DATE CRIME! From R…

DATE CRIME!
From Radioactive Man: Good afternoon, Net! Net: It might have been afternoon when you wrote this e-mail, but it’s not right now. Remember: E-mail surpasses both time and space. Lordy knows there’s been a lot of Dr. Date-bashing going on in these most esteemed two columns. So I figured … let’s do some more!
On Monday, this dork who has the audacity to reside on your page continued his spouting of moronic “ideas.” He suggests that sexuality is “like a compass.” No, no! Net: Man, that is dumb. I guess we can now stop reading your letter, since we’ve gotten the gist of it. Don’t stop reading yet; that’s not the dumb part! Net: Like hell it’s not. He then goes on to describe how if being gay was pointing east and being straight was heading west, we’d all lie somewhere between. Net: That would be north. Or maybe south, depending on which way your “needle” goes. Hold on, I’m getting to the stupid part! Net: Too late, we stopped reading about five sentences ago. Then he says that some might notice that if you go far enough west, you end up east. Net: Just like the streets of St. Paul, where nothing is the way it seems. (In case you didn’t know, that was the stupid part). What kind of moron says that? What does that mean, exactly? Does it mean that someone who digs only the hottest, most feminine ladies (the due-west type of guy) is actually gay? Net: Perhaps. This question can be answered if you play “Ask a Fratboy.” Or does it mean that if you are that type of guy, you will eventually turn gay because you’ve been traveling west for so long? What a dork. So, in conclusion: Net rocks, Dr. Date both sucks and blows (betcha didn’t think that was even physically possible, huh?), and Pitoui, PeeWee, [email protected]*##%, and all my other brothers, kick ASS! Net: And are slowly heading east.
SUMMER BUMMER
From ButterLuv D: Talk about a bust of a summer job. Net: You’re not digging holes for the government, are you, Moleman? I thought I’d be a server at a pizza place since I’d be working with virtually all chicks. Net: That’s right. Chicks really dig pizza. Especially serving it, oily and hot, to disgruntled families who will leave a measly tip that will barely pay for their nightly pack of Marlboro Lights. Would you believe there is only one of the 23 girls I work with who even resembles anything close to hot! Twenty-three, Net! Net: Any woman holding a freshly baked pizza is beautiful in our eyes. And that one girl can’t even hold a candle to the last couple girls I hooked up with. Also, this job makes me work weekends and made me miss the premiere of “Monday Night Football” with Dennis Miller last night. Net: Dennis Miller. There’s one guy that will never sell out. That sucks. I’m not all complaints though. I was one of the 2000 people on the floor for that Limp Bizkit concert last weekend. Fred Durst is a pimp for stage diving from a 20-foot chain-link fence, but for the record, I don’t think people should body surf if they’re gonna wear steel-toe boots and kick me in the head. Net: He’s probably mad that Napster is back up, and he knows you’re “stealing” music from there. Finally, I have no idea what that “Coyote Ugly” movie is about, but I’m pretty sure I want to see it. Net: Five supermodel-type women and lots of guys making asses out of themselves going after them. Sounds like a novel idea. Enjoy your last summer month, Net. See you at the crossroads. Net: Or wherever the winds may take us, my friend.
A MIDSUMMER NET’S DREAM
Net: There are many things to bitch about in the world, and even more if you are a student at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities campus. You don’t need to be a philosophy major or a frequenter of Folwell Hall (people we like to call “Folwellians”) to see the world through the eyes of a vicious and calloused misanthrope, unable to love and live simultaneously, much like how many business students can’t chew gum and walk at the same time. It’s a confusing, complex jumble, this thing called life. Back to square one, though: Everyone has something to bitch about, be they young or old, tall or short, blonde or brunette, black or white, smart or dumb, etc. Even those savage monkeys who dwell in the cozy, violently overpriced domiciles known as “University Village” or “Dinnaken House” or “Argyle House” have something to complain about, God bless their green swampy hearts. And if you, our dear lad/lass, are naive enough to think the poorer students on campus don’t have anything to complain about, you are a grade-A philistine! You sick, sick ape. Open your weary eyes and take in the glory, our sweet, and we ain’t just talking about the ripe, delicious bananas, you big talking orangutan. A tangent: Don’t throw your Freudian analysis on Net. We’re talking bananas, meaning bananas, and as even Freud himself, that raving cocaine addict, once said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Word is bond.
Anyway, of course the poor have the right to complain more than anyone, excluding our editors right here at the Daily who are forced to work with a whiny whale-sized group of nancy boys, but there ain’t much to be done about that, as they say back home (Casper, Wyom.). Regardless! Our point is, where else but Network can the rich and poor come together to expel preoccupations and general whining from the depths of their beings? It is as if Network, with as many arms as the mighty and virtuous Vishnu, has jabbed a straw into the bellies of one and all, letting the gooey black, tar-like stuff drip out all over the page of a gorgeous shrine known as BackTalk each and every day. Should students, not just animal-rights activists, dangle from buildings, lampposts and trees holding banners praising Network, refusing to come down from their makeshift high-altitude homes until University officials give Network the recognition that is due? Network has (probably) saved many lives, allowed people to vent without the use of alcohol or automatic weapons, given convenience store clerks something to read that is both entertaining and at their level of intellect, and most importantly, made those horrific bus rides through campus, a campus that has more potholes than the shores of Normandy, seem like a walk in some sort of a sun-drenched, lavender and vanilla-smelling park.