The daily Tar Heel. (Chapel Hill, N.C.) 1946-current, September 21, 1989, Page 13, Image 13
mmmmmmmmm DTH Omnibus Page 3 Thursday September 21, 1989 Xv:-N:v:-:-:-:4-:-::'S AV WiHIATT Who cares about the fourth Banana Split? I can't set out of my ! math requirement First of all, I just want to say that it was not my fault. My usually reliable research assistant let me down last week and gave me the wrong names of the Ba nana Splits. I know, I know. I let this research assistant have it with both fists and then fired this person before something else went wrong. I'm re ally sick of these incompetent people thinking they can get away with second-rate work and then leaving it to me to take the flak. I just won't stand for it. I won't. For the correction, Bingo and Fleagle were right, but Drooper was a lion in Vuarnets, and the elephant who never said anything was Snorky. Thuiks to Alan McGee and Mike "the video veg" for the corrections. Also, Mike, Racer X was Speed's older brother Rex. I'm tired of all these printer's mistakes showing up in my column. Editor's note: He hasn't got a re search assistant, he never has had a research assistant, and they weren't printer's mistakes. He's just lost too This one's You might remember my little cousin Wilbur, who lives in a cardboard box down on Jackson Street and only has one nos tril. He was born that way, but we didn't notice it till he was four years old. Otis Leakey was visiting one day from Paducah, Kentucky, and he said, "Have yall looked at Little Wilbur lately?" And we said, "What?" and he said, "Have yall looked at Little Wilbur lately? You know, you ought to get that boy checked." Otis couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew something was wrong with Wilbur's face. And so we took Wilbur to the doctor and sure enough, he was miss ing one nostril. We probly never would of known about it if Otis hadn't come to visit that year. . Anyhow, that's beside the point. The point is that we've been trying to get Little Wilbur to get a good paying job for several years now, but Wilbur is what you call your chroni cally unemployed. It's partly due to discrimination against the partial nosed population, but I think it's cause of Wilbur's own attitude. "I don't have to work," he'll tell you. "I have a handicapped sticker." It's true. Wilbur wrote off to the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles and got himself a handicapped sticker. He wears it on his forehead. "Wilbur, just cause you're handi capped doesn't mean you have to sit around on Jackson Street all day being pitiful. You could at least volunteer for the Special Olympics or some thing." , John Bland i?- iiM pf lfM many brain cells. Speaking of early Alzheimer's dis ease, I made a friendly visit to Steele Building recently to calmly and ra tionally present my case as to why I should be released from the General College math requirement. I felt afterwards that I had made positive progress in the negotiations, but I don't think I really needed to be billy-clubbed into submission. I wasn't planning on actually using that grenade. As all of you know, students are required by the General College to a) take four semesters of a foreign language and one semester of math; b) take three semesters of a foreign language and two semesters of math; or c) take the bus home. So far, I'm angling for that third option. better than 'Return Joe Bob Briggs "I earned this nostril," Wilbur told me, "and I'm gonna use it." Besides, two years ago we tried to put Little Wilbur in the Special Olym pics, but they said he was the only single-nostriled person they'd ever had and they didn't have anybody to compete against him. "That just shows you," he said, "the prejudice of the full-nosed popula tion at large." I told Wilbur it would be differ ent if his nostril got shot off in Viet nam or something, but he was a natu ral one-nostril man and so ... . "There are plenty of cocaine-head Hollywood producers with nostrils worse than mine!" he interrupted. They could have put them in the Special Olympics." "Wilbur, cocaine-head Hollywood producers can't use a table fork, much less a discus." Wilbur snorted. "Please don't do that again," I told, hem. "That's the one thing you can do that grosses me out." - "You seer Wilbur said. "It's be cause I have one nostril, isn't it? If anybody else had a cold, as I have at this very moment, you wouldn't say anything, would you? But when it's a handicapped person .. ." "Wilbur," I said. "Yes," he sniffled. L,l,;,a,i,,,,tM,,MMii;,,af,,,.,i),iit''li frlY"Hl' r' ,.',' , See, as Caesar had Brutus, as Na poleon had Waterloo, as Fred Flintstone had Arnold the paperboy, I have math. The stuff just don't make no sense to me. I'm an English ma jor, I'm not going to need this stuff when I'm perusing "Absalom, Absa lom" or "Archie" comics. Unfortunately, my pleas for math leniency have thus far fallen upon deaf ears. Take this exchange from my first encounter with the admini stration: "I can't get it! I just don't know how to do math! Calculus? I can't hardly spell calculus! Math 1 ? I flunked it! Math 2? Ditto! Maths 3 and 4? Ditto ditto! Please, you've got to re lease me from that requirement! I'll do anything, anything, just please don't throw me in that there briar patch!" "Well, then," said the little old lady behind the counter at Steele after my third unsuccessful attempt at blowing up the building, "have you tried completing the foreign lan guage requirement?" I wanted to bust that little old lady's glasses. - "I don't care haw many nostrils you have. I don't care whether you're handicapped or not and, by the way, take that sticker off your fore head, it's annoying the least you could do is work the check-out line