? Heather
LAMPE
me crazy
Behind the wheel, life takes turn for worse
Recent brushes with death and my
insurance agent have convinced me
that I really need to move to a city with
a subway system.
Right now there is someone driv
in a arminrl T.in
coin with a dent in
their car matching
the one in mine.
This lovely human
being was shop
ping at the mall
this weekend and
decided to side
swipe my vehicle
without telling me.
(Your car is red and you know who you
are.)
Every time I get in my car I feel
like I’m going to war. I despise driv
ing. You could call me a defensive
driver, but a freaked-out driver would
be more appropriate. If the law would
allow me to drive heavily sedated, I
would. For my own personal comfort,
I just want to know, does anyone in this
town know what a turn signal is? Can
we all spell STOP? Lately, if I spend
any extended amount of time behind a
steering wheel, I become bipolar. I
have manic fits of panic and speak in
tongues.
It wasn’t just the incident this week
end that makes me yearn for a pocket
full of New York Transit Authority to
kens. Seven years ago I managed to
total my father’s brand new car, and
U
For my own personal comfort, I just
want to know, does anyone in this town
know what a turn signal is? Can we
all spell STOP?”
I’ve yet to live it down. This is not a
good way to start a driving career. I
might have managed to forget calcu
lus, but this moment I will never for
get.
I suppose one plus of the whole
experience is that I’m the most careful'
driver ever. I can quote the Nebraska
Driver’s Manual from beginning to
end. My ideal career would be to be
come a driving instructor for the DMV.
I wouldn’t have to drive. I could just
ride around and torment 16-year-olds
who can’t parallel park.
I can’t blame all of my trauma on
my $15,000 mishap. A lot of my trau
matic driving experiences have hap
pened in restaurant drive-thrus. I could
teach a class of the rules of the road,
but I have no coordination behind the
wheel. I’ve learned to back out of my
driveway without hitting the mailbox,
so why can’t I maneuver my way
through Thco John’s?
If the driver’s side door of my car
could talk, it would tell you stories
about how many brick walls it has
kissed. My side mirror could tell you
of its intimate meetings with parking
garage ticket machines.
And when I haven’t driven too
close to an establishment, I haven’t
gotten close enough. Do you know how
embarrassing it is to have to unbuckle
your seatbelt, get out of the car and
walk to the window? The people in the
cars behind me point and laugh as I
grab my nachos in shame.
I avoid the drive-thru for many rea
sons. A cheeseburger and fries will
never make it home without me at
tempting to eat it. Sadly enough, I don’t
excel at this either. I marvel at people
who can feed themselves and shift
gears at the same time. When I try to
eat and drive, I end up hitting a speed
bump and getting the special sauce in
my hair. There are ketchup stains that
form a map of Asia on the front seat of
the car.
I have my greatest manic fits though
when I am stuck behind a minivan. I
commonly refer to the drivers as
minivan mans. These frazzled women
are the scourge of the streets, the plague
ofthe parking lots.
You can distinguish them from
regular minivan drivers because they
usually have two to three car seats in
the vehicle. You might also note the
tiny hand and drool prints that adorn
the side windows.
At stoplights these women wipe
mouths and butts and pick Cheerios out
of children’s hair. It takes them five to
10 minutes longer than the average
driver to notice that the light has turned
green.
When they’re driving, they swerve
and weave as they try to beak up fights
and pick gum off the seats. Their driv
ing becomes especially hazardous in
mall parking lots where they must calm
the Toys-R-Us tantrums that come
from being Barbie deprived.
I have this sneaking suspicion that
I might have been a victim of a minivan
mom this weekend. And to that person
I just want to say... May your Aerostar
be recalled and may your children wet
the bed until they’re 15.
Lampe is a senior news-editorial
and English major and a Daily Ne
braskan columnist
Brent
POPE
Stuff happens
V f
Two guys are using the bathroom.
When they’re done, one man starts
washing his hands as the other starts
walking outthe door. The first guy
says, “Hey, didn’t your mom teach
you to wash your hands after you
take a piss? ’’ The other guy re
sponds, “No, my mom taught me not
to piss on my hands. ”
Let’s not kid ourselves: everyone
has done it at least once and probably
several tunes. Maybe it was late at
night and you were thinking “Hey!
Why should I wash my hands?
There’s nooooobody around.’’ Maybe
you were really in a hurry to get to
class. Or maybe you just don’t care
about hygiene. For whatever reason,
we’ve all (tone it.
The problem is, it seems like
( every time you don't wash your
I hands, you run into a friend who
wants a handshake or a hug. You
don’t ward to not return their sign of
friendship. How do you explain it?
You can’t possibly tell him the truth,
so you shake your friend’s hand
anyway. The guilt consumes you, and
your poor friend has absolutely no
idea what hit him.
The easiest way to make sure this
never happens is to just wash your
hands every tune, right? Wrong. It’s
not that simple. Let’s follow a
realistic rfiain of events and see if
you can really keep your hands
peepee nee .
' Step 1. Use the bathroom in the
Union.
2. When done, turn on sink
i and soap hands.
u--——
Tell people that you
work as a specimen
collector at the
sperm bank. (No
one will ever want
to shake your
hand..)”
3. Wash hands.
4. TUm off sink.
BUZZZ! These sink handles are
the same ones you touched
before you washed your hands, so
your well-intentioned efforts accom
plished nothing. Maybe you should
wash the sink handles before you
wash your hands. That should take
care of it, right? Nope, because step
3 is opening the bathroom door so
you can reenter the outside world,
and die door handle you need to grab
1 was used by a lot of people who
didn’t wash their hands.
Is this puzzle impossible to solve?
Of course not. Here are a few things
you can do to keep your hands minty
fresh:
1. Wear surgeon's gloves like
Michael Jackson. Nothing will ever
get on your hands. (But don’t be
surprised if litde boys run in fright
when they see you.)
2. Tell people that you work as a
specimen collector at the sperm
bank. (No one will ever want to
shake your hand.)
3. Cut offyour hands. (Painful,
but also foolproof.)
4. Run around downtown Lincoln
wearing nothing but a Colorado
Buffaloes football helmet. (Bad
hygiene will be the least of your
worries.)
5. Thr and feather yourself. (OK,
this won’t really work, but I thought
you deserved more than four
choices.)
It could be that this is going to
happen no matter what we do. But
don’t give in. Give that non
handwasher a disappointed look.
Don’t just let them walk away. And
be very suspicious ofanyone about
to shake your hand who has that
special sparkle in their eye that says
“Man, if you onlyknew.” ;
Pope i« a senior broadcasting
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist.
I SADDAM <*>•* thedHEEHIE
L .