The advent of the world wide web meant that pictures of naked women could be readily seen on the Internet. Once photos of naked women became available, the mainstream took notice. Schwing! The herd began a stampede. On-line communities such as AOL, Prodigy and Compuserve began to offer general internet access. Veterans were inundated by newbies who lacked respect for existing customs and courtesies. These sons of bitches called Usenet Internet News for Chrissake.

Internet grey-beards are nerdy douche bags. Gopher servers remain available. Nobody stops these old-timers from surfing them. It is trivial to limit the access of a usenet server to you and your douche bag friends. Instead these introverts surf the world wide web in character-based web clients (newbies will shake their collective heads at the very thought of character-based web clients) and bitch about newcomers fscking up the Internet. Everything was better "back in the day."

Personally, I love the world wide web. While the old-timers were consulting their thesauruses for a new term for "newbies suck," these newcomers were busy constructing a better Internet. It is because of the Newbie Influx of 1994 that the web is even interesting. We now have an abundant amount of information that really matters thanks to legions of devotees and their efforts of love. In seconds you can view all known classifications of the mullet, see if so-and-so is dead or alive, or witness a decapitation by helicopter.

When the Rednecks moved in next door, they brought with them a pair of EXTREMELY dated Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremes. What a set of beauties! Equipped with bed sheet interior, overstuffed ashtrays and primer blotches, they are a pair of head turners.

I spy on everybody and the neighbors are no exception. "How old do you think those cars are?" I asked my wife. "I don't know, but they're old." That was not a satisfactory answer. I had to know exactly what year they were manufactured. It became the single most important quest in my life. Enter the world wide web.

If we were still in the archaic days of the Internet with its gopher servers and its usenet discussions on indigenous North American field grasses, then I would not have an internet connection. I am not paying $35.00 a month for a media that does not include pictures of naked chicks. But thanks to the Newbie Influx of 1994, I've got everything I need to know at my finger tips. And I needed to know what year those cars were manufactured.

There are actually many Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremes for sale on eBay, an internet auction house. Since nobody wants to buy an old Cutlass without first seeing it, most sellers include a picture of the vehicle. This proved most beneficial to a lurking neighbor intent on dating a pair of Oldsmobiles. After thorough research that consisted largely of running back and forth between my computer and the window, I've concluded that she has a 1984 model while his was a 1983. Note the past tense in reference to his car.

Last week his Oldsmobile disappeared. In its place was a small ocean of oil. It looked like somebody threw a bucket of black ink in his parking spot. Oil was sprayed all over the asphalt and up onto the sidewalk. Splotches continued at regular intervals as he sputter out onto the street. Putt, putt, putt, SPLOTCH! Putt, putt, putt, SPLOTCH! And on and on. The oil slicks began to diminish in size and finally stopped half way down the block. That happened to be the exact spot his car was "parked." Mrs. Redneck moved her car into his spot in order to conceal the the oil slick.