From Queen of Diamonds: Well, Network, although it’s true that every newspaper wishes they had such a witty forum for public comments as your fine self, Net: And also a really, really good libel lawyer the truth is that Backfence isn’t trying to imitate you. Net: The hell it ain’t! Are you paying attention, Lileks?! You can try to dispatch one of your lackeys to take us off the scent, but we’re like a bloodhound, and all we seek is the bitter smell of Lileks! Or something like that. It’s a copy of Bulletin Board, denizen of the hallowed pages of the Pioneer Press, the paper from “the other side of the river,” or as I refer to it, “the proper side of the river.” Net: Sorta like pork: the other white meat. Mmmm … pork. In fact, when I discovered Network as a freshwoman pining away for my beloved PP, I was amazed to find what I thought to be a Bulletin Board rip-off right here in the Daily. Net: This is how it works: They hire our talent, not the other way around. It’s a one-way ticket, baby; the good ideas leave here and go there. But after some time reading you — and what I suspect is subliminal pro-Network propaganda encoded in your words — I must admit that you, Net, are much funnier than the anonymous commentator of Bulletin Board. Net: As soon as we go weed-eater on Lilacs’ ass, we’ll take them on, too. Bring it! Either that or I’m gettin’ stupid living in Minneapolis. Cheerio.
From Phlegm of Discontent: I hit a deer with my car as I was coming back from visiting my parents. Net: YOU have PARENTS? We always figgered you were some sort of laboratory creation. Like Flubber, only not quite as bouncy. I’m quite pissed off now because not only does my car have more holes in it, but also the deer ran off. So no venison for me this year. Net: Try some pork. Mmmm … pork. Not until I can afford to buy a gun. I can’t help but remember all the good times I have had with my beloved gas-guzzler in the five years I’ve owned it. Like the time I pulled down one of my friend’s sheds with my car and then set the woodpile on fire. Net: Ahh, yes … felonious destruction of property coupled with the inimitable attraction of arson. Good times, indeed. Or the time I re-enacted “The Road Warrior” in the Australian Outback. It seems like it was only yesterday when I took off the catalytic converter and the muffler and drove around like that for six months, stomping hippies every so often. And then there was the time I drove my car through a restaurant window as part of a mob hit. Oh, wait, that was a video game. I’d TOXIC HELL
love to stay and chat, but I have to patch up the car, which my roommates call “The Fly Hoopty” for some reason, with duct tape and do doughnuts on Northrop Mall. Net: Just don’t make a path. You know what the signs say.
From SeeJay and ScRuFfy (formerly Jiggle): We write today of an atrocity in our own closely knit University community. Net: Are we still talking about TAs? And we’re not talking of the registration system. We are referring to that godforsaken place we call the Stadium Village Taco Bell. Net: The last time we published a letter complaining about service at a Stadium Village establishment, we had us one peeved mama on our asses. Proceed. We are not going to bad-mouth the food, ’cause we have no idea what it tastes like. Every time we try to give money to this establishment, it is closed. Whereas other TBs Net: That’s drunk-and-poor-speak for “Taco Bell,” for those of you who just nodded off close at midnight, this one closes sometime around 2 p.m. Net: Which reminds us of an old saying we just made up: Early to bed, early to rise, and make your chilitos before the other guys. To justify this early closing without complaints, their hour posting has been ripped off the glass. No problem; we will just call 1-800-Taco Bell to inform them of the mistake. Now where is that store number I have to refer to … whoops! It’s gone as well. To the FOOLS IN LOVE?
managers of this particular establishment: If you don’t want to work, why do you have a job? Net: That’s like telling someone who doesn’t want to live to just stop breathing. A restaurant in a University area needs to be open for late bedtimes; Mommy doesn’t control us anymore. So, in conclusion, screw you and your goddamn caulking guns turned into sour cream goopers … bastards.
From PAKman: Matchmaker.com, Personals.com, Tenderlove.com, MOVE OVER!!! Net: Here’s something meatier! For ’tis time, yet again, for the almighty Network to rise to the occasion and make the ‘love connection.’ Net: One double-shot of Viagra, please. I’ll give it to you straight: I’m gonna exploit yer Net to catch my li’l fishie.
OK, let’s rewind and clue you in. Rabid Dawg and I, 7 a.m., gloomy, Tuesday morning, were freezing our asses off inside the bus stop across from the Gopher Parking Lot, waiting for a crab-ass Connector driver to drive us back to our den of mortal hell, where we’d pull an all-nighter. When from nowhere the fairest lass upon whom I have dared to set my unworthy eyes made her way to the very same bus stop bundled up cutely in her blue jacket. Net: We know one of those. Was it powder blue? And was she wearing ratty jeans? And did she have shortish blonde hair and big eyes and puffy cheeks? I was overcome with a desire to drop to my knees and yell “But soft? What light through yonder window breaks. It is the east and Juliet is the sun.” Needless to say, I restrained myself. Net: Yes, but did you stain yourself? Luckily, she was interested enough in the early morning bullshit we were collectively spewing to sit next to us on the Connector, but other than a few flirtatious glances, my smaller-than-average gonads didn’t allow much to transpire. Rabid Dawg suppressed his desire to invite her to the stupid movie his Klan is showing on Friday, Net: “A Clockwork Orange” is neither stupid nor a movie, but it might be showing in EE/Csci 3-180 at 3:30 p.m. You’re welcome, and I’m thankful for it! I behest you, o benevolent Net, to give my burning desire for her a chance in hell. Our kids and I will bless you for a long, long time to come.