at Kroger's." " "Do you know what people would do in a grocery store check-out line the first time they saw a one-nos-triled person?" "Check out?" They would laugh! They would whisper! They would turn away! They would make their children go to an other line! They would . . . ." I guess it was about then that I smacked Wilbur right in the . . . well, I guess you know where I smacked him. He'll be out of the hospital this week. Maybe the carnival has something. And speaking of mutated human flesh attempting to be taken seriously, the best drive-in movie of 1989 came out this week "Mutant on the Bounty," the engrossing (and gross ing) story of a horribly mutilated saxophone player who's rescued from a freefall through outer space by a ship full of bored singles-bar rejects. Meet the Hawaiian-shirted Skipper, his stuttering first mate, the trans vestite droid Lizardo, and the ador able chain-moking nymphomanic doctor who performs open-brain sur gery with a pair of scissors. This wacky crew takes in the sax-playing mutant and tries to make him forget his troub les - namely, that his face now looks When fulfilling the foreign lan guage requirement, don't be stupid and place into French 3 like I did. I still don't know how it happened. AH I can remember about the test is that it took place real early in the morn ing during C-Tops and that I was humming along to the theme from "Mission: Impossible." I'm convinced someone mixed mine up with some one named "Jacques." Either that or there was one hell of a curve on that sucker. That fall I went to class and tried to figure out just what my teacher was saying, which is kind of like trying to stop a lawnmower with your feet. (Why do French people insist upon talking so fast? Is it a genetic thing? No wonder they're uptight. Nobody knows what the hell they're saying.) "Monsieur Bland," my French teacher would begin. "Voulez-vous blah blah blah blah" and then she'd get to talking about as fast as a blender stuck in the "puree" mode and I'd usually give my standard response, the same one that got me through a trip to France in the ninth grade: of the Living Dead' like a can of Raviolios, and a couple of intergalactic Seven-Eleven robbers named Rick and Manny are coming to point ray guns at him and giggle a lot. What's the point? the same points as every outer-space movie for the last thirty years will the universe be destroyed by the virus that only they know about? There have been several attempts at outer-space comedy before, but this one is the champeen. Kyle T. Heff ner, as the deformed but good na tured Max the Mutant, gives the best performance, of the year by a man who picks dead skin off his face in every scene. Remember when "Return of the Living Dead" first came out, and we all knew it was gonna be a classic, but it took everbody three years to figure it out? Four dead bodies. One dead droid. One pus-faced mutant. Open-brain laser surgery: Gooey objects removed from cranial cavity in closeup. One giant outer-space rubber dart gun. Face-frying. Exploding spaceship. Excellent Freddy Krueger ripoff voice. Aardvarking. Mutant aardvarking. Gratuitous Hawaiian shirt. Gratui tous baby blue tuxedo shirt. Toilet Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nomi nations for John Fleck, as the droid who switches between- the personal ity of a transvestite stripper and a Nixon Administration press secre tary; John Durbin, as Manny the goofball sidekick of the standup comedian armed robber, for his love of puff weasels; Deborah Benson, as "Je ne sais pas." For all I know, she could've been asking me about the average rainfall in the Congo Basin, in which case my answer would have been right. Then again, she could've been ask ing me what "two plus two" was, in which case my answer would have been right. And besides, it was in French. After struggling through a semes ter and ending up with a grade some where lower than a D-minus but higher than an F, I realized that al though I had passed, there was no way in hell I was gonna take another French class in my life. It's up to math to get me through (help). What am I to do, then? Do I take math and flunk, or do I take French and flunk? Will I spend the rest of my natural life wandering around campus, mumbling basic theorems and past-imperfect participles? Am I doomed to a degree-less life because I can't translate "My pencil-box is blue"? Naaaah 'cause I'm gonna be the next Burt Reynolds. the dippy reporter whose idea of cheering up a man who's had his face fried off is a little tic-tac-toe, for saying "Could we just turn out one more light r'; Victoria Catlin, as the nympho chain-smoking surgeon, for saying "Don't die on me now, you son of a beech" in a dimwit French accent; Scott Williamson, as Rick the intergalactic convenience-store robber, for having the world's most obnoxious giggle and saying "Out there, somewhere, is a very very very unlucky saxophone player"; Kyle T. Heffher, as Max the Mutant, for say ing "first they mutilate me, then they lose my luggage. I don't think I'm even gonna get credit for my Fre quent Hyer miles" and "Even if I didn't look like I was bobbing for French fries, I'd be thrilled to be with you"; and Robert Torrence the pro ducer, director and co-writer, who's already planning a sequel called "Seven Brides for Seven Mutants." Four stars. Joe Bob says check it out twice. Joe Bob Policy ' OK, OK, we're running Joe Bob 5 . this week. Happy? Good. Here's the deal: We'U try to run Joe Bob every : issue, but our primary commitment is to student writers (no, contrary ; i to popular opinion, Joe Bob is not a student here; he lives near Dallas, Texas), so we may boot him off the page once in a while if we have a good guest column. Enjoy!