SUSAN B. GONE
From Phlegm of Discontent: Beginning in March of this year, the U.S. Mint will release a dollar coin featuring Sacajawea, whomever that is. Net: Your worst bloody freakin’ nightmare, that’s whom. I might be old-fashioned, but my opinion is that U.S. currency should feature important people or things that symbolize our nation, like William Tecumseh Sherman, crossed artillery pieces or even Clara Barton. Net: Bill Gates pissing on a Macintosh gets our vote. Personally, I think one side should feature a mushroom cloud and the reverse should show Hitler and Hirohito being crushed under an American boot heel, harkening back to the glory days of the 1940s when the world was our oyster and the A-bomb was the fork to pry it open.
On a related note, someone — I don’t know who — Net: It had to be the guy who played Wojciehowicz on “Barney Miller.” That clueless bastard proposed doing away with one-dollar bills and just using dollar coins. This is a blatantly idiotic idea. Paper money weighs less and is a lot harder to lose under the couch cushions. Not only that, but having a thick sheaf of ones makes me feel rich. Sure, I’d rather have a stack of twenties, but I just don’t have that kind of cash. Besides, I’d rather put a dollar bill in a stripper’s G-string than a coin Net: Well, you could always pop it in … oh, never mind. And I’m sure as hell not using fives. Now if WHATCHOOTALKINBOUT?
you’ll excuse me, I have to go whip some Susan B. Anthony dollars at the idiot drivers on the highway.
From Panda Horror: Lord Net Almighty, have I got a disturbing story for you. Actually, it’s not a story, but a dream that came to me late last night — a vision of sorts, and a really twisted one at that. Net: It couldn’t be as bad as the one that had our underoos in a bundle throughout the ’80s — we were on “The Love Raft,” out in the middle of some ocean with Doc, Gopher, et. al., and Isaac kept pointing at us in that sassy way of his. Oh, the horrors. The dream began with me walking down a long, white, narrow hallway, which naturally led to a door. When I opened the door, I discovered none other than Gary Coleman sprawled out naked upon a bed, with a big bright smile on his little brown face. I froze in horror for a couple seconds, which provided him enough time to say this to me: “Bump it, Panda Fag! I got my Ho Pump on!” Net: Well, the world don’t move to the beat of just one … thumb? Then he immediately commenced masturbating, his face contorting in odd — nay, unnatural — ways. I quickly turned to exit the room, not desiring to see this sick s##!t, but found the door locked, at which point Mr. Coleman belted out some more inscrutable and perverse hideousness: “Choke that serpent! YEAH! Choke it up and down! I’m the Candy Man! Shed your bitch-ass skin! YEAH!” Net: What would Mr. Drummond think? At this point, I mercifully awoke, horrified, and ran to my computer to detail this blighted mystery. But WE NEEDY GRAFFITI
although I can recall what happened, Net, I need your healing wisdom to discern the true meaning. Until then, well … I don’t know. Net: Sorry, but you might wanna hook up with Dr. Date on this one. We wouldn’t touch this with a 10-foot (Dana) Plato.
From MOZ: Dear Net, long-time reader, first-time writer. Here’s my gripe: What’s the deal with all the graffiti in the men’s restrooms on campus? Net: You mean you didn’t hear that graffiti is considered a protected form of expression nowadays? Take away an uppity punk’s graffiti and you might as well cut him off at the knees. It’s like there’s a holy war goin’ on. You’ve got the perverts writing how they’ve been acting inappropriately in said restrooms vs. the Christian Coalition that is continually chiding them for their actions. I’m just wondering if all the theological, political and social commentary going on in the bathrooms might warrant a new course here at the University. Net: If freshman seminars can sneak through, anything can. Yudof could put it in the philosophy section of the course guide by just calling it “Contemporary Social AYE-AYE-AYE-AYE-AYE!!!
Conundrums of the Crapper” or something. There is nothing I would find more satisfying than taking a dump and getting college credit for it. What do you think? Net: Since you asked, we think spending time in the crapper is at least as good a use of time as sitting in a Rocks for Jocks lab. Except the company is better in the john.
From Child-Like Empress: Hi, Net. Net: Wuzzup. I just moved to 17th and Como from a western suburb over winter break. I wanted to get closer to campus life and away from the apron strings of my mother — who demanded a phone call every evening I wanted to chill at the Purple Onion past 9:30. So … I’m close to Dinkytown now, and in 15 minutes I could be at Folwell Hall if I make all the “Walk” signs. Now get this: I register for a women’s studies class this spring semester, and guess where the class meets? EDINA! Net: Cake-eater central, baby — where the hockey players don’t check and the groupies don’t care. My Women in U.S. Popular Culture Net: Call us so we can make the Sacajawea lecture class is held at the Edina Center for the Arts! Granted, the description in the Course Guide warned me of this location — but the description also mentioned a topic of discussion would be Xena (the warrior princess) so I just HAD to register. (Gotta love leather 🙂 ) Now that I’m out of my parents’ house, I can get away with taking women’s studies classes without my father yelling at me for “wasting” Net: his money on my education on “artsy-fartsy” stuff like how Gloria Steinem views Madonna’s “Material Girl” phase. Net: If you ask us, “Material Girl” definitely ranks as one of Madonna’s best videos, right up there with “Vogue” and “Papa Don’t Preach.” One advantage to the Edina location is the selection of both Coke AND Pepsi machines from the cafe. A disadvantage is that I move from one uppity suburb to another and, worst of all, there are no Minnesota Dailys delivered way out in cake-eater town. Net: We’re flattered you miss us so. We’d love to help, but our pull around the office was limited to getting Squirt in the pop machine.