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From The Temp King: Note to those who uphold the high standards of this fine (and absorbent!) column: I am not currently a student. Net: Wow … you’re “out there?” What’s that like? Instead, I am living the dream: I have parlayed my many talents and my College of Liberal Arts bachelor’s degree into a fine temp job here at the University. Net: Your neglectful parents must be so proud. Therefore, I am not only able to discuss in two languages the merits and downfalls of a debt-reducing monetary policy, I can process invoices, too! Net: Ever consider an art major?
But that’s not my malaise of the day. Instead, I wanted to comment on the love-stricken lasses who graced your column yesterday. As Matthew Brophy wrote in his Tuesday opinions piece, “How Hallmark bastardizes our love,” just eight pages before, Net: You mean there’s more to this paper than the back page? You couldn’t tell by looking in the window of a coffee shop these women had something else on their minds.
They weren’t looking for a ride on the Smoove B, doggy-style caravan of love. Net: Not that they wouldn’t have bought a ticket … They were writing because they felt that on this, the most depressing of holidays, they deserved men, and not really even men — just someone to present the rewards of couplehood: the flowers, the cards, the feeling that “I made it.” Net: As the Pointer Sisters would say: “Hallelujah.” All wrapped up in a man so bereft of personality, so groin-driven, he would be at home in a porn movie. Net: All men like to think they’d be at home in a porn movie. But then all men probably worry they’d have the fluffer workin’ overtime, too.
As Brophy’s article put it, Valentine’s Day, as dictated by Hallmark, is bastardizing the idea of romance of our country. It tells most of single America that their lives are somehow deficient. Net: As long as there’s “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” we will be feeling exceptionally sufficient, thankyouverymuch.
Let’s change Valentine’s Day around. Let’s bring it back to its pagan roots, making it a day of private carnality instead of showy displays of our romantic status. Net: If we’ve said it once, we’ve said it a thousand times: Pagans rock. Let’s declare that every Feb. 14, instead of being the compulsory Hallmark day, we say to hell with the whole game and run away with the person we have always wanted. Jump that cute teaching assistant. Net: Good advice … there aren’t too many of them, so take advantage of what’s out there. Make a pass at your boss. Net: Even better: Make a pass at the HR manager. Legalize Rohypnol for a day. Net: Why not crack while we’re at it? Pat someone’s bottom Net: without using your hands!! Muzzle the salacious media. Net: Yeah, what he said! Declare obscene phone calls not only legal, but de rigueur. Net: Watch your language. Corrupt a teenager. Net: Just tell ’em Britney Spears is computer generated. It’ll destroy their whole world view.
But then again, if we did that, it’d be a holiday for guys, not women. And Hallmark would have to market other products. Net: Like gawd-awful television specials. And we wouldn’t want that.
P.S. Oh, and sorry for all the long words. I promise that next time I write I’ll talk about blow jobs.
Net: Speaking of …


From Rollerdiva: Net, I graciously accept your offer, and would have loved to be your valentine, except of this one, teeny tiny complication. My T.A. Net: We know all about your T&A … that’s why we wanted you in the first place. I guess he thinks that, like, Joseph Priestly Net: Umm … you mean Jason? Oh, how the mighty have fallen is my life — and when I was a new 14-year-old just developing breasts and pubic hair, Net: TMI and he was on Beverly Hills 90210, like, I totally was, but now that he’s doing experiments with smelly gas and swamp water, Net: What, is he a new character on “Battle Dome” or something? I just can’t say that I find him all that attractive anymore. You see, Net, I opened up my e-mail yesterday, the day of love and lovers reading blissful e-card after e-card of erotic odes and sensual suggestions, anticipating my handsome hunk du jour, when lo — this nasty little message sent at 7 p.m. last Friday appeared telling me that I had a presentation to make the following Tuesday. At 7 p.m. on Friday, as if anybody reads their e-mail on the weekend. Net: We’re still trying to figure out what 90210 has to do with any of this. And we’re dying to get that f&@kin’ theme song out of our head … Ugh! Even George Washington gave Betsy Ross enough notice to party it up with a few kegstands before she sat down to sew Ol’ Glory in its 13 stripedness. Alas, dear Net, I was forced to cancel plans for the night, to learn more about Joey Net: or something P and his smelly gases. Hopefully I’ll make a new boyfriend for the evening in Wilson Library between the history stacks and the Internet kiosks.


From Xeniastar: Dude, Kung FuNet: One must be afraid, very afraid, when an entrant begins a sentence with “Dude.” It’s simply a bad omen. Think about how boring your life would be if there were no self-sacrificing Net: Translation: misguided, aloof and occasionally pitiful artists out there to make cool stuff. No music, no dance, no murals, no nude sculpture … I presume you plan to make a lot of money in whatever career path you have chosen (woo, I bet THAT will be fascinating!). Net: Waittaminnit … what’s wrong with wanting to be an alcoholic parking-lot attendant? But once you’re old and decrepit, you will look back on your life and wish you had done something creative, artistic or at least fun at some point. Net: Well, we did go to one of those paint-your-own-coffee-mug places once. It was somewhat creative, perhaps even mildly artistic. But it was certainly not fun. Some people choose to spend their lives doing something fulfilling without the almighty dollar as the main goal, Net: Translation: sleeping and some people just wish they could be so brave. Net: Translation: lazy So suck it up, thank your artist friends and don’t come crying to me when the extra 23.7 years that have been added to your life totally blow. Net: Somehow, we always come back to Rollerdiva .