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If you're in the Mood.
They Might Be Giants.
By Dave Barry. [as all of these will be]
OK, fans. Time for Great Moments in Sports. The situation is this: The Giants are playing a team whose name we did not catch in the hotly contested Little League Ages 6 and 7 Division, and the bases are loaded. The bases are always loaded in this particular Division for several reasons.
First off, the coach pitches the ball to his own players. This is because throwing is not the strong suit of the players in the Ages 6 and 7 Division. They have no idea, when they let go of the ball, where it's headed. They just haul off and wing it, really try to hurl that baby without getting bogged down in a lot of picky technical details such as whether or not there is now, or has ever been, another player in the area or where the ball is likely to land. Generally there is not, which is good, because another major area of weakness, in the Ages 6 and 7 Division, is catching the ball.
Until I became a parent, I thought children just naturally knew how to catch a ball, that catching was an instinctive biological reflex that all children are born with, like knowing how to operate a remote control or getting high fevers in distant airports. But it turns out that if you toss a ball to a child, the ball with just bonk off the child's body and fall to the ground. So you have to coachthe child. I go out in the yard with my son, and I give him helpful tips such as: "Catch the ball!" And: "Don't just let the ball bonk off your body!" Thanks to this coaching effort, my son, like most players on the Giants, has advanced his game to a point where, just before the ball bonks off his body, he winces.
So fielding is also not the strong suit of the Giants. They stand around the field, chattering to each other, watching airplanes, picking their noses, thinking about dinosaurs, etc. Meanwhile on the pithcer's mound, the coach of the opposing team tries to throw the ball just right so that it will bounce off the bat of one of his players, because hitting is another major weakness in the Ages 6 and 7 Division.
The real athletic dramam begins once the opposing coach succeeds in bouncing the ball off the bat of one of his players, thus putting the ball into play and causing the fielders to swing into action. "Robby!" I'll yell if the ball goes near my son. "The ball!" Thus activated, Robby goes into Full Red Alert, looking around francically until he locates the ball, which he picks up and - eager to be relieved of the responsibility - hurls it in some random direction. Then depending on where the ball is headed, some other parent will try to activate their child, and the ball will be hurled again and again, around the field, before ultimately bonking off the first baseman. Of course at this point the batter has been standing on the base for some time. Fortunately, in this league, he is required to stop there; otherwise, he could easily make it to Japan.
A Failure To Communicate
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 "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 facedown 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 playing recordings of what sounds like aboveground nuclear tests, but with less of an emphasis on melody.
My son also tells me that there are 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 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.
Better Education Would Outlaw Stupid Crooks
Our educational system is failing. Our schools are producing students who are -- to quote from the conclusion of an 858-page report recently issued by a distinguished blue-ribbon Presidential Task Force On Educational Quality -- "stupid."
The drop in our national IQ has caused many problems, including Limp Bizkit, feng shui, the U.S. Department of Education and the cancerous growth of "reality-based" TV shows ("Tonight on Passion Farm: Nine complete strangers churn butter!").
But the most serious problem is that, as our population gets dumber, it becomes harder and harder to find qualified workers. Nowhere is this disturbing trend more evident than in the field of crime.
Not so long ago, American criminals ranked among the best in the world. Foreigners were terrified to come here because our criminals were so good at making our streets unsafe. Today, however, we are producing incompetent criminals who not only have allowed the crime rate to drop alarmingly, but who also, when they DO attempt to break the law, commit crimes of a quality that is, frankly, embarrassing.
Consider a story from the March 10 issue of The (Annapolis, Md.) Capital, written by Brian Schleter and sent in by many alert readers. According to this article, an alleged parole violator was about to be taken into custody in the county courthouse in Annapolis when he suddenly ran from the courtroom. So far, so good; criminals are supposed to flee. The suspect, pursued by sheriff's deputies, ran into the nearby Maryland Inn, where he hid in a closet. This is still acceptably competent criminal behavior.
But then, according to The Capital, the man decided to disguise himself by putting on a bunny suit. I am not making this up. For some reason, which is not explained in The Capital article, the closet contained a full-size bunny suit, with large pink ears, and the suspect climbed into it. Maybe he thought this would fool the deputies.
FIRST DEPUTY: He ran into that closet!
SECOND DEPUTY (opening closet door): Nope! There's nobody in here but a giant bunny!
FIRST DEPUTY: Darn!
