Page 12
Daily Nebraskarf
Thursday, February 26, 1987
KINISON from Page 6
He's like a cruel big brother who's fright
ened you to the point that you have to follow
him everywhere. If the world is really filled
with such hideous monsters, and he seems to
know them all on a first name basis, then he
must be the man to hang with.
Critics say Sam Kinison's scream is a gim
mick. Is suicide a gimmick? Is nuclear war
fare a gimmick?
Critics say Sam Kinison is the comedy ver
sion of the Kambo persona. The Chuck Bron
son or Dirty Harry Callahan of laughs. Some
say he wants to take away the compassion of
his audiences, wants to turn them against
each other like starving hyenas. Kinison the
conscience killer. And maybe you could take
Kinison that way, but it wouldn't explain the
scream. After mentioning the unmentiona
bles, mocking the unmockable and tearing
into the stuffing of our weak, wormy identi
kits, Kinison screams. His face turns colors,
his eyes bulge, his hair stands out on each
side of that beret and he pulls every emotion
into a scream from the bowels of hell. Child
ren are starving? Aaaaaaraghhhahnh!
Manson might get out on parole? Waaaran
nnagh! P.M.S.? Aaaaaaarannnagantfa!
Virgin birth? Aaaaahththtarngh! - Wo
men? AAAAAAAAIIGGGGG! Men?
WYVWWAAAAANGII! Love? JAAAAA
AAAARGII! Wake up!
Sam Kinison will be frightened, rage-filled,
confrontational, hostile, aggressive, truthful,
sadistic, unholy, paranoid, abrasive, and
uncensored Saturday night in the Omaha
Civic Auditorium's Music Hall. The show beg
ins at 8 p.m. W' ear helmets and safety glasses.
MCMURTRY from Page 10
She smiled and held out her hand. "Hello,
welcome to Mr. Cinzano Gaetano's new spring
line."
While shaking my hand vigorously she
laughed. "Oh, that's a good one. Seriously,
though, we're all here." She gestured at the
line of girls holding up clothes with Mr.
Cinzano Gaetano's name on them. At Last In
America
1 pointed up at one of the many posters.
"Who's that?"
"Oh, that's my big brother."
I needed a drink. Where was that annoying
Bud guy when you needed him? He was across
the room, and a cute, lisping little pigtailed
girl was tugging at his pantleg, screaming
something about cheesy macaroni. I turned
toward Ernest and Julio, or Frank and James,
or whoever the hell they were, and tried to get
their attention, but they were arguing loudly
in Italian and couldn't hear me. I wondered if
they knew the world-famous designer. Out of
the corner of my eye I saw a guy who looked
and sounded an awful lot like Dick Cavett but
couldn't have been him. He was carrying a TV,
some steak sauce and several assorted
household items and was running for his life.
The real Dick Cavett was chasing him, waving
a knife and screaming.
I turned and tried to run from the room,
but a wall of shaving cream held me back.
Some guy handed me 50 bucks and ripped the
shirt off my back, and everything went blank.
I was alone in my room. I looked out the
window at the darkness.-Shivering, I had
sweat all over my ,JtjodyA..Wha.,a .ipjriljle,
nightmare. I'd been awake. ; ; . , , ;
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TRANSLATION: A SUPERBLY BREWED, FINE TASTING PILSNER BEER.
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