
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: WEDNESDAY, May 2, 1990                   TAG: 9005020126
SECTION: EXTRA                    PAGE: E1   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: Ben Beagle
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

BENNIE'S VACUUM FROM HELL

I have recently had some deep thoughts on life on this planet, and I will now pass them on to you.

If you don't want to bother with this, go watch Dan Rather or that new Madonna video, in which she - well, never mind.

I'm not going to beg anybody to read about my thoughts about life on this planet. I got a little dignity, you know.

If you're still there, I will now reveal this theory I have thought up about the vacuum-cleaner industry in this country.

Let me say that I have a small cannister vacuum cleaner and not one of those big models that look like something Han Solo might have driven in "Star Wars."

Stated simply, this little machine has been designed to get me.

I think the vacuum-cleaner industry hires people who put design features into their products that will drive an average user nuts or kill him or her.

This is the reason that my vacuum cleaner constantly bumps into door frames, furniture and any dog or cat within reasonable distance of it.

It is also programmed to run over its own cord - which it will pull out of the receptacle just as you are struggling to slurp up this spider web that is hanging from the ceiling over the living room drapes.

When this happens, of course, you have to stop everything and plug the machine back into the outlet.

If you have an attention span like mine you will forget about the spider web.

You will leave it there, to be spotted immediately by your Aunt Zelda when she drops by with her next pecan pie.

As all of you know, vacuum cleaners have this pleated hose that looks pretty harmless.

However, I have found that whenever I get down on the floor to suck those dustballs out from under the bed, this hose always ends up around my neck.

Last Saturday morning, I lost consciousness for a while.

That kind of stuff gets you to thinking about Stephen King and plots in which your vacuum cleaner joins some death cult and kills its user:

"I don't know what happened, inspector. He was in here with the vacuum cleaner, and when I went in with his Gatorade, I found him like that. The cleaner running and old Rex quite dead.

"Gad. Those are pleat marks on the poor devil's neck, aren't they?"

OK. I know what you're saying. That's pretty weird.

For the record, of course, I would agree with you.

But just between you and me, I'm not going to vacuum under any more beds - and you can sign that "Dustball Beagle."

by CNB