From Stinky Poopy Butt: So after one year and how many letters that I have sent to you guys and gals at the Network Net: Somewhere between one and leave-us-the-hell-alone-you-freak-and-thank-heavens-for-anti-stalker-legislation, you have finally figured out that I have been using my real name all this time. Well, I guess being tagged Stinky Poopy Butt is something that I had coming. Net: ‘Tis but a noble fate. I hope that some day you will forgive me and change my name to something with less “toilet humor.” Net: Perhaps we could go with something “sophomoric” instead? But for now, I will accept my punishment and don the name Stinky Poopy Butt. God Bless. Net: It’s always nice to see one of our gentle readers bend over and take the proverbial spanking without putting up a fuss. Thanks be to you, Poop.
From Jus Da’Fax: Network, to add to Stinky Poopy Butt‘s gripe, it is important to note the ignorance of these no-science-classes-since-grade-school-“protection”-whining beastialitists (that is an animal lover Net: That all depends on how you define “lover” I believe). Thanks to animal research, even they get to live an average 28 years longer. Net: Yippee. Twenty-eight more years of infomercials, cheese puffs and stale Blatz. Count us in. More importantly, the lovely “A Clockwork Orange” monkey photo to which Poopy Butt refers has a history. The founder of PETA (who once caroused with Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford, but is now out of vogue) conned himself a summer job at a Silver Springs, Md., laboratory where the effects of spinal-cord injury were being studied with monkeys. Net: Those monkeys must have looked so cute, dressed in little white lab coats and wearing stethoscopes around their little hairy necks. When the lab chief was away at a conference, the “volunteer” took a series of photos that were later publicized as the “Silver Springs Monkeys” in the nation’s newspapers. The scientist lost his job, can no longer get grants and is working at a poor excuse for a college. Net: You mean Yesheva? In a lawsuit, the photographer admitted to creating the scenarios, including restraining the monkeys in painful positions and torturing them to howl in pain. Net: Is this the same guy who invented that stretchy-guy toy? Remember, the one with the commercial that featured cheeky young lads each grabbing a rubbery arm and quartering the poor guy to their hearts’ content? A Network action figure to the first writer with the answer. This includes the now-famous image of the monkey on the rack with the howling face and the helmet thing (probably used by our wall-climbing friend Matt Bullard as some ceremonial latrine while hanging). Net: Now that’s a question to which we have yet to get an answer. How did that rube relieve himself up there? However, this horrific news remained out of the press and, by this time, the photographer had gone on to become the famous founder of PETA. Net: So famous that you don’t seem to remember his name. Apparently it is all right to torture animals in the name of saving them. Maybe he would have enjoyed the Spanish Inquisition. I think I’ll take the science.
From Rollerdiva: Howdy, network! And a right near especially special howdy to all you cowfellas and felines out there readin’ the back page ta’day. Yeehaw!
It seems li’l ol’ Rolla here’s had a mighty big change o’ heart in the past few weekends or so concerning the ever unpopular genre of country music. Net: Tell that to the pukes in the cowboy hats and snakeskin boots. The music reeks of suck; that’s a given. But what really gets us is the fashion industry that’s sprouted up around the twangers. What would you think of someone who dressed up like, say, Rob Zombie? You might think they were loopier than a Packers fan on paint thinner. But then you’ve got the chumps boot-scootin’ around in Garth garb. Sheep are what they are. Sheep, we tell you! I remember it like it was yesterday … .
I was sittin’ purdy up at Liquor Lyle’s with a few friends in the usual go-out gear — Bebe, Calvin, that little-known San Fran label Miss Sixty, something along those lines — whilst sucking down a few Nigronis Net: What in hell is a Nigroni, and how did they get so lucky? and the occasional gin and tonic. After hearing one too many Smashing Pumpkins Net: What, you gotta problem with Billy Crap-again whining at the top of his voice in your ear? songs, I decided to select a Rollerdiva mega-hits mix from the jukebox, if only to salvage whatever feelings of joy and happiness that remained in the bar after such a soggy set of sad songs. But as my hand reached out to select a set, it was met by the firm touch of a shadowy stranger. Net: John Travolta in “Urban Cowboy”?
Rolla,” said he, as his belt buckle glistened in the lamplight, “you need a little Roger Miller in your life.” Net: No, wait, it must be Robert Redford in “Rhinestone Cowboy.”
Right then and there my heart melted. I nearly fainted in my tall stranger’s arms and, although the rest of the evening is a little blurry, I remember whips, feathers and Brooks and Dunn playin’ as my bare ass passed in and out of somebody else’s Wranglers. Net: Or maybe it was Ron Jeremy in “Ride ‘Em, Cowboy.”
I spent the next day at the Mall of America, gettin’ fit for custom cowboy jeans at the Levi’s store — and did you know that there is a store there that only sells cowboy gear? Net: Tony Lama, we believe. Big hitter, the Lama. For some reason, I never knew of its existence even though you all know I was totally there shopping at Macy’s the very hour the Mall of Hysteria opened its doors for business. Net: Totally.
And what does this have to do with y’all out there in Networkland? Simple. I know most of you are stuck in the country closet like I was a little less than a month ago. This here’s just a cattle call. Open yer heart to Conway Twitty, big hats and tight denim jeans, especially if they belong to someone else. Net: Rolla, it sounds like you were opening something else entirely.