Dave Barry Is from Mars and Venus (21 page)

According to an article in
Advertising Age
, Philip Morris made up a whole story—described by a Philip Morris spokesperson as “a tale of fictional imagert”—about how the Dave’s
brand of cigarettes got started. Here’s the story, as quoted by
Advertising Age
from Philip Morris promotional materials:

“Down in Concord, N.C., there’s a guy named Dave. He lives in the heart of tobacco farmland. Dave enjoys lots of land, plenty of freedom, and his yellow ‘57 pickup truck. Dave was fed up with cheap, fast-burning smokes. Instead of just getting mad, he did something about it… Dave’s tobacco company was born.”

Is that a heartwarming and inspirational tale of fictional imagery, or what? A guy—a regular guy: a guy exactly like you, except that he doesn’t exist—gets FED UP with the status quo. So instead of just sitting around and complaining, he gets up off his imaginary butt and—in the great “can-do” tradition of Americans such as John Wayne, who courageously pretended to be many brave heroes before he died with just the one remaining lung—”Dave” decides to
make his own brand of cigarettes
.

Philip Morris does not provide details regarding how, exactly, Dave raised the money to build his cigarette factory. Maybe Dave robbed a nursing home; maybe Dave borrowed the money from other members of his neo-Nazi group; maybe Dave sold his huge collection of child pornography. You could make up any story you wanted about what Dave did, because Dave is not real! That’s the kind of fun you and Philip Morris can have with tales of fictional imagery.

On the other hand, you must be very, very careful when you talk about real people. An example of a real person would be Geoffrey C. Bible, who is the chief executive officer of Philip Morris.

Because Geoffrey C. Bible is real, you should not use the name “Geoffrey C. Bible” in a derogatory way. You should
not, for example, say, “Darn it! The dog made Geoffrey C. Bible on the carpet again!” Nor should you permit your youngsters to use expressions such as “Tommy stuck his finger way up into his nose and pulled out a big old Geoffrey C. Bible!” Nor should you say that a person caught engaging in an unnatural act of romance with a sheep was “doing the Geoffrey C. Bible.” That would be wrong.

It would also be wrong to make up a tale of fictional imagery about Geoffrey C. Bible, such as:

“Down in the heart of Philip Morris corporate headquarters there’s a guy named Geoffrey C. Bible. Geoffrey C. Bible enjoys plenty of employees and a corporate jet. Geoffrey C. Bible was fed up with so-called ‘scientists’ saying that cigarettes kill more people every year than alcohol, cocaine, crack, heroin, homicide, suicide, and O.J. Simpson. Instead of just getting mad, Geoffrey C. Bible did something about it. He deposited his enormous paycheck.”

So does everybody understand the ethical point here? You may NOT take liberties with the name “Geoffrey C. Bible.” You may, however, take the name “Dave” and do pretty much whatever you want to it. As I say, I’m not at all bitter that Philip Morris has decided to appropriate my name, and my father’s name, and the name that a lot of regular guys who really exist have used over the years, a name that has apparently earned some measure of trust, which is why Philip Morris wants to attach its new cigarette brand to this name, the way a leech attaches itself to your leg. Who knows? If this strategy works out, maybe it’ll inspire a whole bunch of new cigarette brands with trustworthy names. I bet that even as you read this, some marketing people, somewhere, are batting around the concept of “Jesus” cigarettes.

They need to keep coming up with ideas. They’re in a tough business: The people who use their products—and I am NOT implying that there’s a connection—keep dying of lung cancer. It’s an unfortunate situation, and I for one am getting fed up. But instead of getting mad, I’m going to do something about it.

I’m going to start calling lung cancer “Geoffrey’s disease.”

R
ecently, when I was having a hamburger at an outdoor restaurant, two guys started up their Harley-Davidson motorcycles, parked maybe twenty-five feet from me.

Naturally, being Harley guys, these were rebels—lone wolves, guys who do it Their Way, guys who do not follow the crowd. You could tell because they were wearing the same jeans, jackets, boots, bandannas, sunglasses, belt buckles, tattoos, and (presumably) underwear worn by roughly 28 million other lone-wolf Harley guys.

And of course, once they got their engines started, they had to spend the equivalent of two college semesters just sitting there, revving their engines, which were so earbleedingly loud that I thought my hamburger was going to leap from my plate and skitter, terrified, back into the kitchen. I believe many Harley guys spend more time revving their engines than actually driving anywhere; I sometimes wonder why they bother to have wheels on their motorcycles.

Perhaps you, too, have experienced an assault of Harley-revving; and perhaps you have asked yourself: Why do these people DO this? What possible reason could they have for causing so much discomfort to those around them?

As it happens, there IS a reason, and it is an excellent one: They’re jerks.

I’m not saying that ALL Harley guys—some of my friends are Harley guys—engage in this obnoxious behavior. I’m just saying that the ones who DO engage in it are jerks. And I am not afraid to tell them so, even if they are large and hairy and potentially violent. I am not afraid to say: “Okay, Mr. Loud Harley Guy, you got a problem with me calling you a jerk? You want to DO something about it? You want to express your disagreement by tapping out lengthy Morse code sentences on my skull with a tire iron? Then why don’t you—if you have the guts—come see me PERSONALLY at my place of employment, located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.? Come on if you dare, fat boy! Ride right into the lobby!”

