Isn’t it amazing how fast the weather around here changes? I mean, one minute, we’re all bitching about the cold and snow, and the next, we’re all finding out that the furnace systems at this university do work while we all sweat to death in our classes, hoping that the person sitting next to us doesn’t smell the stench emanating from our bodies.

I hope you have been able to get outside; if not, get up right now and go outside.

This works best if you are sitting in class. There is no way you can tell me you want to sit in lecture, soaking up knowledge, instead of being outside and throwing slushy snowballs at your roommate or whomever you want.

I’m sure the weather will soon take another turn back toward winter, and we’ll all complain again, but until then … enjoy the weather.

Let us move on to today’s topic of discussion: Iowa State’s ongoing pizza war.

Yes, my friends, in our lifetime, we have been lucky enough to see the end of the Cold War, the cola war, the Persian Gulf War and Star Wars (even on the silver screen).

Now, during our college careers, we have been thrown into the middle of another one.

The ongoing epic battle is waged in fury and spurred by a hatred fueled only by pools of grease that drown defenseless pepperonis. The battle lines have been drawn across miles of dough, processed cheese and meat by-products.

The warriors, one an industry mogul and the other a hometown hero, stand undaunted, ready to face the next strike from the enemy. Both sides reel from previous blows but regroup and attack the enemy’s jugular—neither side willing to crumble against the opposition’s relentless arsenal of pot-shots, slams and demoralizations.

It’s a war of words, a war of attrition, and it’s played out daily on the back page of this paper.

Why do these two pugilists endlessly beat on one another? The answer is simple. It is all for your college dollar.

So we are the pawns in this battle, the foot soldiers who crave the late-night pizza during that cram session for the midterm that we know we’re going to fail.

We are the sheep who make the 1:30 a.m. call for that guy to deliver a 12-inch circle of greasy delight that will appease our liquor-induced hunger.

We are the ones so fed up with the food service veggies that the next time we see the garbage they try to pass as health food, we will vomit all over the poor girl serving the slop.

We are forced to call the emergency help line and order this stuff that we know would definitely not be placed on the “Richard Simmons, Jenny Craig, Cindy Crawford, Extra Lean, Eat This and You’ll Be Healthy, There is No Way You Should Have to Exercise” diet plan.

In the end, we eat everything, saying things like, “Tomorrow I’ll go to the Rec center and work-out,” or, “This will be my last pizza this week.”

It doesn’t matter whether or not we go and work-out. The war will never stop.

The truth is, the ads will be back tomorrow, and the two warriors will resume their endless fight. It will be you and I left somewhere in the smoke, munching on the crusts of last night’s feast, swearing as we touch the scales or dial those wretched numbers that, God forbid, are locked away for eternity in the speed dial of our phones.

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J.R. Grant is a junior in journalism and mass communication from the great state of Ohio.