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Canada:
Land of Danger
Before I get to today's topic, which is
mutant cereal in Canada, I want to
apologize in a sincerely legal manner to
JOCKEY International Inc., which
manufactures JOCKEY brand wearing
apparel. Recently I received a certified
letter from Charlotte Shapiro, a JOCKEY
brand corporation attorney, noting that, in
a column concerning the issue of whether
or not you can eat your underwear, I had
incorrectly used the official JOCKEY
brand name in the following sentence:
"Waiter, are these JOCKEYS fresh?"
Ms. Shapiro points out that the word
JOCKEY is an official trademark, not a
generic word for underwear, and it must be
used "as an adjective followed by the
common name for the product." Thus my
sentence should, legally, have read as
follows:
"Waiter, there's a fly in these
JOCKEYS!"
I am grateful to Ms. Shapiro for making
me more sensitive to this issue, and in the
future if I ever hear anyone misusing the
JOCKEY brand name, I will make it my
business to strike that person with a Sears
CRAFTSMAN brand hammer.
Speaking of hard objects, I have here an
alarming item from the oxymoronically
named Canadian newspaper Northern Life,
sent in by alert reader Alan Nursall. The
article, by Kim Dominque-Plouffe,
concerns a Sudbury, Ontario, woman
named Dot Brousseau, who was pouring
some Kellogg's brand CORN FLAKES
cereal into a bowl when - please try to
remain calm - out came a hard, fist-sized
clump of CORN FLAKES all wadded
together.
Here in the United States, a typical
consumer, confronted with this situation,
would probably just take it in stride, by
which I mean do a STYROFOAM brand
neck brace and sue Kellogg's for $4.7
million. But Canada is not part of the
United States (it is part of Iceland). So
what Dot Brousseau did was contact
Northern Life, which printed a story
headlined WOMAN SURPRISED TO
FIND A LUMP THE SIZE OF A FIST'
IN HER CORN FLAKES BOX. The
article is accompanied by a photograph of
Brousseau looking concerned and holding
the CORN FLAKES clump, which looks
sort of like an oyster.
Like most professional journalists, I
routinely investigate any documented case
of breakfast foods spontaneously wadding
together, so I contacted various news
sources that I have cultivated over the
years, and I was able to determine that
Canada does, in fact, have telephones. I
then called Dot Brousseau and asked her
for an update on the situation. She told
me that she had received "several
compliments" on the Northern Life article,
and that a number of people had come over
to view her clump, which she is keeping
in a BAGGIES brand plastic bag.
She said that a Kellogg's representative
had also come to her home and examined
the clump, and had wanted to take it away,
but she refused. "I'm going to have it
analyzed," she said.
She also said that Kellogg's had given
her some free products. "They're going to
bend over backward to kiss our butt," she
noted.
I asked Brousseau if she was aware of
scientific experiments showing that
Kellogg's strawberry POP-TART brand
snack pastries will, if you place them in a
toaster and hold the lever down, burst into
flames within six minutes (unless you
attempt to demonstrate this to a national
TV audience on the Dave Letterman show,
in which case the POP-TARTS will not
ignite until after your segment has ended).
Brousseau was surprised to hear this, and
told me, with concern in her voice, that
she had strawberry POP-TARTS in her
cupboard even as we spoke.
Canada: Land of Danger.
Speaking of scary consumer things, I
have also received, from alert reader Ron
Fusco, an article from the Dec. 27, 1994,
edition of The Pacific Daily News, which
is published in Guam, an island located
somewhere in the PACIFIC brand ocean.
The top story on page one concerns a 13-
year-old Guam boy whose NIKE brand
shoes exploded. I am not making this up
The article, written by Elizabeth A.
...we feel somewhat
bitter toward the NIKE
brand corporation
because we are forced
to purchase its
absurdly overpriced
products for our
children, who refuse to
wear any other kind...
Thompson, quotes the boy's mother as
saying that her son had jumped up to
touch a beam in the garage when his shoes
"seemed to explode, catching his jeans on
fire."
The story states that the shoes were
turned over to the fire department; a fire
official is quoted as saying that "it does
appear that the explosion came from
within the shoe itself."
I want to stress that this is just one
isolated incident of NIKE shoes apparently
exploding. We cannot conclude that all
NIKE footwear explodes, even if we feel
somewhat bitter toward the NIKE brand
corporation because we are forced to
purchase its absurdly overpriced products
for our children, who refuse to wear any
other kind because they have been exposed
to relentless multimillion-dollar
advertising campaigns featuring athletes
such as MICHEAL brand JORDAN. We
should continue to purchase and wear
NIKE brand shoes with total confidence,
unless we happen to be among those rare
individuals who need, for some medical
reason, to retain the use of their feet.
