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Hello. Today’s Gene Pool is based on an op-ed piece by Larry David that ran in The Washington Post this weekend. In it, he advocates eating babies.

Oh, wait. Wrong. He advocates killing babies shortly after birth, but only if they are ugly.

You are never going to guess what happened.

Actually, you probably will. Some readers were outraged! Mr. David’s piece was not the funniest thing he has ever written, but it was plenty funny, and it was clearly a deft homage to Jonathan Swift, who in 1729 wrote the most famous and imitated bit of cultural satire in English literature, about how to simultaneously solve the problem of poverty in Ireland, and the problem of famine in all of Britain, by selling impoverished Irish children for use by the Anglican elite, as food.

“Satire” is generally defined as the use of humor, irony, exaggeration or ridicule to expose and criticize people’s hypocritical views or vices ices, particularly in the context of contemporary politics and other topical issues.

And thus,“I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts,” Swift wrote, “which I hope will not be liable to the least objection:”

“I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee, or a ragout.”

In Swift’s time, this was largely understood to be a parody of Protestants offering condescending, myopic social programs that were naive if well-intentioned nostrums to solve complex, long-lasting and not easily fixable socioeconomic problems, including religious discrimination. But things are different now. We have the magnificent IQ-obliterating power of the Internet.

Though he didn’t draw the comparison outright to Swift, David’s intentions were clear and transparent as a glass, oven-safe, infant-casserole dish. In his case he was making fun of Donald Trump’s callous, invented contention that Democrats are in favor of aborting unwanted babies by killing them at, or even after, birth. David wrote that he and his wife, Thelma, (his wife’s name is not Thelma, which might offer a subtle clue here) had been morally united on this subject:

Mr. Trump, Mr. David wrote, is right. “Democrats do support executions after birth: “In fact,” he wrote, ”many Dems support executions of kids up until age 4 or until they start kindergarten. I respect their opinions, but that’s a little late for my taste. I’m good until 2½.”

Continuing: “I’ve never said this publicly, but my wife, Thelma, and I had a post-birth abortion, and it was just minutes after the baby was born. I was in my 30s when I met the girl of my dreams. We shared much in common, especially our belief in post-birth abortions. In fact, that was one of my questions on our first date, because it would have been a big red flag for me if she didn’t. Thankfully, she was even more adamant about them than I was. It was a match made in heaven.”

And so forth. But there was a problem. See, that’s the thing. Unlike Swift, who lived in the 18th century, who always pooped in an outhouse and cleansed his arse with corn cobs, we apparently live in less sophisticated times, when satire must be clearly labeled as such, for the of benefit of of deeply outraged humor-impaired liberals and conservatives. I, for one, have rectified this problem (Haha! Satire!) by clearly labeling the photograph of Larry David, above, for your instruction.

So, then. The online tut-tutting about David’s article has resulted nearly 10,000 “comments,” often by people who first solemnly declare how rich and healthy their senses of humor are, but that this one example flagrantly crosses a line. We humor writers are accustomed to such couched criticism, which usually goes like this: “I appreciate whimsy and I am regularly complimented by friends and colleagues and relatives and for my urbane and generous sense of humor, but this thing you wrote about Indian curry…“

Listen, people, this is a sometimes subtle field, but Larry David has left a trail of clues as to the jocularity and mirth he was pursuing. For example, in the article he employed the Yiddish language, writing of his Key Moment: “The doctor pursed his lips. “I completely agree with [Thelma],” he said, I even had to look away for a moment when I pulled him out. [The baby] is not going to have an easy life with a punim like that. So if you want to do it, now’s the best time.”

“Punim” is the Yiddish word for “face.” It has long been understood among us professional humorists that if any writer uses Yiddish, he is definitely kidding. Bank on it. (We Jews are good at banking.) And others have imitated us. George Herriman, the guy who drew the comic strip Krazy Kat in the 1930s and 40s often wrote in Yiddish dialog, but was not Jewish. He was a Roman Catholic creole whose wife and daughter were consumed as babies by Protestants. I made that last part up. To prove it, I am hereby linking to Wikipedia, which shows that his wife, Mabel, and his daughter, Barbara, lived into their thirties. Just to clear up any misunderstandings.

