As a former special education teacher, it is a little known fact that the widest proximity to a dead whale carcass, and detonation thereof, may be a cause of autism.
In re: "RF Kay-Jay" (I'm a fan), but methinks the Highway Department whale disposal solution is a) probably derivative of King Arthur's more successful use of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch during the disposal of the vile Rabbit of Caerbannog, and 2) an apt metaphor for the current administration's strategy in re: the "Deep State": what with huge chunks of blasted bloviators and bilious bureaucracies smashing down on the careening populace, all screaming, "Here come pieces of... MY GOD." Except for causing me to soil my armour from time to time, it all actually warms my heart.
From the English translation of Lem’s “The Cyberiad”:
“‘Have it compose a poem- a poem about a haircut! But lofty, tragic, timeless, full of love, treachery, retribution, quiet heroism in the face of certain doom! Six lines, cleverly rhymed, and every word beginning with the letter S!!” [sic]….
This may have been added to the standard tongue twisters: How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? I scream, you scream, we all scream, for ice cream! Blast blasted blubber beyond all believable bounds!
Thank you for the retelling of the beloved Exploding Whale story! ❤️
In relation to it, my father was an Ohio State highway patrolman years ago. Had he been present for this event, he wouldn’t have said a word, because he knew the results would be beautifully hilarious. He would, however, have gotten on his official Indian Chief motorcycle and zoomed at least a mile away. Thanks again for this treat of a story.
Sadly, I am old enough to remember this when it first happened. It makes me long for the days when this was the best and most important news story of the day. Good times.
Did that ‘98 Olds have new Goodyears? “Where the Blubber Meets the Road”.
And let’s not forget Fred MacMurray’s star turn as a zany, Disney scientist in a flying Model T: “Son of Blubber/Flubber”.
I seem to recall that wide-whale corduroys were de rigueur for 8th grade boys at that time.
Perhaps a wide-awake, enterprising 8th grade boy could have found precious ambergris in the carnage, ambergris being a much-sought-after component of costly perfumes.
“Nuit de Baleine”?
When you find a whale carcass that’s rotting and stinky,
And you know from sheer size that it isn’t a minke,
It might be a right whale,
Just the wrong whale for you,
It is clearly too small for a
Whale that is blue.
There’s a critical need for more whale information
This was written when I was a Family doc in a little town named Emo, in Northern Ontario. The other doc in town, John O'Sullivan, and I would collaborate on a weekly blog called Emedics. One week we were having some writer's block and composed this:
"Here at the school for greeting card writers, things are looking pretty solemn.
We regret that though we’ve wracked our brains, we couldn’t come up with a column.
SQUIDs*, newts, warthogs, Spam; our topics are diverse.
But tonight our heads are empty; every hour it grows worse.
At first we thought we’d talk of pigs but that proved way too boaring.
Before we’d written twenty lines we both were soundly snoring.
“Humanitarianism for beginners” seemed like a hopeful topic,
But we couldn’t think of much to say; we were feeling misanthropic.
Week in, week out, it ain’t no picnic, writing this stuff for free,
And we know that no one’s counting but this is column # 43**.
Some of you don’t get our jokes and this we are aware of.
But it doesn’t really bother us because we are a pair of:
Rugged individualists trying to mimic Ogden Nash,
The only difference being, he traded words for cash.
Now we’re feeling really tired; we have to wrap this up.
So Merry Christmas. Don’t eat too much or else you will throw up."
I have a cousin who is only a few months older than I. I'll call him Alec (not his real name). Alec and I were thick as thieves. One spring, we hit on the notion to round up a bunch of stuff that we could detonate with firecrackers-which were freely available to kids at that time. Plastic models were high on the list, including the Apollo 11 Lunar Module. I can't remember what else fell into our hands. I know for sure that a plastic model whale wasn't on the list.
