Commentary
Friday, April 14, 1995 Page 5
Wart removal worries man
In November of 1992, the famed
claw-handed sideshow performer
known as Lobster Boy was shot and
killed as he sat watching TV in his
trailer. Sources say that the body of
Lobster Boy was found only in his
underwear.
In late February of this year, Daily
Nebraskan columnist Todd Elwood
developed a capillary hemangioma of
the skin of the anterior chest (a wart
like growth). There are no reports as
to his state of dress, but friends say
that the odds are that he was not
wearing pants.
In March, also of this year,
doctors in a Florida hospital
performed a routine amputation of
the foot of patient Willie King. This
operation was necessary for the
health of the patient, although most
medical experts now agree that
when the doctors accidentally sawed
off the wrong foot, it really had no
medicinal value.
The target foot was removed in
another surgery later. Mr. King was
in a hospital gown at the time, which
is a good thing considering the mess
one could make in one’s underwear
upon hearing that a healthy section
of one’s body had been mistakenly
removed.
By now you are probably
wondering to yourself, “Do these
three seemingly unrelated events
have some sort of actual relationship
to each other, especially in Todd’s
wild world?”
And I answer, “You bet your
underwear they do!”
You see, that fancily named
medical problem that popped up on
the middle of my chest sprang up
fast and bold. I really would not
have been too concerned about the
thing, but it soon developed two
annoying habits. It changed colors,
and it stayed.
The logical choice seemed to be
to have this wart-like thing taken off
Todd Elwood
my chest by a qualified professional.
I was prepared to do this. Although
the thought of having a doctor slice
a part of my body off (albeit an
unwanted part) was about as
comfortable as university toilet
paper, I made an appointment
anyway.
Then the story of Willie King
came out. Then other medical horror
stories followed. Too much medica
tion was given, important machines
were switched off by mistake,
medical staffs used the unconscious
bodies of patients to spell huge
words on the roof hospitals for the
enjoyment of helicopter pilots.
The more these stories came out,
the less I was willing to have my
wart-like thing removed. The
thought of it became more like the
thought of sandpaper than university
toilet paper.
So I decided I would not have my
wart-like thing taken off. This
naturally led me to two questions.
Could I live with this wart-like
thing? And more importantly, how
could I make money from it?
Then I remembered the horrify
ing death of Lobster Boy. I realized
that there was now a huge void in
the freak show world, and I and my
wart-like thing could fill it.
Sure, Lobster Boy left some
pretty big shoes to fill. Actually,
Lobster Boy had stunted, footless
legs, so he probably didn’t have
shoes. But whatever he wrapped up
his mounds of stumpy flesh in, I
knew I could fill them.
I called a representative from
Sideshow, Inc. to find out more
about my venture into the freak
show world. I talked to a Ms. Bertha
D. Feet.
“Ms. Feet,” I proudly announced,
“I’m gonna be a star. You are
talking to ‘Todd The Amazing
Triple-Nipple Boy’! Ta-Da!”
“Were you bom with three
nipples, sir?” Ms. Feet coldly
questioned. “We hire only authentic
freaks of nature here at Sideshow,
Inc., and we are very proud of that
reputation.”
Needless to say, I was forced to
keep my appointment to have my
wart-like thing removed. I did take
precautions, though. I drew an arrow
to my middle protrusion with a
marker, and then wrote on my
stomach: Remove this one only.
I mean if a large Florida hospital
(whose new motto is “Give us an
inch and we’ll take two feet”) can
remove a whole foot by mistake,
could I be certain that my natural
and authentic nipples would be safe
at the University Health Center?
I admit that as I sat in the waiting
room, reading a current issue of
Time — “Sources close to the
president say that Reagan will
indeed seek a second term” — I was
nervous for my nipples. If I could
not be “Todd The Amazing Triple
Nipple Boy,” then I most certainly
could not be “Todd The Amazing
Crippled Triple-Nipple Boy” if the
doctor made a mistake of some sort .
Everything did turn out fine,
though. The correct protrusion was
removed, and my authentic nipples
are just fine. Although to be on the
safe side, I did not wear pants
during the procedure.
