Tag: Humour

(This classic Dave Barry column was originally published May 24, 1998.)

Every now and then somebody thinks up a new idea that is so totally revolutionary that it just totally revolutionizes everything.

For example, in 1905 Albert Einstein stunned the scientific community when he announced that ”e” is equal to ”mc squared.” Until that point, scientists had no idea what ”e” was equal to. Oh, sure, they had known since the days of the ancient Egyptians that ”e” came after ”i,” except when both letters were preceded by a ”c.” But nobody had ever even considered the possibility that ”e” might have anything to do with ”m.” We will never know what other amazing things would have been revealed about the alphabet if Einstein had lived longer. We do know that, just before he died, he told friends that he was working on ”something really big involving ‘k.’ ”

Albert is gone, but fortunately for humanity in general there are still great minds at work, coming up with breakthrough ideas that a normal person could never even imagine without ingesting fantastic quantities of gin. One such idea was brought to my attention recently by an alert reader named (really) Dwain Vanderhoof, who sent me a brochure for a new type of golf club, which I absolutely swear I am not making up, called the Ballistic Driver.

The Ballistic Driver is a ”swing-less” golf club. You grip it as usual, and you position the head of the club next to the golf ball. But instead of swinging the club, you press an ”Activator Button” on the grip; this detonates a small explosive charge inside the club head, which causes a metal plate to shoot out the side of the club a distance of 1.5 inches at a speed of 200 miles per hour. The plate hits the golf ball, which then, according to the brochure, goes ”250 yards, every time . . . down the middle, exactly where you aimed it, drive after drive.”

Is that a great idea, or what? Now you can play golf WITHOUT HAVING TO MANUALLY HIT THE BALL! Talk about a breakthrough! I mean, for me, the worst part of playing golf, by far, has always been hitting the ball. I love standing around on the golf course; I love driving the golf cart; I love saying the word ”bogey.” But I hate swinging the club at the stupid ball, and, on those rare occasions when I actually hit the ball, I hate watching it take off in some totally random direction and disappear, usually forever, into a lake, or the woods, or the body of an innocent bystander.

So I called the company that makes the Ballistic Driver, GPower Inc. of Sunnyvale, Calif. I spoke with one of the partners, Elizabeth Poggi, a serious person who confirmed that the Ballistic Driver is a serious product aimed at people who, for various reasons, cannot swing golf clubs, as well as for people like me who would simply prefer not to.

Poggi stressed that the Ballistic Driver, which will sell for around $800, has safety features that prevent it from going off accidentally, as well as (I am still not making this up) a silencer. These features are important: Just imagine what it would be like if golf clubs were randomly detonating with loud bangs on golf courses, not to mention in airports, hotel elevators, etc. It would be a lot of fun! But it would also be wrong, which is why I am urging everybody to remember this basic rule of golf: Always assume your club is loaded.

I think the Ballistic Driver could transform the game. Poggi told me that if the club were fitted with a titanium strike plate, ”it could theoretically propel the ball 500 yards.” This means that a pathetic schlump like me could propel the ball farther than Tiger Woods Inc. hits it on those rare occasions when he is not filming American Express commercials.

And who knows what lies down the road? I mean, if we can make a club that can hit the ball 500 yards, why not 1,000? Why not 1,500? Why not a mile? We have the technology, darn it! Maybe we will see the day, in our lifetimes, when golfers using a descendant of the Ballistic Driver, perhaps powered by a small quantity of plutonium, are stepping up to the tee and driving the ball into another time zone . Of course, we’ll need to develop a technologically advanced golf ball that contained some kind of transmitter, so it could radio its position back to the golfer (”YOUR TEE SHOT LANDED 18 YARDS FROM THE HOLE. IN PAKISTAN.”)

Wouldn’t that be great? Of course, as with any technology, there’s always the danger that it will fall into the wrong hands. You could have street gangs converting these clubs to Fully Automatic mode and driving in their low-rider carts to rival golf courses, where they’d spray out hundreds of balls per minute in vicious ”drive-by” tee-offs. Or you could turn on the TV news one morning to see Saddam Hussein wearing lime-green pants and standing next to a golf club the size of the Washington Monument, threatening to hit a massive chemical and/or biological Golf Ball Of Doom smack into the fairway of middle America.

