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 conversational topics. "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 life. Or what about those giant steel modern-art girders lying on the side- Jem Rash 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 LC 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 me cringe. 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. (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 terrifying part. 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. Forty-sixbreasts.Twenty-twodead 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 PYEWACKET 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 feeling.'" 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
