Net: Sub-topic for …

Net: Sub-topic for the rest of the week: Should Elmo live or die? If so, why? If not, why not? (We’re plotting our revenge and can’t decide whether to maim or destroy …)
ALIVE AND SWELL IN D.C.
From Elian: Hola, Network, it is I, Elian. Net: Sounds like “alien,” tastes like chicken. Thank Castro, you Americans finally rescued me from that nut house. Never again must I see that drunken uncle and that pederast fisherman. Net: Ahoy, matey! Wanna … ride? And the rescue was so exciting, too! That gun in my face was such a rush: I got my first bone! It sorta felt like a big red crayon! But how hot is my cousin Marisleysis! Net: Somewhere between Laetitia Casta and Barbara Bush. Can I get a HELL YEAH, fellas? She is the only one I’m gonna miss. One time she got herself off right in front of me! I told her I like to tug my baby boat, too! Net: The “big red crayon” simile was much more effective. She laughed and told me to learn to swim. (BTW, Grover from Sesame Street makes the best SOM!) Net: He makes a hell of a hotdish, too. She might be crazy, but gosh, does she love me. She told me that when I become useless to her, she plans on posing for Playboy. Wee! Maybe Playgirl will be in my future. Net: Or maybe a stint on the dubya-dubya-dubya … hotorphanedrefugees.com, perhaps? Who could resist this face — I’m a rich man’s baby Hey-Zeus! Hell, who needs Playgirl, I need to get me some pu$$y. Hey Rollerdiva, wanna get stuffed by a celebrity? Net: That’s like asking the Pope if he wants to go to church.
NOT-SO-DAPPER CRAPPER
From The Guy Who is Still Afraid of His Own Bathroom: Dear Network, my roommates and I have run into a little problem, Net: The answer is two parts Dewar’s, one part 7-Up we are having trouble coming up with a nickname worthy of the shame our naughty little roommate brought upon himself.
First, let me explain our story. It was the Saturday night of our ’70s party. OK, the ’70s were an era of pot smoking and casual sex, correct?? Net: Which pretty much sums up the evening of your conception. I can deal with those things — they’re things people do that are relatively harmless to others. Net: Sorta like tooting under the sheets. So, after getting a second-hand high and being propositioned a few times (not to mention having way too much to drink), I decided that since everyone else had gone to sleep, (i.e. passed out) and it was such a beautiful night, that my roommate and I were going to sleep outside on our lawn and watch our pheasants. Net: “Watch our pheasants?” Is that kinda like “badgering the witness” or “walking the plank”? Here’s where it gets icky! The next morning, I walked over to the bathroom and opened the door — wow, talk about a stink! I found our roommate with a heavy sweatshirt on (remember, he was gonna sleep outside) and nothing else. He was laying on his back, still passed out. This alone wouldn’t have been a big deal, Net: Whatta life but there was more. Sometime during the night, he decided that he needed to go ##2 and then passed out on the pooper. He must have fallen off and proceeded to have a turd fight with himself, which, I might add, he lost. Net: Are you sure he didn’t just wake up in the middle of the night and whip up a batch of pudding? ‘Cause if he didn’t, we’re about to wretch over here … There was fecal matter all — I mean all — over our bathroom and himself. There was even some 5 feet up on the shower curtain, and yes, it stunk. Net: Enough with the detail already. Why don’t you just tell us what he had to eat, for chrissakes? He woke up a couple hours later to our laughter and snide comments, and, yes, he feels shame, but not enough for the magnitude of his actions. Here are some of the nicknames we have come up with: “dirty monkey,” “s##!t curtain,” “EEEECoooli,” and “turd burglar,” but we feel that we need some better ones, thus we wrote the all-mighty Network for help. Net: We’re flattered. Lessee … How about Pooper Trooper? Or maybe Dr. Defecate? Or perhaps General Colon Bowel? (Sorry, we could probably come up with more, but we’ve got to go see a man about a horse.)
BRAINS VS. BEAUTY
From Chris Jericho: Last night, as I strolled back from class, I was suddenly stopped by a nappy looking animal-rights activist who wanted me to read some of her propaganda (I guess they were holding a protest about monkeys or something). Net: Perhaps it was an advertisement for ALF’s latest straight-to-video comedy about how they broke into a local Red Lobster to free all the crustaceans imprisoned by The Man. As I scanned the rest of her “champions of justice,” I noticed that not one of them was the least bit attractive. Now I realize that I’m no Ted Danson myself, Net: Is he still alive? Oh, wait … it’s his career that’s dead. Sorry. but it is frightening about the lack of personal upkeep of these people. I would think that if they really wanted to be noticed and listened to, they would have fabulous-looking babes in bikinis distributing the pamphlets and forcing their beliefs onto us, instead of the nerdy girls that I wouldn’t talk to in high school. Net: Yeah, and when Miss North Carolina talks about how she wants to end world hunger and dreams about world peace, we’re so much more inclined to listen because of that fake rack attached to her chest. Secondly, why are they bothering with animal rights or land mines or any of that out-of-touch stuff? I don’t know of anyone who has stepped on any of the cleverly placed land mines on Washington Avenue since I’ve been here. Why not focus on something that more people would care about, like lowering tuition or the prices at the Harvard Market? Net: Apparently you haven’t been around these parts too long. The closest we’ve gotten to student revolt since the ’60s is when they took Mountain Dew outta the pop machines. Apathy rules. Anyway, I guess you’re part of the problem if you’re not a part of the solution. Therefore, you all can find me at the next protest. I’ll be the handsome blonde guy with the “up with mini-skirts” sign. Net: And we’ll be the one in the motorized La-Z-Boy, tooling around Northrop Mall while hurling eggs at randoms, shouting, “What’s the frequency, Kenneth!!??” and hoisting a sign that says, “Bea Arthur, Will You Marry Us?” All in a day’s work.