DEAR MISTER PRESIDENT: Congratulations on winning the election. I always knew you would win, and not that other guy. I told all my friends that. You can ask them.

Jack Handey Offers to Be an Ambassador

Mister President, let’s get down to business. One of your first jobs, and most important jobs, will be to appoint ambassadors to other countries. I am pleased to inform you that I am available to become your ambassador to any of the following countries:

HAWAII—This is one of my favorite countries. But there is a problem here: The people worship volcanoes. One of my first actions, Mister President, would be to outlaw this practice. At first the people might resist, but later they would get down on their knees and thank their lucky stars.

BRAZIL—The name of this country gave us the words “bra” and “zillion.” Also, it is home to the Brazil nut. My goal, Mister President, would be to eat as many Brazil nuts as I could, day in and day out. Then I would invite my friend Don to come visit me. He is deathly allergic to Brazil nuts. The hope is that just by shaking his hand, I could make him pass out. Some people say this is a long shot. But what’s the alternative? Unfortunately, I believe, it’s global warming.

FRANCE—As you are probably aware, Mister President, there is a place in France where the women wear no pants. This is a disgrace. Also, there is a region of France called “Champagne.” The idea of women with no pants drinking Champagne is one which I would make my top priority.

VATICAN CITY—I’ll be honest, Mister President: I would love to ride in the Popemobile. Riding behind that protective glass, making obscene, taunting gestures at my friends while they fired bullets at me, would be the spiritual highlight of my life.

IRAQ—I know what you’re thinking, Mister President: Why would anyone want to be ambassador to Iraq? First of all, I would require extra danger pay. But here’s the best part: It wouldn’t really be me waving from the balcony or the back of the convertible. It would be a dummy! That’s right, a dummy. And guess where I’d actually be. Hawaii. Pretty good, huh?

GREENLAND—I’m not really sure where this is, but the name sounds lush and inviting, and makes me want to resettle there.

INDONESIA—The main reason I want to be ambassador to this country is for the joke possibilities. I could be at a party and someone might ask me what country I’m ambassador to. And I’d say, “I can’t remember, I must have Indonesia.” No, wait. I guess it’s amnesia, not Indonesia. Anyway, I think the joke still works.

BEERSTEIN—Quite frankly, Mister President, I’m not sure there is such a country. But I wanted to put it down just in case.

PORNOGRAFICO—(See “Beerstein.”)

NORTH KOREA—This might seem like an odd choice. But go with me on this, Mister President: First, North Korea is our enemy, right? Second, an ambassador cannot be arrested. With your permission, sir, I would go on a crime spree the likes of which North Korea has never seen. I would rob banks. I would vandalize everything I could get my hands on. I would draw cross-eyes on pictures of their “glorious leader,” whoever he is. I would shoplift and then just throw the stuff away (after I broke it). I would walk around drunk in public, wearing nothing but my underpants, and shoot blowdarts at people going by. If a policeman confronted me, I would just mimic what he was saying while I made the hand-flapping motion. Then I would pull my ambassador ID out of my underpants and show him. He would stamp his foot and storm off—but without his policeman’s hat, because I would take that. My favorite thing, Mister President, would be to go into a fancy North Korean restaurant and order everything on the menu, then not pay. “Won’t you at least pay with some of your bank-robbery money?” they would plead. I would just laugh, then go outside and hijack a car and drive to my fancy hotel room. I know what you’re thinking, Mister President: What if the hotel locks me out of my room? I will just go to the nearest hardware store, shoplift a sledgehammer, and bash in the door. They won’t try that again. This seems like a win-win situation.

ENGLAND—I know England is not our enemy, but I would go on a crime spree here too. What the heck.

TAHITI—It’s no Hawaii, but I would be willing to give it a try.

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LIKE YOU, I had heard the various complaints against hydrogen-powered cars. “They blow up,” said one friend. “They explode,” said another. “They shoot apart to the internal blasting,” said a foreigner friend.