What are the online commenters saying about Larry David’s piece? Well, one named Margaret Lovell says: “I do not like this article! Many people do not understand satire. I understand, but find this offensive.”

Yes, Margaret. It is deeply offensive. It is about the evisceration of children. It includes grotesque details. It is not serious, except in its attempt to reveal what a disgusting piece of offal a particular politician is: a large, suppurating mass of lies and hypocrisy and maple syrup that he apparently slathers on his pallid face to resemble a tan. That is the lifeblood of satire: Caustic criticism through exaggeration.

Another commenter, Proteinacious1, wrote: “I enjoy satire, if it is remotely ironic or funny. He wrote this too close to the vest.” Another commenter responded to this dryly, “I’m sure sure you meant to say close to the bone.” Yay, Proteinacious.

Another: “I understand what David was trying to do here, and I am in sympathy with the cause. I have been working for abortion rights since before Roe was even decided. But this was tasteless and even cruel to those who have actually held a newborn for the minutes or hours before it died. Some of those babies are indeed born with partial skulls and other catastrophic deformities that Larry might call “ugly”.

Just FYI, Larry was not calling his totally invented soon-to-be dead baby “ugly.” He was calling Donald Trump ugly. That is the very nature of satire. Misdirection. Controlled cruelty. It was very effective. See how your undies are in a knot right now, constricting your testes and/or ladypatootieparts? It worked.

Can we grow up, as a people, and get back to the more enlightened era of the corncob? Thanks.

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Okay, so. Back to Britain. Every year, I link to the finalist one-liner jokes at the Edinburgh fringe festival, and urge you to vote — the Gene Pool Gene Poll — on which are the best. This year was a particularly mordant crop. Here are the eight best, as selected by me:

Your choices, for Poll One:

A: “I’ve been taking salsa lessons for months, but I just don’t feel like I’m progressing. It’s just one step forward … and two steps back.”

B: “I went to a bookstore asked the woman about a book about turtles.  She said, “hardback?” and I said, “Yeah, and little heads.”

C: “My decision to spontaneously sing ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ is always one whim away. 

D: “When my mum met my new girlfriend for the first time, she asked her, “Have you read the Kama Sutra?”  Which put me in an awkward position.” 

And for Poll Two:

E: “I sailed through my driving test. That’s why I failed it.”

F: “I love the Olympics. My friend and I invented a new type of relay baton: Well, he came up with the idea. I ran with it.”

G. “My dad used to say to me ‘Pints, gallons, liters’ – which, I think, speaks volumes.”

H: “I’ve never, ever, let cerebral palsy hold me back. It just did.”

Okay, good.

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Now we are going into the Real Time Segment of the Gene Pool, where you you ask questions and make observations in Real Time, and I try to answer them. Today’s questions, so far, are about my Weekend challenge to come up with the worst advice you have ever received, and also a bunch of extraneous stuff.

Send your Q’s and O’s here, please:

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Last week, Dave Barry sent me a photo he found of our appearance at the 1989 Miami King Mango Strut, a really, really lowbrow parade held yearly so the city can show how grungy and sarcastic it is. That year, Dave and I performed on the back of a pickup truck labeled “The Chicken Foot Blues Band, which derived its name from the fact that I had a big bag of raw chicken feet, which I flung to the crowd, while playing the harmonica in a truly bad rendition of “Woolly Bully.” I do not remember why Dave was wearing a cheesehead, or why he was playing a drum. This was apparently an all drum-and-harmonica band. These were confusing times.

That’s me, on the right. I believe the third member of the band, facing away, was Rob Barry, around eight years old.

When parade bystanders caught the feet, and realized what they were holding, they sometimes made a face and froze in horror, but others — as Dave just reminded me — threw the chicken feet back into the bed of the truck. Chicken feet have toenails that hurt you when they arrive at your eyeballs.

Anyway, I am publishing this photo because it happened to coincide elegantly with a Question and Observation I just received from a reader, who pointed out that had refused to answer in the the past for reasons of decency, but now I no longer had that excuse.

