Out in the cold
President Clinton should visit Nebraska before end of term
It worked well enough for David
Letterman last week when he won his
version of Campaign 2000 - Hillary
Clinton appeared on “The Late Show.”
Now, if only Nebraska could do
something similar to get her husband
to make at least a token visit to the
Comhusker State.
For weeks, Letterman endlessly
campaigned to get the First Lady to
make an appearance on the show. After
enduring taunting and belligerent
harassment, the Senate hopeful (newly
from New York) finally came to the
stage of the Ed Sullivan Theater.
So help us out, Dave.
What was the secret? Give us some
chance. Plead our case to the nation.
We’ve got your home office in Wahoo.
We’ve got football. And I’ve just
learned we have the 1 lth-most nuclear
weapons of all states. What else? More
pugnacious tactics?
How does one catch a Clinton?
In the two terms of his presidency,
Bill Clinton has not visited Nebraska.
As sadistic as it may sound, there
are people in this state who are proud
of this. Of course, they’re called
Republicans. They’ve said Nebraska is
the luckiest state in the Union because
of our omission on the presidential
itinerary.
But for the rest of us, the only view
of this debacle of overlook is one of
embarrassment.
What does it say about our state?
However paltry an issue it may be, it
feels somewhat like a banishment to
the Land of Nod. We’re not being
ignored. We’re being forgotten.
Or is it a chastisement for not vot
ing for Clinton in 1992 or 1996?
Probably not, but it doesn’t help our
chances.
And now we have a Republican
governor again. But shouldn't this
transcend party politics? We’re talking
about a matter of state dignity.
Most likely, we’ve just fallen
through the cracks. I suppose that hap
pens in a presidency. You just don’t get
around to doing it all.
Previous presidents have left out
states, including Nebraska. And they
had good reasons.
*V> .
But to leave one poor state out in
the cold wind blowing against the ster
ile tundra of die Sandhills - that hurts.
Mr. President, you’ve got some
time. You can do with it as you please,
of course. But we’re getting a lot of
heat from these new guys who are vis
iting us. George W. Bush was here
from the GOP. A1 Gore and Bill
Bradley also made stops.
But they’re mostly concerned with
our eastern neighbor and its big cau
cus.
We don’t put much stock in a cau
cus. We know we’re not any fancy state
that needs a big poll party to get a pres
idential or presidential candidate visit
We get by on our merits.
Of late, however, that doesn’t seem
to be working.
And it didn’t work for Dave
Letterman, either.
And while we’d like not to have to
get bellicose about this situation, we
would like it rectified as soon as possi
ble - if only for your own personal
advancement, President Clinton.
I’m sure you can find some
excuse. Right?
Wouldn’t you like to be one of
those people who has visited all 50
states?
Besides, Mr. President, you’d like
Nebraska. It’s what our slogan pro
claims: The Good Life. Now that
you’re a New Yorker, you’ll need a
break from the rat race.
It may be your only chance before
you get swallowed up in the day-to-day
hell of the ex-presidency.
And you might make a day of it
u~r-ur term is up - just to
lay of the land,
lave a steak.
Talk to the farmers.
Save us from our
shame.
v/'
AdamJ. Klinker is a junior English and history major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
A perfect world
Tax-free land ofPudding Pops, good grades would please columnists
Where the heck’s my heatin’
stick? This world has pushed me just
a little too far. I am sick and tired of
all the unfairness in life, especially
when it involves me giving my money
to the government Damn! Drat!
Dam!
When am I going to get my share
of the cash settlement? I’m not using
the armed forces or emergency ser
vices (thank God). I can’t be a welfare
mother. I read at a third-grade level
(thank you very much, Yutan Public
Schools). And I swear I’ve never dri
ven on a paved road in my life.
So where’s my money going? To
people who don’t deserve it that’s
who.
Like fanners, for instance. I get
my steak and eggs every day without
ever seeing a farmer, and our govern
ment gives them money for doing
jack squat. If you ask me, farmers are
about as usefiil as old people or inani
mate carbon rods, unless these rods
are employed in some useful manner.
Furthermore, I get occasionally
locked up, against my will, for my
“episodes,” thank you very much.
Like this one time at Von Maur, I was
sitting there, enjoying the non-reli
gious Christmas music, when all of a
sudden I realized I hadn’t clipped my
toenails in four months.