But the deputies were not deceived, and they apprehended the suspect after a struggle. The Capital quotes an inn employee as saying: "It looked like they were attacking the Easter Bunny."
As pathetic as that criminal was, he was Albert Einstein compared to our next example, whose story is told in a March 10 Albuquerque (N.M.) Journal article written by Jeff Jones and sent in by several alert readers. This article states that a man armed with a knife held up a Taco Bell and got $2,300. The robber wore a ski mask to disguise his identity. This plan would have worked flawlessly, except that, during the robbery, the robber made one teensy mistake: He pulled one of the Taco Bell workers aside, lifted his mask, and said, quote, "It's me, Tim."
Yes. It turns out that the robber used to work at this Taco Bell, and he chose that particular moment to say hi to a former co-worker. This meant that the police had a pretty good clue as to the identity of the robber -- namely, his name -- and thus were able to apprehend him, which is good, inasmuch as a person of his apparent mental caliber should not be walking around with a sharp object.
Speaking of weapons, another excellent example of the modern criminal mind is reported in a 1999 article from the Billings (Mont.) Gazette sent in by alert reader Jon Hauxwell, M.D. This article concerns a man who attempted to hold up a Billings gas station by pointing his finger at the clerk. According to a police spokesperson, the would-be robber "took off running when the clerk said 'no'."
What a moron! You'd think our educational system would at LEAST have taught this man that, if he's going to scare people with his finger, he must demonstrate its menace by pointing it at the ceiling and going, "Bang! Bang!"
I could give more examples, but you get my point: The once-proud American crime industry has become a joke. To turn the situation around, we need better-educated criminals; to produce them, we must give our schools more resources, in the form of money. That is why I want you to put cash in an envelope and mail it to me, so I can give it to the schools. I'm talking about ALL your cash. Do it RIGHT NOW. Or else. Because this finger is loaded.
Dave Barry's Bad Song Survey
These were all articles Dave wrote in response to the thousands of responses he recieved when talking about Bad Songs.
Recently, I was chosen to serve as a musical consultant to the radio industry. Actually, it wasn't the entire industry; it was a woman named Marcy, who called me up at random one morning while I was picking my teeth with a business card as part of an ongoing effort to produce a column. "I'm not selling anything," Marcy said.
Of course when callers say this, they usually mean that they ARE selling something, so I was about to say "No thank you" in a polite voice, then bang the receiver down with sufficient force to drive phone shards deep into Marcy's brain, when she said she was doing a survey for the radio industry about what songs should be played on the air.
That got my attention, because radio music is an issue I care deeply about. I do a lot of singing in the car. You should hear Aretha Franklin and me perform our version of "I Say a Little Prayer for You," especially when our voices swoop way up high for the ending part that goes, "My darling BELIEVE me, for there is nooo WAHHHHH-AAANNNN but you"...My technique is to grip the steering wheel with both hands and lift myself halfway out of the seat so that I can give full vocal expression to the emotion that Aretha and I are feeling, which is a mixture of joyous hope and bittersweet longing and the horror of realizing that the driver of the cement truck three feet away is staring at me, at which point I pretend that I am having a coughing seizure while Aretha finishes the song on her own.
I think they should play that song more often on the radio, along with "Brown-Eyed Girl," "Sweet Home Alabama," and of course the Isley Brothers' version of "Twist and Shout," which, if you turn it up loud enough, can propel you beyond mere singing into the stage where you have to get out of the car and dance with tollbooth attendants.
On the other hand, it would not trouble me if the radio totally ceased playing ballad-style songs by Neil Diamond. I realize that many of you are huge Neil Diamond fans, so let me stress that in matters of musical taste, everybody is entitled to an opinion, and yours is wrong, Consider the song "I Am, I Said," wherein Neil, with great emotion, sings:
I am, I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair.
What kind of line is that? Is Neil telling us that he's surprised that the chair didn't hear him? Maybe he expected the chair to say, "Whoa, I heard THAT." My guess is that Neil was really desperate to come up with something to rhyme with "there," and he had already rejected "So I ate a pear," "Like Smokey the Bear," and "There were nits in my hair."
So we could do without this song. I also believe that we should use whatever means are necessary - and I do not exclude tactical nuclear weapons - to prevent radio stations from playing "Honey," "My Way," "I Write the Songs," "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden," and "Watchin' Scotty Grow." I have holes in my car radio from stabbing the station-changing button when these songs come on. Again, you may disagree with me, but if you know so much, how come the radio industry didn't randomly survey *you*?