Q: Mention of Dave Barry last week reminds me of something. You once mailed him a porno magazine the title of which you assured us, if revealed, would get you fired from The Post by day’s end. No longer a possibility.

A: Speaking of Indian food…

Q: Exactly. So, at least one inquiring mind would like to know what it was.  The name. Dish it.

A: Okay. So here is the background. And I want to say, initially, in my defense, that this is a story about the Meaning of Life, specifically, the meaning of True Lifelong Friendship. It is exploratory Journalism, as practiced in its most noble and fearless form:

Back in 1990, when Dave and I were working at The Miami Herald, and I got a job at The Washington Post. That meant I had to move to Washington. My family went on ahead, by plane, and I drove there — a two-day trip, with my aging yellow Labrador Retriever, Harry. Harry looked nondescript, like a baked potato, but that is a different and unrelated story.

After the first day of driving, Harry and I found ourselves in need of sleep and a place to excrete. We were in a place called South of the Border, a large motel complex at the border of North and South Carolina. South of the Border is pretty cheap, and very cheesy, and kind of revolting. Not the sort of place you go to for pristine carpeting in the rooms or pillows that were upholstered with feathers instead of Kleenex, for example. The most alarming feature of South of The Border was a gigantic gift shop that had — among things like post cards and snack foods and tee-shirts and many baseball caps that said, I swear, “I’d slap you but shit splatters,” but also the largest display of pornographic magazines I had ever seen in a place not exclusively devoted to selling pornographic magazines.

And that’s when I formulated a Plan.

The Plan was kind of simple. Dave knew I was traveling that week, but did not know my itinerary exactly, or precisely when I was to be on the road, and would likely never have connected a postmark from “Hamer, S.C.” with anything in particular. And as it happened, South of the Border had its own post office!

So I purchased the single most disgusting magazine they had, and mailed it to Dave anonymously, no return address, at The Miami Herald. He would likely open it in the newsroom.

Days passed. No communication. I arrived at the Post, started my new job. And one day, in the new job, I went to pick up my mail, and there was a manila envelope in my mail slot, with no return address, and inside it was the self-same magazine.

Excitedly, I ran to a phone and called Dave and asked him how he knew it had been from me.

And here is the thing that makes this a great story about a lifetime friendship. Dave said:

“I didn’t.”

The name of the magazine was very large, on the cover. It was as large as the TIME logo on TIME magazine. It was a photo book, and such a cheap photo book it was all in black and white, and I have to say it did not misrepresent itself at all. It was exactly what it said it was. And what it said it was, was:

“Assholes.”

This is the point at which I ask you for money. Yes, believe it or not, many of you are actually paying for the Gene Pool, to receive just this sort of content. It’s $4.15 a month. I have no shame. For better or worse, you won’t get a deal like this anywhere else.

TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this on an email: JUST CLICK ON THE HEADLINE IN THE EMAIL AND IT WILL DELIVER YOU TO THE FULL COLUMN ONLINE. Keep refreshing the screen to see the new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post.

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Q: Can we discuss Barack Obama’s sense of humor? Check out his DNC speech when he talks about Trump’s crowd sizes. He looks down and makes an “oops” face. That’s standup comedy skill right there. Fantastic delivery of joke.

A: Oh, absolutely.    He is quite funny.   Remember this phenomenal performance? Gary Bussey.    “Well-handled, sir, well handled.”    It’s around 3:45. —

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Q:  Once again, two comic strips have the same joke on almost the same day!  "Dustin" from the 18th, and "Mother Goose and Grimm" from today.

A: It’s weird and it’s not always clear why it happens.  There ARE professional gag writers who sometimes send the same joke to cartoonists, and there might have been some confusion.  Or it could be a weird coincidence.  The are both good, ethical cartoonists. I don’t buy ideas. But that’s just me.

