Mermaid—The Other Other White Meat: A Beach Slapped Humor Collection (2011)

By Barton Grover Howe

It begins with refugee status in New Jersey, trapped amidst crunchy toilet paper and blowhard New Yorkers, before moving on to the worst disaster never to strike the Oregon Coast. It must be time to get "Beach Slapped" again, with Amazon bestseller Barton Grover Howe. With everything from offering tips on how to survive a hard-core evacuation during breakfast, ("Mimosas made entirely with Jack Daniels") to the disappointment of getting all dressed up for Armageddon with no place to go, ("Well, that was a crappy Rapture. Crapture, anyone?") Howe once again boldly goes where writers with taste rarely do. Throw in the random observations of his one-year-old daughter, ("About 90 percent of the time, I wake up in a different place than where I fell asleep. It's like living Lindsey Lohan's life.") It's a life at its stupidest—and funniest.
It's another year of impending disaster and babies on the move—often at the same time—and all the other things that keep leaving readers "Beach Slapped" as Barton once again gives readers 52 reasons—54, actually; it was a very long time in New Jersey—to laugh out loud.

Barton Grover Howe resides in the only small town on the Oregon coast that has seven miles of coastline and not one boat dock. A high school teacher, his students don’t find him near as funny as he thinks they should — much like their parents, who use teacher conferences to tell him they have no idea what he’s talking about half the time in his weekly humor column. On the plus side, he is married to the most patient woman on Earth and is father to the cutest daughter in the universe, who got all of her looks from her mother. In addition to writing a weekly humor column, Barton is also an Amazon Top 10 best-selling novelist, bringing his weird sense of humor to tell the stories of Surfland, Oregon. The fictional home for the wet and weird, his first novel, “Beach Slapped” takes readers on an adventure that’s been called by reviewers a “well written, tightly plotted romp.” “Move over Carl Hiaasen, Tim Dorsey, Dave Barry and all the other Florida humor satire writers. There’s a new voice and a very accomplished one... Howe does for the Oregon Coast what Hiaasen and the others have done for Florida.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barton Grover Howe
• Release date: Sep 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301874934

Barton Grover Howe

Barton Grover Howe is a high school teacher and humor columnist who has spent most of the last 10 years teaching, being a mascot and generally not being near as funny as he thinks he is. A former newspaper reporter, hotel manager, aquarium diver, stand-up comedian, forcibly retired Disney On Ice performer and professional mascot, Barton Grover Howe has combined his experiences and skills from all of those environments to create writing with a voice like no other. Living proof that you don’t need hurricanes blowing the palm trees sideways to get beach slapped time and again. He currently resides in the only small town on the Oregon coast that has seven miles of coastline and not one boat dock. He is married to the most patient woman on earth and is father to the cutest daughter in the universe, who got all of her looks from her mother.

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Refu-Jersees Log: I’d kill to touch the Charmin

January 5, 2011

On December 21, 2010, Barton left for a six-day trip east. A blizzard left him there for two weeks. To keep his sanity, he posted multiple daily dispatches from the wintry house that was his Jersey refugee camp. The complete set is available at BartonGroverHowe.com.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 1, 17:15: As one of 80 million people affected by this storm, I realize that many people have it worse than me. Some have slept in trains, others have given birth in cars, while even more have been living at the airport. I am merely trapped at my in-laws house — which means my life sucks even more. At least they don’t have to use toilet paper bought with the sandpaper at ACE.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 2, 16:54: The toilet paper crisis worsens, as the consequence of using the bathroom of a Navy veteran becomes apparent. As a result of military austerity, my father-in-law believes spending money on TP is useless when so many other things work: gauze bandages, storm flags, The Battleship Missouri, etc. (PT109: this I would understand; I could blame dyslexia.)

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 7:23: Nowhere does my isolation reveal itself more than the denial involved in my morning coffee. Devoid my Millstone Caramel Truffle beans, DaVinci sugar-free caramel syrup and Diamond Almond Milk, my morning cup of bliss tastes like actual coffee. My God, this stuff is terrible. How will I ever get through four more cups this morning?

