Laughing Matters

by Ryan Van Cleave

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”—Hunter S. Thompson

I know people are concerned. They’re quietly wondering: “Did Ryan blow his entire humor arsenal with his inaugural Hey-look-at-me-I’m-like-Dave-Barry column last month?” 

And by “people,” I mean “mother-in-law.”

By “humor arsenal,” I mean “the weird stuff that keeps happening to me that I intend to share on these pages for money.”

I told her that I’d have to get back to her on that after I finished deep-frying a key lime pie while waiting for my pirate outfit to come out of the spin cycle as I unpacked a pair of lavender plastic lawn flamingos that I ordered from Amazon. Yep, I live in Florida, all right.

Now it’s true that I’ve been living in Florida since 2009, but that’s not the same thing as being a Floridian. And not five minutes before the idea of this humor column came into being, I made the decision—I’m going to be a Florida resident for real. I’m going to embrace the weirdness that makes Florida…well, Florida. 

“But how do you know that Florida is weird?” you might be asking. Because native Floridian and award-winning journalist Craig Pittman seems to believe that it’s so. The evidence? My first clue was when I reviewed his book Oh, Florida! How America’s Weirdest State Influences the Rest of the Country in the April 2016 issue of Sarasota Scene in my Literary Scene column. The clue? How he admits that his role as author in this book was “a cross between squint-eyed Rod Serling and one of those patter-drunk boat captains on Disney’s Jungle Cruise.” I mean, c’mon! Disney renames the Zambezi Zelda boat into the “Fruitcake Zelda” during Christmas time. So weird!

But hey, it’s all good now that I’m a bona fide member of the Gunshine State, where the motto appears to be “senior discounts available.” Plus, if I’m being honest here, it’s not hard to be strangely pleased to know Florida is where:

A 24-year-old man is arrested for assault with a deadly weapon by tossing a 3½-foot gator through the drive-through window of a Wendy’s

A would-be mermaid gets in trouble with a homeowner’s association thanks to her fake tail violating the community pool’s “no fins” policy

A 22-year-old woman claiming she’s a vampire bites off part of the lip of a 68-year-old man (in a motorized wheelchair, no less) outside a Hooters

Even in a state where weirdness is par for the course, things still surprise me, however. Like the other day when I saw a woman in a wedding dress driving a Jeep on Fruitville Road. To be clear, “driving” might not have been the most relevant word since while piloting her stick-shift 1990s-era clunker through traffic, she simultaneously smoked, gabbed on a hands-required cell phone (a flip phone, no less!), and smeared on purple lip gloss while adjusting what might’ve been a push-up bra beneath all that white tulle. I couldn’t help myself—I rolled to a stop next to her at a red light then lowered my window to ask, “Excuse me, but would you have any Grey Poupon?” 

That’s when I realized the Jeep’s driver was a dude. Weird, right? Who gets married in December, after all?

I share all this by way of getting to the real point of this month’s column. 

Beavers.

Let me explain. Out of professional curiosity, I was researching “rodent problems in Florida” and a website from a professional wildlife removal outfit just came out with this shocker: “There are no beavers in Orlando, Florida!”

And it all became clear. This is a Serious Problem for Florida—we suffer from a deficiency of aquatic rodents. Who doesn’t appreciate a good engineer? And what’s not to like about swimming? Or paddling? Not to mention that these furry fellows mate for life. No 50+% divorce rate among the Castor Canadensis, no sirree! And they just so happen to own the title of “Largest Rodent in North America.” Talk about impressive! And weird!

But my issue with beavers—or Florida’s lack thereof—is perhaps more financial, if I’m being truthful. We have this Foxtail Palm in my backyard, and during my first year in Florida, a once-in-a-lifetime frost killed it. Who knew I was supposed to go out and toss winter coats on all of my foliage in the middle of a January night that doesn’t even register on my Chicago-honed sense of cold? This isn’t even to take into account that Wikipedia promises that “Sarasota averages LESS than one frost annually.”

In any case, the aftermath of Mother Nature murdering my tree is that I’ve had this knee-high stump there for years, and I’m finally tired of mowing around it. So I called up a grinding service and two guys in official-looking t-shirts came out and eyeballed the offending stump. They offered to grind it to smithereens for $250. The look of horror on my face must’ve translated well because the one guy—I sensed that he was in charge by his authoritative Florida Marlins cap—said he’d consider renting me the grinder for a half-day for $125, which basically meant that for half the price of them doing the work, I could shred my own leg by my tool-challenged self and still keep the stump as a bonus. He punctuated the offer with tobacco spit.

To which I said, “The stump is only maybe yay big,” then I held my hands apart, as if this might prove persuasive. “I mean, c’mon—a beaver could handle that lickety split.”

The head honcho grinder guy nodded, saying, “Find yourself a beaver willing to do the job, and you’re in business.” 

Here’s the problem. There are no beavers in Orlando. There are no beavers in central Florida at all. I know it’s true—I read it on the Internet. 

Thus, this plan. I’m going to post this ad on Craigslist next Thursday. If you know of any good leads, please do let me know: ryan@scenesarasota.com

WANTED: Beaver
Must be good with children and small pets.
Relocation assistance may be available upon request.
References required.
Non-smoking preferred.

Have something special you want to share with Ryan about life, liberty and the pursuit of laughter? Email him at ryan@scenesarasota.com.