Commentary
Suing enriches life and wallet
It’s high time I joined the club.
No, not the Hair Club for Men.
I’m talking about the club that
virtually everyone in America
belongs to.
The Professional Victims Club,
where everyone is a victim of
something and should thereby be
compensated for their trouble and
inconvenience.
The only admission requirement
is that you have a deficiency in your
life and need someone to blame.
Even if you don’t have a problem
you could pull a Roseanne and
conjure up something from
fantasyland to use against some
body.
The first person to blame is your
mother. Rule number one in the
PVC handbook: It’s always your
mother’s fault, regardless of the
dilemma. She didn’t offer you
enough good advice in the handling
of women or men. Or maybe she
didn’t give you the best or proper
amount of love necessary to make
you capable of maintaining a
relationship.
My theory is that my mother is
the center of all my suffering, the
catalyst for all that has failed in my
life, the engineer driving this
runaway train I claim as my exist
ence. It works for me.
The great thing about blame is
that it can be recklessly distributed
to everyone and everything in equal
portions. There’s nothing like
spreading around a bad mood.
Perhaps your father didn’t buy
you enough toys when you were
little, didn’t read you enough
bedtime stories or didn’t play ball
whenever you wanted to. Shame!
Sue him.
Maybe your friends didn’t
reinforce your frail ego to the point
where it couldn’t be shattered with a
Michael Justice
mere insult regarding your attire.
How dare they be so insensitive.
And what about those clothes?
How could a clothing company be
so irresponsible and sell you
something that could potentially
bring scathing insults upon you?
Don’t they know that you weren’t
loved enough by your mother and
mistreated by your father? Sue them
and the store!
Some woman sued McDonald’s
because they didn’t tell her that her
coffee was hot and therefore
potentially dangerous. The NERVE!
How could she possible know that
the coffee was hot and that if she
spilled it on herself it could burn her
skin?
McDonald’s should be well
aware of the fact that her mother
mistreated her as a child by not
letting her touch the stove when it
was hot, thereby robbing her of a
valuable life experience that could
have prevented the scalding tragedy.
Good for her! (I hear she’s been
promoted in the club.)
I’ve been contemplating who to
blame, besides my mother, for the
sudden evacuation of my hair. I
could always sue every single
shampoo company, settle out of
court and make a killing, but why
stop there? What about comb and
brush manufacturers? They should
have warned me about the overuse
of their products and how it could
have caused my hair follicles to
abandon me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have worn a
hat so much when I was younger.
The lack of sunlight may have
stunted the continued growth of my
hair. Those hat companies never
bothered to tell anyone, especially
me.
The lack of sunlight also means
that all that time spent riding in a car
could have damaged me perma
nently. I could nail all the hat and
car companies. And then there’s the
school district. They had me inside
so much, I could shut them down for
good. (I don’t think anyone would
notice, though.)
I could sue all those bars for
letting too many people stand too
close to me, invading my personal
space and awakening hidden
memories of claustrophobia.
All those employers who didn’t
hire me should pay for my humilia
tion and shattered self-esteem. All
those athletes should cover my
losses when they failed to win every
game. How dare they victimize me?
I have attention deficit disorder:
I’ll sue everyone ever involved with
television. I’ve gotten fat: I’ll sue all
the snack companies for not putting
warning labels (like those on
cigarettes) on their packages.
Typing makes my fingers uncom
fortable beyond desired levels: IBM
and Apple are mine.
I grew up thinking I could
achieve the American dream, but
now I just hope I get a job at Target.
I guess I’ll sue the government for
misleading me all these years. Why
not?
After all, I’m a victim.
Justice Is a Junior broadcasting and
news-editorial major and a Dally Nebras
kan columnist.
Skip the plasma; tease MCI
As I traveled through 10-plus
semesters of higher learning, I found
myself gaining a lot.
But there was one thing I was
always short on — money (and
friends, but ifl had money, I could
buy those).
I tried everything I knew of, but I
couldn’t find a way to make money
without trading something for it, or
— perish the thought — having to
WORK.
I thought the plasma center was
going to be my bottomless pit of
wealth, but they only let you go
twice a week and that needle is
BIG!
They need to have a toenail
center or a saliva center. I would
have no problem filling up an 800
milliliter jug with my spit for $15
bucks.
I tried myriad jobs, but they
always sucked. You have to go in
when they tell you, do what they
want you to and they get way too
upset about little mistakes like
backhanding the manager or taking
extra stuff home.
This job is about the best I’ve
found. They let you can whine about
your petty problems or complain
about local high schools, and they
pay you for it.
But employment at the Daily
Nebraskan doesn’t pay enough.
Sure, it’s enough for rent and bills,
but it doesn’t cover other minor
expenses like five pitchers of beer a
night, new kilts and Galapagos
turtle food.
I have an expensive lifestyle, and
I was getting to the point where I
might have had to give up the maid
or the chauffeur just to make ends
meet. But then I found the legendary
“Goose That Lays the Golden
Eggs.”
Not literally, of course. Ifl had
Joel Strauch
some big gander that was popping
out 24-carat offspring, why would I
bother talking to you about it?
But I’ve discovered something
almost as good, and I’m willing to
share it with anyone who made it
this far into the column.
You know those big long
distance telephone companies? The
ones that drop pins and have
Magnum P.I. talk about products
that are really never going to exist
(Come on, a fax on the beach
sounds like some cheap drink).
These are the companies you
have to pay money to when you call
home or dial those 1-900 numbers.
But not too many people know
that these companies are willing to
pay you. That’s right, I said pay
YOU. And you don’t have to do
anything.
