Newspapers / Daily Tar Heel (Chapel … / Dec. 3, 1992, edition 1 / Page 13
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DTH Omnibus Page 3 Thursday December 3, 1992 The confessions of a corduroy-clad librarian's assistant I'm not a loser, but I play one in life. That's my job. That's what I do. I participate in the act of losing. We're all issued a basic role in life that acts as a foundation on which we can build and progress. Call it a catalyst, if you will. For example, Boy A is given the role of macho stud. In the years to come, he may decide to upgrade himself to smart macho stud. And then, after a few more years, he may progress to smart macho stud who can juggle really well. Now, the world has one more well-rounded stud. As for myself, I was typecast into the role of loser at a very early age. By the fourth grade, I had been hurled into Loserdom as a result of being appointed to the high status position of "Library Assistant of the Year." Now, people, I want you to forget all those stories you've heard glorifying the life of an librarian assistant, because I'll tell you right now, it was dog-eat-dog and the devil tied strips of bacon to my neck. 1 basically ran the check-out counter Warning to My little sermon today is on a crime so heinous, a deed so foul, an action so crappy, that it might even make saint-like Mike Brady curse. Yes, I'm going to torture you with a tale more pathetic than an ABC After School Spe cial. I speak of the People Who Drive Too Slow in the Fast Lane. That's right, the automotive cholesterol that clogs up the asphalt arteries of our nation. The bastards. First, let me just address these people, if any of them are readingthis column. Now, kids, going 56 in a 55 mph zone does not qualify you as a "fast" driver. If the sound of Scotty saying "She canna take no more o' this, Cap'n!" does not occasionally pop into your mind, or you're not humming the theme to Speed Racer as you hurtle towards certain death, then you're not going fast enough to drive in the Lane for the Automotive Elite. And if you don't even know the theme to Speed Racer, then you're prob ably due back at the Home for shuffle board soon and don't belong on our nation's highways anyway. Since 1 live in Nashville and have the extreme pleasure of driving on 1-40 ("The Interstate of Constant Construc tion") for a choice eight or so hours, I have plenty of experience in the driv ing venue. Usually, I'll get stuck behind some moron puttering in the fast lane. Now, I understand that when we're all trapped in the glacier-like speed of the misnamed "rush" hour, we all suffer the same communal torture. But par don me if I don't break into a rousing chorus of "Kumbayah" just yet. Because wfAttjjwsiiZ I'llTl ll I SotXl Jv: Call VM JIM RASH like a dictatorship. Oh sure, one could easily check out one of those short, cute bunny stories with a minimal amount of red tape having to be cut or with little money having to exchange hands. But if you wanted one of those books i categorized as "Over One Hundred Pag ers," you were going to have to sleep your way to the top. Of course, that policy really never flew. Fourth-graders just weren't into that kind of stuff. One of the perks of being an assis tant librarian was that my picture was displayed on the bulletin board through out the term. On the day 1 was to be all left-lane fojttSblic KEVIN KRUSE even if traffic's moving at the speed of a Wendy's Drive-Thru, you should at least pay attention. This past Thanksgiving, I got stuck behind the pure automotive power of an AMC Gremlin. Apparently, the driver thought that Mr. Sulu had the helm, because this guy had both hands and his head buried in a rucksack in the passenger seat, digging for God-knows-what. Although, from the way this guy was driving, he was probably looking for a scratch pad so he could jot down a last will and maybe a polite thank-you note for the nice paramedics who would only be able to reach him through the twisted steel with the Jaws of Life like they do on Rescue 9 J J . Anyway, Mr. Magoo ahead of me, still with his head buried ostrich-like in a duffle bag and steering with his thigh, would come within inches of plowing into the concrete divider roughly every five minutes. My only consolation to this maniacal behavior was the black-and-sparkly-silver "Jesus Loves You" bumper sticker. Jesus loves me? Well, good, 'cause I'm obviously gonna meet him in a few minutes. Being stuck be Bud&Eb BarandGrill Timberlyne Shopping Center Weaver Dairy Road Chapel Hill 942-6624 photographed, I opted to don my good duds, so to speak. The outfit 1 had chosen made a fashion statement, while at the same time, put that same state ment to rest. My hair was slicked down tightly across my scalp, the indented tracks left by the teeth of my comb clearly visible. Up top, I wore a bright green, short sleeved hod. Something was missing. I needed something to communicate to my fellow peers that 1 would be a stick ler when it came to overdue fines, but at the same time said, "Hey good buddy. I know it hurts, but chin up. Look to the sky, my friends, and follow me to the rainbow of hope. Dance in the glory of the sun, my children, and