Net: We barely foun…

Net: We barely found time to write today’s column, what with our campaign headquarters (the handicapped stall in the Omnipotents’ lavatory) all atwitter over our last-second, anti-chalk, grass-roots campaign for the MSA presidency/vice presidency.
Oh, merriment indeed ruled in that double-wide, red-white-and-chartreuse-bedecked stall. Several of our campaign bitch-lackeys frolicked on the gimp bar while some die-hard hangers-on slurped at the “punch bowl.” We just sorta hung out by the towel bar on the back of the door, wondering why anyone would need a towel bar in the handicapped stall, and surveyed the madcapness of it all.
But alas, victory was not to be ours. Not this year. Those … other people … won, and we pledge to, ahem, uh, sorta, well … SCREW ‘EM! Oh, we know, gotta-be-a-good-loser and all that horse-hockey, but would you expect your Network to kowtow to a buncha herky-jerky crackpot Republicrat wanna-bes? HELL, NO!
We shall fight to advance our aggressive heated-outdoor-smoking-shelters-and-lots-of-Stairmasters agenda at the convention! We shall pledge to shed those unsightly pounds! We shall speak the word, brothas and sistas! Now is not the time to rest!
(Yawn.) On the other hands, ‘sbeen a long day, and we’ve used way too many hyphens. On with the hum-drum …

IT WAS PROFESSOR PLUM!!

From Zata Vickers, Professor, Department of Food Science and Nutrition: Did you know that the unicyclist you referred to in “One Track Mind” is Kevin Gilbertson? Net: No, we didn’t, but we assume this is the part where you explain to us why we give a rip. Kevin is a many-time national and world champion unicyclist. Net: Yeah, well, we’re the reigning zit-popping champion of Region Six. Let’s have a parade! He has contributed hundreds of hours of his time to the local and national unicycling organizations, teaching others to unicycle, Net: 1) Hop on. b) Don’t fall. III) Giddy-up. helping to edit newsletters, designing and updating Web sites, designing graphics, etc. He shared your column with the international unicycling community today via their e-mail listserv. Net: Yeah, we know. Some Idaho po-dunk chucked in his two cents. Insults abound below. Those of us who know Kevin are amazed at your ignorance and sad that you showed it in such an unkind way. Net: Are you sore about the circus-clown cracks? Suck it up, prof. Don’t you have a class you should be busy ignoring?

OR WAS IT COL. MUSTARD?
From Joe in Idaho: Net: Those people in that meeting the other day were adamant about it, but we said, “No friggin’ way. We will go to our deathbed with the belief that people from the forgotten state of Idaho can indeed rhyme.” Vindication is sweet. I am not the unicyclist mentioned who has been riding on your campus, but I do ride and love it. Net: Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I don’t even attend your campus and would not like to be seen in such a closed-minded environment. Net: Perhaps some of you should get together and start a student group. Make a fees request. Call yourselves Dedicated Unicycling Horde (DUH). If you don’t like the way he looks, then look the other way. He at least has found a way to enjoy life that does not involve insulting other people. Net: We pity the fool. I doubt if he even cares what you think of him, he is no doubt just enjoying himself. Please try to find some positive interests of you own. Net: We did. It’s called masturbation. But you don’t see us out doing that in public, do you? Oh, wait … never mind.

PERHAPS MISS SCARLET
From Rollerdiva: Dear Net, It warms my darkest neither regions Net: “Neither regions?” What’re you, a hermaphrodite? to know that my comfort at night is one of your super concerns. But no, I have not been shopping for mattresses, but rather, gathering the definitive information on beer-stylin’ pantylines. Net: We might be moderately interested if we weren’t so caught up in the joys of mastur … uh, unicycling. Please allow me to share with the campus the results of my hands-on research. Most men — at least the one’s who photograph those spicy GQ, Gear and Maxim editorial models — prefer their girls sans panties, especially when those girls are wearing skirts 18 inches long or less. Net: Ever since that pixie from “Clarissa Explains It All” shed the chains of repression in one of those mags, we’ve been a believer. Thus, we find ourselves unicycling a lot. Personally, having taken my cues from those truly trendy Mac kids who did me up last weekend, I like to wear my low-cut hip-huggin’ pants with a quarter-inch of panties playing peek-a-boo below my belly button. Net: We like to pull our Banalon polyester double-knit trousers up about 6-8 inches above our belly button, throw on some knee-high black socks and go mow the lawn. Or maybe unicycle. You do your thing, we do ours. I also encourage all of you ladies to show your trou, ever so delicately and deliberately. Most guys get a kick out of a woman who has the confidence to bear her unmentionables in an open arena. Net: Thus, the ever-popular “Show us your t!ts!!” chant often heard while unicyc … er, rafting down a certain Wisconsin river. In my ever-ongoing adventures I have run across Net: or at least over the occasional idiot who can think of nothing better to say to a trou-tressed girl than, “Uhh, I like your undies!!!” This is invariably the same breed of idiot who thinks you are making eyes at him when you look over you shoulder to change lanes on the freeway, Net: So what you’re saying is, if we let some chick merge into our lane, she isn’t interpreting that as the international symbol for “pull over and let’s get our groove on?” or the guy with whom you had one night of passion, and he just won’t stop calling you every Friday night. Net: We’d appreciate if you’d leave any discussion of our personal relationship out of the Net domain. Perhaps we could discuss this tomorrow night. Let me stress — Every Friday night! Since I have always been blessed with superior Net: oral social skills I am at a loss as to what moronic thought processes are available to these obviously incapable men.
Net: All we want to know is why the hell you’d ever kill someone with a wrench in the conservatory.