DTH Omnibus Page 3
Thursday November 2, 1989
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Road tripping with Elvis in a UFO
IVe got the disease, and baby, there is no cure
It was a good time to get the hell
out of town.
First of all, there was that en
vironmental Threshold conference
here, with a bunch of long-haired
academics droning on and on about
how rainforests in Cameroon are
being demolished at an alarming rate.
I'm still trying to get used to the
existence of Cameroon, much less to
the fact that it's getting a lot more
open space for development, so I
didn't see the need to hang around.
(By the way, you ever notice how
these environmentalists always com
plain about the air quality, then go
out and drive around in their '69
VW vans which put out more smoke
than R.J. Reynolds? If these people
would just learn about Lube World
we'd have an ozone layer left.)
Then Rainbow found out I've been
writing columns about her, so she
got all mad and threatened to tie my
lips around the trailer hitch of a Dallas-bound
Peterbilt, which didn't
sound all that appealing to me, espe
cially since I had no desire to go to
Yuppies talk of Armageddon
ITT) ureaucracy," John said,
rx perusing the menu, "is not
li M something that will just go
away if you hide in the closet."
I scratched my head and thought
for a moment.
"You know," I said finally, as a
busboy refilled our water glasses. "The
only real solution to the whole prob
lem would be a nice big nuclear holo
caust." "Not really," he said with a smile,
knowing he had defeated me yet
again. "It is a fact that the federal
government as well as several large
multinational corporations have de
tailed contingency plans for a post
Armageddon world."
I flagged down a waiter and or
dered the crab-stuffed rainbow trout.
"Do you mean they actually in
tend to keep the paper flowing after
the big Nagasaki?" I asked, incredu
lous. "I mean," he said, "that it is quite
possible that many of your larger
conglomerates have already built huge
facilities under mountains somewhere
in Oklahoma that are self-contained,
electromagnetic-pulse-resistant, radiation-shielded
post-WWIII corporate
headquarters, ready to be fired up
when the first mushroom cloud
blooms."
I decided not to call him on the
mixed metaphor.
"So how do they intend to have
all the bills and junk mail I'm
assuming here there will be junk mail
in this Mad-Maxian nightmare
delivered to your shelter-step?" I asked
eagerly, sure I had finally stumped
him.
John looked up from his plate.
John Bland
Dallas.
Finally, Arthur, the mutant poodle
who lives in my house, hadn't been
bathed since sometime during the
Carter presidency, and I figured, all
things being equal, that a road trip
was definitely in order.
But then I was kidnapped by a
UFO.
I know, I know, you've heard these
stories before, about how a couple of
simpletons are driving alone on a
dark, deserted dirt road in northwest
Arkansas when suddenly they are
blinded by a sharp light from the
heavens. A metallic banana-shaped
object hovers overhead, beams them
aboard, they see weird stuff, and then
they sell their story to the Weekly
World News for 25 bucks.
Well, this is different, mainly be
cause I didn't sell my story to the
Erik Flippo
"I don't know," he admitted, "but
you had better make sure you file a
change-of-address form before you
abandon your poisoned city and turn
tail for the mountains, that's for darn
sure.
The waiter slipped the check onto
the table as he breezed past.
I had to admire their
foresight. Even in the
depth of nuclear winter ,
our government would
have an economic base
from which to overspend
.flw.. -y.
"Yeah, you wouldn't want to miss
one thrill-packed issue of Radiation
Review or Mutant Monthly," I said.
"Don't go making light of mutants,"
he advised, examining the bill. "The
IRS would probably use the four
armed ones as tax collectors."
John plopped down a credit card.
The waiter snapped it up in a flash
and disappeared, mumbling some
thing about the dangers of plastic
money.
"I wonder if the IRS would give
Weekly World News because they
wouldn't shell out the dough. Be
sides, as a dedicated and professional
journalist I believe in giving you, my
dedicated and professional Less Fill
ing audience (all three of you), the
first chance at laughing in my face.
