Dik's Ravings

Dik Saalfeld '80
Washington correspondent

As I look back at my two decades of affiliation with the Beta Theta chapter of Pi Kappa Alpha at our fair Cornell, I am reminded of a quote by Marx: "I would not join a club that would have me as a member." I certainly hope the chapter has raised its standards.

We were a motley crew. Look at Bob Montione '80, if you dare. He had such promise. His parents wanted him to be a doctor, like Dad, so he majored in - wait for it! - insects. No, not kids boinking their mothers, which would at least be interesting - I'm talking BUGS.

And Johnny O! He was a genius! The apple of his parents' eye! And I hear he is a cross-dresser! Not across sexes, like normal perverts, but across species! Yes! Someone said he has become a fish! A sturgeon! And not only that, an orthopedic sturgeon! A fish in a wheelchair! If Gibber were alive, he'd be spinning in his grave. The horror.

What about the other 18 members of our class, you ask? I am happy to report that Friggy is well, although he hasn't been missing any meals.

Speaking of meals, I have recently encountered the following brothers at events involving food: Kurt Dodd '79, Jeff Taub '80, Peter Atkeson '80, Tom Berg '80, Brett Sylvester '83, Martin Mooradian '83, Donzo '80, Nate Rudgers '82, and maybe some others. Martin is a lawyer with his own practice; he's still built like a tank, so he can give you whiplash himself, cutting out the middleman. His wife is beautiful as ever, as is Tom's dreamgirl wife, Val. Brett does patent law and fishes in his spare time, although I don't go with him anymore since he chewed me out over the dynamite incident. Donzo is getting filthy rich as a honcho with Hewlett-Packard. Tom and Jeff are still in the Navy and report that Chris Klyne '78 is skipper of a nuclear sub. Kurt is pursuing yet another degree in the hopes of having more letters after his name than in it.

Nate is deputy commissioner of agriculture for the state of New York. This wouldn't have happened if you buttheads in New York had voted for Mario. When next year's crops turn out to be stinkweed, don't come crying to me. I'm a Democrat. Which is why I'm unemployed. Again. If I had a nickel for every penny I made doing honest labor, I'd be in hock up to my tits. As it is, I've had to resort to the family business to meet daily expenses, namely mail fraud. With Republicans in office here in DC, my local business is booming. I'm marketing IQ extenders, which fit onto most hatbands. Discounts for brothers: 1-800-DIK LIES. Lines are open. Let's take the first caller -- Hello Detroit, you're on the air!

"Yo, dick."

"That's capital 'D', no 'c'!"

"I know, dick. Where's the money you owe..." CLICK.

Whoops! Wrong number!

At one point, this article seemed to have something to do with the Fraternity, but that was before Mr. Medication paid his visit!

But cerially, speaking of my 20 year association with Pi Kappa Dappa, I recently ran across the first article I ever wrote for the Beta Theta Data, a crisp news story about the new fraternity piano, before it saw use as a beer jacuzzi. This Pulitzer-calibre piece included an interview with Bill Sipperly '77, purchaser of said piano. All during the interview, conducted next to, you guessed it, the piano, I looked up into Bill's nosehairs, and I'm about 6'4". I estimated his height at 8'13" (not including corns), or, in metric, 4 milliliters. The piano was up to about here. I'm gesturing at the aforementioned tits, but I'm sitting down. Does the blind guy still come in to tune that thing? The piano, I mean. Remember him? No joke -- we had a blind piano tuner. The guy who came up to level the pool table could see fine, though; I would slip him a fin to put the list in it toward my favorite pocket, the one Hughie would stand next to, with the pocket at crotch level. I would line up hard shots at that pocket and whomp him. At first I thought he was just stupid, because he didn't seem to catch on, then I realized he liked it. Sometimes he would scamper into my room at 4am begging me to play pool.

I still get postcards from Gibber from different spots in South America and the islands, but my girlfriend says that they are imaginary. She does collect the stamps for her collection, though, saying that, imaginary or not, Salvadoran inverted "Julio" stamps are worth some pesos. She's an odd one, but maybe I'll keep her.

Pay your dues, brothers. Send them directly to me, cash only. Don't be stingy. Also, give money to the Capital Improvement Fund, and the Orphanage for Innocent Children, Puppies, and Baby Ducks, also in cash. Mail contributions in brown manila envelopes, small bills, to: Dik, Washington DC. No slugs or foreign currency, Deutschmarks and Yen excluded.