The way the survey worked was, Marcy played two-second snippets from about two-dozen songs; after each snippet I was supposed to say whether I liked the song or not. She's play, for example, "Don't Worry, Baby" by the Beach Boys and I'd shout "YES! PLAY THE WHOLE THING!" and she'd say, "OK, that's a 'like.'" Or she'd play "Don't You Care" by the Buckinghams, and I'd make a noise like a person barfing up four feet of intestine, and Marcy would say, "OK, that's a 'don't like.'"
The problem was that I wasn't allowed to suggest songs. I could only react to the generally mediocre candidates that were present. It was just like the presidential elections. This is too bad, because there are a lot of good songs that never get played. My wife and I are constantly remarking on this. I'll say, "Do you remember a song called 'Boys'?" And Beth, instantly, will respond, "Bop shoo-bop, boppa boppa SHOO-bop." Then both of us, with a depth of emotion that we rarely exhibit when discussing world events, will say, "They NEVER play that!"
I tried suggesting a couple songs to Marcy. For example, after she played the "Don't Worry, Baby" snippet, I said, "You know there's a great Beach Boys song that never gets played called "Custom Machine." The chorus goes:
Step on the gas, she goes WAA-AAA-AAHH
I'll let you look
But don't touch my custom machine!
I did a good version of this, but Marcy just went "Huh" and played her next snippet, which was "I Go to Pieces" by a group that I believe is called Two British Weenies. I don't care for that song, and I told Marcy as much, but I still keep hearing it on the radio. Whereas I have yet to hear "Custom Machine." It makes me wonder if the radio industry really cares what I think, or if I'm just a lonely voice crying out, and nobody hears me at all. Not even the chair.
The Whammies
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 that 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 i 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 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 consider 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 1950's, 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.
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.
And the Winner Is...
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 the results, I had to make a few adjustments. For example, the Bob Dylan song "Lay Lady Lay" would have easily won the 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 so 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 "Mr. 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, in never would forgive her, it might blow up and circumcise 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 ringing 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."
And My Final Answer Is...Go back To Your Spaceship, Regis.
REGIS PHILBIN: Welcome to Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, the dramatic hit quiz show that has all America on the edge of its seat wondering how, exactly, I became famous in the first place. Let's get started with some irritating theme music!
MUSIC:BOM BOM BOM BOMMM!
REGIS: To select our first contestant, we're going to ask our 10 finalists to rank these four things in the order of how much you would not want to have them inserted deep into your ear: (A) A lima bean; (B) A spider; (C) A harmonica; (D) Rosie O'Donnell.
MUSIC: DEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEE
FINALISTS (shouting over the music): Did you say "ear" or "rear?"
REGIS: Too late! The correct answer is: "(E) It depends on what kind of spider." Our winner is... Walter Gweemble of Toledo, Ohio! Come on out here Walter!
(Walter runs out and shakes hands violently with Regis.)
REGIS: So Walter, tell us about yourself.
WALTER: Well, Regis, I'm...
REGIS: Nobody cares, Walter. What loved one have you brought along so that we can heighten the drama by showing his or her reaction as tension mounts?
WALTER: Regis, I brought my dog, Boomer.
(Boomer wags his tail.)
REGIS:OK! Let's play for a MILLION DOLLARS!
MUSIC:DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUM!
REGIS: Here we go. For $100, which of the following letters is NOT really a letter? (A) "A"; (B) "B"; (C) "C"; or (D) The Grand Canyon.
MUSIC: AAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOO
(Walter frowns with deep concentration.)
MUSIC: OOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEE
REGIS: God, this is dramatic, isn't it?
(The reaction camera shows Boomer, who is engaged in an act of personal hygiene.)
MUSIC: OOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAA
WALTER: Regis, I am just not sure what the answer is. But I am really getting off on calling you Regis, Regis.
REGIS: As you know, Walter, you have three lifelines: You can poll the audience; you can make a phone call; or you can have me shout the correct answer out loud, like this: "IT'S 'D,' YOU MORON!"
WALTER: Regis, I'm going to call my mother.
REGIS: We're getting her on the line now. (Sound of phone ringing.)
WALTER'S MOTHER: Hello?
REGIS: Mrs. Gweemble, this is Regis Philbin, with ABC's Who Wants To Be a Millionaire!
WALTER'S MOTHER: I told you damn people a million times, we don't want MCI.
WALTER: Mom! It's me! Walter!
WALTER'S MOTHER: Walter?
