As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the Technician, NCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, posting them 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks
These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.
I’m convinced that there are two types of drivers: the intelligent, courteous, thoughtful driver – namely me – and the misguided, mean, downright hateful driver – namely everyone else. I base my conviction on the fact that I drive over 400 miles a week on Interstate 40 and so I consider myself a seasoned pro, well-versed in the etiquette and protocol that we Southern drivers are famous for.
I don’t get it, I never rudely honk my horn, I always slow to avoid accident scenes, especially when I can see the blue lights a mile ahead and on the other side of the interstate, and I never ever try to confuse people by using such things as turn signals when I change lanes – I just keep one or the other on for the entire trip. Yet, those misguided, mean, downright hateful other drivers insist on giving me the un-FCC sanctioned hand signals for signalling their desires and/or intentions towards me or my eventual first-born.
I think I have the answer. Look back for a second to your childhood (which is a lot closer than many of us admit, say Saturday at the Virginia game?) and think about your big wheel.
Now I always wanted one of those big wheels with the brake on the side. All the cool kids in the neighboorhood had a big wheel with a brake on the side and they could all do those fancy spins and skids, and could leave really neat black marks on the driveway of Mr. Whippers, the only guy in the neighborhood with a paved driveway. Mr. Whippers didn’t really care much for the black marks left in his driveway by the kids that had big wheels with a brake on the side. He caught me riding my big wheel in his driveway once and I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have a big wheel with a brake on the side, and therefore could not leave any black marks on his driveway. Mr. Whippers – who didn’t have children of his own or even a wife for that matter – didn’t speak KID very well, and the only thing that saved me was the cable company coming by and indiscriminately ripping up his paved driveway as part of some cable “right of way.” Mr. Whippers promptly moved away after that and took his driveway with him.
I think that not having a big wheel with a brake on the side really deprives a child. Forget these studies that supposedly demonstrate the negative effects of war toys, or gender-based toys, or the Mighty Mutant People-Eating Purple Cyber Ninja Bunnies, I say go after the big wheel manufacturers who don’t provide a brake on the side of their big wheels. If I had only had a big wheel with a break on the side, I’m sure that I could have been much more contented with those misguided, mean, downright hateful other drivers.
Better yet, take the big wheel, strap a 357 cubic inch, super-turbo charged, double barrelled, quad exhaust, dual overhead cam Ninja Bunny feeder – also known as a Porsche – to the back and let me at them. I’ll show them exactly why NASCAR has its roots in the South. Eat your heart out Mr. Whippers. But I really doubt that’s going to happen, and besides, the NCSU DOT would probably fine me for improper display of my “My Ninja Bunny beat up your Ninja Bunny” bumper sticker.
Jason Young is a Senior majoring in Foreign Language Avoidance with a concentration in Pig Latin. Ehay waysalay earsway ishay eatsay eltbay.