My Hydrogen Car

I ignored the advice, and a few years ago I bought my first hydrogen-powered car. Not long afterwards, it exploded. Fortunately, I was not in the car at the time. It had been stolen by a neighbor boy.

For a while, I swore off hydrogen cars. But the call of hydrogen is hard to resist. You feel confident and guilt-free knowing you are not going around emitting noxious gases from your tailpipe.

So I bought another hydrogen-powered car. And I’ve been pleased with the improvements. The massive fuel tank has been redesigned so that if it suddenly explodes, the blast is channeled away from the passenger cabin, toward the cars behind you. The upholstery is now a thick vinyl, to prevent hydrogen from seeping inside and exploding. And perhaps most important, if the “sniffer” on the dashboard detects appreciable levels of hydrogen, it automatically slams on the brakes, throws open the doors, and shouts, “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

Remember how the old hydrogen cars had that single, brittle fuel line that went right through the center of the cabin? Just leaning on it with your elbow would crack it and send hydrogen spewing everywhere. Nowadays, dozens of smaller fuel lines snake their way under the cabin. That way, if one line snaps loose from the intense hydrogen pressure, it will merely whip back and forth beneath the car as you continue to drive. (Warning: If this happens, do not stop the car and get out, as the whipping action could cut off your feet.)

The car comes with double windshield wipers: a set on the outside, for rain, and one on the inside, for hydrogen condensation. The underside of the car is double-coated with rustproofing. This is to prevent a hole from working its way through to the cabin, then having a piece of gravel fly in, ping off some metal, create a spark, and trigger an explosion.

The hydrogen car is not without its drawbacks. Mileage is so poor that the driving range is limited, even with the extra fuel bladders in all four doors. (Remember, don’t slam them.) The car pulls a little trailer that carries additional hydrogen, but the trailer is so heavy it requires its own gasoline-powered engine. One nice safety feature: In case of an accident, the trailer automatically uncouples from the car and goes off in a different direction.

The hydrogen engine, although low in power, throws off massive amounts of heat. When I bought my hydrogen car, I asked if it came in a convertible. “Anyone riding in a convertible hydrogen car would be instantly incinerated,” laughed the salesman. It didn’t seem funny to me, but he’s the salesman, so I guess he should know what’s funny. So I laughed too.

But the biggest problem is there still aren’t many hydrogen filling stations. Most of my time driving is spent going to one, filling up, and then coming all the way back. On top of that, the attendants at the stations have this “hydrogen attitude” that I could do without. Man, just put on your helmet and do your job.

Driving home, it’s easy to fall into a bad mood. The hydrogen car does not accelerate well. And while you’re trying to get up to speed, cars are honking at you and almost running into your fuel trailer. But once you finally get her rolling, and the blurry billows of heat are washing up over the seven-inch-thick windshield, and the engine is purring out its steady ka-thunka-POW, ka-thunka-POW, you sit back and smile. And you think, Shoot me the hydro, Pedro. I don’t know why you think that, but you do. Maybe it’s because hydrogen causes brain damage.

Some people have told me they want to wait until the bugs are worked out before buying a hydrogen car. First of all, the bugs have been worked out. Other people tell me that hydrogen cars are not commercially available, that my knowledge of hydrogen is misinformed, and that I am what they call a “liar.” But if I’m a liar, then what’s that parked out in my driveway? Hey, my car’s on fire!

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Don’t like to brag, but I have climbed Mount Everest 30 times.

Everest

The first time I climbed it, I was only ten years old. I was lucky to make it to the top. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was wearing only corduroys, a windbreaker, and Keds.

After that I decided to get some real mountain-climbing gear. I got some boots with those spiky things on the bottom, and I got one of those ice-pick things.

To be honest, you don’t really need the ice-pick thing, but it looks cool in photos. You might also want to take some rope; any kind will do.

I have climbed using oxygen and without oxygen. Once I climbed using helium, so my voice would sound funny. When I was younger, I climbed Mount Everest five times in a row. Every time I got to the bottom, I said to myself, “What the heck, I’m going back up.”