Let me clarify. Last spring, I
received a check in the mail from
one of these companies.
It was for 75 bucks, so I figured
it had to be some kind of scam. I
examined the small print closely
(what the hell, for 75 bucks, I can
do some examinin’) and it said all I
had to do was change long-distance
companies.
That’s it.
But then I realized that Lincoln
Telephone and Telegraph, being the
benevolent monopoly that it is, will
make you grab your ankles at every
opportunity.
I knew they’d charge through the
receiver for a switch-over fee.
So, I called ‘em up and asked.
It’s only $4.63.
That’s it.
I added it up, and I figured that
after I paid $4.63 and then cashed
my check for $75, I’d still pull in
way over $50.
So I switched.
I thought that my usual long
distance company would call and
complain about my back-stabbing
betrayal.
But they didn’t. They called and
told me that they would give me $50
if I would come back. They would
even pay the $4.63 switching fee.
Well, I couldn’t pass up an
opportunity to rejoin my former
comrades (plus, I was still waiting to
renew my driver’s licence at an
ATM, just like Magnum said I
could).
And wouldn’t you know it? The
company that gave me $75 called
then and said they’d be willing to
pay me another $35 and give me
$25 worth of coupons for my long
distance calls.
That sounded good to me, and
besides, the other company still
hadn’t shown me how to tuck in
my child while I was on vacation.
They don’t help me, I don’t help
them.
But all of this switching was
making my head spin. So I was glad
when the company that I’m cur
rently with told me that they would
match or beat any offer that their
enemies make.
It’s a good thing that they don’t
check up on any of the false offers
that I’ve been telling them about.
I’m not dumb enough to cut open
this goose.
Stranch Is a senior secondary education
major and a Dally Nebraskan senior re
porter.
Regrets forgotten
in failed Cubs deal
This is the true story of how I
almost became part-owner of the
Chicago Cubs and why I am so
happy I didn’t.
It was 14 years ago and I was
sitting at a comer table in Billy
Goat’s Tavern with Charlie
Finley.
Finley was the former owner
of the great Oakland A’s team
that won three World Series in
the 1970s. We occasionally had a
few beers and talked baseball.
That night we chatted about
rumors that the Wrigley family
might have to sell the team
because P.K. Wrigley had died
and left a whopping inheritance
tax bill.
Finley said he thought the
chronically mismanaged franchise
could be had for about $21
million. If he was right, it would
be a bargain, especially if the
team fell into the hands of owners
brilliant enough to develop a
winner.
We agreed that we possessed
the necessary brilliance. But we
lacked S21 million.
Ah, but I knew someone who
had enough money to buy the
team, fix up the ballpark and sign
good players.
He was my boss, Marshall
Field, who owned the Sun-Times,
where I worked.
With his distinguished
Chicago name, the owners
couldn’t possibly object.
Finley and I hatched our plan.
I would persuade Field to buy the
team because it made good
business sense. And he would
bring Finley in as a 5 percent
owner and general manager. I
would mortgage and borrow and
buy a small sliver, which would
permit me to be on the board of
directors and cadge free beer.
By chance, I was going on a
fishing trip with Field soon after
that evening. So he and I and two
of his executives would be in a
North Woods cabin or a boat for
three days. Unless he jammed his
fingers in his ears, he’d have to
listen to my pitch.
He did, but at first he wasn’t
enthusiastic.
“I don’t like baseball,” he said.
I told him that he didn’t have
to like baseball. Finley and I liked
baseball enough for all of us. He
liked money and he would make
money.
The two executives snickered
and said it would be a foolish
deal. But 1 persisted.
First, I said, we would yank
the Cubs off Channel 9, which
was owned by the rival Tribune
Company. We’d see if they had
enough old Charlie Chan films to
fill those empty afternoons.
And we’d put the Cubs on
Channel 32, which Field owned.
Mike Royko
Meanwhile, the shrewd Finley
would build a winner. The sappy
but loyal Cubs fans would flock
to the ballpark.
Fans would be so grateful to
Field for giving them a good
team, they would buy more of our
newspapers.
Finally, I said, we could
rename the ballpark after the new
owner. We would call it Field
Field. Catchy and easy to remem
ber.
By the time the fishing trip
ended and we were back in
Chicago, Field had agreed.
met with Finley and said he
would buy 51 percent of the
franchise if Finley would put
together a group of investors to
buy the rest.
That would be easy, Finley
said, and he set about doing it.
Then the tarpon began running
off the coast of Florida. What
have tarpon to do with it? Field is
an avid world-class fisherman, so
when the tarpon run, he runs.
Finley kept phoning and
asking me when Field would
return so we could make the
offer.
boon, l said. 1 no tarpon would
tire of running and Field had to
get tired of running after them.
On June 16,1981, a sports
reporter loped over to my desk
and said: “Hear ‘bout the Cubs?”
What about them?
“They were just sold to the
Trib.”
I kicked the wall so hard that I
limped for a month.
Every spring since I have
thought about what might have
been. I would be a part-owner at
the training camp, saying:
“Shawon, lay off the outside
pitches this year. And Sammy, no
law says you can’t let the pitcher
walk you, kid.”
But now the regrets are gone.
What might have been would be
that today I would be a baseball
owner. I’d have to growl about
how stupid the players are, which
they are, without admitting how
stupid I am, which I would be by
default.
Instead, I can yawn at baseball
while watching Michael soar.
If I ever catch a tarpon, I’ll
give it a kiss.
©1995 Tribune Media Services, Inc.
MfeLucNch
1(11 take me a few
decades in office ,
to decide whether 1
favor a fe- or 12-year
term limit....
Mike Luckovich