FYI: Murphy Could Use a Few Laughs

“Murphy Brown” isn’t funny anymore.

Maybe it’s that monkey on her back with the face of Dan Quayle. It’s weighing her down.

Or maybe it’s because Murphy’s Message these days is sounding more like a speech, one that we’ve heard too many times before. If we can guess the punch lines, does that make us politically correct?

Truth is, after all the hype--from Dan and Candice Bergen too--I feel rather swindled, as if I’ve been conned in a Murphy game, cheated out of an honest laugh. I’ve hung on for three new episodes now, and that’s enough.

Please, somebody send Seinfeld, George and Kramer to the set of FYI.

Or, better yet, maybe Ross Perot should buy his own show to liven up the fall lineup this election year. If for nothing else, Ross seems always good for a joke--even if it’s at our expense.

Public response to the show could be measured via a toll-free telephone number. Sorry, only one answer: YES!

(By the way, the head of Perot’s national network of volunteers is named Orson Swindle. So is this reality or Murphy’s Law again?)

Frankly, at this stage of the political game-show season, most of us have had it up to here with all these forced marches to the fringes of reality, that twilight zone where television characters and politicians have the freedom to cavort as they wish.

And I, for one, had promised myself that at least I’d refrain from writing about the antics of Dan and Murph again.

(Unless, say, Dan were to come clean about having lusted after Murphy in his heart. Then Marilyn would have to tell him: Dan, that is not how babies are made!)

And, yes, I went back on my word. But, hey, at least when I promise myself something, I do not move my lips.

Sadly, some of you might not think this is funny a bit. You will say that seeing as how our nation’s future is on the line, now is not the time for attempted levity on the political front.

You’ve told pollsters that you’re not interested in the candidates’ alleged romps with floozies, or in who smoked what, or in who hatched plans to make Saddam Hussein an official U.S. pal.

After all, in 1992, the economy’s in the toilet and more and more jobs seem to be going down the drain. Americans are paying more per capita for health care than anybody else, yet millions can hardly get any at all.

And in the meantime, the federal deficit seems to be metamorphosing into the Blob that Will Swallow Us All. (Think of the giant Sta-Puft Marshmallow man in “Ghostbusters” and you’ve got the idea.)

Which is why I am personally thrilled with the prospect of presidential debates.

After negotiations that have proved to be just as entertaining as those between the Israelis and the Palestinians--Bill: “Chicken! Chicken!” George: “Why, Bill, you scalded duck!”--it looks as if they are going to come off.

Yes, here is finally a campaign happening for America as a whole.

For you serious types, there is the prospect of an orderly and dignified discussion of the issues. To ensure this outcome, may I suggest that you adjust your television sets to the “close captioned” mode for the hearing-impaired.

And for the rest of us, there is the anticipation of who will be labeled as not-somebody-else this time around.

Plus, there is the exciting wild-card element of Ross Perot. Will he wear lifts in his shoes, or maybe just stand on some telephone books to even things up?

Maybe the debate organizers can set up their own toll-free numbers so that we, the public, can vote on who came off the best. This could be something along the lines of the setup that the producers of “Love Connection” have devised.

Who gets the date? The one with the gut, the one with the syntax thing, or the one with the ears?

And the winner is . . .

Stay tuned! The sitcom writers are undoubtedly working on it now. Or would that be the campaign directors?

In the twilight zone, who knows?