!From Howling Mad Murdock: I was having a conversation with my co-workers, reminiscing about old cartoons, and the question of Smurf procreation came up. Net: Naturally. Sure, it’s an age-old question, but really, how did those little guys come into being? Obviously, Papa Smurf was older than Smurfette, and I’m sure he f&@ked her into the next episode (that is, when Hefty wasn’t giving her the bid’ness, shooting heroine and drinking 40s), but how was Papa Smurf conceived? Net: He’s the love child of Herve Villachaize (Andy Rooney) and Bea Arthur. There’s no evidence of any other female Smurfs before Smurfette. Sassette came later, but even the sick Smurfs, like Nat, wouldn’t touch her yeast infection with a 10-foot pole. Net: Safety first. Because Smurfette was created by Gargamel, it’s not possible that the older male Smurfs were conceived by normal sexual means. Net: Sorta like Keanu Reeves. Are they asexual, and bud off Papa Smurf’s ass like yeast? Did the Smurfs pull some sort of Jurassic Park s##!t, where some Smurf changed sex so “life could go on?” Net: Around these parts, they call that “Saturday night at the ’90s.” Or are male Smurfs capable of conceiving regardless of sex? Like Papa Smurf shooting his wad up Hefty and out comes Brainy Smurf? Net: La-la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la …
From Phlegm of Discontent: In honor of Geek Week 2000, Net: When you think of all the IT folk as little smarmy people chasing a pot of gold, the whole shamrock-for-a-logo thing sorta makes sense. I feel I must recount the following tale as told to me by myself: Last summer, I was in the stacks at Walter Library looking for an ancient issue of Physical Review B. Net: Wasn’t that the one with Pamela Anderson on the cover? It was a hostile environment, dark, dank and full of vermin. My imagination, ever the traitor, speculated if there might be horribly mutated students wandering the deep recesses of the library, feeding on rats and other rodentia. Net: Such as librarians, for example. It was a chilling thought, but if I could get proof of such freaks of nature, I could sell the video to Fox. Envisioning fame and glory, I got a video camera, hired a native guide and set out on my quest. Within minutes, the guide took off with my map, probably to hunt lions or something. I was completely lost, yet I had to continue. Net: We’ve been there before. We called it “junior year.” Just then, I noticed several small, totemic objects strewn about randomly. Net: Smurfs? A spoor! I was getting close. The stench grew stronger as I neared the lair of my quarry. I turned a corner, and there they were! A herd of wild Magic: The Gathering players, the nerds of the nerd world. Net: Just sitting there, for hours on end, tapping mana like nobody’s business. It’s all just horrifying. It was an amazing sight. Gazing into their chubby faces, I could see that they were not far removed from my own geeky heritage. They handled their cards reverently and spoke strange words. Net: Abu Jafar … Thickett Basilisk … I knew then I was witnessing a bizarre, sacred ritual seen by no other man. Net: And now you know how the mailman felt when he walked in on Natalie, Tootie and Mrs. Garrett making out. Suddenly, the leader, whom I identified by his coke-bottle glasses, massive frame and large pile of cards, bolted upright and sniffed the air. Damn! I wished I hadn’t eaten those Doritos earlier. The leader reared up, swept the table clear of cards, miniatures Net: those little glassy elf nipples and empty cookie packages, and let out a mighty belch. The chase was on! I ran off into the murk with the herd right on my heels, reaching for me with their cheese-stained fingers. I ran into what turned out to be a dead end. I was trapped. Net: No problem. Cast a spell, hit ’em with 20 points of damage and you’re home free … I managed to get out alive, obviously. I won’t bore you with details, but I managed to coax the Magic players to rejoin normal, productive nerd society by promising them naked pictures of Dana Scully and Xena from my computer. Net: To add to the two gigs of porn oozing out of their hard drive already … I captured some mutated rats and made them colonels in my unholy army of the night. Fox refused to buy my video, saying it was “too unrealistic.” And I never did find that copy of Phys. Rev. B. Net: Check under your old man’s mattress. That’s where we always found the good stuff. Stay tuned for my next harrowing adventure as I set out in search of the Hat-wearing Jock (Cologneswimmus beerswillis) and the Pretentious Art-freak (Clovesmokus rameneatus).
From Buckaroo: Net, I am known as Buckaroo, so when you are screaming my name later, don’t forget it. Net: Whatever. I don’t wish to incite a riot by complaining about Iowa or tuition or smelly IT geeks or horny greeks … Net: Translation: Changing the subject instead I would like to incite a riot by telling everyone on campus of the unhealthy conditions of Centennial’s dining facilities. Net: No! For the love of Yudof, NOOOOOO!!! This can’t be!!! Next thing he’ll tell us there’s not enough parking or that construction is annoying. Here’s the story: I am having lunch on a nice Thursday late-morning, reading the Daily, Net: Aww … how nice. Send us over something of yours, and we’ll read it while taking our morning crap planning on who I will take with me to see “Seven Samurai,” when I look down, and lo! what do my eyes see? Net: A band of angels coming after thee? A baby cockroach coming from the wall, scurrying past my feet and climbing up a table. This is not a lie. You may say “One cockroach? Who cares?” But bear in mind, Network, that where there is one cockroach, there are literally a thousand more … Net: Does that mean there are a thousand or more Keanus out there, rummaging through our food and spreading their vile diseases while we sleep? so, Networkians, do we have a real complaint about University Dining Services now? I think so. Campuswide ban UDS day is Tuesday, April 18. Tell UDS and Yudof they can wallow in the bacon fat as long as they want, but we won’t stand for vermin and disease! Net: We gotta get a photo of Uncle Yudie up to his knees in bacon fat and cockroaches. That would be a great one for the yearbook.