News from the front…

News from the front lines: In an unsettling defeat, the King of Terror’s insidious Cardinal Obsequian Operative vanquished secret NITWIT special forces on the eve of the weekend. Heavy losses reported; morale is down at NITWIT headquarters. Details are sketchy — we’ll bring you more this week as we continue to get word.
From MoFo KoKo Fro Joe Slayer: No one ever takes the time to say how much the Network sucks (Need not be a derogatory term; who doesn’t like being sucked?). Net: The hickey-prone, for one. Well, in the purgatory one might call physics class at 8:00 a.m., I came up with a little bit-o-haiku-o-crap-o:

Sleep soundly I might
But he talks of spark and charge
I read the Network

Ready to kill all bystanders in my line of thought, I go forth with willing might to seize and destroy all with liberty, and on the horrid thought that I might make less sense than the Animal Liberation Front, I say with total delusion, eat chicken with glee. Net: And barbecue sauce.
From Peewee: Oh PowerMac, you silly little twit. If you and Rollerdiva had actually spent any time investigating the greek system, Net: Leave that to the Panhellenic Council instead of embracing the usually unfunny stereotypes, you would have noticed that we don’t all wear Abercrombie & Fitch. We all wear Tommy Hilfiger, ya retard. We jumped off the A&F bandwagon quite awhile ago and if you had a pair of eyes and an I.Q. higher than that of a sofa, you would see that Tommy is what we wear now in order to fit in and be accepted with our brothers. Why? Simple, it costs more — and with it we can better show off our parents’ wealth in order to impress others. Geez PowerMac — get with the times. There is nothing more sad and pathetic than a random who can’t get things right. Net: Except a man in the depths of an ether binge … erm … something like that.
From Canadian FBI: Network, I’m sad to say that despite my instant fame, fortune and guest appearance on The Rosie O’Donnell Show that is standard fare for all those who have been published in your column, Net: Soon to come: messy relationships with models and movie stars, months in Hazelden and a death-defying exhaustion breakdown in the Viper Room’s V.I.P. lounge — thanks to your second appearance women simply still refuse to throw themselves at me. So there I was, lamenting another dateless Friday filled with chemistry tests, UDS “food,” and the occasional game of NBA Jam, when what should come to rescue me but a helpful IT comrade writing in response to my letter! I carefully read Tiggs‘ instructions and headed down to Ferguson Hall with a differential equations book to go mack on the first girl without glasses I saw. Sure enough, all it took was the few magic words, “Would you like to see my natural log?” and she was all over me like scandal on a Minnesota basketball player. Net: Wow! We went back to her place (odd seeing a dorm room without a “Star Wars” poster), put on some Isaac Hayes and got down to some “Moonlight Lovin’.” Or not. Perhaps I shouldn’t be looking for more than a girl who will proofread my papers, but such are the high standards of the CFBI and IT honors. I do find it a bit hard to swallow that women get turned on by vector calculus — maybe if I wore a pocket protector and slide rule like Tiggs I could get some.
From The Porn Star: A warning to all of you who groom your privates. After consuming six beers and a quarter bottle of Jim Beam, it is NOT a good idea to trim your stuff, especially with a pointy-ended scissors. Net: Especially while running. I, however, made that mistake Friday night. After awaking Saturday morning and being startled that I had purple nail polish on my toenails and couple small droplets of blood on by boxer shorts, I realized what had happened. It came back to me slowly in short mental blurps. Early in the night I had done a drunken grooming job. I remembered being very intoxicated and wearing swimming goggles, a plastic headband and women’s underpants over my clothes. Net: Did you hook some computer diodes up to a women’s magazine, create a beautiful companion and proceed throw the party of the century despite the demands of your oppressive older brother? And yes, there it was, a girl had painted my toenails. I was slightly relieved to have found that I had not added the nail polish to my feet myself and that the wounds were self inflicted. The moral of this story is clear: lay off the liquor and stick to beer.
From PINGPONGHATR: Oh great Network! What’s going on? Net: An apocalyptic war, and we’re losing. Do you like pingpong? Net: Do you like movies about gladiators? Anyway, I’m a commuter. I car pool with my buds, park for $1.25 and then head on over to Coffman Union to chill before my first class. I know the topic I’m about to bring up is old, but the more I think about it, the more I want to set buildings on fire. Net: Pyromania is, indeed, as old as flints and sticks. This great University is considered a commuter school — correct? So that means that the majority of the people who attend the University commute here right? Okay … so why the hell are they messin’ with a bunch of commuter goods next year???? First of all, they’re ripping up a parking lot, no, CAR POOL parking lot (one that helps the planet), so that they can build a freakin’ women’s pingpong arena. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re tearing down, erm — I mean “renovating,” one of the only places were I can study/sleep/chill. And yet, every day I get a stupid e-mail saying that the University loves us commuters SOOOO much and that they want us to have the best here. Bull honky. I’m just letting y’all know that I’m gonna egg that stupid pingpong arena.