BEAT IT? From Th…


From The Feeble Wookie: It seems as though last week’s Dr. Date column about the boner-getting bus rider has caused a bit of a stir around campus. Net: That’s the thing about Dr. Date … he tries his hardest. I’ve heard the situation being discussed around campus numerous times. Females seem to be shocked by this wood-wielding madman, and guys just seem to think it’s funny. Net: Increased localized blood flow is always comedy gold. I think the female population must be a bit naive about boners, so I will try to fill them in –no pun intended. Just because a guy gets a boner doesn’t mean that he is aroused in any sort of way. Net: It also doesn’t mean he’s not. And now you are closer to understanding the mystery of the boner. I think we’ve all been plagued with the dreaded “math-class boner” — the unexplained erection that shows up during an early morning class. This is probably only a continuation of morning wood, the recurring boner that greets me and countless other males each morning upon waking up. Mysterious boners do not limit themselves to mornings, either. Net: Think of them as missionaries of the flesh; they go where the spirit takes them. Like Beavis once said, “I get morning wood in the late afternoon.” Strangely, a boner does not always equal sexual arousal — sometimes it just happens. I hope girls will be a bit more informed and not jump to the conclusion that this guy rides the bus, gets incredibly aroused and sprouts a stiffy. Net: Well, how could he not? Is there not something terribly arousing about the idea of taking a trip with the meek and mute? BUT, I do actually know the guy who wrote in, and he is a bit freaky like that, and he’s probably as aroused as Michael Jackson at a boy scout meating (sic). Net: Sick, indeed.

From J. Nuggwalker: So I’ve decided to lose my virginity … that is, my virginity of never having written to Network before. Net: Your flower is now ours, and may we forever bask in its scent. Lately I’ve noticed many ads in the Daily of stress management and relaxation techniques. I’d like to present one of my own. Net: You’re reading ours. Rather than spend money on your stress, which is ironic considering how much of that stress stems from financial constraints, try this. Whenever you have a half-hour or so to spare, Net: Which is also unlikely, because much of said stress stems from not having enough time to spare take a walk down to the ol’ Mississippi, find a quiet spot to sit by yourself and just think. Don’t listen to music, study or sleep. Just think about whatever is on your mind Net: Such as Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, for example. If you smoke, fire one up (a heater or otherwise), but just chill by yourself for awhile. As a senior in IT, I know what stress is. Net: And if you’re one of the IT guys described in the next entry, the value of you being off by yourself is considerable. As a good student, I know what relaxation is. Time alone, like whiskey, puts things in perspective.

From PAKman: Oh, glorified Network, Net: You imply that we seem more excellent than might actually be the case. We can assure you, sir, that is a dead-balls accurate assertion. my plebeian plea is simple, and I appear at your doorstep seeking a venue to present my humble appeal to the denizens of the computer labs in the EE/CSCI building. Bold signs in these labs foretell the adverse fate of one who brings in food or drink, does not sign up for a machine or, heaven forbid, prints something accidentally. Net: What lives the morally deprived rule-breakers out there must lead. Why, disobeying those signs is as societally corrupt as jaywalking! Nevertheless, once you boldly step into this salad bowl of supergeeks, you realize the flagrant signs that accost you provide mere camouflage for the true evil that lurks beneath: B.O.! A stench arises from the pits of the lab — no pun intended — Net: Oh, yes there was, you sneaky little devil that makes nostrils flare and heads spin in disgust. This particular brand of odor would put that ol’ Arnold out on “Green Acres” to shame. Hell hath no fury like an engineer that showereth not! Net: Besides, of course, the fury of the nasal passages that encounter said stench!
My olfactory senses can take it no more. I must cry out in distress. Not only do these labs have an intrinsic musty smell to them, but coupled with the fishy stench emanating from the chemical engineers who refuse to leave the lab for fear of foregoing their beloved computers to their equally stinky electrical counterparts, the damn labs become even a mortician’s nightmare. Net: At least they have formaldehyde to dull the edge. At this point, I would like to make a suggestion to the lab administrators: Why not sell $5 gift certificates, in addition to print cards, that could be redeemed for a bar of soap and deodorant at Harvard Market? Net: Five dollars? Is the market having a sale? And to those engineers who actually look away from their terminals long enough to read this: YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. YOU’RE THE ONES THE CLEAN-CUT PEOPLE ARE SNICKERING AT!!!

From Panthasupporta: Check it, Network — you gots to be facin’ up to da fax: Net: The number is 627-4159. Face that, dog yore Network “regulars” all suck my big beautiful balls; all pedestrian and s##!t, ya hear what I be sayin’? Net: You had us at hello. You had us at hello. If you wants to be havin’ people likin’ yo ‘Work, den you gots to be puttin’ in some other peeps to fill up da bigass spaces. Sheet, dog! Dat Phlegm “boy” and Obi don’t be sayin’ nuttin’ dats gettin’ my ass up and groovin’. Net: Here you go: Rocket Fuel Malt Liquor! Damn! Do ya hear what I be sayin’, crackas!? But shee-at, don’t be takin’ out my Rolla-ho. Dat bitch got some style! She be like a Diva and s##!t — like Janet Jackson, Net: Slut Missy Eliot Net: (Big) butt and Elton John. Net: Nut. Hey Rolla! Wheneva you be gettin’ da jibe, why don’t you roll yo thick hot ass over here, and you can be tastin’ my fruity pebbles and s##!t. Net: Turning trix ain’t for kids. I know you got some junk in yo trunk. I be out.