[Editor's note: this was what Scott replied to "how did you get your
handle?" The whole thing was split across many, many priv messages - short
100 character or so text messages.  Early on I cut and pasted them
together.  Everything else is untouched - his run-ons, his punctuation, his
spelling.  :-)  ]

"...as it will appear in "The Bee Line: Why?"

Colonel K:   I was walking along interstate 94 shortly after
having run into a cow which had wandered out onto the road.  As I came to
the top of a low hill, I noticed that the ground seemed to glow around me,
and that everthing was suddenly very quiet... it occurred to me that there
were no other cars on the highway, and that although it was raining only
moments before, there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  This struck me as odd,
even for Wisconsin.

Suddenly the calm was disrupted by the sound of trumpets.  I fell to my
knees in pain, clutching my head in my hands.  Through my tear-filled eyes,
I could just make out the form of a cherub descending from the heavens.
Behind the messenger of god was a brilliant light, almost too bright to
stand.  Luckily, I had my subglasses with me, and put them on.  I reached
out my hand, that I might touch this wondrous creature from above, but
although it was only a few feet above my head, I was unable to touch it.
In fact, once I thought I was going to grab its silken gown and was struck
by a great lightning bolt.  I tended to keep my hands to myself thereafter.

I was still on my knees (and smoldering a it from the strike), and it was
at this point that the angel of God spoke to me: "Rise, insignificant
mortal and very silly person.  I have a telegram here for you, will you
please sign?"  Unfortunately I had left my bic ballpoint ben (a present
from my dead aunt) in the car, so I was forced to prick my finger with a
nearby syringe, and sign my john hancock in blood upon the fragile
parchment attached to a fairly ornate clipboard.  The cherub handed me the
telegram (which looked surprisingly like a Federal Express Next Day letter
envelope), and held out his hand, presumably for a tip.  I muttered
something about having left my wallet in the other pants, and the angel
muttered something about "cheap servants", zapped me again, and did
backflips continuously until it had disappeared into the ether.  I stood
there fora moment with my jaw hanging down.  I then fell down and rolled on
the ground, as the last bolt of cherub charge had started a small fire on
my jeans jacket.  HAving put out the blaze, I eagerly opened the FEderal
Express from the Almighty...

It read as follows: Scott.  Go thee into that world known to your type as
"Bulletin Board Systems" (AKA The LAnd of Geeks).  Do not dally.  Do not
putz around.  Do not find a life.  Oh, and do not pick at it, or it may
become infected.  When you have found this valhalla of nerds, name yourself
something worthy of  aman of your obvious superior intellect and character.
I sort of like Sweeny Platho.  Whadday thing?  Your chum, G."

I thought this was rather extraordinary, especially since I had never even
met the man, and here we were already on a first-name basis.  However, I
felt that I should fulfill this obligation, and forthwith purchased a
computer system and eventually came to locate this little chunk of hell
known as the Bee Line.  Exstatic at my find, I logged in as an anon under
the handle the Most Holy had given me.  "I've made it!" I typed.

"Die, you anonymous puke!" replied a user who shall remain unnamed.  "NO
CARRIER" came the message.

I was confused.  Had I not carried out the mission that His Worship had
placed upon me?  Had I not done as requested?  Had I perhaps been sniffing
airplane glue on that fatefull day and hallucinated the whole thing?

In frustration, I turned on my television to enjoy a little mind-numbing
inane cable programming.  It was Nickelodeon.  It was... Dangermouse.
That's right, British superhero and all around good rodent.  He was
lounging around his plush residence, when suddenly he was summoned to the
telly phone by his boss... Colonel K.  I was amazed by this person.
Apparently a rodent himself, he nevertheless commanded respect and
admiration from the entire intelligence community, and, I might add, was a
rather snappy dresser for a rat.

"It's perfect!" I cried.  "That's it!  Forgive me, Father, but I must have
this name!  Strike me dead if you must, but from now until eternity I shall
be known as 'Colonel K' to geeks, freaks, nerds and losers everywhere!"  I
then thought of what I had said, and dove behind the couch and waited for
that smell of ozone which signified the impending electrical discharge from
above.  After about 20 minutes I peaked my head out.  It was safe.  God
approved.  There was much rejoincing in heaven and on earth.  I went out
and got a Snickers bar and a Coke.  The rest is history.  I've never again
head from "the main upstairs", althought I have sent him christmas cards
every year since.  By the way, in case you don't believe this story, the
telegram is on display at the Vatican, in the "Minor Miracles" section of
the Popal Museum.

The End.


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