[587] in Humor
HUMOR (Classic Dave): On the Road Again
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Andrew A. Bennett)
Sat Dec 3 22:27:12 1994
To: humor@MIT.EDU
Date: Sat, 03 Dec 1994 22:23:14 EST
From: "Andrew A. Bennett" <abennett@MIT.EDU>
Date: Fri, 2 Dec 94 13:22:28 PST
From: Connie_Kleinjans@Novell.COM (Connie Kleinjans)
Subject: HUMOR: On the Road Again (Dave)
On the Road Again (1989)
DAVE BARRY
I didn't lose my luggage until Day 12 of the Book Promotion Tour From
Hell. By then, I was glad to get rid of it. I'd been dragging it to every
North American city large enough to have roads, appearing on thousands of radio
talk shows for the purpose of pretending to be enthusiastic about my book,
although after about the fifth day I usually just staggered into the radio
studio, put my head down on the host's lap and went to sleep.
Most hosts are accustomed to interviewing unconscious book-tour
victims, so they'd just plunge ahead. "Our guest today on 'Speaking About
Talking'," they'd say, "smells like the bottom of a homeless person's shopping
bag."
This was true. The reason was that, no matter how many days I'm on the
road, I insist on taking only one small carry-on suitcase so as to prevent my
luggage from falling into the hands of the Baggage People, who would pounce
upon it like those grief-stricken Iranian mourners who nearly reduced the late
Mr. Ayatollah Khomeini to Corpse McNuggets.
So my garments and toiletry articles spend their days compressed into
an extremely dense carry-on wad, in which they are able to freely exchange
grime, mayonnaise stains, B.O. vapors, etc., the result being that after
several days my "clean" shirts look like giant community handkerchiefs and my
Tartar Control toothpaste tastes like sock dirt.
Eventually my luggage undergoes a process known to physicists and
frequent fliers as "suitcase fusion," wherein the contents all unite into one
writhing, festering, pulsating blob of laundry that, when I get to the hotel
room, climbs angrily out of the suitcase by itself and crawls over to the TV to
watch in-room pornographic movies. This worries me, because the movie goes on
my computerized hotel bill, and I'm afraid that when I check out, the clerk
will say, in a loud and perky voice: "Mr. Barry, we certainly hope you enjoyed
your stay here, especially your private in-room viewing of 'Return to Planet
Nipple'."
Actually I don't have time to watch movies, because I have to forage
for food. The split-second schedule of the Book Promotion Tour From Hell calls
for me to arrive at the hotel five minutes after room service closes, so I
usually enjoy a hearty and nourishing meal from the "mini-bar," which is a
little box provided as a service to hotel guests by the American Cholesterol
Growers Association, featuring foodlike items that are perfect for the busy
traveler who figures he's going to die soon anyway, such as Honey-Roasted Pork
Parts.
After dinner it's time to crawl into bed, turn out the lights, and
listen to the Subtle But Annoying Air-Conditioning Rattle, which is required by
law to be in all hotel rooms as a safety precaution against the danger that a
guest might carelessly fall asleep. You notice that the bellperson never tells
you about this. The bellperson gives you a lengthy orientation speech full of
information that you have known since childhood, such as that you operate the TV
by turning it on, but he never says, "Incidentally, the only way to stop the
annoying rattle is to jam a pair of jockey shorts into that air register up
there."
No, part of the fun of hotel life is that you get to solve this puzzle
for yourself, which I usually do at 1:30 a.m., just in time for the start of
the Sudden Violent Outburst of Hallway Laughter Tournament, in which teams of
large hearing-impaired men gather directly outside my door to inhale nitrous
oxide and see who can laugh loud enough to dislodge my shorts from the air
register.
In less time than it took to form the Hawaiian Islands the night has
flown by and it's 5:42 a.m., time for the Houskeeping Person, secure in the
knowledge that I cannot pack a gun in my carry-on luggage, to knock on my door,
just above the sign that says "Please Do Not Disturb" in 127 languages, and
inform me helpfully that she'll come back later. But I usually get up anyway,
because the sooner I check out, the sooner I can appear on a radio talk show
and get some sleep.
Sometimes I also go on TV, which is how I lost my luggage. What
happened was, a TV crew was following me around, doing a story about a Typical
Day on a book tour. They put a wireless microphone on me so they could record
me making typical remarks, such as: "Is this recording me in the bathroom?"
And: "I'm wearing a wireless microphone." I made this last typical remark to a
concerned security person after I set off the alarm at the Minneapolis-St. Paul
airport. So he started poking around under my shirt, bravely risking Death By
Armpit Fumes, and while this was going on some other unfortunate air traveler
mistakenly walked off with my suitcase.
I hate to think what happened to this person. My guess is that at some
point he foolishly opened my suitcase and a tentacle of my laundry came snaking
out and dragged him back inside.
The airline people eventually gave me back my suitcase, but now I'm
afraid to open it, because this person is probably still in there, being
genetically combined with my Prell shampoo.
So if you're missing a friend or loved one who was last seen in the
Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, I've got him, and I'll be glad to return him when
I come to your town, which will be any day now on the Book Tour From Hell.
You'll smell me coming.
