Dave Barry: Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up

But that is by no means the only major toilet development. There is also the Mystery Toilet in Texas that produces ballpoint pens. I am not making this up, either. According to a story in the Wichita Falls (Texas) Times/Record News, written by Steve Clements and sent in by several alert readers, a man named David Garza of Henrietta, Texas, has fished 75 Paper Mate ballpoint pens out of his toilet over the past two years, sometimes as many as five pens per day. Garza has no idea where they’re coming from, and neither do the local sewer authorities.

The story was accompanied by a photograph of Garza sitting on the bathtub next to the Mystery Toilet, holding a pen, looking like a successful angler. I called him immediately. “What’s the status of the toilet” I asked.

“It’s still a mystery,” he said. He said he hadn’t found any new pens since the newspaper story, but that he has become something of a celebrity. This is understandable. People naturally gravitate to a man who has a Mystery Toilet.

“Everywhere I go,” he said, “people say to me, ‘Have you got a pen?’”

I asked him if the pens still write, and he said they do.

“Paper Mate ought to make a commercial out of this,” he said. “The slogan could be, ‘We come from all over and write anywhere.’ You know, like Coca-Cola, ‘It’s there when you need it.’”

Actually, I don’t think that’s Coca-Cola’s slogan. But Garza’s statement got me to thinking about a possible breakthrough TV commercial wherein an athlete is standing in the locker room, sweating, thirsty as heck, and the toilet gurgles, and up pops a nice refreshing can of Coke. Yum! A commercial like that might be exactly what Coca-Cola needs to counteract all the free media attention Pepsi got recently with the syringe thing.

But the question is: Why are Paper Mate pens showing up in this toilet? There’s only one logical explanation—I’m sure you thought of it—alien beings. David Garza’s toilet is apparently connected to some kind of intergalactic sewage warp, through which aliens are trying to establish communication by sending Paper Mate pens (which are for sale everywhere). Probably they want us to write down our phone number on a piece of Charmin and flush it back to them.

Speaking of toilets and communication, you need to know about a TV-review column from the Daily Yomiuru, an English-language newspaper published in Japan. The column, sent in by alert reader Chris Graillat, states that there’s a children’s TV show in Japan called “Ugo Ugo Ruga,” which features—I am still not making this up—an animated character with heavy eyebrows called Dr. Purl Purl (Dr. Stinky), a piece of talking excrement that keeps popping up from the toilet bowl to express strange platitudes only an adult can fathom.

You’re thinking: “Hey! Sounds like Henry Kissinger!”

No, seriously, you’re thinking that there are indeed some scary worldwide developments occurring in toilets, and the international authorities had better do something about it. And then they’d better wash their hands.

Recently, I received a letter from a justice of the United States Supreme Court concerning a product called Beano.

I absolutely swear I am not making this up. The letter, written on official U.S. Supreme Court stationary, comes from Justice John Paul Stevens, who states:

“Having long been concerned about the problem of exploding cows, it seemed imperative to pass on to you the enclosed advertisement, the importance of which I am sure will be immediately apparent to you.” Justice Stevens enclosed an advertisement from Cooking Light magazine for Beano, which, according to the manufacturer, “prevents the gas from beans.” The advertisement includes pro-Beano quotations from various recognized intestinal-gas authorities, including (I am still not making this up) the New York Times, the Idaho Statesman, and Regis Philbin. The advertisement calls Beano “a scientific and social breakthrough,” and states: “It’s time to spill the Beano.”

I was already aware of this product. I don’t wish to toot my own horn, so to speak, but thanks to the efforts of hundreds of alert readers, my office happens to be the World Clearinghouse for information relating to gas buildups that cause explosions in animals, plants, plumbing, humans, etc. In recent months I’ve received newspaper reports of explosions involving a flounder, a marshmallow, a mattress, two wine bottles, several pacemakers (during cremation), countless toilets, a flaming cocktail called a “harbor light,” chicken livers, snail eggs, a turkey, a tube of Poppin’ Fresh biscuits, a raccoon, and a set of breast implants.

So needless to say, many readers had already alerted me about Beano. Several of them had sent me actual samples of Beano, which comes in a small plastic bottle, from which you squirt drops onto your food. But until I got Justice Stevens’s letter, I had not realized that this was a matter of concern in the highest levels of government. When you see the Supreme Court justices, they always appear to be extremely solemn, if not actually deceased. It never occurs to you that, under those robes, they have digestive systems, too. But they do, as can be seen by a careful reading of the transcript of a recent court hearing:

CHIEF JUSTICE REHNQUIST: Is the court to understand, then, that the counsel’s interpretation of the statute is ... All right! Who sliced the Limburger? (He glares at the other justices.)

JUSTICE SCALIA: Well, I am not naming names, but I happened to be glancing at the liberal wing of the court, and I definitely saw some robes billow, if you catch my drift.

JUSTICE BLACKMUN: Oh, sure, and I suppose the conservative wing doesn’t sound like the All-Star Kazoo Band over there. My opinions are blowing off the bench.

JUSTICE O’CONNOR: Oh, yeah? Well, why don’t you take your opinions and ...

This is bad for America. We need our highest judicial body to stop this childish bickering and get back to debating the kinds of weighty constitutional issues that have absorbed the court in recent years, such as whether a city can legally force an exotic dancer to cover her entire nipple, or just the part that pokes out.

So I decided, as a tax-deductible public service, to do a Beano Field Test. To make sure the test was legally valid, I asked a friend of mine, Paul Levine, who’s a trained attorney as well as an author, if he’d participate. Paul is a selfless, concerned citizen, so I was not surprised at his answer.

“Only if you mention that my critically acclaimed novel To Speak for the Dead is now available in paperback,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. But Paul agreed to participate in the Field Test anyway, because that is the kind of American he is. My wife, Beth, also agreed to participate, although I want to stress that, being a woman, she has never, ever, in her entire life, not once, produced any kind of gaseous digestive byproduct, and when she does she blames it on the dogs.

To make this the most demanding field test possible, we went to a Mexican restaurant. Mexican restaurants slip high-octane beans into virtually everything they serve, including breath mints. It is not by mere chance that most of Mexico is located outdoors.

Paul, Beth, and I applied the Beano to our food as directed—three to eight drops per serving—and we ate it. For the rest of the evening we wandered around to various night spots, awaiting developments. Other people at these night spots were probably having exciting, romantic conversations, but ours went like this:

ME: So! How’s everyone doing? BETH: All quiet! PAUL: Not a snap, crackle, or pop!

Anyway, the bottom line is that Beano seems to work pretty well. Paul reported the next day that all had been fairly calm, although at 3:30 A.m. he was awakened by an outburst. “You’re familiar with the Uzi?” was how he put it. I myself was far safer than usual to light a match around, and Beth reported that the dogs had been un usually quiet.