ICY ROAD AHEADFro…

ICY ROAD AHEAD
From PrincessLea: What in the hell is the problem with the students who work at the athletics ticket office? I called with a simple question: When do student hockey season tickets go on sale? Net: Did you make use of a telephone, or simply call? It’s possible they didn’t hear you if you didn’t call loud enough. I am oh so anxious to sit in section 14 with all my buds, have a little fun, make fun of the cheerleaders, hang out with the boys after the game, grab a brew and get a little lucky with my favorite forward … I have heard we will be good this year. Net: Do you mean the team or you and this forward? I have also heard Don Lucia is getting a new haircut … but that’s another story. Net: Will that mullet finally fall to the floor of some barber shop, quickly swept up into a trash bag and lost forever? Anyway, the girl on the phone told me she wasn’t sure, probably sometime in August or September … so I ask if she can check for sure, and she says no. I call back, get a different girl, but the same answer. Seems incompetent to me. Net: Are you saying that employees of University athletics are in some way incompetent? Why don’t you try writing all those term papers? I think maybe the hockey cheerleaders are pulling phone duty this summer. Net: Yup. 1-900-ICE-HOTT. I guess when Yudof got his big raise, the University cut back on the pay for student employees. Net: Welcome to Capitalism 1001. Which reminds me of Yudof and his Beautiful U plan. When the f**k will the construction end? When can I walk to class without the construction workers staring at my great rack? Net: Beggars can’t be choosers. When can I sit in Coffman Union and watch “Kids in the Hall” between classes? Net: As soon as they stop playing CNN 24-7. This campus pretty much bites right now. And why does the Rec Center close at 8 p.m?! Net: We don’t know, but we’re pretty sure the answer lies somewhere in your “great rack.”

CRAZED AND CONFUSED
From JustLikeMe: WHOAAAA! Net: OK … July 23rd. First official day of the Dog Days (holidays for me). Synchronicity. Is that the word of the decade or what? Net: Yes, ever since the album by “The Police,” that word has become our history. I’m not runnin’ anymore. You? Net: We run. Mostly from the MPD. I can’t help it if every one of the 48 (presently anyway) chromosomes in my body make me jump in a certain direction at a certain time. I’ll admit it … I hear voices. They tell me to write. Net: At least you don’t have to read voices, then come up with witty interjections on an (almost) daily basis. It’s truly numbing. Yes, they tell me to write to you. Nothing else. I don’t know why (well I do but). Net: We wish they told you to shut up and buy us some tacos. History is approaching a sort of singularity. I don’t know if I like it, but (well I do) it’s happening whether we like it or not. Sounds like fun to me. Love ya. Keep it up. Love ya again. I’m not crazy. I just think a little disjointedly. Net: Which probably has nothing to do with the pint of scotch you had before writing this.

QUANTUM ELECTROSOMETHING
From Phlegm of Discontent: With the ISAG conference and the eco-weenie counter-conferences this week, the debates about animal research and protests by guys like Bullard, a.k.a. Stinky-Tent-Guy, will reach a crescendo. Net: We gotta stop picking on Bullard or maybe he’ll go off Moos Tower again, this time without a tent and a rope. As an aspiring mad scientist researching things that “mankind just wasn’t meant to learn,” I feel obligated to add my two-cents like I usually do. Instead, I will tell a story.
A couple months ago, I was waiting in line to pay homage to the mighty ATM, Giver of Cash. Net: That same nickname can be given to the parents of anyone who lives in University Village. When it was finally my turn, I was denied by the omnipotent one. Heartbroken, I proceeded to dismantle the machine with my trusty multi-tool. Net: We don’t even want to know. Once I finished, I turned to leave and almost ran headlong into a nubile young woman with the most amazing pair of, um, eyes. Being the suave playa I am, I said “Duhhh, girl pretty.” Much to my amazement, she smiled. Net: People smile at raving loons. It helps the pain go away. To make a long story short and suitable for younger audiences, we had a quite, uh, enjoyable weekend together in my mountain stronghold. And then, suddenly, she left. It was either because she just wanted to use me, or because I started talking about the humor inherent in quantum electrodynamics. I guess this proves that advanced physics is pretty useless in matters of romance. Net: Huh? We kinda stopped listening after the “mountain stronghold” bit. We want one.

HATE IS SUCH A STRONG WORD
To Deskbitch hater from Deskbitch hater hater: As a guy that frequents the wonderful Rec Center, I have a few things to explain to you that your dumb ass couldn’t figure out by itself. Net: Is it about carbo-loading and protein shakes? As far as your expressed anger about the whole ID policy, what the hell do you think? Net: We thought he made his thoughts pretty clear (by the way, he thought it sucks). They probably do this so that some dumb sh*t who can’t go to college doesn’t end up in the Rec Center by giving someone else’s Social Security number or student ID number. Net: Actually, we’ve been using Social Security numbers we bought online to get into the Rec for like three years now.
Also, you complain that the only reason the “deskbitch” (as you call him) didn’t let you in was that it would only hurt his pride. Hurts more than that, buddy. It sure sucks for us who had to pay our $30 to use the Rec while your stupid ass gets in for free. Net: Yeah. Nobody cares how much money you’ve paid to go the University because we are in the same boat. Net: Yeah! Nobody wants to hear (read) your bitching, especially on this great thing called Network. Hell, yeah! We are great. This guy is cool.
So why don’t you and your friend go f**k yourselves? (Net, you can edit out that last sentence if you think it’s too offensive, though I doubt you will.) Net: You’re d*mn right we won’t, b*tch.