I guess I must have been getting bored, because about my 15th time, when I got to the top, I piled up a bunch of rocks to make Mount Everest a few feet higher, and then stood on that. But the next time I reached the peak, someone had scattered the rocks and left a sign that read, don’t pile up rocks. Screw you, I’ll pile up rocks if I want to!

Whether it’s rude signs or altitude sickness, Everest is always a challenge. Once I was within a few hundred yards of the summit when I had to turn back. I remembered I had to go to a bachelor party back at Base Camp, and I would have been late. Another time I made the mistake of starting my climb after dark. Also, I was drunk. I stumbled around all night. Finally, at dawn, I struggled onto the summit. But it turned out to be the wrong mountain!

Probably my most difficult assault on Everest was when I attempted to climb it nude. I hadn’t started out nude. But it was a nice, warm day, and on my way up I decided to take off my clothes and catch some rays. A blizzard suddenly moved in and blew my clothes away.

I had a decision to make: I could turn back, or I could continue on, naked. I decided to go on. The blizzard got worse. I became disoriented. Finally, I spotted a Sherpa’s hut and knocked on the door. The Sherpa answered. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, “but I’m climbing Everest and I’ve become nude.” I asked if I could spend the night. “You can spend the night,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Just don’t try any funny business with my daughter.” It was then that I noticed a beautiful, buxom girl peeking out from behind him.

To make a long story short, I did make it to the top, wearing a woman’s dress and carrying a load of shotgun pellets in my buttocks. Sometimes I wonder: How many more Everest climbs do I have in me? A hundred? Two hundred? It’s hard to say. All I know is that I hope I can keep climbing Everest until the day I die. And even after I die, maybe some type of high-voltage stimulator could be implanted in my brain, so that I sort of flop uphill, spasmodically. That’s my dream anyway.

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But how, you say, can the human body be a machine? It doesn’t have a central pump, or rotating joints, or interlocking teeth. But think again—doesn’t it?


And what other machine can run down a roadway at .05 miles per hour, or climb up a sheer cliff at .00001 miles per hour, or travel down a sheer cliff at 600 miles per hour?


Not only is the human body the greatest machine, but the greatest oil for a machine is any oil that goes on the human body. I’m not sure about sex oils, but Oil of Olay, Pond’s Cold Cream, oils such as these are the most beautiful of oils.


The most magnificent warranty on a machine would be some type of warranty on a human body, which I guess would be a life insurance policy, something like that.


The greatest hood ornament for a machine is one of those mirror things a doctor wears on his head.


For me, the greatest work of art in the world is also the human body. I’m not talking about an old body or an ugly one. I mean a really hot, sexy body. Man, to me, that’s great art. And the greatest way to view the art is by hiding in the bushes, and hoping the art doesn’t see you.


The greatest temple in the world is, let’s face it, the Parthenon. But if the Parthenon gets any more eroded, I think I’m going to have to say the human body.


What’s the most perfect musical instrument? I would argue it’s the human body, except for the tuba sounds.


The greatest engineering miracle of all time is, OK, Hoover Dam. But what else can hold back water and release it gradually, to prevent flooding? And what else can generate “electricity,” maybe by getting up and doing its funny cowboy dance? Isn’t it the human body?


The greatest thing that can be sewn together from different parts and then brought back to life with electricity is the human body.


The most precious gift one human can give another, I believe, is the gift of a third human, such as a prostitute or stripper, for a birthday or something.


The fiercest battleground in the world is the human body. But the battle is fought on a microscopic level, which makes it the most boring battleground.


The greatest envy of the chimpanzee is the human body, especially the roller-skating human body.


The greatest cannibal meal in the world is, surprisingly, strawberry shortcake.


The greatest evidence of a murder is the human body.


The most difficult thing to defeat is the human spirit. But since it’s invisible, who cares?


The best friend you can have is the human body, unless it’s dead and it’s chasing you.


The greatest medicine in the world is human laughter. And the worst medicine is zombie laughter.


The greatest mystery in the world is the human heart, but only while it’s in the human body. Otherwise, where’s the mystery?


