WE JUST THOUGHT IT …

WE JUST THOUGHT IT WAS JUNE
From Judo Chick: Hail almighty, great, omniscient etc., etc. Network. I bring to you the question that all the people in Netland are pondering: Net: What the hell happened to Peewee? How to tell when summer begins? Is it by the date marked on the calendar? Net: Um … yes? Bah — you foolish innocents, of course not! What about when your fellow overachievers arrive at lecture drenched in sweat after sprinting from one bank to another? Net: Heh heh … ahummm … yes? No, no, no, you poor confused souls, I’ll tell you: the true sign that summer has begun is the appearance of the EVIL MALL PREACHER shouting at all of us that we’re going to Hell. Net: Apparently, no one goes to Hell during a Minnesota winter — that’d be overkill. That and the pretty blossoms on apple trees. Net (acerbic, sing-songy mocking voice): That and the pretty blossoms on apple trees … sheesh.
IT IS USELESS TO RESIST?
From Skeletor: What is all this nonsense about trying to resist King T? Net: What’s the harm in tryin’? Does no one understand the vast powers that he possesses? There is no stopping him. Net: Evacuate?! In our moment of triumph? Wethinks you overestimate his chances. Any pitiful “victories” against Obsequian forces are simply teasing from the King of Terror. It was he that allowed the Alliance to find the location of the shield generator. An entire legion of his finest troops await your friends on the forest moon. How do I know all of this? Net: You watch a lot of the same three movies over and over again? I am his cousin, the Duke of Death by Natural Causes. He used to beat me when our families got together on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Go ahead, send General College off to die — they may never be able to spell Obsequian, but they will weep uncontrollably when Bea Arthur and Mr. T (a relative, of course) beat them with aluminum bats, as seen in “Casino.” Net: OK, make that four. Movies. You are all better off celebrating each day you are still alive by skipping class and humping someone who wants to hump you. Net: Just keep the neighbors’ dog on the other side of the fence … ugh.
TO DIVA …
From Rollerdiva: Dear sweet Net, I have a little confession to make. Net: Roller — girl — you’ve made a lot of confessions lately; but none of what we’re hoping for. I go to the gym every day, and honestly, I hate it. I hate lifting weights, and I hate the treadmill, and I hate using the equipment in the expansion room, because it feels like a gay men’s elite cigar-smoking club circa 1943 back there, only everyone is wearing Sig-Ep fraternity shirts and Adidas athletic pants that snap together on the sides instead of smoking jackets and designer matching cuff links and tie clips. Net: So … what takes the place of the cigars? Seriously guys, I can’t speak for all the buff Rec Center bunnies, but you are all so muscley and intimidating sometimes!
Back to my confession. Here it is! Net, I often use you! Net: Never mind … it WAS the confession we were looking for! Mostly to keep me on the elliptical trainer or stationary bike or heaven forbid, the satanic Nordic Track for an absolute minimum of 20 minutes. I mean, you guys are so snotty and satirical (I LOVE it); Net: Oh stop I often find if I read the Net during my daily aerobic workout I actually finish my workout instead of storming out of the Rec Center in a prima donna-style fit of frustration, which has been known to happen once or twice. But today, my little tricksters, I found I could not cross train and digest Argonaut‘s diva-flattering entry at the same time, and in a fit of giggles, I promptly exited the first floor gym so that I could really concentrate and bask in the flood of pure diva lust and love that I saw before me! Net: Yeah, well, get ready for the other thing …
And what can I say? Duh, Argonaut wants me. I’m a wild, crazy, dirty peroxide-blond, and I wear skirts shorter than most three-year-olds’ attention spans. I mean, do you honestly know any other girl who would remove her panties in the middle of a crowded dance floor — and then sell them for $20.00? (That’s naughty, huh?) And although I’m super flattered by Argonaut and his fabulous reference to Greek and Roman mythology, (which has got me all aflutter — wondering about the size of his, uh, biceps and whether or not he is on the crew team) I will not give out my phone number or e-mail address. Net: Tease! I will, however, encourage him to attend Dr. Date’s super spectacular spring mixer, because in one form or another, Rollerdiva will be there! Net: And so will Citizen, we’re told … on a sub-rosa, recondite assignment. Stay tuned, Networkians.
… OR NOT TO DIVA
From Hugh Giffsaphuk: Okay NiTCHWITCH, Net: ??? After reading your comments in yesterdeys letter from Argonaut, I am compelled to write a response counter-airy to yer expecterations. I don’t want anything to do with the likes of Rollerdiva. In fact, I was riding on the inside of a Circulator bus yesterday afternoon, in the dripping rain, thinking of all the reasons I would hate to date a self-absorbed, haughty, plastique-pseudo-hype facade, a truly chemically invented ego-maniacal personality such as the so called “queen of styles?” “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Net: Pardon-your-French …! Sloppy character. “Look at me! I’m a sandwich, I’m down with Hellmann’s mayonnaise, my cheese is straight from the rolling hills of Wisconsin, my meats, so fresh, from the delicatessen, I am a perfect lunch, lettuce, tomato, all ‘dat!” Net: You got the tomato part right. I already ate, and I feel an illness about me whilst I read these numerous Net: We just can’t help ourselves … entries of her tawny prose; it is frankly irksome to contemplate such a creepy scalawag. Net: Must … print … Rollerdiva … letters … I’ll take a cup of black coffee and smoke a corncob pipe with my neighbor, Roofus. In the end we’ll be happier, and you’ll be hyper-bitter. Net: You weave a curious, gossamer web of shibboleths, Hugh. It is a tone we have not heard since …
As far as your aversion to the titular Rollerdiva, well … not every girl can be Ellie-May Clampett. Good morrow.