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DTH Omnibus Page 3
Thursday September 19, 1991
Someone slips Jim the Cliff Notes to life
t was a crappy day. The type of
day that just wasn't that nice.
The kind that made you want to
go out, find your worst enemy,
stuff him or her in an envelope
(unless, of course, your worst enemy is
a particularly big person, in which
case you would use a box), and then
send them to Zimbabwe C.O.D.
I awoke this particular morning,
looked into the mirror.started to brush
my hair, and then said, "Hey why
improve on perfection?"
I then proceeded to do a double
take at the mirror and realized that I
was looking at not necessarily perfec
tion, but just a nice guy with a good
personality. Upon that note, I knew
my morning was complete.
While walking through the cam
pus, I bumped into an old acquain
tance. We went through the normal,
preliminary stages of conversation:
how we were, what we did over the
summer, what we did yesterday, what
we're doing today, what we're going
to do tomorrow, what we're doing
this weekend, and what we each look
like naked. No, I'm just kidding. We
weren't really concerned with what
we were doing this weekend.
Now a good three minutes into
this encounter, I decided to become a
little more risque in my choice of
"So, what's your major?" I asked.
"Well, I'm a psychology major, but
I plan to go to law school. After that,
I will partake in many extensive in
terviews, resulting in a job with a firm
Slam-dancing squirrels, mutant sex and slime
This judge in Florida says you
can't hang up pictures of the
"Miss February Iron Horse
Biker Bikini Girl" over your
desk anymore. They were
tackin em up in lockers at the Jack
sonville Shipyards, and a welder
named Lois Robinson got her feelings
hurt because nobody had ever asked
her to be the "Miller Lite Hooter
Honey" for the Greater St. Peters
burg area, so she decided her work
place was full of sexual harassment.
And she won the case! The femi
nists helped her file her lawsuit, and
she won ! A II the nekk id women ha ve
to be ripped down off the wall.
They got their wish.
They've finally made it an actual
crime to think about sex with a strange
woman, or to even talk about it in the
presence of a woman, or even to be
thinking about it.
Is America ready for this?
I don't think the judge went far
enough. I think there are a whole
bunch of thingson the wall we need to
have laws against.
For example, 1 think anybody that
has an oil painting of the "Poker
Playing Dogs" on his wall ought to go
straight to state prison. I don't wanna
be forced to look at that. It offends
me. It constitutes harassment of my
Or what about those giant steel
modern-art girders lying on the side-
in Chicago. Two years later, I'm named
the new partner. I'll marry at the age
of 28. Brunette, green eyes, preferably
named Laurie and dots her "i"'s with
hearts. We'll have three children. Two
boys, one girl. Suddenly, tragedy
strikes and I'm in a severe car acci
dent. An 18-wheeler strikes me from
the passenger side at the intersection
of Third and Main. In the following
years, I fight to regain use of my legs,
during which time my children, who
have been saving their fifty cents per
week allowance for some time, buy
me a Hallmark card and themselves
each a computer (But that's not im
portant, it's the thought that counts).
The card is covered with red and blue
dancing koala bears. The image alone
inspires me to write my own novel,
Rammed in the Side by a Ton of Steel and
Couldn't be Happier.. After successful
rehabilitation, I decide to start my
own law firm, as well as put together a
small mail fraud operation. Upon
threat of a government investigation,
I burn all the evidence, change my
identity, catch a dinner flight to Bar
bados, choose the grilled chicken with
a slight dijon sauce, and proceed to
have two margaritas, shaken not
stirred, when I arrive. And finally, I
die a happy man at the age of 89...How
about you? Any plans V
Joe Bob Briggs
walk in front of the Citicorp Crown
Centre Bankplace Towers ? You know,
the ones that look like somebody bent
a wire coat hanger into the shape of a
gumby doll that's been ripped apart
with a pair of pliers.
I'm appalled by this display. It af
fects my ability to do my job.
In fact, let's talk about these people
that put stickers on their car that say
"Divers Go Deeper" and "I Love My
Tibetan Wolfhound" and "This Life
time Brought To You By Jesus." Are
these people obnoxious or what?
Maybe we could find a federal judge
who would say it's illegal to invade
my space with anything that makes
Bad shirts! Maybe we could get rid
of em once and for all. Especially the
ones the winosdown on Akard Street
wear. The ones that look like Leroy
Neiman threw up on them.
Even more important, anybody
whose underwear sticks up out of the
top of their pants. Some guys have
jockey shorts riding up so high that
their faces are puckered.
In other words, maybe this judge
has done us a favor. If you can force us
to rip down pictures of women who
"Oh, you know, a little bit of this,
a little bit of thatNothing pend
ing. There exists a point in each of our
lives when it seems like everything
stops making sense. For me, it was
around the time my parents chose to
procreate. (But don't quote me on
that. There's rumor that it was even
earlier.) I have this gut feeling, or
maybe it's just a chronic case of indi
gestion I never can tell the differ
ence that there exists a pamphlet
or instructional guide on how to sur
vive life. Either I've lost my copy,
have an outdated version, or some
one slipped me the Cliff Notes to
"life," because while thisoneschmuck
has every intricate detail of his sordid
life laid out all the way down to what
color underwear goes with each day of
the week, the big decision in my life is
wondering which side to part my hair
(On this morn, I prefer to part it on
the side, but every once in a while I
get this burning urge to part it straight
down the middle and slick it over
with water until it looks like two
unified sheets of hair going in oppo
site directions. Then I will run up to
a mountain top and yell, "I'm free to
be me, dammit.")
