What's New (4/28/97)
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Bug the Columnist
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I don't think I'm saying anything new when I say that it's way too difficult to tell knock-knock jokes over the internet. I mean, just look at these actual email transcripts that I uncovered by digging into the bowels of central internet computers and dissecting several archive files. OK, it wasn't an internet computer, it was my refrigerator, and the archive files were actually beers, but that doesn't mean that these aren't actual email transcripts. The fact that I'm making them up as I go along does mean that these aren't actual email transcripts, but don't tell that to anybody who you're trying to convince to visit this site and read this column:
To: email@example.comObviously, something needs to be done about this, to reduce the possibility of both internet-induced insanity, and further obscure movie references.
Therefore, in the interest of public safety, I have developed the Discreet Internet Knock-Knock Levity Enhancement System Specifications (DIKKLESS). My motto is, "Have a ball, with DIKKLESS." With DIKKLESS, you'll never again have to worry about the long, hard, throbbing journey of knock-knock joke dissemenation. DIKKLESS is sure to cut short any difficulties you might have in joke-telling, surely the most private and sensitive of all internet-related areas. Eliminate the rash of crabby emails you would normally receive from various jerks while trying to spread the seed of your irrepressable humor. DIKKLESS works especially well in UNIX.
The main thrust of DIKKLESS is its simple, easy-to-use protocol which anyone should be able to get a grip on:
[Name of person at door]//[clever followup]
All of the extranneous "Who's there"-related lines are eliminated immediately. In this way, DIKKLESS is a very effective waste removal system. Let's watch DIKKLESS in action:
[Aleisha]//[don't have to read anymore DIKKLESS puns]If you can master the above example, you've got DIKKLESS licked!
[Yeoman]//[don't be tellin' no more of dem dumb DIKKLESS jokes, man.]
OK, I really should separate the DIKKLESS section from the rest of this otherwise family-oriented, tasteful humor column, in case someone wants to distribute this particular issue to a less mature reader. Here you go:
- - - - - - - - - - Slice DIKKLESS off here - - - - - - - - - -
Alright, onto a completely different topic. Did I mention that I had my cat neutered this week?
[Datsun]//[of a bitch.]
[Amgunna]//[kill that motherfu-
[Ed Note: Unfortunately, for the second time in three weeks, The Perimeter must be interrupted and discontinued and otherwise burnt to a crisp due to the inability of its borderline psychotic author to control his creative juices, which once again he has spurted all over this page, making it very sticky and gross for his unsuspecting readers.]
I always knew you editorial types had no balls.
Hey, speaking of that, did I mention that I had my cat neutered this week? His first squad of children had just come forth into this world, and all over our carpet, so we figured it was time to congratulate him by surgically removing everything that gave his life meaning. Also, we were hoping to keep him from continuing his practice of trying to wrestle his sister-lover into a submissive position while he performs various pornographic acts on her at two in the morning, causing her to let forth groans and wails which Peter North himself has never heard. Since the operation took place, the benefits have become clear. He still hops on her, she still growls and screams at two in the morning, but now instead of continually nuzzling up against us and being in general the friendliest, nicest cat on the planet, he will ignore us and act very surly and mean should we attempt to approach him. Yessir, money well spent!
I'm sure many of you already know this, but it still seems worth pointing out that a veterinary office is a lot like a strip club. Sure, there's a lot fewer flashing lights, no alcohol being served, and nobody throws their underwear at you, but at least they have naked women dancing on tables in front of you.
No, wait, I got those backwards. Well, anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that while at a strip club (so I've heard, of course) they ply you with drinks to try to get you to spend money (I've been told) on ridiculous things like plastic roses for the girls (I read somewhere) and three lapdances in a row (only two, I swear), at the vet's office, they try to disorient you with their dizzying array of gourmet dog food bags so that you'll sign off on anything they put in front of you.
In this particular case, I signed my cat up for the "ol' snipperoo", as they call it, and I was given a list of Optional Services. There were strange things like, "Do you want additional bloodwork done?" and "Should we perform liposuction on your mother?", but two in particular I found rather interesting.
The first one was, "Do you want us to administer post-operative pain medication to your cat?" This led to possibly the strangest, most subtly frightening conversation I've had in the last several years.
I said to the nice lady, "Well...does it hurt?"
She said, "No, not really."
I'm not even going to attempt to delve into the various diabolical implications of this exchange, but suffice it to say, I was more than happy to proclaim, "Let Snuggles suffer!"
[Author's Note: My cat is not really named "Snuggles". I just used that name for alliterative purposes. Anybody who names their cat "Snuggles" should immediately be taken in for psychiatric evaluation, and then shot.]
Now, if this final item is old news to everybody except me, I apologize, but I swear, I've never heard of such a thing. I'm going to paraphrase the actual question itself, because I don't recall the specifics, because immediately after reading it, I passed out, fell to the floor, and hit my head on a big bag of Super-Nutroid 3000 Dog Sustenance.
"Do you want a pet-tracking microchip inserted into your pet?"
Apparently there is a new service along the lines of the LoJack car-tracking system, except it works in pets. The first step is when the veterinarian installs this microchip in the back of your pet's neck. From that point on, you will be able to use a special pet scanner to determine the preset identification code of your unique pet. The helpful information brochure has a picture of a proud pet owner gleefully shooting his dog with this phaser as the oblivious canine's ID code appears on the scanner's display. The caption goes, "The peace of mind that comes with the PetSeeker II has really brought me closer to my dog, 38492-A21."
After regaining consciousness, I considered the implications of this system for a moment, and then politely (in the form of laughing in her face) declined.
You see, I've got enough to worry about. I told you in earlier that we just moved to a different apartment, which is much more "neighborhoody" than the previous apartment we were in. The complications of this situation have become evident over the past few weeks. We must always guard our charcoal briquettes against the enemies in our block, who are all guarding their own charcoal briquettes. We must maneuver our children to always section off the largest area of playground during peak playtime. We are busy memorizing the names of the others, while honing our skills of small-talk. For hours each night, my lovely companion and I sit at home, staring into the mirror, reciting, "Nice day, isn't it? How about those Marlins? What were all those sirens about? Do not touch our charcoal briquettes."
So with all this going on, the last thing I need is to have RoboCat in my apartment, targeting me for termination or something like that. He's pissed enough as it is right now, if you know what I mean. I can just see coming home to find eighteen police cars outside of our apartment, because ol' Silicat has malfunctioned like in that movie Runaway, except with better actors. The cops are throwing grenades into my living room as the Meowinator is firing back at them with lasers through his eyes, killing innocent bystanders as well as violating waste disposal rules. Believe me, nothing's worse after having your house destroyed by a rogue CyberKitty than seeing one of those obnoxious Comminuty Golf Carts come rolling around the corner, the well-dressed and frowny-faced driver speeding toward you at the prescribed rate of 10 MPH, with a big list of naughties listed on a legal pad with an introductory paragraph that begins, "It has come to our attention..."
I don't need that.
So as I said, I politely refused this service. ("Scan this!" were the exact words, I believe.)
There! I made it through that whole dumb story without resorting to juvenile phallic humor. It was hard, I admit. It was real hard. But now that it's over, I can just sit back, sweating from all the pounding I did on this keyboard, and envy all you readers out there who will get to experience this issue for the first time.
Don't read it too fast.
I'm going to sleep.
[Ed Note: That was so inspiring, I'm thinking of erecting a monument in its honor.]
[Orange]//[ya glad this column's over?]