GENETIC HERETIC
From Timbo: Hey Network, I just wanted to send a pre-emptive note to all of the animal-rights wackos and general anarchists who are planning to “stop the mad scientists in their tracks” at the genetics conference next week: When you end up with a face full of tear gas and an ass full of police baton, I don’t want to hear any whining about excessive force. Net: Yeah, because those people are “asking for it” by appearing in public and daring to exercise their First Amendment rights! Those naive fools!
Putting up with your Camp Coldwater bullsh*t and watching Bullard dangle from Moos Tower for a week was bad enough. Net: We thought that was entertaining. How often can you watch a guy precariously hanging from a tent off a 20-story building for nearly seven days? It made the walk to class a bit less mechanical. Now you’re disrupting traffic, wasting my tax dollars Net: Wasting tax dollars? Oh my, have you been listening to Soucheray again? and causing events to be cancelled Net: That sounds like repercussions from the University’s construction projects. — and that’s BEFORE THE CONFERENCE EVEN STARTS! When you make that next brave step to middle-of-the-night terrorism and breaking windows on Nicollet Mall, I hope they send you all, one at a time, for a little private chat with Lt. Mike Sauro. Net: So you’re basically saying that protesters should be handcuffed and beaten by police, as Sauro was accused of seven years ago. See Net readers, this is what listening to right-wing radio does for you. Let’s make it easy on all of us. E-mail your smelly, long-haired, heroin shooting, pole smoking, pain in the ass, nothing-better-to-do-with-their-worthless-lives friends and tell them to bring a fishing pole instead of a tire iron. Net: Right, fish while you can, before they make them all have three heads and bird-like wings. Head up to the lake, wet a line, violate the rights of a few crappies and try to come up with something better to do with your time and energy. Net: Yeah, why protest what could be a scientific trend toward mass famine and environmental disaster when instead you can be watching “Survivor?”
LET ME IN!
From Deskbitch hater: Dear Net: You don’t suck. Net: That’s so sweet. Actually, I like to read you sometimes. OK, now down to the real gripe that I wanted to share in the hallowed halls of Networkia: I’m taking two credits this summer. Net: That’s two credits, for double the fun. Woo-hoo, right, but here’s the deal … I’m entering my senior year now, after paying this University nearly 20,000 hollow bones, and I can’t get into the Rec Center in the summer. Now that sucks.
I’ll tell you the story Net: Wonderful. Enlighten us. (it’s a good one). One day my buddy and I show up at the Rec to play a little game of racquetball. Net: It is a little game, with little racquets, a little ball, little men with little … It’s 7 p.m., and neither one of us have our student identification on us (whoops). Net: Didn’t they brand that on your arm during freshman orientation? They told us we had to. And they made us wear those Spam T-shirts. But it’s happened many times before, and the drone working the desk usually asks for our Social Security and ID numbers. Net: The same goes for the guy outside the Daily’s bathroom. We call him “Billy.” This time, though, we meet up with this guy who takes his position of deskbitch more seriously than a security guard at the White House. He said to us in his little-man voice “I’m sorry (lisp), we’ve been having problems with that, yeah, sorry, I can’t let you in.” Net: You just would have hurt yourself anyway. OK, first time it has happened, we think. So, we swallow our pride and go home. A day later we come back, this time at 7:30 p.m. to get in a quick half-hour of physical activity. Net: You have never gotten in a “quick half hour of physical activity.” We’ve talked with your girlfriend before. With IDs in hand ready to show this little sh*tbag we’re worthy to hang out in his place of quasi-employment, Net: With real quasi-desks and quasi-computers! we get cockblocked again! He swipes my card and is about to let us in, and then says “(lisp) Sssso, how many creditss are you taking thiss ssummer?” (He already knows by looking at his little screen) Net: Or perhaps he’s an omnipotent cyborg. I say: “Two.” He says, “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t let you in.” Me and my friend were furious. We collectively wasted 2 hours of our time now, driving to the Rec from the burbs. Net: In an SUV, right? He asked us to pay five bucks for about 25 minutes of racquetball. Net: If you think about it, that’s pretty similar to paying about $200 a credit to go to school here. About five bills for all you out-of-staters out there. Christ! First of all, I’ve worked out at the Rec about 10 times in the summer before without having any problem. Second, we’re going to work out for 30 minutes and we’ve already paid this school sh*tloads of money in the past. Net: Not including the numerous student-to-professor bribes and the thousands of dollars spent on much-needed brain-killing beer necessary to live on this Earth. Really, who’s it going to hurt besides this little boy’s pride? Lastly, who the f**k is this guy and why is he such a dickhead? Net: Chances are he’s not gonna ever let you in again after he sees this letter. You’re really shooting yourself in the foot. So, just to let everyone know, don’t go to the Rec Center unless you have a said number of credits. Net: Or shoes soled with “Flubber,” a magical compound that will allow you to “jump” over the front desk and safely onto a cross-training machine. Also, I’m scheming against this bastard. Next time I go in, I will have a large orange Slurpy that I will conveniently set on his little happy-time desk and then whoops! Sh*t, I spilled it all over your little-man penis. Happy trails. Net: Unless it’s a really hot day, then maybe he’ll enjoy a nice Slurpy-on-the-pants. That’s how they cool down in Mississippi, we’ve heard.
SAMPLED LYRICS
From PUSH ME PULL ME: This goes out to Brain Of J: Awesome pseudonym, my (apparent) fellow “J”amily member! At the risk of making the oh-so-sacred Pearl Jam lyric book vulnerable to Net’s ever-dulling potty-brand “wit” (but, hey, I read it, don’t I?) Net: Yeah you do. But do we read Pearl Jam lyrics? Not bloody likely.