Elwood is a senior English and sociol
ogy major, and a Daily Nebraskan colum
nist
Inertia is always in the stars
The first column I wrote for
today revealed my morally bankrupt
scheme to balance the federal
budget, reduce the national debt and
install the Tappet brothers, of “Car
Talk” fame, as president of the
United States (Click) and speaker of
the House (Clack).
But inevitable outside forces
acted upon me, forcing a revision of
my grand plans—the principle of
inertia, the art of procrastination and
Jeane Dixon.
First, Ms. Dixon. I never make a
move without consulting the
alignment of the planets and the
revered astrologist’s interpretation
thereof. So when I got out of bed
this morning and read my horo
scope, I knew better than to tackle
anything as serious as how to spend
taxpayers’ money. “Curb an urge to
act out of character,” the paper
warned.
I took this as a heavenly sign
because, of course, it would be very
unlike me to attempt to solve any
major planetary problems. Complain
about mem, yes. Blame other people
for them, of course. But put forth a
solution? I had enough trouble
figuring out how to run the stop
watch from the box of Frosted
Hakes, and my checkbook has not
been balanced for more than a
decade.
And inertia. I love that word.
Inertia is my mantra. It has such a
calming effect on my body. I can feel
myself relax and begin to drool as I
repeat it over and over in my mind.
And to think it is an actual
scientific principle tied to Newton’s
first law of motion: An object
moving in a straight line will
continue to move in a straight line,
and (here’s the kicker) an object at
REST will stay at REST unless the
alarm clock goes off or a Pizza Hut
Cindy Lange-Kubick
delivery driver knocks on the door.
Inertia, a fact of life as real as the
force of gravity, has prevented me
from researching my budget-busting
topics. I’ve had a major case of it
since late last week. It came on
rather suddenly after I finished my
last column—right after I vowed to
immediately, if not sooner, begin
researching today’s column—and
it ended soon after I pushed the
snooze button for the 13th time late
this morning.
But, really, honestly, truly, the
actual reason for this inane excuse
making, this blaming of Uranus and
Pluto and Sir Isaac Newton for my
woes, is simply that: an excuse.
The truth is, I’m a compulsive
procrastinator.
Now you know.
I follow the advice of the sage
Mark Twain, who knew what he was
talking about when he said, “Never
put off until tomorrow what you can
do the day after tomorrow.”
After all, if it wasn’t for the last
minute... where would we all be?
Over the past several years I have
perfected the art of lateness and
have come to take a sort of perverse
pleasure in the last minute.
Putting things off (unpleasant
realities, not pleasure) is a universal
human trait. It must be biological, or
at least genetic, because my children
do it all the time.
Starting in infancy, they put off
going to sleep. I’d sit, eyes propped
open with toothpicks at 2 a.m. as the
sweet little angels stared wide-eyed
and mockingly up at my sleep
deprived profile.
In a few years, as soon as they
were potty-trained, they put off
using the toilet until the very last
conceivable instant. Usually by the
time my son made it in the house (if
he made it), up the stairs and into
the bathroom, sounds reminiscent of
Niagara Falls would emanate from
behind the closed door.
Now they dawdle at the supper
table, postpone doing their home
work and loiter in front of the
television. They are now first-class,
A-l feet-draggers.
I’ve set a good example.
So since my bout with inertia, my
unfortunate horoscope and inescap
able procrastination has caused the
death of my budget column, I then
proposed something a tad bit
different for today’s work, an
artistic statement of sorts: Just my
photograph.
That’s it. The picture and the
blank white space signifying, of
course, the overabundance of words
in our world and their meaningless
ness in the vast overoccupied world
of talking heads. I would make a
political, social, moral, ecological
and psychological statement instead
of filling the emptiness with mere
words. Unfortunately, my editor
didn’t “get it.” He thought I’d
simply forgotten to write a column.
Geez.
So, you’re stuck with this. And
you’re luckier than you know,
because just now I feel a major case
of inertia coming on.
