The Andrew Snee Memorial Phun Phest

Before beginning this week's usual humorous vignette, Edward and Donald would like to make it known that this installment is dedicated fondly to the memory of Andrew Weldon Snee, his loving family in Louisburg, N.C., and all his friends and companions in Morrison Dormitory. Though Andrew is not yet dead, someday he will be, 'cause hell, man, we all gotta die sometime. In dreadful anticipation of that day, then, this one's for Andy.

Let the Phest begin.

You know, folks, round about the end of a semester, it gets kindly hard for a man to come up with a good Phun Phest. Luckily, though, we are more than mere men. Yes, as all the other talentless barf-meisters are filling up their campus publications with their "looks back" that no one cares about, we at the Tri-P Gutbuster gaze with valiant eyes upon a frightening future. And what we see ain't too pretty. So here, then, (is everybody about to get tired of us saying that?) are our dark, mystic premonitions of stuff.

All right, first off, there'll probably be something goin' on with Dale McKinley. Yeah. Like he'll handcuff himself to newly-appointed Chancellor Paul Hardin and eat, sleep and perform all bodily functions with the man until something is done about those damn ombudsmen.

Next, somebody's gonna take a big sledgehammer, or maybe like a battleaxe or it could even be something gas-powered, like a hydraulic log-splitter (Have you ever seen one of those things? Man, they are awesome pieces of machinery! You just stick a log on this rail and you push this lever, and this wedge comes up and it busts the log apart and it sounds like Andre the Giant slamming his opponent into the turnbuckle.) and they're gonna rid us once and for all of the Davie Poplar, that sappy spectre of alumnic sentimentality, 'cause it's dead anyway, man! They've got it hanging on wires and it's... ah, never mind. Fate will prove us right.

After that, someone's gonna eat too much in Lenoir, or it'll catch on fire, or the meal card computer system will short circuit and entirely explode, but anyway, the place will be no more. And then Chancellor Paul, who we think will be pretty cool, will decree that in the place of smoldering whizzo-space-burger taco salad yum-yum's shall be constructed a sprawling, monolithic megopolis of parking, numbering in floors to 40 or 50 and in parking capacity to the billions. The Wild Pizza, in accordance to his very word, will be rebuilt atop the mighty structure, and pizza, parking and pleasure will reign supreme where once stood the festering hell-hole that was Lenoir.

OK. Now what? We'll tell you. Uhh... actually, it's kinda difficult to tell, you know. The future can change. 'Cause heck, the future ain't even happened yet -- we're only so powerful, OK? But we can smell something that tells us one or more of the following may or may not happen: Dean Smith fired, Billy Warden hired. Ramses dies again (duh). Coke changes formula (again); it tastes just like Skoal. Nation has collective "Gorbasm" as Russian Premiere signs to star alongside Burt Reynolds in series of fast-paced action flicks entitled Gorby and the Bandit. The Lost City of Atlantis rises from the sea and the strange and evil race of tiny fish-people, led by Florence Henderson, attack mainland China and eat all their Oreos. Finally, and we're not sure about this one, but Drop-Add might be real crowded and hectic and you probably won't get all the classes you want.

Remember, these are predictions, not rules of what must be.
The future's ever-changing, and it's up to you and we;
Get out and make the most of it, just like Ed and D.
Live each and every day, good friend, see all there is to see;
And always read the Phun Phest, along with Andrew Snee.

Until next time, so long wrestling fans!

D. Trull, a man who truly enjoys a big-ass refrigerator, and Ed Davis, who can only eat so much Kung Pao Chicken before he busts wide open, would like the world to know that the official credo of the PPP: "I live sweat, but I dream light years," is not of their own invention. It is, of course, from the Minutemen classic "The Glory of Man," written by Mike Watt, All High Omnipotent Master of the Universally Bass-ifying THUNDER BROOM! We are sorry for any inconvenience our previous lack of attribution might have caused.

(Originally published in The Phoenix Student Newsweekly, April 14, 1988.)

D. Trull