Column: Class clowns unite and celebrate! Dave Barry has written a new book

Today should be declared a national holiday. A memoir has just been launched by the funniest writer in America, Pulitzer-Prize winner Dave Barry. The book is called Class Clown: The Memoirs of a Professional Wiseass. It’s through line: “How I Went 77 Years Without Growing Up.”

For two weeks, I anxiously awaited its arrival, peeing more than usual. Early signs of a prostate gone wild? No. This peeing was different, more to be celebrated than feared. I’ve experienced prostate exams, during which a doctor twists my prostate with the nonchalance of one who tightens a loose lightbulb, causing me to weep out government secrets I didn’t even know I had. The doctor withdraws an elbow, a wrist, a hand, slides off a glove with a victorious snapping sound, creating lube spatter on the walls and ceiling, sighs and says, “I’ll be right back. I need a quick smoke.” Once the doctors returns, I can’t help but say something stupid like, “Hey, Doc, either you left a timebomb in my ass or you left your Rolex behind.” A tell-tale sign that YES, I TOO WAS A CLASS CLOWN and have yet to grow out of it!

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I stumbled on Dave’s upcoming book just as I was placing an order for the recently announced Pulitzer Prize-winner, “James,” written by Percival Everett, for which one member of the literary intelligentsia, Jonathan Lethem, provided this blurb: “(James) enlists and devours not only Mark Twain’s novel but aspects of Melville, Ellison, and even Kafka to make an irrevocable intervention into the canon.” And if that wasn’t enough of a convincer: “Genius!” declared The Atlantic. In other words: “Take me home, daddy!”

But before selecting “James,” I saw an electronic ad for Dave’s book! Class Clown. I knew I had an important choice to make.

I didn’t need Booklist telling me “it’s a hell of a lot of fun,” or Steve Martin declaring it to be “hilarious, laugh-out-loud, riotous, incredibly funny,” or Scott Turow’s verdict, “rib-achingly funny,” to prompt me to choose Class Clown. I clicked the Buy Now feature for Dave’s book without a second thought.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I possess a deep biasedness for Dave Barry. He lit the spark for my own humor writing attempts in the 1980s. For my first self-published column collection, “Nose Hairs Gone Wild” (available in car trunks near you), I asked Dave for a blurb. A week later, a Miami Herald postcard arrived, courtesy of Dave, who wrote—

(Editor’s note: A postcard was a two-sided card upon which a person wrote a message on its back side, after which it was deposited into a mailbox. And get this . . . the card was sans an envelope, making an otherwise private message public. I’m sure recent media headlines like the following now come to your mind: Trump Administration Accidentally Uses Postcards To Reveal War Plans As Part Of DOGE Cost-Cutting Fiasco.)

On the back of the aforementioned postcard, Dave penned the following: “I taught Scott Saalman everything I know. Tragically, that turned out to be very little. But you should buy this book anyway.”

The perfect blurb! So ripe with ambiguity! Was Dave complimenting me? Was he taking a dig at me? Did he actually read Nose Hairs? Did he not even read Nose Hairs? Likely, it was the latter. Did he too struggle with nose hairs? Did he mistake my request as something sent to him from Make-A-Wish?

Sure, there was no reference to the words Genius or Canon in his blurb. Still, the publisher (me) placed it prominently at the top of the book’s front cover. Naturally, I had high expectations that the blurb would lead to a colossal jump in Nose Hairs Gone Wild sales (take that Oprah!). What I had was an opportunity to benefit from the coveted Dave Barry Bump. Which, by the way, would make a great name for new dance moves. Ultimately, Nose Hairs sold well . . . well . . . well . . . not well well … it actually sold WELL below expectations. To put it in publishing terms: My Nose Hairs were clipped.

Full disclosure: In 1983, I was voted Tell City High School Class Clown, an honor I had been stumping for . . . well . . . ever since grade school actually. In 1974, I did impressions of Richard Nixon on the playground. “I’m not a crook,” I said, like a little Rich Little, and I retold Johnny Carson ex-wife jokes (happily, I can tell my own now). Yes, back then I stole from the best, much like I steal from Dave today because, well, like he wrote, he taught me everything he knew about writing. Question: Does one actually steal from a teacher?

Dear fellow Class Clowns: today, May 13, is our day to celebrate not only Dave, but also our own selves; for today, Dave’s book, Class Clown, finally brings legitimacy and dignity to the practice of class clownery (oh, how our teachers and report cards suffered back then). Heck, it won’t be long before our old high schools erect bronze busts in our honor.

Earning Class Clown distinction in 1983 made for a perfect ending to a less-than-stellar high-school career. To Mom and Dad: I’m sorry. To Dave Barry, thank you for encouraging us to grow older but not up. A squirt of water from a clown’s fake flower into your eye, sir! Respectfully yours.

Now let’s all shake what hips we have left and attempt the Dave Barry Bump which is sure to become all the rage (of which 9 out of 10 orthopedic surgeons with new Porsche payments highly recommend).