THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 7, 1994 TAG: 9408050259
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: On the Street
SOURCE: Bill Reed
LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
You are Joe Lunch Pail.
You have just come home from a hard day's work at the Naval Air Rework Facility and your wife, Jane, has just finished the day shift on the checkout line at the local supermarket.
The two of you and your statistically correct 2.5 kids are just sitting down to TV trays to dig into an All-American supper of home delivery pizza - topped with pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, onions, green peppers, extra cheese - and a soda.
The telephone on the side table jangles as you shovel a mammoth slice into your mouth. You fumble with the receiver several times before wedging it between your ear and your shoulder.
``Hi,'' says a cheery voice on the other end. ``This is Mortimer Frumpkin, and I'm helping the Virginia Beach city government find out how citizens feel about city services. The results of this survey will be used for future planning.''
``Uhumph,'' you mumble, one eye on the tube, where O.J.'s battery of 15 lawyers is objecting to the introduction of crime-scene hair samples into evidence during the second month of his preliminary hearing on murder charges.
``Are you at least 18 years old?'' the cheery voice asks.
``Uhumph,'' you reply, masticating a new wad of deluxe pizza.
``How many years have you lived in Virginia Beach?''
``Thintz minteem phitty-phouh,'' you mutter.
The interrogator then shifts to the meat of the survey, explaining that you must answer yes or no to a series of questions designed to find out if you're satisfied or dissatisfied with various city services. These range from trash collection to the operation of homeless shelters, which you have never seen, since you are in the process of paying down a very large mortgage on your own home.
Two hours later, you are into the ``demographics'' section of the survey, which determines whether you are male, female or neuter; white, black or purple; 18 or over the hill; with or without children; have your original teeth; with or without a job or extensive education.
By this time, O.J.'s lawyers have really warmed to their task on TV, asking a befuddled presiding judge if - under a court precedent set in 1929 in Grand Forks, North Dakota - hair samples should first be determined to be human, rather than extraterrestrial in origin, before they can be admitted into evidence.
The cheery voice on the phone chirps in your ear a final time: ``This concludes our survey. Thank you very much.'' Click.
You hang up the phone and your wife casts a suspicious eye in your direction. ``Who was THAT?'' she demands.
You scratch your head, still chewing a large lump of pizza crust.
``Thome thumbith wunthta noe ef weer thatithphied wiph thitty thurvithes,'' you reply casually and punctuate the answer with a lusty belch.
``What did you say?'' your wife asks rather coldly.
Swallowing the last of your pizza, you try to clarify your original response.
``I said some guy wanted to know if we're satisfied with city services.''
``Why did he want to know?'' she snaps.
``So the City Council can use the information to improve city operations.''
``Umphuh,'' she replies and returns her attention to the ongoing TV saga of O.J., his gaggle of million dollar lawyers and the hair samples that refuse to die.
The next day you see newspaper headlines that say, ``Survey shows 9 out of 10 residents satisfied with city services.''
Your chest swells with pride, knowing that - once again - you have done your civic duty. by CNB