Anyway, Alec's parents had a cottage on Lake Huron, near where I grew up, in Southern Ontario. With the blessing of his parents, we toted all this crap out to the cottage and down the slope to the rocky shore of the lake. There we laid out our armories and an impressive array of plastic crap festooned with firecrackers, on a sheet of plywood. Alec's armory was an old cloth-lined suitcase complete with a mirror. It was stuffed to the brim with explosives. I forget what mine were stashed in. A small portable safe, maybe.
We were having a terrific time generating lots of acrid smoke and making a huge racket when Alec's open suitcase literally erupted. A flaming piece of debris, from a firecracker I carelessly tossed too close to the experimental testing zone, had rocketed into the suitcase. (We apparently both flunked the Safe Use of Firecrackers training course.)
Alec dove toward the suitcase and closed the lid. We watched it flip up and down like the jaws of a wind-up miniature T-Rex, belching smoke with every new round of detonations. It was utterly and completely awesome.
When the conflagration stopped, Alec and I stared at each other in dismay. He lifted the lid of the suitcase, beheld the smoking carnage, glared at me and then pounced. We commenced rolling around fighting like wildcats until my Uncle Jim (not his real name) arrived at a run from the cottage. He grabbed both of us by the scruff, gave us a good shake and bonked our heads smartly together.
Astonishingly, after thoroughly chewing us out, he told me to divvy up my stash with Alec and allowed us to carry on but admonished that we be more careful.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: kids these days just don't know how to have fun.
"Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet.
And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more."
I like the name “Walter Umenhofer”. What parent would gaze down at their beautiful newborn and say to their spouse, “He looks like a dork who will never get laid. Let’s name him Walter Umenhofer.”
For the first time I didn’t choose I’m Scottish. Blasted Blubber is a great name for a band! In fact I’m going to start this band now! It will be a heavy metal meets punk sound with a ska beat! Dave would you like to join? I can always use another guitar and a bad singer!
Try https://www.theexplodingwhale.com for an associated band name “Son of Blubber”. Also, the article contains a disturbing “Epilogue: When a pod of 41 sperm whales washed ashore in nearly the same location in 1979, State Parks officials burned and buried them.” A POD OF 41…?!?
One more great reason to visit the Pacific Northwest: The Exploding Whale Memorial Park. Thanks, Dave, for causing a morning coffee explosion--my nasal passages will never be the same again.
I wonder whatever happened to the little kid in the Wellington boots? Did he go on to become an employee of the Oregon State Highway Division? Pursue a career in auto body repair after seeing Mr. Umenhofer's Olds 98? Retire from the Kingsford Charcoal Company? Asking for a friend.
I heard he became a park ranger in the Rocky Mountains. He has PTSD that keeps recurring when he hears the words "beach" or "whale", and only feels safe at high altitudes.
I bought a used Oldsmobile 98 in the late '70s. The roof had a lot of dents and the car smelled, um, rather pungent. I think I now know where that car came from.
Call me Fishmeal
Excellent literary reference and pun.
Definitely agree! Even if I weren’t a big Dave Barry fan, I would come here for the unbelievably funny comments.
I always say, I come for the column and I stay for the comments!
You got it!
Brilliant!
Hands down the BEST comment! Thank you!!
Not only the best comment but one that cannot be bettered! And I see that no one has tried—an honor indeed!
Yup. I can’t even TRY to top it, or even come close.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Matty for the win.
Very finny.
I see what you did😅
Robert F Kennedy Jr was not present at the exploding whale, something he regrets to this day.
As a former special education teacher, it is a little known fact that the widest proximity to a dead whale carcass, and detonation thereof, may be a cause of autism.
Especially if the mom-to-be is taking a Tylenol for a headache!
Also a former Special Ed teacher here and I concur.
In re: "RF Kay-Jay" (I'm a fan), but methinks the Highway Department whale disposal solution is a) probably derivative of King Arthur's more successful use of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch during the disposal of the vile Rabbit of Caerbannog, and 2) an apt metaphor for the current administration's strategy in re: the "Deep State": what with huge chunks of blasted bloviators and bilious bureaucracies smashing down on the careening populace, all screaming, "Here come pieces of... MY GOD." Except for causing me to soil my armour from time to time, it all actually warms my heart.
