Dave Barry - Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up

Like most people, I can always use an extra $7 or $8 million, which is why today I have decided to write a blockbuster legal thriller.

Americans buy legal thrillers by the ton. I was in many airports over the past few months, and I got the impression that aviation authorities were making this announcement over the public-address system: “FEDERAL REGULATIONS PROHIBIT YOU FROM BOARDING A PLANE UNLESS YOU ARE CARRYING THE CLIENT BY JOHN GRISHAM.” I mean, everybody had this book. (“This is the captain speaking. We’ll be landing in Seattle instead of Detroit because I want to finish The Client.”)

The ironic thing is that best-selling legal thrillers generally are written by lawyers, who are not famous for written communication. I cite as Exhibit A my own attorney, Joseph DiGiacinto, who is constantly providing me with shrewd advice that I cannot understand because Joe has taken the legal precaution of translating it into Martian. Usually, when people send you a fax, they send a cover page on top of it, which conveys the following information: “Here’s a fax for (your name).” But Joe’s cover page features a statement approximately the length of the U.S. Constitution, worded so legally that I can’t look directly at it without squinting. It says something like: “WARNING: The following document and all appurtenances thereto and therein are the sole and exclusionary property of the aforementioned (hereinafter ‘The Mortgagee’) and may not be read, touched, spindled, fondled or rebroadcast without the expressively written consent of Major league Baseball, subject to severe legal penalties (hereinafter ‘The Blowtorch Noogie’) this means YOU.”

And that’s just Joe’s cover page. Nobody has ever dared to read one of his actual faxes, for fear of being immediately thrown into prison.

Nevertheless, some lawyers are hugely successful writers, and I intend to cash in on this. I am not, technically, a lawyer, but I did watch numerous episodes of “Perry Mason,” and on one occasion, when I got a traffic ticket, I represented myself in court, successfully pleading nolo contendere (Latin, meaning “Can I pay by check?”). So I felt well qualified to write the following blockbuster legal thriller and possible movie screenplay:

The woman walked into my office, and I instantly recognized her as Clarissa Fromage, charged with murdering her late husband, wealthy industrial polluter A. Cranston “Bud” Fromage, whose death was originally reported as a heart attack but later ruled a homicide when sophisticated laboratory tests showed that his head had been cut off.

“So,” she said. “You’re a young Southern lawyer resembling a John Grisham protagonist as much as possible without violating the copyright.”

“That’s right,” I replied. “Perhaps we can have sex.”

“Not in the first chapter,” she said.

“Ohhhhhhh,” she cried out. “OOOHMIGOD.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s my standard hourly fee.”

The courtroom tension was so palpable that you could feel it.

“Detective Dungman,” said the district attorney, “please tell the jury what you found inside the defendant’s purse on the night of the murder.”

“Tic-Tacs,” said Dungman.

“Was there anything else?”

“No, I can’t think of ... Wait a minute. Now that you mention it, there was something.”

“What was it?”

“A chain saw.”

A murmur ran through the courtroom and, before the bailiff could grab it, jumped up and bit Judge Webster M. Tuberhonker on the nose. “That’s going to hurt,” I told my client.

With time running out on the case, we returned to my office for a scene involving full frontal nudity.

A hush fell over the courtroom, injuring six, as I approached the witness.

“Dr. Feldspar,” I said. “You are an expert, are you not?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“And you are familiar with the facts of this case, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you are aware that, as a trained attorney, I can turn statements into questions by ending them with ‘are you not,’ are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And is it not possible that, by obtaining genetic material from fossils, scientists could clone NEW dinosaurs?”

“OBJECTION!” thundered the district attorney. “He’s introducing the plot from the blockbuster science thriller and motion picture Jurassic Park!”

The judge frowned at me over his spectacles. “In the movie,” he said, “whom do you see playing the defendant in Chapter Four?”

“Sharon Stone,” I answered.

“I’ll allow it.”

“And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said, “only ONE PERSON could have committed this murder, and that person is ...”

The guilty party suddenly jumped up, causing the courtroom to nearly spit out its chewing gum.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” the guilty party shouted. “I DID IT, AND I’M GLAD!”

It was Amy Fisher.

Except for the column about zebra mussels clinging to the giant brassiere, this next section is about boating. I own a motorboat, named Buster, who appears a couple of times in this section. In fact, Buster appears in this section considerably more often than he appears in the actual water. Buster spends most of his time sitting in my driveway. Every now and then I’ll try to start him, thereby causing a couple of his key engine parts to fall off. Then I call the smiling mechanic, who tows Buster away, fixes him, and tows him back to my driveway, where he (Buster) sits for a couple of months, chuckling softly and slowly working his engine parts loose for the next time that I try to start him. The sea: It’s my life.

Summer is here again, and as the official spokesperson for the recreational boating industry, I’ve been asked to remind you that boating is a fun and relaxing family activity with very little likelihood that your boat will sink and you’ll wind up bobbing helplessly in the water while sharks chew on your legs as if they were a pair of giant Slim Jims, provided that you follow proper nautical procedures.

Fortunately, I can tell you what these procedures are, because I am a veteran “salt” and the owner of a small motorboat, named Buster Boat. I spend many happy hours at Buster’s helm, and I always feel totally safe, because I know that (a) most nautical dangers can be avoided through careful preparation, good seamanship, and common sense; and (b) Buster is sitting on a trailer in my yard. The biggest danger there is spiders, which like to make webs on Buster’s seats because they’ve figured out that, statistically, Buster is less likely to wind up in the water than our house is.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting at the helm, killing spiders with the anchor, scanning the horizon of my yard for potential boating hazards, I turn on Buster’s radio and listen to the Marine Forecast, which is always saying things like: “Barometer leaning to the southwest at 15 to 37 knots.” As a recreational boater, you should be familiar with these nautical terms. For example, a “knot” means about a mile an hour.” There is a sound nautical reason why they don’t come right out and say “about a mile an hour,” namely, they want you, the recreational boater, to feel stupid. They used to be less subtle about it: In the old days, the Marine Forecast consisted entirely of a guy telling recreational-boater jokes. (“How many recreational boaters does it take to screw in a light bulb?” “They can’t! Sharks have chewed off their arms!”)