WALTER: Yes!
WALTER'S MOTHER: You call your mother DURING THE X-FILES?? (click)
WALTER: Mom?
REGIS: Walter, please give your final answer, so I can ask you if your final answer is in fact your final answer. I get paid $25,000 for every time I say "final answer."
MUSIC: OOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEE
WALTER: Gosh, Regis, I just don't . . . (He looks over at Boomer, who is drawing a "D" on the floor with his paw.) Regis, I'm going to say . . . "D."
REGIS: Is that your final answer? Final answer? Final answer?
WALTER: Regis, yes.
REGIS: "D" is correct! You've won $100!
MUSIC: BOM BOM BOM BA-DOMMMMM
(Walter collapses. The audience cheers wildly. Boomer makes the Weewee of Triumph on the studio floor.)
REGIS: Whew! Talk about drama! Only 14 more questions to go for a MILLION DOLLARS! Are you nervous, Walter?
WALTER: Well, Regis, I...
REGIS: Shut up. Your next question, for $200, is: How many legs are there on a standard cow? (A) None; (B) One; (C) More than one; (D) The Grand Canyon.
MUSIC: OOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEE
REMOTE CONTROL: Click.
THE ALIENS ARE COMING! THE ALIENS ARE COMING!
I don't want to alarm anybody, but there is an excellent chance that the Earth will be destroyed in the next several days. Congress is thinking about eliminating a federal program under which scientists broadcast signals to alien beings. This would be a large mistake. Alien beings have nuclear blaster death cannons. You cannot cut off their federal programs as if they were merely poor people.
I realize some of you may not believe that alien beings exist. But how else can you explain the many unexplained phenomena that people are always sighting, such as lightning and flying saucers? Oh, I know the authorities claim these sightings are actually caused by "weather balloons," but that is a bucket of manure if I ever heard one. (That's just a figure of speech, of course. I realize manure is silent.)
Answer this question honestly: Have you, or has any member of your immediate family, ever seen a weather balloon? Of course not. Nobody has. Yet if these "authorities" were telling the truth, the skies over America would be dark with weather balloons. Commercial aviation would be impossible. Nevertheless, the authorities trot out this tired old explanation, or an even stupider one, every time a flying saucer is sighted.
Wake up, America! There are no weather balloons! Those are alien beings! They are all around us! I'm sure most of you have seen the movie "E.T.", the story of an alien who almost dies when he falls into the clutches of the American medical establishment but is saved by pre-adolescent boys. Everybody believes the alien is a fake, a triumph of special effects. But watch the movie closely next time. The alien is real. The boys are fakes. Real pre-adolescent boys would have beaten the alien to death with rocks.
Yes, aliens exist and high government officials know they exist, but they've been keeping this knowledge top secret. Here is the Untold Story:
Years ago, when the alien-broadcast program began, government scientists decided to broadcast a message that would be simple yet convey a sense of love, universal peace and brotherhood: "Have a Nice Day." They broadcast this message over and over, day after day, year after year, until one day they got an answer:
Dear Earth Persons:
OK. We are having a nice day. We also have a number of extremely sophisticated weapons, and unless you start broadcasting something more interesting, we will reduce your planet to a very warm object the size of a child's bowling ball.
Regards,
The Aliens
So the scientists, desperate for something that would interest the aliens, broadcast an episode of "I Love Lucy", and the aliens loved it. They demanded more, and soon they were getting all three major networks, and the Earth was saved. There is only one problem: THE ALIENS HAVE TERRIBLE TASTE. They love game shows, soap operas, Howard Cosell and "Dallas." Whenever a network tries to take one of these shows off the air, the aliens threaten to vaporize the planet.
This is why you and all your friends think television is so awful. It isn't designed to please you --it's designed to please creatures from another galaxy. You know the Wisk commercial, the one with ring around the collar, the one so spectacularly stupid that it makes you wonder why anybody would dream of buying the product?
Well, the aliens love that commercial. We all owe a great debt of gratitude to the people who make Wisk. They have not sold a single bottle of Wisk in 14 years, but they have saved the Earth.
Very few people know any of this. Needless to say, Congress has no idea what is going on. Most legislators are incapable of eating breakfast without the help of several aides, so we can hardly expect them to understand a serious threat from outer space. But if they go ahead with their plan to cancel the alien-broadcast program and the aliens miss the next episode of "General Hospital," What do you think will happen? Think about it. And have a nice day.
More articles coming soon!