SNATCH IT WHILE YOU CANFrom Boba Femme: Network, there’s been so much freak activity in the women’s locker room lately. I don’t feel comfortable addressing it while it’s going on and I’m naked. Net: We can’t tell you how many times we’ve said that to ourselves. I hope the nut-jobs will see themselves here and stop. While trying to enjoy a sauna at the Rec, an older naked woman started doing side-reclining leg lifts within two feet of me and my friend. Her hidden-obvious-hidden-obvious vulva was all of three feet away in my direct line of vision! Net: There are people who would pay good money to see that, and here you are, complaining. Some people … No one likes this kind of freak show; this was so nasty I don’t think Cheri would even publish it. After unsuccessfully ignoring it, we went to the showers and were able to witness her doggy kicks through the window. Net: Garáon! Check please! Lovely! I am not one of the locker-room prudes who dresses under and over my towel and wears a swimsuit to shower. I expect nudity, but this is too much. Net: Now that’s a new one … I’ve noticed others have no problem stretching and showing their crotches off in the sauna, too. What do they think the mats outside the locker rooms are for? Net: For contracting plantar warts? Please, you overly nude-niks, stop making working out and cleaning up so painful.
From J. Crewbercrombie: Whazzup, all you fellow ‘randoms’ in Networkland? Net: Nothing much, just eating some white bread with lettuce, chasing it with a half-empty glass of tap water. The other day I read the entry that Heather submitted about wanting to join a sorority, and it got me thinking, maybe I should join the ranks of PeeWee and pledge a frat. I’ve been at the University for five years now, and in all that time, I’ve never thrown a Frisbee across University Avenue. I’ve never sat on my front porch with my shirt off, drinking beers with my buddies with my stereo sitting in the window. I’ve never expressed my artistic talent by filling the sidewalks with chalk displays. I’ve never taken Daddy’s Lexus to a Monday night dinner and sang silly songs to my “sweetheart.” I’ve never put together a cheesy dance routine and performed it at Spring Jam. I’ve never thrown a party that excludes all males and gets all the fine young women intoxicated, leaving them open to my lame-ass pickup lines. I’ve never wheeled a girl home in a shopping cart. I guess I just haven’t lived yet. But I know all of this will change once I join a frat!! Net: If they find out you wrote this entry, plenty will change … the arrangement of your face, perhaps. It just has to! I was thinking of pledging/rushing (or whatever the hell you do) IMB (I Master Beta) — if only they will have me. Whaddya say, PeeWee — may I Net: have another join?
From Yonko: Well, it seems that while the major media was all ga-ga over this “Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?” fiasco (Oh, my god, this show is so disrespectful to my intellect, my morals and women — and yet I MUST WATCH), the alternative media was doing its job. Net: Which is to say that once a media outlet achieves any sort of success, it is no longer “alternative” and thus shouldn’t be trusted. That’s why we read the Daily … Everyone’s favorite public record document site,, found out that everybody’s favorite multimillionaire is also a fiancÇe-beating stalker! Add to this that he’s only worth about $2 million on paper, not multimillions, Net: What makes a multimillionaire, anyway? We suggest a two-pronged litmus test: You’ve gotta have at least 10 large, and you’ve gotta give some to us and things start to smell fishy, or at least a little interesting. It makes one (specifically: me) wonder what exactly is going to be the follow-up. Net: We think you had it right in your subject line: “Who Wants to Marry a F&@kin’ Loser?” with your host, Homer Simpson. Maybe someone out there in Networkia has an idea, far be it from me to actually think up one myself …
From Tainted: In this time of year when sports fans suffer through the repetitiveness of NFL players being arrested for spouse abuse, or the latest embarrassing development in the University’s athletics department, we can always count on one shining star to guide our way to sporting satisfaction Net: Of course, you mean no other than the ever-entertaining run of dog shows and equestrian events on ESPN. No, not Rollerdiva, but rather the Daytona 500, the world’s largest redneck gathering. Every year, I’m left wondering what the hell people see in this event that’s so damn great. Net: 1) Beer. 2) Tube tops. 3) False teeth (think about it …) I turn on my TV, only to be greeted by Dale Earnhardt’s incoherent rambling. Somebody tell that freak to call 1-800-ABCDEFG. Worse yet, this year Earnhardt was joined by his son. The thought of this hillbilly having offspring downright scares the hell out of me. Net: Just be thankful it wasn’t a daughter. Anyway, the race itself was mind-numbing, as always. Seeing a bunch of middle-aged, backwoods dwellers going around in a circle for four freakin’ hours is not entertaining, nor is it a sport. Net: Maybe they should rename it the LTL: Left Turn League. While it is impressive to grind your car and yourself into a 15-car fiery pileup and come out alive, it cannot be considered a sport. I can drive a car, Net can drive a car, my grandmother can drive a car, but that does not make us athletes. Net: You shoulda seen Granny and us draggin’ down I-94 last week. That silver fox has some mad wheels. It could become a sport if we, say, threw John RocKKKer on the track … we could call it “Dodgecar.” Speaking of the cars, could somebody fit just one more advertisement onto the hood of one of those things? And to have the possession of hard liquor be a prerequisite for entrance to an event is brilliance. That way, these rednecks have absolutely no reaction time when a stray tire comes flying into the stands during a “breathtaking” crash. In no other “sport” are the fans in as much danger of losing their lives as the participants. Net: Except, of course, for RollerDerby. When Big Daddy comes a-flyin’ over that railin’ anything can happen! But I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining — I’m down with whatever keeps Kurt Warner’s wife or another “Disney on Ice” special off TV. Gotta bolt — “Dukes of Hazard” is on, and the cousin is feeling frisky.