Net: Networkia has …

Net: Networkia has been a cluster [email protected] of very evil people lately. We have received your e-mails and deemed them unfit to print on a Friday before break. In that vein, we’ll save your drinking antics (including a disgusting open car window story) for Monday or Wednesday. Or whenever we damn well please. Keep ’em comin’. Until then, someone we have a golf date with in a week (we’re hoping for a kiss) has something to say about something. Something something. Something.
SASSALICIOUS
From Sass Appeal: So anyway … I got this job, right? Net: Right. It’s a nice deal, working with “computers” and stuff. Net: We “care.”
And they flew me out to Sasscramento, Calif., for training, right? Net: Zuh? They set me up in this corporate housing or whatever, which is sweet and all, but they kinda left out the whole “night life” part of the equation. Net: The “night moves” are “nonexistent?” This is Net. This is Net not caring. From 6 p.m. on, I’m on my own. And so a guy like me tends to get bored. What can I do … my girl’s not here, I can’t find a driving range, and it’s Scrotumento, for chrissakes! Net: Porn. So I turned to the only other option, besides going solo at a local townie bar — porn, and lots of it. Net: We know all, see all and have a page down button.
Which brings us to the meat of the story, if you will. Net: We’re going to go out on a limb and guess that Sass is a guy. Extra meaty. Nevermind. There’s a huge smut emporium here in Ballsacramento, called the Gold Club or something or other. Net: We call it Wal-Mart. Swanky place … you walk through beads hung from the door with Scotch tape. Net: And senior citizens greet you at the front door. Who could ask for anything more? Pornmentos.
Anyway, I entered this palace of pleasures the other day, in search of somethin’ appropriately nasty, and there she stood: A certifiable porn star. Net: Mom? We didn’t know she was in Sassassquatchitanemento, Calif. Dirty wench.
Fake rack, bleach blond and all. Net: S’pose it coulda been dad too … After a Chaplin-esque triple-take I identified her: Her name was Jill Kelly, and I was “familiar” with her “work.” Net: The Daily is currently hiring … And so I’m thinking to myself, “What the hell kinda porn shop is this? Porn queens meandering through the isles of sin? Am I in heaven … Net: DUN DUN DUHHHHH! or hell?” As it turns out, she was doing a “signing.” Net: We hate to ask (we’re even blushing a little) but what was she signing? And it was apparently a slow day. Perhaps the perverse men of Sasscramento were busy mowing their lawns or cleaning the garage or whatever. Net: Or perhaps they were masturbating. But as it turned out, it was pretty much me and Jill Kelly kickin’ it in the Gold Club.
So I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded American man/pervert would do: I tried to act cooooooool. “Oh yeah, I’m cool. Just hangin’ out in the porn shop. Oral? Cool. Anal? Cool.” But I think she got wise to my act. Net: Things to do this weekend: Visit Sasquatatchitan and go to a porn barn. “Hey,” she said, in not a particularly saucy way, “What’s up?” I was tempted to fire back with a hearty, “Whassuuuuuuuup!?!” but thought better. Net: Smooth as ice, champ. “Not too much,” I stammered. “How you doin’?” And no, I sounded nothing like Joey on “Friends.” But in the back of my pervert-in-training mind-a-groovin’ bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm tune was piping up. There would be no lewd and lascivious carnal acts taking place this day, however. Net: Heavy petting? Just some pleasant conversation with a woman whose earning potential is influenced heavily by whether she takes it in the ass. Net: That’s a little distracting, we suppose. (Which is not so different from your typical office job, when you think about it.)
I eventually found myself sitting at her little Net: Sticky? signing table, my attention occasionally diverted to a stack of 8×10 black-and-white glossy photos in which her special purpose was prominently displayed. Net: “Special” purpose? Like driving a short bus and taking care of ill elderly porn stars? You can tell where our minds are. But rather than discuss her fellatio technique or suggest a raucous game of “Truth or Dare,” she ended up asking me a lot of questions. What do I do, where do I live, etc. I should have lied and said I was an investment banker, Net: Or a porn star hoping to work on a few moves. Yajackass. here on holiday from my island in the South Pacific. But I told the ho-hum truth. Net: A drunk who got lost on the way to McDonald’s? She has relatives in Minnesota, oddly enough. Oh yeah, and she’s danced at a few clubs up there, she said. She asks me what I do with myself during the “fucking cold” winter. Net: We’ve never been cold enough that we’ve had an uncontrollable urge to have sex, but we’re going home to sit our asses on some dry ice ifyaknowwhatwe’resayin’. I just kind of glance at the rows of multimedia porn and toys surrounding us, shrug, and say, “I’ll give you one guess.” She laughs. “Yeah, you Midwest boys are horny suckers,” sounding like a porn star for the first time. Umm, yeah … I guess you’re right. Net: Damn straight.
Well, to make a brutally long story short, I bid my new buddy adieu when a couple of prototypical rednecks walked in the door. Net: Not in Sassquatchinental! I’m serious — grease stains on their shirts and everything. But I did pick up a Jill Kelly film on the way out, just for old times sake.
Later, Net. If you print this whole thing, you’re a superstar.
Net: We’d be superstars if we didn’t print this. Because, after all, we are Net and you are not. Until the next time (or the time after that), peaceouty’allanddon’tforgettotipyourwaitresses.