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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (April 11, 1997)
require money to start
After several paternity tests and a
number of unfortunate restraining
orders, I have recently discovered
that Warren Buffett is not my father.
The jury is still out on whether
Bill Gates might be, but threats of
straightjackets and padded rooms
have nude me reconsider any more
attempts to persuade him. I may be
forced to accept my lowly financial
So, in the spirit of the American
dream, I have devised a plan to
become a millionaire. Since I
currently only have assets that
amount to $27.93, I’m going to have
to be thrifty and start small.
I’ve enlisted the help of my Uncle
Beefy in the development of a line of
Marshall Meatpacker dolls. They
come complete with their own
cleaver and emit a pungent smell of
pork when squeezed. We’re hoping
they will take off like the Tickle Me
Elmo dolls. Lode for Marshall on
store shelves next Christmas.
But just to insure my wealth, if
the doll idea should fall through, I
also ordered one of those
infomercial real estate kits. It comes
with a 45-minute videotape and a
pamphlet that instructs you on how
to buy and sell million-dollar hones.
Still, my first real estate outing
has convinced me that this may not
be my ideal avenue to wealth. To
buy real estate, you must first have
assets and cash. And as I’ve said
before, I currently only possess a
broken futon and a crusty toaster
oven that I swiped from my
grandmother’s garage sale. Most of
my early wealth, birthday money
and allowances, was lost in the
1980’s PTL scam and an unlucrative
investment in the record company
that produced Menudo.
My current shoe-selling career
hasn’t fared much better for me
either. So when I went to purchase
one of die homes in Lincoln’s
prestigious “Ridge” area, my down
payment of $119 was only enough to
buy the mailbox. I did make $5
when one of the residents thought I
was collecting for UNICEF, but I
was subsequently arrested for
loitering and solicitation.
Trying to sell million-dollar real
estate isn’t much easier than buying
it. If you’ve never resided in a home
with more than one toilet, a house
with eight flushers can be quite
overwhelming. On my first outing, I
became so excited at the sight of the
jacuzzi and adjoining wet bar that I
began to foam at the mouth uncon
trollably. I inevitably scared my
potential buyers away when I saw
the Olympic size swimming pool
and stripped down to my skivvies to
I’ve also ordered an information
kit on how to set up my own 900
number. I believe this is where my
real success may lie. There are a
million more perverts willing to
pant into the phone for three hours
than there are millionaires willing to
buy a house from me.
To make my 900 number success
ful though, I must decide on the
kind of line I want it to be. Right
now you’re probably thinking
“PHONE SEX, Heather, the public
wants phone sex!!” But my research
has concluded that there are too
many phone sex providers out there.
The market is only large enough to
accommodate so many 1-900-HOT
The recent cult suicide has
inspired'me to set up a 900 line that
would direct people to reputable
cults. It’s going to be much like 1
800-Dentist. But instead of finding
callers dentists, I will be putting
them in contact with cults that are
compatible with them.
“OK, Mr. Jones, do you enjoy
small animal sacrifice or would you
prefer an organization that worships
UFOs? The Heaven’s Gate group has
closed shop, but we do currently
have an opening in a new cult that
believes Bob Barker is. the next.
messiah. There is no castration or
suicide requirement, but they request
that you know how to spin the
The things I’ll do to make a buck.
Lampe is a senior news
editorial and English major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist.
- ; j- HJERSMAN
ABCs of alcoholism a hard lesson for little girl
The word’s hollowness echoed in
Nothing. No answer.
At the age of 4, she looked very
small, but she spoke very big.
“Daddy,” she said, standing
between them—her red-faced
father and her mother, white with
fear. “Daddy, I want you to be my
daddy, but I don’t want a daddy who
hurts my mommy.”
She reached up, almost on tiptoe,
and turned the worn brass doorknob
with both hands. She peeked into the
hallway. A dull glow filtered
through the dust and dead bugs that
lined the old light fixture. Her
mother had told her father to “clean
that damned thing.” But her father
hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
She rubbed the sleep from her
6yes and squeaked out a yawn. Her
hair stood matted on the back of her
tiny head, and her father’s wrinkled
T-shirt hung on her. Brown circles
marked both armpits. Her mother
had told her father he couldn’t wear
“the filthy thing.” Her mother had
tried every soap in the house.
