, a mouth, tentacles, etc., and it would be prowling around looking for slower, weaker appliances to prey on.

  So I am used to wildlife. I am used to the fact that, as I walk from my car to the front door—striding briskly to prevent fungus from growing on my body—I will routinely pass lizards, snakes, spiders, snails, and mutant prehistoric grasshoppers large enough for the Lone Ranger to saddle up and ride into the sunset on (“Hi-yo, Silver, AWAYYYEEEIIKES!”).

  My yard has also always had plenty of frogs. Until recently, these were plump, nonaggressive frogs who just sat there, looking pensively off into the distance, thinking frog thoughts. (“How am I supposed to reproduce? I appear to lack organs!”)

  But lately my yard has become infested with a whole new brand of frogs—smaller, quicker, junior-welterweight frogs that are extremely jittery, as though they spent their tadpole phase swimming around in really strong espresso. And for some reason these frogs desperately want to get inside my house. They hide in crannies on my front stoop, waiting, and when I open the front door, suddenly HOP HOP HOP HOP HOP, the stoop turns into the Oklahoma Land Rush, except that instead of hardy pioneers racing to claim homesteads, there are hordes of small, caffeine-crazed frogs bounding into my living room, moving far too fast for the human foot to stomp on.

  The eerie thing is, within seconds, the invading frogs have all disappeared. Some go under the sofa, but many seem to simply vanish. I think maybe they’ve developed some kind of camouflage, so they can blend into the living-room environment by taking on the appearance of a carpet stain or (if they are really organized) a piano.

  All I know is, the frogs go into my house, and they do not come out, which means that there are now, by conservative estimate, thousands of frogs hiding somewhere in my living room. This makes me nervous. I’m wondering if maybe it could be a plague.

  I say this because my wife is Jewish, and each year her family comes to our house to celebrate Passover with a traditional Seder feast. I am not Jewish, but I always join in, on the theory that you should embrace as many religions as possible, because you never know. You could die and find yourself in an afterlife facing the eternal judgment of, for example, L. Ron Hubbard. So I participate in the Seder; in fact, at our house I always make the traditional matzoh balls, using an ancient Presbyterian recipe. (The matzoh balls symbolize the Old Testament story about how the Israelites, after following Moses all over the desert, finally came to a place where there was chicken soup.)

  Anyway, there’s this one point in the Seder ceremony when we all dip our fingers into our glasses of ancient, traditional Manischewitz wine, and then we drop 10 wine droplets onto our plates while we say, out loud, the names of the Ten Plagues of Egypt, which are: blood, darkness, blight, slaying of the firstborn, wild beasts, lice, boils, locusts, hail, and—you guessed it—Leonardo DiCaprio.

  No, seriously, one of the plagues is frogs. So I’m thinking that maybe, during the most recent Seder, when we were saying the plague names, we failed to make adequate wine droplets for the frogs. My concern is that this might have violated some clause in the Old Testament, such as the Book of Effusions, Chapter Four, Verse Seven, Line Six, which states: “And yea thou shalt BE sureth to maketh a GOOD frog droplet, for if thou shalt NOT, forsooth thou SHALT getteth a BIG plague of frogs, and they SHALT be of the JUNIOR-welterweight division, and they WILL hideth UNDER thine sofa.”

  Or maybe there’s some other cause. Maybe it’s a Y2K issue, and these are noncompliant frogs. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I don’t like sitting in my living room at night, watching the TV, knowing that all around me, hidden in the dark, thousands of beady little eyes are also watching the TV . . . and maybe waiting for some secret signal. Perhaps you think I am crazy. Fine. Then perhaps you can explain to me why, when the frogs croak in the Budweiser commercial, my piano croaks back.

  A Titanic Splash (Again)

  I finally finished the script for the sequel to the movie Titanic. I am calling it—and let the legal record show that I thought of this first—Titanic II: The Sequel.

  I am darned proud of this script. I have been working on it, without sleeping or eating, except for two grilled-cheese sandwiches, for the better part of the last 35 minutes. I realize that sounds like a lot of work, but bear in mind that writer/director James Cameron spent nearly twice that long on the script for the original movie, which was entitled Titanic I, the Original Movie.

  As you know, Titanic I garnered a record 56 Academy Awards, including Best Major Motion Picture Lasting Longer Than Both O.J. Trials Combined; Most Total Water; Most Realistic Scene of Bodies Falling Off The End of a Sinking Ship and Landing on Big Ship Parts With a Dull Clonking Sound; and Most Academy Awards Garnered. The movie has made a huge star out of Leonardo DiCaprio, who has shown the world that he is not just a pretty face; he is a pretty face who, if he had been in my high school, would have spent a lot of t
ime being held upside down over the toilet by larger boys.