So there will be those who will try to ban the Ballistic Driver. To them I say: Forget it. The U.S. Constitution guarantees us — not in so many words, but the intent is clear — the right to keep and bear golf clubs. This precious right was fought for in the Revolutionary War by our courageous foreparents, the Minutepersons, who stood up for it on the green at Lexington. Although they did bogey that particular hole.

An Italian parks his brand new Porsche in front of the office to show it off to his colleagues. As he’s getting out of the car, a truck comes speeding along too close to the kerb and takes off the door before speeding off. More than a little distraught, the Italian grabs his mobile and calls the police. Five minutes later, the police arrive.
Before the policeman has a chance to ask any questions, the Italian starts screaming hysterically:
“My Porsche, my beautiful silver Porsche is ruined. No matter how long it spends at the panel beaters it’ll simply never be the same again!”

After the Italian finally finishes his rant, the policeman shakes his head in disgust:
“I can’t believe how materialistic you Italians are,” he says.
“You lot are so focused on your possessions that you don’t notice anything else in your life.”

“How can you say such a thing at a time like this?”, snaps the Italian.

The policeman replies, “Didn’t you realise that your arm was torn off when the truck hit you?”

The Italian looks down in absolute horror and screams………

“Aaaaaargh!!! Where’s my Rolex???”

SYMPTOM: Feet cold and wet.
FAULT: Glass being held at incorrect angle.
ACTION: Rotate glass so that open end points toward ceiling.

SYMPTOM: Feet warm and wet.
FAULT: Improper bladder control.
ACTION: Stand next to nearest dog, complain about house training.

SYMPTOM: Beer unusually pale and tasteless.
FAULT: Glass empty.
ACTION: Get someone to buy you another beer.

SYMPTOM: Opposite wall covered with fluorescent lights.
FAULT: You have fallen over backward.
ACTION: Have yourself tied to the bar.

SYMPTOM: Mouth contains cigarette butts.
FAULT: You have fallen forward.
ACTION: See above.

SYMPTOM: Beer tasteless, front of your shirt is wet.
FAULT: Mouth not open, or glass applied to wrong part of face.
ACTION: Retire to restroom, practice in mirror.

SYMPTOM: Floor blurred.
FAULT: You are looking through bottom of empty glass.
ACTION: Get someone to buy you another beer.

SYMPTOM: Floor moving.
FAULT: You are being carried out.
ACTION: Find out if you are being taken to another bar.

SYMPTOM: Room seems unusually dark.
FAULT: Bar has closed.
ACTION: Confirm home address with bartender.

SYMPTOM: Taxi suddenly takes on colourful aspect and textures.
FAULT: Beer consumption has exceeded personal limitations.
ACTION: Cover mouth.

SYMPTOM: Everyone looks up to you and smiles.
FAULT: You are dancing on the table.
ACTION: Fall on somebody cushy-looking.

SYMPTOM: Beer is crystal-clear.
FAULT: It’s water. Somebody is trying to sober you up.
ACTION: Punch him.

SYMPTOM: Hands hurts, nose hurts, mind unusually clear.
FAULT: You have been in a fight.
ACTION: Apologize to everyone you see, just in case it was them.

SYMPTOM: Don’t recognize anyone, don’t recognize the room you’re in.
FAULT: You’ve wandered into the wrong party.
ACTION: See if they have free beer.

SYMPTOM: Your singing sounds distorted.
FAULT: The beer is too weak.
ACTION: Have more beer until your voice improves.

SYMPTOM: Don’t remember the words to the song.
FAULT: Beer is just right.
ACTION: Play air guitar.

From www.fishtank.org.uk

1) The bandage was wound around the wound.
2) The farm was used to produce produce. (You may get an error here on your grammar check; it’s even confused.)
3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
4) We must polish the Polish furniture.
5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.
6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes. (another grammar check)
10) I did not object to the object.
11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
13) They were too close to the door to close it.
14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.
15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.
16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
18) After a number of injections my jaw got number.
19) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.
20) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
21) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

Let’s face it – English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France.
Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat.

We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham?

If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth?
One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? No. Two moose. One index, 2 indices? Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?
Ship by truck and send cargo by ship?
Have noses that run and feet that smell? How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all.
That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.

This is funny, it was contributed by our very own Pierre Hoeck.