When her mother wasn’t looking,
riie dug it out of the trash. The
monsters stayed in the closet when
riie wore it.
She reached behind her and
grabbed Barkly by one of his large,
floppy, orange ears. Her stuffed dog,
which was three times her size,
dragged slowly behind her as she
crept down the hall. The heavy shag
carpet easily absorbed her footsteps.
She didn’t have to worry about
She tossed Barkly onto the floor,
turned the television knob and
tiptoed into the kitchen. Bottles
scattered the floor. She stepped
cautiously around them. If she
stumbled, he was sure to wake up.
Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. She peeled her
little feet from the sticky spill
stained linoleum with every step.
Her father wasn’t much for
cleaning up after himself.
She tugged open the heavy
bottom drawer and stepped up onto
it, glancing over her shoulder. No,
she hadn’t awakened him.
With one hand on the counter,
she steadied herself and reached into
the cupboard far her favorite green
tumbler. Her mother had made apple
juice the night befoe.
As she was crawling down off the
drawer, the cup slipped from her
hand and bounced with a hollow
clunk. She froze. Her face grew hot.
Her tiny fists curled around the
drawer handle, and her eyes
squeezed shut. She held her breath.
Her ears pounded.
She jumped nervously from the
drawer and faced it crookedly
closed. She snatched up the cup and
hurried over to the refrigerator. She
“air-conditioned the whole kitchen”
as she pushed aside rows of silvery
cans and brown bottles to pull out
the Tupperware pitcher that had
been shoved to the back.
The sweet brown juice gurgled
into the cup. It was nice and cold —
just the way she liked it.
The television murmured in the
next room, and she hurried out to
see what she was missing. Big Bird
was looking a little green. She
figured her father must have
She set her cup on the edge of the
television stand and flopped lazily
onto her fuzzy friend. “S,T,0,P,” the
fat little cartoon said, reading the
large print. “Sss... ttt... ahh... ppp...,
ssstt.. opp.., sstop... STOP!” She
buried her mouth in Barkly’s ear
and giggled madly, as a tmck came
out of nowhere and crashed into
Sound-It-Out man. “Stop?”
Oh no! He’s awake. She hugged
Barkly with all the strength in her
little body. Please... let him be OK
“Annie Nickels,” his muffled
voice croaked from the bedroom,
“you out there?”
“'Yes, Daddy ” she squeaked.
“I said, yes, Daddy,” she called to
She could hardly breathe as the
floor creaks grew closer.
“1 thought you were out here...,”
She didn’t look up.
He took hold of Barkly’s hind
legs and pulled the dog out from
under her. She tumbled to the
ground and tucked herself inside the
His fat fingers dug into her ribs
as he flipped her to her back and
pinned her arms and legs down. His
sour breath poured hotly over her
face, and her stomach lurched.
“How’s my Annie Nickels?” he
It started almost as a whimper,
then a giggle, then a laugh, then a
guffaw, then a howl, then a shriek.
“Stop, Daddy, stop!” She thrashed
about, trying to get free.
“Daddy, I’m gonna pee!” She
gasped. “Please! Stop! Daddy!
His whole body shook as his deep
belly laugh pounded her heart.
“DADDY!” Her hand swung free,
and cold apple juice splashed to the
The wet T-shirt clung warmly to
her thighs, and she shuddered.
“What the hell?” Her father
kneeled beside her. “Jesus, Anne!”
He roared and smacked her aside.
“Son of a bitch! You peed all over
yourself, you little shit!” His foot
cmshed into her side, and she
strangled the sobs that tried to free
themselves from her throat.
He stormed into the kitchen. She
heard the refrigerator door swing
Bottles clanked, and he finally
slammed out of the house.
Tears streamed down her face,
mingled with the apple juice in her
hair and dropped to her wet under
When she finally looked up,
Sesame Street was over:
“Today’s letter, boys and girls,
was the letter Y.”
Y. Y. Y. Y.
Y ... Y ... Y ...
The word’s hollowness echoed in
It was not until years later that
Hjersman is a senior news
editorial and English major and
the night editor and a columnist
for the Daily Nebraskan.
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