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 19:29: Aside from the time I pointedly told my wife what she could do with the remote, this is the longest I’ve spent solo in a hide-a-bed. Even considering the pain required to sleep on a folding mattress patterned on Charmin, (at least something here is) I must admit I’m just lonely. So when she talks of home I dare to hope, as she whispers three magic words in my ear: Pillow-top mattress.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 15:46: They say you can’t buy happiness. They have never finally gotten to the grocery store with a debit card and complete access to the toilet paper aisle. Indeed, It’s good thing Mr. Whipple is dead, (although, seriously, don’t you think it’s a little creepy: a grown man fondling tissue at the grocery store?) because if anyone gets between me and my Charmin at the A&P, they’re gonna die.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 6, 13:05: We have tickets home. Really, truly, only delayed the amount of time it took the Lord to create the earth and heavens. (Attention Continental management: the 7th day isn’t one of rest. I don’t care if you’re based in Texas.) Now, as long as the plane gets here, we’re fine. It’s coming from Vegas, leading purveyor of drunken idiots and the call girls that love them. No worries, there...

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 6, 20:31: Just came upon another horror story of the blizzard: This couple in New Jersey has been sharing their house for a week for their annoying twit son-in-law. Worse: he’s been writing a column from there. Amazingly, not only haven’t they killed him, they’ve even fed him well and bought him almond milk for his coffee. Word is he’s donating most of his toilet paper collection to them when he leaves.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 7, 06:28: In the airport and plane, my fellow Refu-Jersees are wrapped in jackets, no matter the clear sky. Silent they sit, their pale skin denied the sunlight. They are gorgeous! They are Oregonians! And at my side, my wife and daughter, the last doing something in her diaper. It smells like my Oregon, too! Seats up, trays up, buckle up: Let’s get the hell out of here.

It’s time to go home.

Refu-Jersees Log: Complete and unedited

Jan. 5, 2011

On December 21, 2010, Barton Howe left home for a six day trip to New Jersey to see his wife’s family because he deeply cares about everyone he insults on a regular basis. But thanks to the sixth-largest storm ever to hit the New York metro area, Barton and his family were trapped in New Jersey with his in-laws. To keep his sanity (and from going on a misdemeanor-level crime spree in western New Jersey involving assault on random clowns), he posted multiple daily dispatches from the wintry house that was his Jersey refugee camp.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 1, 17:15: As one of the 80 million people affected by this storm, I have come to realize that many people have it worse than me. Some have slept in trains, others have given birth in cars, while even more have been living at the airport. I am merely trapped at my in-laws house, which means my life sucks even more. At least they don’t have to use toilet paper bought with the sandpaper at ACE.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 1, 17:32: Found a bar to watch my Missouri Tigers play tonight, only to find that the friggin’ game doesn’t start until 10 p.m. here. Apparently the city that never sleeps requires none of its residents do, either. Instead, I’ll be hunkered down on my hide-a-bed with some non-Oregon beer, Tyson frozen wings, and no one who cares to mindlessly root for whatever team happens to be on the bar TV.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 1, 17:35: Discovered I can’t type Day 1 without screwing it up. That, and I’m in hell. I hate everyone and everything. Life is a continuous litany of pain, disappointment and prostate exams from doctors with inappropriately large hands. Happy New Year.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 1, 17:58: Insanity of being trapped in New Jersey has made me realize I’ve become one of those Facebooking twits that feels the need to enter something every few minutes. Concerned that I may start discussing my bathroom habits (again), I’m signing off now.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 2, 07:42: I awake to greet the new day, replete in the belief that the dawn will bring new hope and joy. My quandary: can Xanadu be found when your arm hair is caught in a hide-a-bed spring? My thought is: No, but I will check with Lindsey Lohan to be sure; she’s used to waking up in strange places.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 2, 13:12: My vagabond child misses her home. To make her feel like she’s closer to the Oregon Coast we put in her the bathroom four hours a day, turn on a cold shower, and make it really dark and damp. And when RVs pass by, Daddy goes outside, follows them slowly, and cusses like a sailor. It soothes her greatly.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 2, 16:54: The toilet paper crisis worsens, as the consequence of using the bathroom of a Navy veteran becomes apparent. As a result of military austerity, my father-in-law believes spending money on TP is useless when so many other things work: gauze bandages, storm flags, The Battleship Missouri, etc. (PT109: this I would understand; I could blame dyslexia.)

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 2, 20:28: And so another day ends, as thousands render themselves oblivious to the chaos about them. Too bad all of them work for Continental Airlines, which is still not answering the phones. (Really.) They say they’re too busy resolving the crisis to assist the people in it. Fascinating logic, though one I’m thrilled the fire department doesn’t share.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 7:23: Nowhere does my isolation reveal itself more than the denial involved in my morning coffee. Devoid my Millstone Caramel Truffle beans, DaVinci sugar-free caramel syrup and Diamond Almond Milk, my morning cup of bliss tastes like actual coffee. My God, this stuff is terrible. How will I ever get through four more cups this morning?