pray that we may all join in unity one day." And what better way to say this than with a maroon, V-neck sweater. Con servative, yet frisky. As for pants, I opted for everyday wear; styling gray corduroys. For a side note, I must tell you that 1 was quite plump up until seventh grade, so you can bet that these pants were basically a second layer of skin. And if you think slow drivers: Hell ain't hind this guy, I was really glad I didn't have any of those cool dynamite arrows like Bo and Luke had on The Dukes of Haziard because, by God, I sure as hell would've shot one. Inevitably, I'm always stuck behind some dork like this in an Aires K-Car with about four months of dry cleaning blocking the rear window so that I can't even give him the finger. As I sit in my car, sorta half-cursing under my breath like Yosemite Sam , all I can do is wish an unholy death upon this total stranger whose only sin is a light foot on the accelerator. Leaning out the window and screaming "The vertical pedal!" wouldn't do any good, because he's prob ably got the Neil Diamond 8-Track cranked up real loud, singing along to "They're Coming to America" and just really belting away at the "To-Day!" part of the chorus. Well, since Captain Slo-Mo was Kevin Whitney Costner Houston Never let her out of your sight. Never let your guard down. Never fall in love. Bodyguard rig mutual hM 2:00 4:30 corduroy pants make a loud sound when you walk, you haven't heard them when they've got 135 pounds of fatty tissue wearing them down at the seams. As things go today, I'll have to say that I have progressed from the initial loser status. Now, I only display certain loser tendencies. For example, when it come to relationships. The other day, a friend of mine said that he was a little worried about the fact that he hadn't met someone or gone out on a date in three weeks. He feared that he was in a "dry spell". A dry spell. People, if three weeks constitutes a dry spell, then I'm in the fricking Sahara Desert. Then he made the analogy that sex is like water. Every once in a while you have to replenish your supply; quench your thirst, so to speak. This statement convinced me of three things. One, I'm extremely parched. Two, if it rains, we're in for one hell of an orgy. And three, if some thing doesn't come along soon, I may have to resolve to drinking out of the toilet looking to the streets for ac blocking my way, oblivious to my exist ence, all I could do was enjoy the view. Normally, this means being lulled into a safe highway nap by the pulsating light of the car's right-hand-turn signal, which has been blinking since the guy left the driveway that morning. This maneuver is known as the "Eventual Right Turn" and is used to prepare other drivers of his intention to exit the interstate two states from now. And if these people are going to be constantly blocking traffic, they should be forced to get a bumper sticker more interesting than "Ask Me About My Grandchildren." Although, since we're getting passed by pedestrians, I guess a little conversation would help pass the time. And once I get where I'm headed, he could probably safely inquire about my grandkids. Admittedly, a "Speed On Brother Hell Ain't Half-Full!" sticker would be inappropriate for their 7:00 9:40 tion, that is. Filling my canteen with some of that dirty water. No, I'm just kidding. I'm not that desperate. Well, I am, but I wouldn't tell you that. The only successful relationship a loser can have is with another loser. But get real! Even a loser has standards. Who wants to marry a loser? Then, you'll end up having loser offspring. And then, after a couple more genera tions, you'll come to the stark realiza tion that you've got yourself one hell of a hereditary problem. Let's face it, we all have a little loser inside of us. We've all done things that were embarrassing to us or have in our possession a picture of ourselves that could scar our reputations for life. But kudos to the strong-willed person who can admit that he or she is the butt of humanity. I have, dammit. Think of all the time we'd save if we stopped worrying about what other people think. So, for the rest of the day, let the loser in you shine. Forget that you're in a dry spell. Screw water ! There's a shortage anyway. half full yet driving style, but there's gotta be some thing they could find at the Stuckey's while they're stocking up on peanut brittle and Yoo-Hoo sodas. Well, this may seem like a petty dispute in a world plagued by war, fam ine and Willard Scott, but these people really get my goat (if I had a goat). Enforcing a minimum speed for the fast lane makes sense in the Coffee Genera tion America. And I 'm not talking about giving them tickets, 'cause they'd prob ably lose them in the Kleenex-full glove compartment anyway. No, I'm talking about bringing back crucifixion. Well, maybe just a real hard noogie. I haven't ironed out the details, but I'll get back to you. In the meantime, just keep on keepin' on (however that's done). A lit H I D 1
Daily Tar Heel (Chapel Hill, N.C.)
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Dec. 3, 1992, edition 1
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