Ha ha! I am joshing, of course; I have
nothing but the deepest respect and
affection for the NIKE corporation and its
huge legal department. So just in case I
may have misused or maligned any brand
names in this column, let me conclude
with this formal statement of apology to
NIKE, CRAFTSMAN, KELLOGG'S,
STYROFOAM, BAGGIES, MICHEAL
JORDAN and any other giant corporate
entity I may have offended: I'm really
sorry, OK? So don't get your JOCKEYS
in a knot.
by Dave Barry
syndicated columnist
Patience is
a virtue
Or something like that
A few months ago, my good
friend Yvette and I went to the
Cleveland Airport to pick up
some other friends who were
returning from a vacation in
Florida. We decided to make
our two-hour trip into a fun
time, with music and food to
boot. We laughed and joked
around as we caught up on some
gossip and enjoyed the scenery.
(If the view surrounding 1-90
qualifies as "scenery.")
So, there we were on our way
to cheery Cleveland when I
looked at Yvette and queried,
"Do you know exactly how to
get to the airport?"
"Sure. Well, I think so.
There'll be signs."
"Yah, you're right," I said with
a smile. "Why wouldn' t there
be signs? And besides, how
hard is it to get to the Cleveland
Airport?"
(Before I go any further, let
me give you some advice. If I
ever happen to invite you to go
with me on a road trip, or if I
ever offer to accompany you to
go ANYWHERE, like Panama
City, or Toronto, or even
downtown Erie, be sure to have
a map on hand and have it ready
to go right along with us. You
see, I was born with some sort
of direction-deficiency hormone
that prevents me from locating
the most elementary places in
any of the tiniest towns in the
world. It's not my fault, though,
I was born this way.)
To continue my story of
Yvette and I, we ended up
sailing past the correct exit that
would have led us directly into
the lap of the airport, no
problem at all.
Of course as fate would have
it, we had to find ourselves not
in the lap of the airport, but in
the bowels of downtown
Cleveland, where the darkness
and dank weather did not offer
much comfort or reassurance.
In addition to our predicament,
I was the one in the driver's seat,
which was enough to make both
of us wonder if we'd make it
back to Erie, PA ever again.
Yvette and I pulled over at a
corner to hold a meeting of the
minds, or "mindless," and low
and behold a police officer and
his shiny coach went driving by.
He had to stop for a red light, so
we immediately reacted to such
an opportune moment.
Yvette jumped out of the car
and tapped on the officer's
Thursda , March 2 1995
window. I could barely see
from where I was watching, but
1 could tell that he had at the
very least rolled down the
window to acknowledge my
friend, and she seemed to be
conversing with him for what
felt like an hour or so.
While I was waiting, I was
talking, out loud, to myself
saying, "You know, Laura,
you're a real idiot. You can't
even make it to the stinkin'
Cleveland Airport, (swear word,
swear word)." I was pretty hard
on myself, but, then again,
anyone else would've said the
same to me, maybe worse.
Yvette ran back to the car, got
in and slammed the door shut.
Lucky for us the officer said we
could make a U-turn, and he'd
point us in the proper direction.
(It took us two or three U-turns,
but we got it right.) Thank God
for honest people of the law. He
must have had a good laugh on
us, anyway.
Needless to say, my friend and
I finally made it to the airport.
When we got there, though, we
had to figure out where to park
the car. That wasn't too
difficult, even for us.
The trip to the Cleveland
Airport gave both of us a few
more grey hairs, and we realized
a valuable lesson . "Don't he
Individuals who are
diagnosed with this illness
really do know where they
want to go, and isn't that
what really counts, even
though they're not sure how
to get there?
afraid to admit that you're
stupid. Someone will always be
there to help."
NOTE: If you or anyone you
know is suffering from this
dreaded disease of never
knowing where the hell you're
going, please take care to offer
your time and attention to the
issue at hand. Please be more
patient with yourself or with
others suffering from this
direction-difficiency hormone.
This is not something to write
off as a lack of intelligence.
Individuals who are diagnosed
with this illness really do know
where they want to go, and isn't
that what really counts, even
though they're not sure how to
get there?
by Laura Borowski
Collegian columnist