Thanks a lot! Now I can’t get “blasted bloviators” or “bilious bureaucracies” out of my remaining brain cells.
Here is the Disney It's a Small World After all to replace it...
At least they didn’t botch the number of thy counting.
Luckily we have Mr. Barry selflessly performing Brother Maynard's critical role.
What a great comment!
Too bad the Oregon Highway Department wasn't given the responsibility for eliminating the worm.
Perhaps had a heads up to join the hunting guild?
I regret he was not there, too!
He told me he was there and can prove it.
He was at home, forcing his then-wife to take Tylenol.
Too bad Paul Linneman couldn’t work “blowhole” into his brilliant alliteration.
ChatGPT generated this for me:
A blundering band by the bay,
Blew a beached beast away,
Blubber bombarded the bystanders near,
Burst Buick to bits in a smear—
A baffling, blasty ballet!
More proof that we’re doomed.
“Proof,” milord? Nay, “evidence”; I know not “proof.”
My immediate thought, too.
Or less proof that we are liked.
Boomer bile
Better briskly ban blithering bogus brummagen brain bot.
(Bulletin beforehand built broadly by bonafide brainwaves.)
Hey. I don’t even know what that means but I like it.
Basically: Bot broadcast bashed by biological beings brain.
That’s a terrible Limerick. Why do we have to keep explaining Meter to ChatGPT?
ChatGPT agreed with your criticism and offered you this as a replacement:
A bold bunch by bay’s briny brink,
Blew a beached beast before they could think.
Blubber battered the beach,
Burst a Buick in reach—
And befouled every bystander pink.
From the English translation of Lem’s “The Cyberiad”:
“‘Have it compose a poem- a poem about a haircut! But lofty, tragic, timeless, full of love, treachery, retribution, quiet heroism in the face of certain doom! Six lines, cleverly rhymed, and every word beginning with the letter S!!” [sic]….
“‘Seduced, shaggy Samson snored.
She scissored short. Sorely shorn,
Soon shackled slave, Samson sighed,
Silently scheming
Sightlessly seeking
Some savage, spectacular suicide.’”
This may have been added to the standard tongue twisters: How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? I scream, you scream, we all scream, for ice cream! Blast blasted blubber beyond all believable bounds!
But boy Rob brought bountiful bushes blindly behind Barbara’s big butt
Thank you for the retelling of the beloved Exploding Whale story! ❤️
In relation to it, my father was an Ohio State highway patrolman years ago. Had he been present for this event, he wouldn’t have said a word, because he knew the results would be beautifully hilarious. He would, however, have gotten on his official Indian Chief motorcycle and zoomed at least a mile away. Thanks again for this treat of a story.
Sadly, I am old enough to remember this when it first happened. It makes me long for the days when this was the best and most important news story of the day. Good times.
No doubt, Doris! I’d love to see this splashed across the front page of every major newspaper! (The incident, not the whale.)
Definitely not the whale (parts.)
Although 7000 miles across the Pacific, there were, some things happening that might’ve deserved a little more attention. But not as many laughs.
One bright note: relatives report that the whale’s dying wish was to have its remains scattered along its favorite Oregon beach.
And to crush at least one car!
These comments just keep getting better and better.
Did that ‘98 Olds have new Goodyears? “Where the Blubber Meets the Road”.
And let’s not forget Fred MacMurray’s star turn as a zany, Disney scientist in a flying Model T: “Son of Blubber/Flubber”.
I seem to recall that wide-whale corduroys were de rigueur for 8th grade boys at that time.
Perhaps a wide-awake, enterprising 8th grade boy could have found precious ambergris in the carnage, ambergris being a much-sought-after component of costly perfumes.
“Nuit de Baleine”?
When you find a whale carcass that’s rotting and stinky,
And you know from sheer size that it isn’t a minke,
It might be a right whale,
Just the wrong whale for you,
It is clearly too small for a
Whale that is blue.
There’s a critical need for more whale information
To identify giant decaying cetaceans.
