Thursday, November 11, 1993
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by Pad M. Medal
cargAm Womb
To tke truly polideelly coreq,
like soyseit; pea* who Ste
called "estrrbw-otioded" or
"conservative,* are merely
OPPOSITIONALLY VIEW
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by Dave Barry
SyMiatted Cohmaiii
Lately a lot of media
attention has been focused on
the Mideast, so I felt that it
would be a good idea to go out
and personally revier:the
situation in the Midwest. Here
is my report:
FRIDAY
I arrive in Champaign, 111.,
and proceed to the University
of Illinois agriculture school,
which I am able to locate
easily because I have clear
directions, plus I can smell it.
I am greeted by Dan Weber and
Jeana McAllister, two alert
readers who wrote me a letter
claiming that the university
has cows with research
portholes installed in their
sides. Enclosed with the letter
was a photograph of Dan with
his right arm up to his
shoulder inside a cow.
I'm not sure that I should
shake his hand.
Dan and Jeans introduce me
to George Fahey, professor of
animal sciences, who informs
me that the holes are installed
because, scientists are very
interested in finding out what
goes on inside the cow
digestive system. (I already
know what goes on: Cows
convert grass into cow poop.
But I'm not going to spoil the
surprise for scientists.)
Fahey leads me to a cow
named "Fussbudget," who is
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exactly the best candidate m the
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Fussbudget and
the Midwest
very large, a cud-chewing
aircraft carrier. In Fussbudget's
left side is a porthole, maybe
eight inches in diameter, with a
rubber plug in it. Fahey tells
me Oat Fussbudget doesn't
mind the porthole, but I'm not
so sure. If I were a huge
- hoofed animal, and humans had
put a porthole in my stomach,
I'd PRETEND not to mind, but
I'd definitely be plotting to
stomp some random human
until he had no more skeletal
structure than a bag of grits.
"What gender is Fuss- .
budget?" I ask.
"He used to be a boy," says
Laura Bauer, a lab technician.
So Fussbudget has TWO
reasons to want revenge.
Now Bauer is removing
Fussbudget's plug. And now
she is REACHING INTO THE
HOLE.
"You can see what he just
ate," says Bauer, pulling out
some dark-green material.
"Gack," I remark.
But it's clear that these
people expect me to put my
hand inside the cow.
Apparently this is a traditional
agricultural gesture of
hospitality. I put on a long
plastic glove and approach
Fussbudget, who is eyeing me
with a giant cow eyeball.
"I have nothing to do with
agriculture," I tell him.
Squinting hard now, I stick
my hand into the mass of dark
green glop. It feels, to use a
YjNIOANSi
D' ,"
with
"The Reit smi Siimpy Show."
When robed by missive hidings
0 (400 11 esi, Cite should shout.
"HWY' NIPPY joy .10Yr at the
top of hialher WWI.
If you go on( instead of
scientific term, really yucky in
there. It's also warm. In fact,
it's almost HOT. Plus, I can
smell methane. Fearing an
explosion (scientists call this
"The _Sig Moo"), I pull my
arm out.
This is when Tom Nash,
manager of the Beef Research
Farm, tells me about a recent
incident wherein a 4-H Club
was checking out Fussbudget's
interior, and Fussbudget
coughed, and a young man
standing in front of the
porthole was covered with
stomach contents.
"If he had a date that night,"
says Nash, "he didn't
anymore."
"Ha ha!" I say, backing
away from the hole.
I leave the University of
Illinois with a new
appreciation of the benefits that
a smite.
tkwiwits °thee CTurn
or Burn"), you aren't a fanatic,
YOu are merely
OVERZEALOUSLY SPIR
ITUAL •
Or if you're a politician, you
are not giving the public a line of
bullshit just because you're
TRUTHFULLY IMPAIRED.
Also, someone isn't a
scumbucket, he/she is only
MENTALLY DISPLEASING.
As for post-sexual revolutions,
housewives have become
DOMESTIC ENGINEERS.
Men who so to wok hoe ceased
to be called** breadwinners and
are now called the
TRADITI"ONAL WORK
RUM
110104410 hee - 1414d of the
woilhOliett istwitocknt aien't
agriculture will someday
provide, especially in the field
of interrogating captured spies.
("Tell us who your contact is!
We have ways to make this
cow cough•")
SATURDAY
I am now 30 miles down the
road in Arcola ; M., to attend.
the annual Broom Corn
Festival. Arcola has long been
a major power in the broom
industry; it also boasts the
world's largest rocking chair,
the world's largest collection of
brooms and brushes, and the
world's only combination
bowling alley and gourmet
French restaurant. I am not
making any of this up.
I am here to march in the
Broom Corn Parade with
Arcola's world-famous Lawn
Rangers, a top precision lawn
mower drill team. This is my
third year as a Ranger. I've
tried to talk my wife into
going to the Broom Corn
Festival with me, but she
resists.
"It's just a bunch of guys
who drink beer and push lawn
mowers around and act
juvenile," she says.
"Yes!" I say, not under
standing her point.
Anyway, the Rangers do
more than just "push lawn
mowers around." We also carry
brooms, and we perform
precision broom and lawn
mower maneuvers, such as the
comes a responsibility.
The responsibility to listen.
We may not always agree, but we
all must listen to what each other
has to say.
There's a little something
called trot
Along with r the previous
responsibility, we have another.
This other responsibility is the
responsibility of thinking for
ourselves and developing our own
opinions.
Don't use an opinion or an
ideology because your friends or
family hold dear to it.
That, as Roger Bacon would
say, is frail, unworthy authority.
Like the old adage says, "If
your friends bowed off a
bsiklini, wild your
Oh - maim thing
on political
correctness. The team will now
be knows* FASCISM WITH A
/WM
Passi Mari* is alias
assautfr &OA mi*sr•
extremely difficult (for us,
anyway) "Cross and Toss."
Plus, this year we are marching
with - get ready -- a 10 foot
high painted concrete statue of
Elvis. It belongs to Clark and
Sandy Stafford of Seneca, 111.,
and it is available for rent. It's
mounted on a trailer, facing
backward, and it weighs 5,000
pounds, almost as much as The
King himself near the end.
It's difficult using mere
words, to describe the scene as
the rangers, more than 50
strong, stride in two columns
down the parade route, pushing
our mowers in front of us,
raising our brooms on high at
the command "Brooms Up!";
meanwhile, bringing up the
rear, glinting in the
Midwestern sun, is: Elvis'
giant concrete butt.
VERY EARLY SUNDAY
MORNING
After an evening of
fellowship with the Lawn
Rangers, I return to my room
at the Arcola Inn, which is also
where Elvis is staying.
Looking out my window, I can
see him on his trailer in the
parking lot, looking into the
distance, as if waiting for
somebody to deliver a giant
concrete pizza. I reflect back
on my trip -- on Elvis, the
Lawn Rangers and Fussbudget
the cow. Things are good here
in the Midwest. Weird, but
good.
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