The most amazing computer ever made is the human brain. And the best way to shut down the human brain is have it listen to my so-called friend Don.


The greatest camera is the human eye, but a worse camera is the drunk human eye. And a really bad camera is the drunk eye that has been punched by the human fist.


I’m not sure what the greatest weapon in the world is, but one of the worst weapons is one of those bowls in bars that holds peanuts, because when you throw it at a guy it just makes him madder.


In general, though, I would say the human body or its parts or the things that come out of it are the best in their categories. And even after it dies the human body has one more trick up its sleeve: It turns into the scariest skeleton in the world.

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As leader of the expedition, I have come to realize that there is one thing more important than any other—and that is the respect of the men. It is more valuable than your gun, or your knife, or the blue terry-cloth slippers that keep your feet so toasty around the campfire at night.

In fact, the respect of the men can be even more important than the success of the mission itself. So if you’re not exactly sure what the mission is, you may not want to ask the men, because you might lose their respect.

You don’t get the respect of the men right away. You can try, by getting down in the dirt and begging them for it, or by kissing their boots, or by doing your funny cowboy dance for them. But trust me, these are not going to work.

No, respect is something that has to be earned. And earned slowly, like a fine, respectful wine. You can’t try to earn it all at once, maybe by doing something like yelling out “Hey, watch this!” and then rolling all the way down the side of a hill. Even if you explain to the men that there could have been snakes and bees where you rolled, but you didn’t care, it won’t impress them. Rather, respect is earned by little things. Let’s say you are leading the expedition through the bush, and you announce “I can’t go on any farther!” But you do, for about five more hours, until you fall exhausted in the sand. Then you get up and make the men a nice dinner. Things like that.

Or later that night, around the campfire, you are toasting one of your marshmallows, using a stick that you broke off a tree with your bare hands. The marshmallow catches fire, and you wave it around to put it out. Even though it is out, the marshmallow is still smoky-hot, and sparky. But you just pop it straight into your mouth.

Or let’s say you are riding your horse over some sharp rocks, so you get off to walk your horse, even though the rocks are really rough on your terry-cloth slippers. The men notice things like that. “You’re gonna tear up those house shoes,” one of the men might say to you. “I know,” you mumble, because your mouth is still sore from the burning marshmallow.

That night you might check outside your tent to see if there is a present from the men, which, if you opened it, would be a new pair of slippers. But there isn’t. And you smile to yourself, because you realize that the respect of the men is not the same as the love of the men.

But if it is difficult to gain the men’s respect, it is easy to lose it. And the worst part is, you don’t even know what it was you did. Was it trying to mash nine burning marshmallows into your mouth at once? Was it telling the men that you laugh at danger, but then not seeing any danger so you laugh at mountains and trees and horse manure? And Curtis’s hat? Was it asking them about the hideous howls during the night that sounded like the lost souls of Hades shrieking in agony and torment, and the men not knowing what you’re talking about, then having one of the men say, “Maybe it was a tree frog”?

You can never know for sure. But one thing is certain: You can’t win back their respect with cheap parlor tricks or, say, a magic trick. Even if you take hours to learn the trick, and you gather the men around the campfire to perform it, and you use a little magic table that you made yourself, and even if the trick, you think, is performed pretty well, this is not going to rekindle the men’s respect. You can tell from the looks they give one another, and the lack of applause. You may get a little respect if you get mad and throw the table and the trick parts into the fire, but that’s about it. And you may get some respect from the dove for letting him go. But still you are wondering, What’s wrong with these men? Come on, that was a good trick.

The respect of the men can be a cruel mistress and a harlot. But at other times it can be a nice mistress and a happy slut. You can’t think about it too much. But if you ignore it, it can sneak up and coldcock you, like an angry prostitute.

You know it won’t be easy, but one day you will again have the respect of the men. You don’t know when or how. And you can’t help thinking that maybe if you could explain to the men just how difficult the magic trick was, it would go a long way toward getting the whole respect thing going again.

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