This was written when I was a Family doc in a little town named Emo, in Northern Ontario. The other doc in town, John O'Sullivan, and I would collaborate on a weekly blog called Emedics. One week we were having some writer's block and composed this:
"Here at the school for greeting card writers, things are looking pretty solemn.
We regret that though we’ve wracked our brains, we couldn’t come up with a column.
SQUIDs*, newts, warthogs, Spam; our topics are diverse.
But tonight our heads are empty; every hour it grows worse.
At first we thought we’d talk of pigs but that proved way too boaring.
Before we’d written twenty lines we both were soundly snoring.
“Humanitarianism for beginners” seemed like a hopeful topic,
But we couldn’t think of much to say; we were feeling misanthropic.
Week in, week out, it ain’t no picnic, writing this stuff for free,
And we know that no one’s counting but this is column # 43**.
Some of you don’t get our jokes and this we are aware of.
But it doesn’t really bother us because we are a pair of:
Rugged individualists trying to mimic Ogden Nash,
The only difference being, he traded words for cash.
Now we’re feeling really tired; we have to wrap this up.
So Merry Christmas. Don’t eat too much or else you will throw up."
*SQUID: Superconducting Quantum Interference Device
**#43 vs #44. Actually, the poem was featured in Emedics number forty-four but forty-four doesn’t rhyme with “free”
Gillson and O’Sullivan!
So much like that storied pair; and, as members of the Commonwealth, so much English Lit to share!
I enjoyed your witty verses
And your fluid punning, too.
I adore the noble Maple Leaf
As much as Red, White, and Blue.
(One grandfather came down
from New Brunswick, and married an English lass,
The other est venu du Québec, resolutely working class).
What type of man do I more admire
Than Canadian GP’s?
Watching hockey plays,
Smoking Export “A”’s,
Savvy, hip to duty-frees.
When your Law and Order
Across the Border
Is an RCMP swain,
I know I’ll enjoy your company
I’m a Yankee boy from Maine.
Do you know how many Canadian boys
Fought to free our Southern slaves?
I can show you dozens of
Headstones, where they lie in honored graves.
I grow maudlin thinking about my kin,
Though there’s just one human race.
I confess I warm to the friendly form
Of a Scotch-Canadian face.
Hilarious ditty!
Thank you!
I did the same. I felt somewhat disloyal, but c’mon, Blasted Blubber is a keeper.
I have a cousin who is only a few months older than I. I'll call him Alec (not his real name). Alec and I were thick as thieves. One spring, we hit on the notion to round up a bunch of stuff that we could detonate with firecrackers-which were freely available to kids at that time. Plastic models were high on the list, including the Apollo 11 Lunar Module. I can't remember what else fell into our hands. I know for sure that a plastic model whale wasn't on the list.
Anyway, Alec's parents had a cottage on Lake Huron, near where I grew up, in Southern Ontario. With the blessing of his parents, we toted all this crap out to the cottage and down the slope to the rocky shore of the lake. There we laid out our armories and an impressive array of plastic crap festooned with firecrackers, on a sheet of plywood. Alec's armory was an old cloth-lined suitcase complete with a mirror. It was stuffed to the brim with explosives. I forget what mine were stashed in. A small portable safe, maybe.
We were having a terrific time generating lots of acrid smoke and making a huge racket when Alec's open suitcase literally erupted. A flaming piece of debris, from a firecracker I carelessly tossed too close to the experimental testing zone, had rocketed into the suitcase. (We apparently both flunked the Safe Use of Firecrackers training course.)
Alec dove toward the suitcase and closed the lid. We watched it flip up and down like the jaws of a wind-up miniature T-Rex, belching smoke with every new round of detonations. It was utterly and completely awesome.
When the conflagration stopped, Alec and I stared at each other in dismay. He lifted the lid of the suitcase, beheld the smoking carnage, glared at me and then pounced. We commenced rolling around fighting like wildcats until my Uncle Jim (not his real name) arrived at a run from the cottage. He grabbed both of us by the scruff, gave us a good shake and bonked our heads smartly together.