I was driving outside of South Hill,
Va., my cruise control set on 35, sing
ing along with my favorite Trini Lopez
tape, sweating like a hog in heat
because the air conditioner was busted
when all of a sudden I felt this strange
wave sweep over me, an energy wave,
pulling my stomach up and over, until
I realized it was only the Chicken
McNuggets I had eaten earlier com
ing back to haunt me.
That's when it happened. There
was a blinding light, and the next
thing I knew I was stretched out on a
white table, and Elvis was looking at
my teeth.
"King!" I shouted.
"Grudnik," the King said, but he
said it just like he was singing "Viva
Las Vegas."
"King! I knew it! I knew you were
you an extension if you used the re
cent destruction of the world as we
know it as an excuse for late filing," I
pondered.
"It seems to me that they would
have this thing," he speculated, "about
getting all the money in on time,
regardless of the end of humanity,
Mutual Assured Destruction or the"
conspicuous lack of post offices at
which one could get one's return
postmarked by April 15."
I had to admire their foresight.
Even in the depth of nuclear winter,
our government would have an eco
nomic base from which to overspend.
"I think it's just sentimental nos
talgia that's got 'em by the heart
strings," John said.
'They just don't realize that after
the nuclear frijoles are spilled, well,
they can't go home again," I agreed.
"They can't have business as usual
if the survivors are too busy trying to
keep from turning into little green
men from Mars to play the game,"
he said.
"Filing that change-of-address form
will be my first priority before I scurry
from the flash, I'll tell you," I told
him.
After what seemed an eternity, the
waiter returned with the charge slip.
John took it, examined the
amounts, wrote in a paltry tip (flash
ing a wicked grin as he did so) and
signed the thing in his elegant scrawl:
"J. Q. Public".
"Press hard," the waiter seethed
mechanically. "Five copies."
Editors' note: Erik and his imaginary
friend John will ponder the mysteries of
life sermegtdarly, occasionally displaC'
ingjoe Bob. Sorry. Life's rough.
alive!"
Then a door slid open and four
more Elvises walked out! I couldn't
believe it! I had
NEWS FLASH!
ELEPHANT ENTRAILS, Pa.
(AP) Has this ever happened to
you? You're at home, writing a letter
to a friend or family member, when
you find yourself making up things
about your life which are blatantly
untrue?
Many of you may suffer from this
syndrome, which affects more males
than females. Its scientific name is
Bullstuffus Toomuchus, but it is more
commonly known as "Deep Stuff,"
and it occurs mainly when you real
ize you've stepped in something up
to your kneecaps which you can't
quite get out of.
"I used to think I could talk my
way out of anything," said one af
flicted male, whose name shall re
main anonymous. "I had 17 girlfriends
Jbtusjfrn
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before I realized I was hooked. It's
like a disease, man."
With proper treatment, BuUstuf'
fus Toomuchus can be controlled.
"Basically, we isolate the subject
and try and control his imagination,"
said Dr. V.S. "Cookie" Potzrebie,
director of the Center for Deep Stuff
Studies here in Elephant Entrails.
"Gradually we limit his drug supply,
and eventually his behavior becomes
as banal as the next person's."
Dr. Potzrebie added that there has
only been one case which has not
been cured.
"A guy in North Carolina, a young
newspaper writer, wrote that he had
been kidnapped by aliens who re
sembled Elvis. A sad, sad case, and it
looks terminal."
(We return you to our regularly
scheduled column, already in progress)
so I said goodbye to the Elvises,
and came home.
And to think, it's all true!
! Dinner
I Buffet
L for 2 J
with coupon only
expires 1 1989
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f I f Old Greensboro Rd.
X 12.5 miles to NC 87.
ai I KQP Turn right on NC 87
uu' (north) for 9 miles to
blinking light. Turn
right for 1.2 miles on
Boywood Rd. to sign.
Call for Tee Times
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