OK, OK. So we called spring a little early. Our prescience extends into the realms of international/interplanetary conflict, apocalyptic events and prime-time soap operas — not into the realms of weather. We do know that the University ain’t cancellin’ classes today.
HOLD THE INFLAMMATORY
From Phlegm of Discontent: OK, so the other day, I was wearing my Hitler costume (my French maid costume was at the cleaner’s) at a KKK rally while eating a big, fat, juicy hamburger and washing it down with a bottle of moonshine. Just as I was getting my chainsaw to go chop down those Indian burial trees, this hippie flower child runs up to me and demands that I stop running over rare short-eared rabbits in my 1973 Buick Gas Guzzler. Net: That’s an Electra 225. Smoooooth … Well! I would have none of that! I told Bobo, my new lab monkey, to use his computer implant (Y2K compliant of course) to summon up my genetically engineered clones. In short order, my jack-booted minions had crushed the pitiful resistance put up by the flower child and her hemp-smoking friends. My stormtroopers rounded them up and sent them to Bangladesh, where they could protest the Iraqi economic sanctions. Unfortunately for them, they and their commune were washed out to sea in one of that country’s frequent monsoons. Victorious, I went to the nearest veggie bar, ordered a steak (rare), and smoked a big black Cuban cigar while cutting welfare from the federal budget. Then, my evil, nuclear-powered squirrels invaded campus, ripped up the Mariucci lots to put in a visitor center and made everyone pay for the Coffman renovation. Once again, I have triumphed in the face of outrageous misfortune. (Insert maniacal laughter here). Net: AH, HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!!! NOW WE’LL JUST SIT BACK AND WAIT FOR THE LETTERS TO ROLL IN, HEH-HEH. Thanks, Phlegm, you just gave us fodder for the rest of the week.
DR. DATELESS
From Rob Plant: All right, somebody has to say it. Dr. Date is no longer the interesting phenomenon it once was. How many times can we read about people who are actually scared to speak with other people? I don’t claim to be a “Don Juan” or even a “Don Johnson.” Net: Or Crockett. Or Tubbs. Or Nash Bridges. Hell, I couldn’t get a date for all the Cheese Whiz in China (roughly two jars).
To vent my anger, I wrote a haiku, though I must confess I’m not much of a writer. Net: Yeah, and haiku day was yesterday. But hell, it’s the last week of the quarter. We’ll oblige.
Does the girl like me?
Head swirls with confusion like
Water down toilet.
Anyway, I’m off to watch some animal porn. Oh, to all the anti-vivisection folk: Let’s stop killing monkeys and start killing dolphins. Whoops, gotta go sip a James Page beer, and listen to my favorite band.
ANOTHER DATELESS WONDER
From That Bus Person on Como: Oh most merciful Network, here my plea. I was riding the Campus Connector on Wednesday around 1:30 p.m. and this guy got on and stood behind me. He had morbid sarco-penile obesity, and he was rubbing his package up against my back, and every time I’d turn around, he’d make his mouth and corresponding hand into a donut shape and press his cheek outward with his tongue, you know, that one thing strippers do when they mime fellatio. Yeah, but I was too shy to say hello or anything. So then, morbidly obese guy with the sounds of labored breathing, you know who you are and if you read this maybe we could hook up and get freaky. Net: Don’t encourage him, people. And we said the hook-up letters were over.
MONKEY AND THE ENGINEER, PART DEUX
From Grimace: So I guess everyone near campus must read the Network cuz my boss called me last night. Net: There’s a line of logic just begging for explanation. Apparently the guy that came in with the monkey read the letter. Net: See: Network for Wed., March 3, 1999. My boss said he stormed in, no monkey this time, looking for me waving a copy of the Daily in his face. “How dare he write that letter. When I get a piece of him …” blah blah blah. My boss tried to calm him down and told him that he had already talked to me about it. In reality, he probably laughed the hardest when I showed him the paper. I’m not really worried about monkey-man though. He seemed like a bigger guy, but he has a tall haircut, so I think I could take him. And anyway, how tough could he be without his monkey? Net: Don’t be surprised if he shows up with Bonzo. You out there, Monkey-man? We want your side!
HEY JUDE
From Franke, My Dear to Judge Judy: I don’t care to hear your jealous rants of dismay concerning a couple’s public display of affection. It’s cute; inspiring, really. Ponder this, affection-hating biatch: Net: The future of space exploration? Our expanding universe? The arrival of King T? A torrent of cheering fools will encircle and further instigate a brooding fight between two individuals (normally between two guys with testosterone and alcohol spilling from their pores, but occasionally we are blessed with the ever-glorious “cat-fight.” Oh, the erotic undertones!), but should a bit of affection be flaunted, should a small taste of compassion and tenderness be displayed to the public eye, and lonely boxes like yourself go nuts. Net: Ponder this, Franke: Your last sentence, containing five adjectives, six verbs, a parenthetical phrase, four adverbs, five clauses, 15 nouns and no subject, is incomplete. I have now deduced that you and your kind are the plague of our social structure. You advocate hostility before you praise affection and love; you cater to your own lonesome agenda in hopes of not feeling so abandoned and forlorn as you no doubt do. I’m sorry if you have no one to kiss your chapped and peeling lips, but you will not succeed in your plan to rid the world of affection. I refuse to let you! Go gentle, tender lovers.