Astonishingly, after thoroughly chewing us out, he told me to divvy up my stash with Alec and allowed us to carry on but admonished that we be more careful.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: kids these days just don't know how to have fun.
Oh, this is genuinely outstanding. May we all live long enough to deserve "Forgot To Be More Careful" on our grave markers!
My headstone will read: "He was a lot smarter than he looked."
"...than he looks now."
This is one of the best stories I have ever heard. And I concur. No fun being had. 👏🏻🤣👏🏻🤣👏🏻🤣
Every word is true. Astonishingly.
Bless you, Dave Barry--I haven't laughed this hard in a very long time!!
I always look forward to Dave’s comments….
And we desperately need those laughs. Humor is de rigeur (mortis) during these threatening times.
Watching that news clip, in my head, I hear Robert Redford asking Paul Newman, "Think ya used enough dynamite there, Butch?"
Is it just me or does George Thornton (the chief engineer) look and sound a lot like a Tim Conway character?
Laughing even harder now imagining Tim Conway & Harvey Korman doing a skit on this!
I love that movie line. One of the best from a great film with two of the industry’s finest.
Now we just need the Oregonian Highway Department to fix Washington DC.
I live a quarter of a mile from Washington, DC (as the whale flies) and I think that's a terrible idea.
“As the whale flies!!!” Bravo! 🤣👏🏻🤣👏🏻🤣👏🏻🤣👏🏻
"Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet.
And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more."
From the Hitchhiker's Guide
Jinantonyx please!
Don’t know about that, but they might have been low bidder on East Wing demolition.
I like the name “Walter Umenhofer”. What parent would gaze down at their beautiful newborn and say to their spouse, “He looks like a dork who will never get laid. Let’s name him Walter Umenhofer.”
😂😂
For the first time I didn’t choose I’m Scottish. Blasted Blubber is a great name for a band! In fact I’m going to start this band now! It will be a heavy metal meets punk sound with a ska beat! Dave would you like to join? I can always use another guitar and a bad singer!
I'll just sit in for the arena shows.
We’ll dedicate a song to you in the audience!!! Ballad of the Bloated Blubber Machine!
Do _not_ pay extra for seats in the front rows.
Try https://www.theexplodingwhale.com for an associated band name “Son of Blubber”. Also, the article contains a disturbing “Epilogue: When a pod of 41 sperm whales washed ashore in nearly the same location in 1979, State Parks officials burned and buried them.” A POD OF 41…?!?
This reporter was 23 but looked 43 — polyester suits aged everybody.
Har! Or made them look like used car salesmen.
One more great reason to visit the Pacific Northwest: The Exploding Whale Memorial Park. Thanks, Dave, for causing a morning coffee explosion--my nasal passages will never be the same again.
I wonder whatever happened to the little kid in the Wellington boots? Did he go on to become an employee of the Oregon State Highway Division? Pursue a career in auto body repair after seeing Mr. Umenhofer's Olds 98? Retire from the Kingsford Charcoal Company? Asking for a friend.
I heard he became a park ranger in the Rocky Mountains. He has PTSD that keeps recurring when he hears the words "beach" or "whale", and only feels safe at high altitudes.
I had to look up Walter Umenhofer and he seems to have been quite a character.
https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/registerguard/name/walter-umenhofer-obituary?id=17951162
I am sure that Paul Linneman influenced and inspired Les Nessman's report on the WKRP turkey giveaway.
I was thinking the EXACT same thing!!! Even the suit looks like a copy! Gawd, I loved that show! 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Thank you for providing the obituary link. What a great guy he was!
Love the classic WKRP reference! One of the all-time-great sitcom scenes...
As God is my witness, I thought whales could fly!
I bought a used Oldsmobile 98 in the late '70s. The roof had a lot of dents and the car smelled, um, rather pungent. I think I now know where that car came from.
MerryCatholic.substack.com
I think we actually had a brand-new Olds 98 and it was HUGE. A whale of a car.