52 percent lovin’…

52 percent lovin’
From 48%Bitch: Sorry, The Feeblest Of All Wookies, but Kurt Warner’s wife is not a lesbian. She is, in fact, Gozer from the movie “Ghost Busters.” Net: We like where this is goin’. We just showed up to work (late as usual) and already we’re talking about ’80s movies. Continue. Proof that she’s Gozer: 1) The hair (only a demon would go out in public with that hair). 2) None of the other wives appear on TV, yet she is on at least twice between each commercial break. 3) She often asks Kurt, “Are you a God?” Net: Answer: Nuh-uh. Marshall Faulk, though … 4) Her “keen” fashion sense (note Gozer’s outfit in the movie and compare it to the spandex/feather boa number she wore to Sunday’s game). Gozer apparently got tired of spreading evil around the world through conventional demonic means Net: Much like Rodney Dangerfield and has now turned her energies to football and the NFL. She married Warner, and now she’s on TV every other second when he’s playing, spreading her evil to NFL fans everywhere. If I were to guess, I’d say she plans to use all of this media coverage to launch herself into politics. Net: Or stand-up comedy. People of the world beware!! Consider yourself warned.
Sexy Net
From RollerDiva: Dear Net: It seems that lately there has been a slight shortage of steamy and sensual entries, Net, and I’m not talking about the broccoli and carrots in your Village Wok take-out cartons from last night. Net: And we’re not talkin’ about your ramen noodles, either. Weknowwhatchersayin’. Rather, I find my attention waning ever so lately when I turn my Uberstylin’ self to the Net. Could it be oh, ho-hum, the lack of sexationalism in this semester’s lustless and party-free Net entries? Net: Upon further inspection, our letters have been somewhat sex-free. The reason? Gary Coleman. We digress. Even that poor little boy who fell in love with the Walter Library phone-sex operator was way less pathetic than this past week’s drivel. You know me oh sooo well, Net, and it is sooo unlike me to complain, but this senseless sexlessness is unsatisfactory. Like, what happened, Net? Did the new millennium come (no pun intended) and suck (there I go again) away everyone’s libido, reducing the student body to nit-picking, finicky, name-calling, no-sex-having bastards recounting tales of mind-mushing goopy gush rehashed from rejected plot summaries of the cancelled sit-com “Mama’s Family?” Net: Ya gotta admire a girl who can get that out in one breath. We got a nice picture of a snow penis (no, really) we’ve been meaning to run in Network some day. Net, I am just one little girl amid a sea of many, many attractive and available co-eds, and as much as I would love to be having all the sex on this campus, I just cannot be having all the sex on this campus. Net: We can relate. Er, not. I mean, I have to do homework too. So please! Somebody out there better be getting laid, somebody other than me, that is. And if you are, for the love of Tim McGraw’s latest album, Net: Or Puff Daddy’s, for that matter let someone with wordly wisdom and metaphor mastery style a snazzy little summary for your sex-starved buds across this fine institution, or at least to me, Rollerdiva.
Net: We’d respond with a funny little sex-thingy here, but that Coleman thing still freaks us way the **** out. And we’re tight on space because of a …
Public service announcement
From Architecture B*tch: Hi, Net. While pulling an all-nighter for my architecture studio, I found a necklace on the street near the Architecture Building (It was about 3 a.m. on Tuesday). If you think it belongs to you, e-mail Net and they’ll give you my e-mail address. I’d write more, but the architecture department has sucked my will to live. Net: We get that from tryin’ to find a freakin’ parking spot around this campus teeming with auto life. Later.
Cheerleader barrage
From The Ultimate Hockey Chick 4ever: What is this I read about not being able to “discuss” hockey cheerleaders? Net: We assure you, we have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Go on. I happen to enjoy that lovely subject. What would the games be like without the high-pitched, whiny, ditzy blonde squealleaders telling the team to “go soda!” Well, we’d be in heaven, that’s where we’d frickin’ be! Net: Net’s idea of heaven is as follows: RollerDiva, a bottle of Robitussin and … uh, never mind. Being a member of the wonder section 14, we have all the cheerleaders we need. From the great “sucky-boy” woman to the guy who always starts my favorite little ditty: “(insert goalie’s name here) is a great big sieve, do-da, do-da…”. Net: Nicklin is a great big sieve, he let the puck go by. Then, of course, there is the guy who could kick Mariah Carey’s ass in holding out the that last word in the penalty cheer. Last but not least, we have that giant rodent Net: Stalin? Joe Pesci? Gangelhoff? who throws candy bars at us and who takes our taunts about spinning his head (or body, for that matter). To those two blond-headed screechleaders who constantly flirt with each other and always wink, here’s a little suggestion: Stay on the sides of the arena. Net: Or flirt with Net a little. Apparently we need sexing up. Those are the people who need your spirit!!! We’ve got enough drunken rowdy fans (including at times Goldy, who I believe has hit the bottle a few times between periods) to keep us entertained. Until this suggestion is met, we will continue spilling pop on your steps. And God forbid, I will resist my urge to jump from my seat and shove one of those little maroon-and-gold pom poms down your throat. Maybe that will bring your voice down to an audible level. Net: People, people, people. No need for violence — just plop a little Neil Diamond on the phonograph and get down with your loved ones. Then send us mail about it. If not that, then please smoke about five packs of cigarettes before each game to give your voice a deeper drop. I have 10 students paying me money if I hit one of those blondies. Net: We fail to follow the logic there. Maybe if you write in about sex to Networkia, you won’t have any pent-up cheerleader aggression. Or something. Thank you! Net: Later, gator.