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 13:01: To alleviate my daughter’s increasing boredom, we bought her a toy phone. It has four buttons, and when you press each one, it makes dialing noises, rings, makes some other sounds, and then goes quiet. We call them the Continental buttons. One non-similarity: When she gets no response, the room isn’t filled with cuss words invoking the neutering of airline executives. Yet.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 16:19: Mindful that being positive makes everything better, I will try to be positive. It’s not like I am sleeping in an airport. It’s not like I am the mayor of New York City, who is hated by millions of registered voters. It’s not like I don’t have five Starbucks within three miles. It’s not like I’m going to be here the rest of the year. Oh, wait; yes I am. I am positive: This sucks.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 3, 19:29: Aside from the time I pointedly told my wife what she could do with the remote, this is the longest I’ve spent solo in a hide-a-bed. Even considering the pain involved in sleeping on a folding mattress patterned on Charmin (at least something here is), I must admit I’m just lonely. So, when she talks of home I dare to hope, as she whispers three magic words in my ear: Pillow-top mattress.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 4, 08:43: The last day of 2010 in New York, the Ball Drop in mere hours. Cameras already show people guarding their spots like feral animals, ready to defend their ground with a middle finger (or an entire fist). And that’s just the line at Continental’s check-in desk; Times Square may be even worse. How would I know? Mere miles from the biggest party on Earth, and I’m stuck in friggin’ Jersey.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 4,15:48: Just returned from a foray into the Jersey wilds, an environment teeming with consumers using all their individual cunning so they can look and smell exactly like everyone else. We also visited a factory, though it wasn’t as gritty as one might suppose for Jersey. I believe they made cheesecake. Nola, however, did leave something behind, a donation that made the men’s room far earthier.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 4, 17:49: Watching the news as New York’s mayor makes his daily apology, as many NYC streets still resemble the Klondike. He and his minions understand that as a city the rest of the world looks to, they need to do better. Comforting, isn’t it? That even in the midst of mind-boggling incompetence, New Yorkers are still the most arrogant S.O.B.s on Earth.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 4, 20:23: Commiserating with other unfortunate souls, I’m reminded there are thousands just like me, people locked into pursuits they would never choose. At least I assume that’s why thousands of Americans are employed producing the crappy Coors and Bud I find in my in-laws fridge. Pining for a Rogue, I want to cry in my beer. (Improves the taste.) Irony of ironies: I would kill for a Dead Guy.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 00:01: I begin the new year as the last ended: Really freakin’ annoyed. Not because I’m still here. Not because I miss home. Not because my toilet paper is basically a Braille copy of The DaVinci Code. No, it’s because I had just one little wish for 2011, and God didn’t do it: The falling ball in Times Square did not crush Ryan Secrest. Perhaps both him and Larry King gone was too much to ask.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 08:08: With a new year comes a renewed commitment to things I may have forgotten about: The petals of a new flower, the laugh of a child, perhaps even a decision not to loathe the small white flakes I see falling through the air. Except that I’m indoors ... ick. Things like showering regularly and buying Head & Shoulders. Stupid dry air.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 13:07: Went to a coffee shop and ordered my favorite new drink: the In-Law-te. It’s simple; just add five shots to your favorite cup of java. Even decaf works, since the bitterness is really what makes this thing perfect for the moment. Indeed, after initial horror — and a description of my week — the barista got mine nearly perfect. All she left out was the Jack Daniels.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 15:46: They say you can’t buy happiness. They have never finally gotten to the grocery store with a debit card and complete access to the toilet paper aisle. Indeed, It’s good thing Mr. Whipple is dead, (although, seriously, don’t you think it’s a little creepy: a grown man fondling tissue at the grocery store?) because if anyone gets between me and my Charmin at the A&P, they’re gonna die.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 5, 19:24: I must say I’m impressed by Continental now that they finally cleared the airport of sleeping people FIVE DAYS after the storm. (Alas, that doesn’t include those of us marooned outside of Concourse C.) No, I’m impressed that they’ve made an experience that includes exploding underwear, $25 to check toothpaste more than 3 ounces, and invasive body searches even worse. Truly. Amazing.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 6, 08:15: FLASH: Jersey isn’t the second leading cause of brain-splitting headaches; relatives are. Turns out, the morning coffee here is half-caf. Augh! To sustain my normal caffeine intake, I’ve needed eight cups a day. Unknowingly, I’ve limited myself to four (bladder issues), and my head’s been about to explode. Back to the Full Monty, now, though. Next, fixing the leading cause: Continental.

Refu-Jersees Log, Day 6, 12:15: FLASH: Never talk to an airline if you want to live past 50. Either the stress will induce a coronary,