And let me also say, while I’m at it, that I’m sick of you people who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped, even though you are not, personally, handicapped. You know who you are. Many of you even have those little rearview-mirror handicapped signs, which you got from a friend or relative, or which you once needed because of some temporary medical condition that has long since been cleared up.

One of my hobbies is to watch when cars pull into handicapped parking spots, and see who gets out. Very often, in my experience, these people appear to be totally unhandicapped: no wheelchair; no crutches; not even a trace of a limp. I realize that some of these people have problems, such as heart conditions, that are not visible. But some of them, to judge by the sprightliness of their walks, are off to compete in the decathlon. Their only handicap is: They’re jerks.

What we need in this country—I would pay extra income tax for this—is an elite corps of Handicapped Parker On-Site Medical Examination SWAT Teams. These teams would prowl the streets, wearing rubber gloves and armed with X-ray machines, CAT scanners, scalpels, drills, saws, and harpoon-sized hypodermic needles.

When a team spotted a handicapped-zone parker who could not immediately prove that he or she was handicapped, that person would immediately undergo a severely thorough on-the-street physical examination conducted by burly personnel who have attended medical school for a maximum of four hours including lunch (“Hey Norm! Which ones are the kidneys again?”). These examinations would involve full frontal nudity and the removal of enough blood, organ, and tissue samples to form a complete new human; also, if the SWAT team found a Harley guy revving his engine in a handicapped-parking zone, it would employ the 250-foot intestinal probe nicknamed “Big Bertha.” The idea would be that if you weren’t qualified to park in a handicapped zone BEFORE the physical examination, you definitely would be AFTER.

And let’s talk about you people who always send your food back in restaurants. (I KNOW this has nothing to do with handicapped parking; I can’t stop myself.) I mean, sure, if the food is truly BAD, if it has RODENTS running around on it, okay, send it back; but what about you people who ALWAYS send your food back, thereby turning EVERY SINGLE MEAL into an exercise in consumer whining? I’m sorry! You’re jerks! Especially if, when the bill comes, you also ALWAYS insist—even if everybody ordered basically the same thing—on figuring out your EXACT share (“Well, I had the Diet Sprite, which is ten cents less than the iced
tea…”); and then you decide that a 5 percent tip is adequate, thereby forcing your friends, who are embarrassed, to put in more money.

Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you. Put your ear right down to the page:

Also, you should never, ever, no matter what, butt in front of people waiting in line without asking their permission.

Also, if, when you talk to people, they keep backing away from you, it’s because you’re TOO CLOSE, all right? SO DON’T KEEP ADVANCING ON THEM LIKE A HUMAN GLACIER.

Thank you, and I apologize for using so many capital letters. I can be a real jerk about that.

T
oday, as part of my ongoing series entitled “Advancing Your Career,” I’m going to address the often-asked question: Should you set fire to your supervisor’s beard?

But first I need to formally apologize to the Harley-Davidson motorcycle riders for a column I wrote a couple of months ago in which I stated—without having done any research—that people who repeatedly rev their extremely loud Harley-Davidsons in crowded public places are jerks.

Well. You talk about stirring up a hornet’s nest. I have not received so much irate mail since the time I criticized Neil Diamond.

(NOTE TO NEIL DIAMOND FANS: Please don’t write to me again! I now worship Neil as a god! I have a graven image of him to which I ritually sacrifice goats!)

(NOTE TO ANIMAL-RIGHTS ACTIVISTS: I’m just kidding!)

(NOTE TO NEIL DIAMOND FANS: Not that I am saying Neil is not worthy of goat sacrifice!)

In their letters to me, the Harley-Davidson people made four basic points:

1. I am scum.
   

2. There are important mechanical and safety reasons why Harley-Davidson engines need to be extremely loud and revved a lot.
   

3. I am lower than scum.
   

4. Perhaps I would like to have my skull crushed like a Ping-Pong ball under a freight locomotive.
   

Here are some actual unretouched quotations from the letters I received:

• “Dear mr Barry yes you are a looser and yes you are anal retentive.”
  

• “You are an idiot! You should be writing you’re so called journalism for National Inquirer.”
  

• “My loud Harley might catch your attention from concentrating on singing your favorite Barry Manilow song.”
  

• “I don’t guess you know that lawyers, Doctors, country singers own Harley.”
  

• “You (bleeping) polyester buying, penny loafer sporting, polka-dot tie wearing, bus riding, no life having (motherbleeper).”
  

So I just want to make this sincere statement of apology to those Harley riders whom I have offended: Don’t you EVER accuse me of listening to Barry Manilow.

(NOTE TO BARRY MANILOW FANS: Just kidding! I love Barry’s work! Especially the Dr Pepper commercial!)

Okay, now that we’ve cleared that up, I want to share with you an item from a newsletter published by the Utah Department of Employment Security, sent to me by alert reader John Balmforth. The newsletter has a feature titled
YOU BE THE JUDGE, which presents a case concerning whether a company was justified in discharging an employee (referred to as the “claimant”). Here, according to the newsletter are the facts, as determined at a hearing:

• “During a disciplinary discussion with his supervisor, the claimant lit the supervisor’s beard on fire with a cigarette lighter.”
  

• “Shortly thereafter, the claimant refused to follow instructions from his trainer and, when rebuked, the worker pressed a Post-it note on the trainer’s forehead.”