Lange-KnMck Is a sealor news-editorial
and sociology major aad a Dally Nebraskan
colnmalst
Apologizing a start
forU.S. communists
For most of this century, those
who regarded communism as a
threat to America and the world
— and were courageous enough
to say so publicly — suffered
slights and open condemnation
from academics, journalists,
entertainers and other elite
apologists. But the redemption of
those once viewed as conspirato
rial buffoons from political,
social and intellectual ostracism
has arrived in the thousands of
files from the old Soviet archives
that are now being made public.
Proof has been discovered that
the Communist Party USA
(CPUSA) followed orders from
Moscow during and after World
War II and that a previously
unknown (though suspected by
many) network of American
communists was assigned to steal
secrets from the Manhattan
Project, the code name for
development of the atomic bomb.
Researchers also report
discovering documents that
support the late Whittaker
Chambers, the Time magazine
correspondent who first blew the
whistle on the network of
communist spies in America in
1948 and fingered his accom
plice, Alger Hiss, as the Soviet
spy chief in New York.
The subsequent controversy
over Chambers’ revelations made
some careers, like Richard
Nixon’s, and destroyed others,
like Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s.
Anyone who wanted to know
more about the Soviet spy
network in America was branded
a “Red baiter” or worse. The
elites focused on the tactics of the
“McCarthyites” so they could
divert attention from the real
issue: the communist conspiracy
to undermine the U.S. govern
ment and freedom throughout the
world.
The CPUSA portrayed itself as
a home-grown political organiza
tion, but the Moscow documents
prove otherwise. In “The Secret
World of American Commu
nism,” one of two new books that
reveal the contents of the Soviet
files, author Harvey Klehr,
professor of politics at Emory
University, says, “It is no longer
possible to maintain that the
Soviet Union did not fund the
American party.” Klehr says the
CPUSA was heavily subsidized
by the Soviet government, that
journalist John Reed (who was
glamorized in Warren Beatty’s
film “Reds”) got $1 million from
Moscow and that Armand and
Julius Hammer laundered money
from Moscow and funneled it to
the CPUSA. Of the Hammers—
so idolized by the elites for their
Cal Thomas
inside track to the Soviet mind —
Klehr writes they were “an
official part of the Comintern’s
(Communist International) covert
financial network.”
Unfortunately, too many
modern liberals continue to
blindly attack anti-Communists as
the greater threat. In the 1993
book, “Red Hunting in the
Promised Land: Anticommunism
and the Making of America,”
author Joel Kovel claims that
anti-communism became a “civil
religion” steeped in xenophobia
and ideological intolerance. He
compares opposition to commu
nism to the Salem witch trials in
1692.
And he concludes that capital
ism has not succeeded, “it has
only won,” implying there may be
a new day for communism in
which its supporters will finally
get it right.
Kovel was attacked more
vigorously by Klehr in a Com
mentary magazine review of his
book in May 1994. Klehr writes
that, according to Kovel, “the
political views of each and every
one of these (anti-communists)
were almost wholly irrational,
stemming from deep psychologi
cal flaws and weakness. In Hubert
Humphrey, for example, anti
communism was a ‘ritual of male
bonding within which the
signifier “father” links Hubert
Humphrey Jr., Hubert Humphrey
Sr., Lyndon Johnson and the
whole ethos of America as a land
where “real men stand tall and
deliver.’”
Kovel also savagely attacks
the diplomat George Kennan,
former Secretary of State John
Foster Dulles, J. Edgar Hoover,
novelist Arthur Koestler and
numerous others for their opposi
tion to communism.
Communism was and remains
a disease that leads to political,
economic and spiritual death for
all who embrace it. Those
political, academic and entertain
ment elites who helped sustain
communism owe the world an
apology. Those like Whittaker
Chambers, who knew the truth
and put their reputations on die
line to tell it, deserve the thanks
of a not-always-grateful nation.
©1995 Los Angeles Times Syndicate
1 wanna the
assault gain wn
overturned since
theyfe letting me live
here rent-free..
Mike Luckovich