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Q:  Worst advice ever: When I was a kid, there was a group of us who were friends by proximity: our fathers worked, most of us had stay-at-home moms, and we lived on a sparsely visited street. Most of us had older brothers who were also close in age (teens) and we were all within a year of each others' ages, so we rode the same school bus, played the same games together, rode our bikes in packs...If we hadn't been neighbors on the same block, we probably would not have chosen each other as friends, but here we were. Worst advice I ever received involved one of these friends' mothers. The friend had asymptomatic Mono - a bit of a sore throat but nothing serious. Certainly not sick enough to skip playing on the bowling league that Saturday two weeks before Christmas or sharing a soda with the rest of us. Her mother dropped her off and said "Mono is 'the kissing disease' so unless you kids are kissing each other, no one will catch it." So we all shared a soda AND Mono. It was the last time I bowled (ever)...or ate solid food (for a month)...or got out of bed (for weeks). When I caught Mono, I was 5'2' and weighed a healthy 120 pounds. By the time I returned to school two months later, I was a frail 90 pounds and had no immune system. My brother brought his big friendly, tailing-thumping dog when he showed up for Christmas and while my mother was out shopping with my brother and his wife, the excited dog knocked the Christmas tree onto me and I was pinned beneath it for hours, too weak to life it off of myself. When I returned to school in Mid January, I promptly caught chicken pox and missed another six weeks of school. I returned two days before performing the part of Maria in the school production of "The Sound of Music" and halfway through the first performance, I lost my voice and went backstage, where I fainted. Once I was revived and got a drink of water, I was better - the show must go on, and all that. But I had to go to summer school at the end of the 9th grade because I had missed 35 school days that year All because of the advice that you'll only catch Mono if you kiss someone.

A: Pretty bad. Not as bad as the rhythm method, but bad.

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Q: Regarding jury duty, which you just almost experienced, Once I was on the jury for a workers’ comp case.  Deliberation began near the end of the second day, and I volunteered to be foreperson since nobody else wanted to, and we needed one in order to proceed.  “Does anybody here NOT think he deserves compensation?”  Silence.  “We’re good with that?  Does anybody think he deserves less than 100%?”. More silence.  We filed back into the courtroom a few minutes later and I announced the verdict, and shortly after that we all got to go home.  I often wonder if I had done my job with full due diligence, if I should have tried harder to get people to discuss merits, but I have no doubt that for efficiency I deserved top marks.

A: As to point one, I have experienced the same.  Just did, in fact. Apparent prejudice. In the voir dire last week, they seemed to eliminate old people.  The mean age of the final jury seemed to be about 30.   Stats say older people are more likely to convict.   I am less likely to convict.  And I am as old as a trilobite skeleton. 

As to point two, you did fine.  Despite the message of “12 Angry Men,” some cases are open and shut and do not require two hours of debate and self-revelation.

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Q:  Here's a jury duty story. This occurred when I was in my early 20s-- my first experience with jury duty. I receive a jury summons and dutifully arrange for time off from work, several weeks in advance. I arrive at the court house and am ushered into a gigantic room with long rows of benches. At least 200-300 other prospective jurors are in there. An administrator person gets up on a lectern in front of the big group and tells everyone to take out their paper summons. I am rolling my eyes. We are told to confirm that OUR NAME is written on the top of our summons. How dumb does the court think we are? I am really up on my own high horse at this point. We are then told to make sure the summons says TODAY'S DATE, JANUARY (whatever). I then realize that... I showed up for jury duty on the wrong day. 

I have to sheepishly gather up all my stuff, squeeze past a dozen other prospective jurors lined up on my bench, walk to the lectern and admit in front of 300 people that I apparently can't read a calendar. 

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A: I tried to give blood at the Miami Herald in 1989.   They turned me down because I had told them, truthfully, that I had used narcotics in 1971.  I was indignant and furious and grumped to coworkers.   About two years later I was diagnosed with Hep C.

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Q: Donald Trump is so old that by the time Kamala Harris was born (Oct 20, 1964), he’d already dodged the draft once (July 28, 1964).

- Sam Mertens

A: Nice. He is so old he is older than I am.

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This is Gene. I am calling us down. I have to leave for Charlottesville later. Please send in more questions and observations.

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