Apparently, at various points in
our lives, we come across individuals
who act as voices of reality and give us
hints as to which direction we should
take in life. I have this uncontrollable
fear that mine will turn out to be an
encounter with Inspector 15 of the
are, let's face it, better-looking than
99 per cent of the population, then
just think what we'll be able to get rid
of. We may never have to look at the
Chevy Nova again.
And speaking of things no sane
human should have to witness, they
made a sequel to Class of Nuke 'Em
High called Class of Nuke 'Em High
Part : Subhumanoid Meltdown. It's
about the ultimate vo-tech high
school, like one of those places where
the students run the TV station. This
time the students run the local nuke
plant. Unfortunately, some of the
freshmen occasionally start twitch
ing around on the sidewalk, spitting
up green slime.
Don't worry about it, though, be
cause they're not really freshmen.
They're actually genetic-mutant
subhumanoids being bred at the nuke
plant so that America will always
have somebody to work at Denny's
once all theMeskinsand Filipinos get
fed up with smelling the bacon cheese
burgers. These people already smell
like bacon cheeseburgers.
And, oh yeah, one more thing.
The subhumanoids have an extra
mouth where their belly button is
supposed to be. It's really gross when
they smoke. But that's not the most
Sometimes they eat barbecued ribs.
Actually, the evil corporate nuke
company could have gotten away with
Depends Undergarment factory who
will enlighten me as to how to main
tain perfect bladder control through
out my time here on this planet. Now,
as appetizing as it would be to know
that I would never have to shy away
from a hug or a sweet embrace, I'd
much rather climb the Himalayas,
swim with the dolphins and wrestle
alligators while in diapers, than know
that I can sit through a rousing game
of checkers without making frequent
trips to the restroom.
Although I've yet to meet my voice
of reality, or a guardian angel, or even
a one-eyed woman with a wooden
leg, no teeth and the ability to gum a
apple like there's no tomorrow, I've
had visions of who would be the one
to share with me my purpose in life.
There I will be, sitting under a
large, majestic oak tree, reading War
and Peace (or the latest issue of Trac
tor Pull, Tobacco Juice, and Open
Heart Surgery Magazine which
ever turns out to be the better read).
Suddenly, she will appear on the
jagged cliff above. Her golden hair
blowing in the wind like a ... well, like
a lot of hair blowing in the wind.
Almost an angelic presence seems to
inhabit her eyes a glimmer or
maybe it's just a bunch of gook and
residue that has collected on her con
tacts as a result of the sand and salt air
being blown in her face at such a
rampant rate, not to mention the
problems with the ozone layer (but
once again, I never can tell the differ
ence). And then she slowly extends
this, if it hadn't been for the giant
nuclear squirrel. Even that's not so
bad until the squirrel throws up on ...
I'd rather not go into it.
bodies. Five motor vehicle chases.
Mutant sex. Exploding faces. Explod
ing high school. Bulemic trained dol
phin. Baby-throwing. Puddlesof green
scum where students used to be. Green
stomach monsters. Gene splicing.
Denim jeansplicing. Dolphin burgers.
Footeating, slam-dancing squirrels.
Beer-bottle eating. Mutant bat-baby.
Head ripping. Gratuitous Toxic
Avenger. Drive-In Academy Award
CHAMPAGNE BY THE GLASS
431 WEST FRANKLIN STREET
her hand into my soul and lifts me up
towards the heavens. (At this point,
you may want to consider using sus
pension of disbelief when trying to
envision this particular moment I
mean, no one can actually extend
their arm from a high, jagged cliff all
the way down to an oak tree below
and not expect to hurt themselves.
Unless of course you're made of plas
tic and can stretch various parts of
yourrxxly. In which case, nevermind.)
Then I join her on the cliff and,
caressing my head in her arms, I plead
with her to share with me my purpose
and duty in life.
Slowly, her lips open and she says,
"Jim do you ever get that not-so-fresh
Now, I don't know what that
means, and actually, 1 don't think I
want to, but it just doesn't seem to
have that inspirational edge that
makes me want to devote my life to
personal hygiene. But in this crazy
world of fast cars and fast women,
slow cars and slow women, rejection
lines, lines at the bank, lines on an
aging face, drawing lines on an aging
face or basically just drawing on an
aging face, who needs to be worrying
about where they're going and how
they're going to get there? I've de
cided to take things in stride, or even
just take things that aren't mine. But
I think that when we spend all our
time waiting for someone to come
along and give us the answers to life,
we end up missing most of life's ques
tions. Beautiful sentiment, isn't it?
nominations for Lisa Gaye, as Profes
sor Holt, for wearing a beehive hairdo
37 feet high; Shelby Shepard, as the
journalism professor, for saying "So,
you'd say you witnessed a
subhumanoid meltdown?", and Brick
Bronsky, as a nerd body builder, for
saying "I'd never fed squirrels with a
girl before I didn't know what I was
missing" and "Just because Victoria
had lips on her belly didn't stop me
from loving her" and "The whole
thing made me want to projectile
vomit." Two stars.
Joe Bob says check it out.
DINNER & DESSERT SPFCIAI S
c2?""2d CHAPEL HILL 929 0297