Hogwash
Yet another columnist weasels out of job
It seems to be the growing trend
for Daily Nebraskan columnists to
relinquish their spot to members of
the community who may have more
important issues to discuss.
In light of this fact, and because I
am a man with no convictions except
to see my father fulfill his dream of
squatting up to his navel in vanilla
pudding, I am giving my column this
week to a few buddies of mine who
deserve their time on the pulpit.
The first speaker is Bobbie Earl
Delaughter from Port Gibson, Miss.
Bobbie is what now would now be
called an “old fart” and, much to his
wife’s chagrin, always smells of
mustard greens. The other speakers
arc a few guests who have written
me in the hopes of publication.
Please give them your time and
attention. — Steve Willey
Bobbie Earl here, and I’d like to
take this time to tell you young
people a few things about life.
Somebody’s got to talk some sense
to you.
To be honest, I’m more scared of
ya’ll than I am a ‘gator. Ya’ll ain’t
livin’ right. You’re unhealthy, lazy
and dirty. Most of you will eat
anything that can’t outrun ya. You’re
so dang lazy you couldn’t do less if
you were in a coma. The young folks
I’ve met don’t bathe either. For
example, I’ve seen flies leave fresh
cat poo to follow Steve around.
No wonder ya’ll got all them
weird venereal diseases. When I was
a young’un, we ain’t never heard of
AIDS or The Billy Ray Cyrus Virus.
Why, it was dang near impossible to
catch anything from a shop-vac and
bucket of petroleum jelly, and
what’s more, you just KNEW your
sister was clean.
Nowadays, if you sit on a toilet
seat the wrong way, you’ll die of
Mad Cow Disease before the day’s
done.
And why ^fe ya’ll always
shooting eacTi other? My pappy
bought me my first gun when I was
10, and other than my old hound
Steve Willey
.. ‘suing the DN could
result in a SEVERE
blockage of bowels
caused by the intrusion
of an apparatus that
resembles a dolphin in
every way except for a
piece of asparagus where
the blow hole normally
Dixie and Leroy Tompkins, who
used to think it was funny to pee on
the okra in my garden, I ain’t never
shot nuthin’ I didn’t eat.
Ya’ll hear me out, ‘cause us “old
farts” are getting tired of this
mayhem. We still got enough fire in
our guts to do some whuppin’. —
Bobbie Earl
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: I should
point out that Bobbie’s ideas don’t
REALLY represent those of most
people from Mississippi. He only
represents those people who think
“loading the dishwasher” means
getting your wife drunk. My apolo
gies to J. Foxworthy)
Following arc excerpts from other
guests who I feel deserve some
space. ».
* “I like writing. Writing is fun.
Sometimes it’s not always fun.
Mostly it is. In a way, it’s nice. It’s
almost REALLY nice.”
— Conrad Spalding Winthorp III,
an 18-year-old fraternity member
who, while intoxicated, accepted a
knee to his forehead during a flag
football game.
* “I’ve been swimming through
] sewage and crawling through muck.
When the hell do I turn into a
butterfly?”
— A confused leech, no doubt the
victim of a cruel practical joke by
caterpillars.
* “I want a dog that likes chasin
carism, the philosophy of Old
Yeller.”
— Dog of Ayn Rand guy.
* “Yeah! We fixed your tail!
Who’s the ‘worm’ now, Tubby?”
— UNL meter maids, who
recently had Steve’s truck towed to
Asia Minor.
Anyone wishing to sue the DN or
Steve for this failed attempt at
humor should be advised of the
following:
* “According to your student
contract with the university, 'suing
the DN could result in a SEVERE
blockage of bowels caused by the
intrusion of an apparatus that
resembles a dolphin in every way
except for a piece of asparagus
where the blow hole normally is.’”
— DN editorial board, which
recently had an emergency meeting
to decide what to do about Steve’s
“Lack of skinniness.”
* “Thanks for giving your fellow
students a chance to be heard. If I
can ever be of assistance to you
again, please do not hesitate to call
on me.”
— Steve Willey, who, at times,
sort of wishes he were a Chia Pet.
Willey Is a Junior ag-Journallsm major
and a Dally Nebraskan columnist.
American idols
Pop culture awards don’t glitter from afar
As some of you who have read
my columns may know, I am not
from America. I am from Finland.
Normally, I would fight the kind of
bland ignorance that would pigeon
hole me as some “foreigner” or a
generic Scandinavian to stand up not
only for the distinctive nature of the
Finnish culture, but also for my
unique position as an individual
human, unreplicated and unmatched,
for better or for worse, anywhere in
the world. Today, however, I
willingly make an exception.
Today, a scant 36 hours after that
most gratuitous of global pop-culture
parties, the Academy Awards, I am
amenable to the notion of standing
up as a self-appointed representative
of everything that is not American.
Don’t worry. This is not the self
righteous indignation you might
expect from someone who could
easily look down at one of the most
garish, yet revealing, spectacles
known to humanity. Rather, l must
confess a certain sense of consterna
tion penetrates my mind when I
avoid the didacticism of black and
white inteipretations of the world
and delve into the complexity of
what lies before us.
Simply put, I do not know which
is more disgusting: America, for
producing such a surreal display of
ludicrous debauchery, or the rest of
the world, for tuning it in and
lapping it up like the bloodthirsty
Roman denizens of the Circus
Maximus.