  The phenomenal success of Titanic I has also served as an elegant rebuttal to the critics of writer/director Cameron, although this has not prevented him from going around Hollywood physically hitting these critics on the head with his Oscar statuette. Cameron was especially angry at Los Angeles Times film critic Kenneth Turan, who said Cameron’s writing was trite and devoid of subtlety; this prompted Cameron to take out a full-page newspaper ad saying, quote, “Bite me.”

  I certainly don’t want to take sides in this issue, other than to say that James Cameron is easily the most talented human being in world history including Michelangelo and Shakespeare and all four Beatles combined. I say this out of a sincere desire to have Mr. Cameron pay a hefty sum for my script for Titanic II: The Sequel. Here it is:

  (The movie opens with the Titanic II, getting ready to sail. As the ship’s horn blasts a mighty departure toot, up runs spunky young Jack Dawson, played by Leonardo DiCaprio. There is seaweed on him.)

  JACK: Whew! I just made it!

  ROSE: Jack! I thought you had drowned! To death!

  JACK: No! Fortunately, the bitter North Atlantic cold was unable to penetrate my protective layer of hair gel! Who are you?

  ROSE: I’m Rose! Remember? You gave your life for me in Titanic I.

  JACK: But Rose was played by Kate Winslet!

  ROSE: She didn’t want to be in another movie with you, because your cheekbones are so much higher! So the part went to me, Demi Moore!

  JACK: Whatever.

  (The scene shifts to the ship’s bridge.)

  CAPTAIN: Ahoy First Mate! Commence starboard computer animation! Full speed ahead!

  FIRST MATE: Sir! We’re getting reports of gigantic icebergs directly ahead! Shouldn’t we go slow?

  CAPTAIN: Don’t be silly! What are the chances that we’re going to hit another . . .

  (There is a loud crunching sound. Big pieces of ice come through the window, along with several penguins.)

  CAPTAIN: Dang!

  FIRST MATE: Sir! The computerized sinking animation has commenced!

  (The scene shifts to the Poop Deck, where the water is rising fast. Jack and Rose are helping women and children into a lifeboat, when an evil villain appears with a gun.)

  VILLAIN: Out of the way! I’m taking this lifeboat all for myself!

  JACK: It’s Kenneth Turan, film critic for the Los Angeles Times!

  TURAN: That’s right, and I shall stop at nothing to get off this ship, because the dialogue is terrible!

  JACK: Is not!

  TURAN: Is too!

  (They commence fighting.)

  THE LATE BURGESS MEREDITH: You can do it, Rock! Watch out for the jab!

  JACK: Hey! You’re in the wrong sequel!

  MEREDITH: Sorry!

  (This distraction enables Turan, by cheating, to gain the upper hand.)

  TURAN: I have gained the upper hand! Whatever that expression means! And now, pretty boy, I’m going to . . . OHMIGOD! NOOO!

  (Turan is torn into raisin-sized pieces by an irate horde of young female Leonardo DiCaprio fans.)

  JACK: Whew! That was close! Uh-oh! The ship is almost done sinking!

  ROSE: This is it! I hope I don’t end up as an old bag in this movie!

  (As the two lovers start to slip beneath the icy cold computerized waves, they embrace. There is a cracking sound.)

  JACK: You broke my ribs!

  ROSE: Sorry! I have tremendous upper-body strength since starring in G.I. Jane!

  JACK: Don’t worry! As long as my cheekbones are OK!

  (The water slowly closes over them. In the distance, we hear two crew members on a lifeboat, looking for survivors.)

  FIRST CREW MEMBER: What’s that sound coming from over there?

  SECOND CREW MEMBER: It sounds like . . . Oh my God! It’s Celine Dion!

  FIRST CREW MEMBER: Let’s get out of here!

  (THE END)

  Blair Witch Mystery Solved: The Seal Did It

  Recently it came to my attention that I was one of the eight remaining Americans who had not seen The Blair Witch Project.

  In case you’re one of the other seven, I should explain that The Blair Witch Project is a hugely popular movie that was featured simultaneously on the covers of both Time and Newsweek (mottoes: “We Both Have the Same Motto”). The Blair Witch Project stunned the Hollywood establishment, because it proved that, to make a hit movie, you don’t need big stars, an expensive production, and a huge promotional budget to generate hype. All you need is a huge promotional budget to generate hype. The movie itself can cost $34.

  Not wishing to be a cultural holdout, I went to see The Blair Witch Project, which tells the story of three young film students who attempt to make a documentary without a tripod. This means the camera constantly moves around, as though it is strapped to the head of a hyperactive seal. (For some reason, the camera is often pointed more or less at the ground, as though the seal is hunting for ants.) The effect of this technique is to create a mood of intense realism for several minutes, after which it creates a mood of intense motion sickness.