Now, I don’t care how much self
control you have, you could be one of
those Amish jerks who sits there for
23 hours not saying anything, but if
you hadn’t clipped your toenails in
four months, you’d make some noise.
And that’s what I did.
The management didn’t like this,
though, and they called security. In
the end, they sedated me with their
nightsticks and they took me away to
Normal Manor, where I shared a
room with Bob Christ for three
weeks.
Perhaps you’ve met Bob. He likes
to hang around the Super Kmart park
ing lot and yell at migrant mealpack
ing-plant employees.
He kept trying to get my tasty
Jell-O Brand Pudding Pops. He
seemed to think he had some right to
them, since he was “Jesus’ well
endowed half brother.” I still may
have had room for Jell-O, but I decid
ed to hand it over when he threatened
to start “preaching” to me.
If only it were a perfect world
(sigh)...
A perfect world!?! Just what in
the hell are you talking about, Chris?
The days of forbidden fruit and
women clad in fig leaves are far gone.
1 understand your anger. I hate those
Amish jerks just as much as you do.
They’re always out there clippity
clopping around with their “Oh, I’m
too holy to have my picture taken!”
attitudes. But sitting there on your ass
won’t change it Besides, it’s my turn
to whine.
If only it were a perfect world
(sigh)...
In a perfect world, Abercrombie
and Fitch would be forced to print a
special quote on the back of all of
their shoddily crafted T-shirts and
clothing. It would read “Abercrombie
and Fitch: Ridding die world of its
greatest authors since July 2,1961”
I have a feeling that the 12-gauge
shotgun that Ernest Hemingway pur
chased from A&F and used to spill
his brains out was as worthless as its
clothing line. Who’s at liberty to say
that a malfunctioning safety is not to
blame for die loss of Hemingway’s
life?
Every day in grade school, I
stared at the American flag and spout
ed out the words to the “Pledge of
Allegiance.” On some days, I felt
patriotic. On others, I relentlessly
searched for a lighter. Regardless, at
no point in my short, uneventful life
have I ever been at enough of a liberty
to make the call on Hemingway’s
death. If you want my opinion, I think
Hemingway should have shopped at
American Eagle.
Warnings on T-shirts wouldn’t be
all that this “perfect” world would
contain, however. A perfect world
would protect rural communities and
small towns from friability. Village
residents wouldn’t have to worry
about protecting the vacant buildings
within its confines from outsiders.
The pain caused each time a por
tion of the town is lost wouldn’t be
there, either. I don’t care how biased
this sounds. Until you’ve been there,
you’ll never understand.
My randomness, this randomness,
would be questioned less and listened
to more in a perfect world.
I wouldn’t be the only person who
could see the demon that George
Orwell bestowed upon me so many
years ago in a perfect world. Others
would know. They would see the cor
relation between the width of his grin
and the depth of his claws in my 4
flesh. They would realize why I’ve
written this paragraph 17 different
times.
I would no longer be the only one
spending my entire life hunting the
Jabberwocky. His flaming eyes
wouldn’t burn through me alone.
Vorpal sword in hand, every student
on campus would grow wearier by the
second, knowing that the Jubjub bird
or frumious Bandersnatch may come
whiffling out of the tulgey wood at
any second.
Tempted by the rest and comfort
offered by the Tumtum tree, students
would dream of the snicker-snack of
their sword blades, followed by the
vision of the Jabberwock’s head
falling to the ground.
“4.0’s for all!” they’d scream.
“The Jabberwocky is dead.”
Instead, they’d search for years,
only to find that he’d been busy bowl
ing perfect game after perfect game at
the Nebraska East Union die entire
time.
In this “magical happy land,” I
could speak of my never-ending
search for a “farrago of falsehoods in
Fargo” without being accused of eat
ing mushrooms and reading Seuss.
I’m telling you, I haven’t read a Dr.
Seuss book in years.
And in a perfect world, whoever
the jerkass is who stole the handle to
Bob Dylan’s pump and forced him
into his underground, far-away, never
ending battle with sadness would be
forced to return it to him. Then Dylan
could pour us all a tall, frosty glass of
whatever the hell he’s been drinking
for the last forty years. Then the
world would be perfect. Maybe some
more people would finally start
believing in Zimmerman, too.
Chris Gustafson is a sophomore agricultural economics major,; and Lucas Christian Stock is a freshman English major.
They are Daffy Nebraskan columnists.