Just click each image to view it … then use your browser back button.
Thank you Pierre

(This classic Dave Barry column was originally published on Sept. 3, 1995, and adapted for Krapanj News)

Call me a wild and crazy guy if you want, but recently, on a whim, I decided to — why not? — turn 54.

It’s not so bad. Physically, the only serious problem I’ve noticed is that I can no longer read anything printed in letters smaller than Shaquille O’Neal. Also, to read a document, I have to hold it far from my face; more and more, I find myself holding documents — this is awkward on airplanes — with my feet. I can no longer read restaurant menus, so I fake it when the waiter comes around.

ME (pointing randomly): I’ll have this.

WAITER: You’ll have your napkin?

ME: I want that medium rare.

It’s gotten so bad that I can’t even read the words I’m typing into my computer right now. If my fingers were in a prankish mood, they could type an embarrassing message right in the middle of this sentence HE’S ALWAYS PUTTING US IN HIS NOSE and there is no way I’d be able to tell.

I suppose I should go see an eye doctor, but if you’re 54, whenever you go to see any kind of doctor, he or she invariably decides to insert a lengthy medical item into your body until the far end of it reaches a different area code. Also, I am frankly fearful that the eye doctor will want me to wear reading glasses. I have a psychological hang-up about this, caused by the fact that, growing up, I wore eyeglasses for 70,000 years. And these were not just any eyeglasses: These were the El Dork-O model, the ones that come from the factory pre-broken with the white tape already wrapped around the nose part. As an adolescent, I was convinced that my glasses were one of the key reasons why the opposition sex did not find me attractive, the other key reason being that I did not reach puberty until approximately 35.

Anyway, other than being functionally blind at close range, I remain in superb physical condition for a man of my age who can no longer fit into any of his pants. I have definitely been gaining some weight in the midriff region, despite a rigorous diet regimen of drinking absolutely no beer whatsoever after I pass out. The only lower-body garments I own that still fit me comfortably are towels, which I find myself wearing in more and more social settings. I’m thinking of getting a black one for funerals.

Because of my midriff situation I was very pleased to read recently about the new Miracle Breakthrough Weight Loss Plan For Mice. In case you missed this, what happened was, scientists extracted a certain chemical ingredient found in thin mice, then injected it into fat mice; the fat mice lost 90 percent more weight than a control group of fat mice who were exposed only to Richard Simmons. The good news is that this same ingredient could produce dramatic weight loss in human beings; the bad news is that, before it becomes available, it must be approved by the Food and Drug Administration (motto: “We Haven’t Even Approved Our Motto Yet”). So it’s going to take a while. If you’re overweight and desperate to try this miracle ingredient right away, my advice, as a medical professional, is to get hold of a thin mouse and eat it. It can’t be any worse than tofu.

But getting back to aging: Aside from the vision thing, and the weight thing, and the need to take an afternoon nap almost immediately after I wake up, and the fact that random hairs — I’m talking about long hairs, the kind normally associated with Cher — occasionally erupt from deep inside my ears — aside from these minor problems, I am a superb physical specimen easily mistaken for Brad Pitt.

Not only that, but I have the mind of an anchor. Of course, very few things in the world — and I include the Home Shopping Network in this statement — are as stupid as an anchor. What I’m saying is, I have definitely detected a decline in some of my mental facilities. For example, the other day I was in my office, trying to perform a fundamental journalistic function, namely, fill out an expense report, and I needed to divide 3 into a number that, if I recall correctly (which I don’t; that’s the problem) was $125.85, and I couldn’t remember how to do long division. I knew I was supposed to put the 3 into the 12, then bring something down, but what? And how far down? And would I need the “cosine”?

I was starting to panic, when all of a sudden — this is why you youngsters should pay attention in math class — my old training came back to me, and I knew exactly what to do: Ask Doris. Doris works in my office, and she has a calculator. I guess I should start carrying one around, along with some kind of device that remembers (a) people’s names, (b) where I put the remote control and (c) what I had planned to do once I got into the kitchen other than stand around wearing a vacant expression normally associated with fish.

But so what if my memory isn’t what it used to be? My other mental skills are as sharp as ever, and I’m confident that I can continue to do the kind of astute analysis and in-depth research that have characterized Krapanj News over the years, which is why today I want to assure you, the readers, that my advancing age will in no way change the fact that MAINLY HE SCRATCHES HIMSELF.