  The three movie characters are looking for the Blair Witch, who according to legend is a mean witch who is never actually seen because of the high cost of special effects. The characters set out and almost immediately become lost in the legendarily huge uninhabited forests of Maryland (motto: “The Endless Vast Expanse of Wilderness State”). They respond to this predicament exactly as Lewis and Clark would have: by holding long whiny arguments wherein they wave the camera around and repeatedly shout a very bad word that I cannot put in the newspaper, so let’s just call it “darn.” Much of the dialogue sounds like this:

  FIRST CHARACTER: Darn you! You darned got us darned lost in these darned woods! Darn!

  SECOND CHARACTER: Go darn yourself!

  SQUIRREL: Will you darners shut the darn UP!?!

  The characters are all so busy arguing and yelling “Darn!” at each other that, in the entire movie, they actually travel a grand total of maybe 75 linear feet. You get the impression that if they’d just shut up and walk, in 20 minutes they’d come to a Wal-Mart. But they don’t, and after several days they run out of food. They do NOT, however, run out of electricity for their cameras, which apparently are powered by tiny, highly portable nuclear generators.

  And thus they are able to keep videotaping, which enables you, the viewer, to experience the terrifying things that happen right outside their tent at night, namely: It’s hard to say. Apparently SOMETHING terrifying is happening, but you can’t really tell what it is, because pretty much all you see is the ground, or total darkness. Much of the footage near the end appears to be shot deep inside a sleeping bag.

  I won’t reveal the terrifying and shocking surprise ending of the movie, because I don’t want to spoil it, plus I have no idea what it is, since it’s not actually IN the movie. The characters all get killed and are unable to videotape it. But at least the darned camera stopped moving.

  I hope I don’t appear to be criticizing The Blair Witch Project. I happen to think it’s a great film, because despite its flaws, it meets the ultimate artistic test: It will make over a hundred million dollars. This inspires me. In my college days, I spent my summers working at Camp Sharparoon as a counselor for disadvantaged youths, and one of my key counseling techniques was terror. When we were out in the woods at night, I could make the youths at least briefly stop hitting each other and making bodily sounds by telling them scary bedtime stories. Not to brag, but some of my stories were a lot scarier than The Blair Witch Project, as determined by the standard unit of measurement for bedtime-story scariness, which is Bedrolls Wetted.

  So I’m thinking I can cash in on my Camp Sharparoon stories by turning them into terrifying low-budget films. I’ll start with Hunt for the Latrine Demon, which will be about an ill-fated attempt to make a documentary about an entity that dwells, according to legend, in a primitive hand-dug campsite toilet facility.
I’ve already got a script written (“It’s got me by my darned ankles!”). All I need now is some unknown actors, a video camera, and a huge promotional budget. And of course a seal.

  A Rolling Stone

  So get this: I partied with Mick Jagger. Well, OK, perhaps “partied with” is too strong a term. Perhaps a better term would be “was in the vicinity of.” But still. Mick Jagger!

  The way this happened was, back in December I got a fax from a public-relations agency inviting me to a party being given by a person named Chris Blackwell, who is very famous although I honestly still don’t know why. The fax said that the purpose of the party was to celebrate the “new incarnation” of the Marlin Hotel, which is a swank night spot in an area of Miami Beach called South Beach, a chic, avant-garde jet-set sector where you never see a woman who is under six feet three or weighs more than 83 pounds. This is a place where Barbie would look like a middle linebacker.

  The invitation said: “Among the guests expected are The Rolling Stones, as they’re in town for their concert this Friday.”

  Of course I wanted to go to this party. I have been a gigantic Rolling Stones fan since approximately the Spanish-American War. In college, I was in a rock band called The Federal Duck, and we performed many Stones songs, and at the risk of tooting my own horn, I will say that we sounded exactly the way the Stones themselves would have sounded if they were not all playing the same chords.

  On the night of the party, my wife was out of town, so I asked my 17-year-old son, Rob, if he wanted to go with me. You can imagine his excitement when I offered him a chance to meet the Rolling Stones IN PERSON.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  Like many young people of today, my son does not appreciate classical musicians such as the Stones; he is more into bands with names like “Heave” and “Squatting Turnips.” So I asked a friend, novelist Paul Levine, if he wanted to go to the party, and he courageously said yes, despite the very real risk that I would, in this column, mention his forthcoming book 9 Scorpions, which Paul describes as “a story of seduction and corruption at the Supreme Court.” (I just hope that this description does not cause anybody to envision William Rehnquist naked.)