Granted, you and I are, in
actuality, more or less in the same
boat. Even though you are a member
of the culture of the first part, you
are really little more than a specta
tor, much like myself, representative
of the culture of the second part. But
Veera Suplnen
11 Do you really believe,
for even the most fleeting
of moments, that Mel
Gibson could possibly be
the Best Anything?”
we are dealing in symbolic terms
here. The important point to remem
ber is that what transpired this past
Monday night, as it does every year,
displayed American culture in all of
its naked glory.
The notion of injecting something
as abstract as art (if Hollywood
could be said to produce such a
thing) with the rather objective
gauges of competitions is strange
enough.
Ponder with me for a moment.
Who would gamer the prize for Best
Male Composer of the late 19th
century? Wagner or Verdi? But
when we add to the equation the
clearly discernible fact that 99
percent of what is offered on Oscar
night is truly the most blatant form
of escapism, the whole process
becomes an assault on the senses.
Do you really believe, for even
the most fleeting of moments, that
Mel Gibson could possibly be the
Best Anything? Is the very existence
of Disney’s Pocahontas anything less
than a tawdry insult to humanity at
large and American Indians in
particular? And what is more
disturbing, the exhibitionist or the
voyeur?
America has its fair share of
problems, just like any other
country, and you don’t need me to
hit you over the head with them. To
the contrary, I am on my imported
soap box today to tell you that the
rest of the world is not perfect either.
The main difference, though, is
that America is No. 1. The biggest
producer, the most nuclear weapons,
the most universities, the largest
menu and the largest appetite. As a
result, when America makes a
splash, it makes the most ripples in
the world’s pond. Do Greece or
Japan or Finland have their cin
ematic awards programs? Does
anyone care? Of course not.
You are the standard bearers of a
popular culture that the rest of the
world gobbles up more and more
every day. Children in Jakarta know
who Arnold Schwarzenegger is.
African Pygmies hum along to
Madonna’s latest song. America is
the world’s top-rated program, from
the Super Bowl to the Oscars.
J’m not sure why I watched the
Academy Awards the other night,
but I have a feeling it has a lot to do
with why you made them, something
about taking flight from the moment
and living vicariously, and tenu
ously, through glamorous idols of
our own creation.
Snplnen Is a Junior history aid Amerl
can Studies major and a Dally Nebraskai
columnist
Short referees
have tall power
Dennis Rodman has given
Chicago’s sports commentators
an opportunity to broaden their
field of expertise. They are now
engaging in various forms of
psychoanalysis to explain
Rodman’s recent behavior on the
basketball court.
One columnist said it is
possible that Rodman paints and
pierces his body and behaves
unconventionally because he was
not cuddled enough as a child.
Another said that it is obvious
that Rodman has “inner demons”
that turn him into a “raging
maniac” who cares only about
himself.
They may be right, as sports
commentators usually are. But in
so serious a matter, I have to rely
on the insights of Dr. I.M.
Kookie, the noted expert on lots
of stuff.
Here is an interview about
Rodman that Dr. Kookie granted
me shortly after Rodman was
suspended for six games.
Why does Rodman act the way
he does?
“Because it is obvious that he
believes the referees are picking
on him.”
But what is behind this kind of
delusion?
“Who says it is a delusion?”
Isn’t it?
“No, he’s absolutely right. The
referees are picking on him.
They’re the ones who need help.
I’d like to open up the heads of
those referees and see how many
woolly caterpillars are crawling
around inside.”
But why would the referees
persecute him?
“Because most of the referees
are short guys.”
Really?
“Sure. Why do you think they
take an undignified job like that,
running back and fortn, round and
round, then tooting a whistle and
waving their arms like crazy
people? I ask you, what kind of
work is that for a grown man?”
They do it because they are
short?
“Absolutely. Being a referee
gives them enormous power over
tall guys, which is the short guy’s
ultimate fantasy.”
It is?
“Of course. And it’s under
standable. Society discriminates
against short guys. Tall guys get
the most beautiful women, unless
they are short movie producers.
Tall guys get to be CEOs of the
biggest companies. Tall guys get
to be president of the United
States. Short guys get the short
end of the stick. But why not?
Why would you give a short guy
the tall end of the stick when he
can’t even reach for it?”
Mike Royko
“One columnist said it
is possible that
Rodman paints and
pierces his body and
behaves
unconventionally
because he was not
cuddled enough as a
child. ”
But that still doesn’t explain
Rodman’s bizarre behavior.
“There is nothing bizarre about
his behavior. It is perfectly
normal.”
It is?
“Definitely. Let me ask you
this: Has a mean little dog ever
run up and tried to bite you on the
ankles?”
Yes, that has happened to me
several times.
“What do you do when that
happens?”
I kick it.
Yes, a perfectly normal
reaction. And, in a psychological
sense, that is what Dennis
Rodman was doing. He felt that
all of these small creatures
blowing their whistles and
pointing their tiny fingers at him
were, in effect, trying to bite his
ankles. So, in a symbolic sense,
he defended himself. Maybe he’s
afraid of getting rabies.”
But what about the gesture he
made, shoving his hands inside
his shorts?
“There are many plausible
explanations. Haven’t you ever
heard of jock itch?”
Hadn’t thought of that. But
there was the most serious
infraction, tapping his forehead
against the referee’s forehead.
Why would he do something like
that?
“Because he was showing
prudent restraint.”
He was?
“Sure. Had Rodman picked
him up and bitten his head off, he
might have been suspended for
the whole season.”
(C) 1996 The Chicago Tribune
■
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