Gazing at a piece of meat...

Please, take a long look at the above juicy slab. Gaze at it, fill your nostrils with the imagined scent of its cooked glory and think of what an amazing taste it will bring to your buds. Doesn't it look wonderful? When cooked, maybe it will be seasoned with a foreign herb or domestic spice, perhaps it will be served in its natural splendor or maybe with a dab of A1. It might be made rare or well, but regardless it will melt in the taster's mouth. The cut can be prepared so many ways; so many tender possibilities.

I have a confession to make: I can't stop looking at meat. Every day, when no one is looking, I open up cookbooks or surf recipe webpages trying to find a good shot of a savory cut. Sometimes I sneak down to the local supermarket and stand around the butcher section for hours, absorbing the rays of uncooked meat.

As I look, I imagine the possibilities: A T-Bone with lemon and pepper. A sirloin made just so. Or maybe a classic Bourbon Street steak. What cut should I pick? How will I eat it? How long will I cook it? At what temperature? The more I think, the more my mouth waters and the longer I gaze.

When I eat other foods, I'll keep a cookbook handy to imagine I am actually eating steak. For that matter, I hardly go anywhere without a photo to remind me of the awesome flavor of meat. One look at the picture, and my desire is temporarily satisfied, although it often returns stronger than before. My computer desktop image is similar to the one above, only it has been airbrushed to remove the fat and accent the bone lines. Edited photos look better and are more effective at inducing hunger, so I prefer them to the untouched images. Sometimes I purchase videos of people eating meat or read stories about other's culinary adventures. This, too, can be satisfying for a fleeting instant, but meat has a way of always calling you back.

I have purchased large posters of uncooked meat and placed them on the walls of my room. Each slab is in a different provocative position. Some of them are adorned with sides of vegetables or steaming mashed potatoes, others are left at awkward angles leaving the viewer to guess what is on the other side. They are all beautiful cuts, well above average, some even surgically enhanced to look more like meat. When I wake up, they welcome me to the new day.

Every now and then, when my family purchases meat at the supermarket, I go nearly ecstatic with anticipation. Sometimes I wake up during the night, rip open the plastic wrap and hastily cook the cut. The result is often unsatisfying and pangs of regret tell me that I might have enjoyed it more had I waited for the others. Other times I gorge myself, eating many times a humanly decent serving in one sitting. That feels good during the feast, but the negative implications of stuffing one's face become readily apparent soon after. A belly ache, temporary inability to eat and, in rare circumstances, food poisoning are inevitable.

After a great deal of soul searching and self reflection, I've decided that my habit is perfectly natural. I mean think about it: we all need to eat, right? Looking at pictures is just part of anticipating a natural human physiological need. Videos, desktop images and stories are a natural extension of human hunger . Those who feel I should put the cookbook down or reduce my consumption habits are obviously starved themselves, or they wouldn't feel the need to criticize. Most of them are vegetarians anyway.

Sometimes I get the feeling I am not the only one. Others look at meat in an equally lurid way and that makes me wonder. Tell me: Do you enjoy gazing at a piece of meat?

It was Cold

The other day, we had a cold snap.
We knew it the moment we woke up.
The cold woke us up.
I mean, it was cold.
It was so cold you could cut it with a knife.

It was so cold, you could hear it.

It was so cold, the brain freeze numbed the pain.

It was so cold, we cast lots for the stove seat.

It was so cold, opening the freezer door was a capital offense.

It was so cold, we found friends-and-family-shaped ice statues all over the house.

It was so cold, we didn't need to put our ice cream away.

What we were doing with ice cream, I don't know.

It was so cold, Mr President had pity on the working man.

It was so cold, we slept UNDER the mattress.

It was so cold, the penguins came over to cool off.

It was so cold, PG&E had a touch of remorse.

Just kidding.

It was so cold, not even the FCN fan letters warmed our hearts.

It was so cold, we didn't need hair gel.

It was so cold, the White Witch made an offer on the house.

It was so cold, we could see our breath scampering back into our mouths for warmth.

It was so cold, the gardenburgers tasted okay.

It was so cold, we started a gas leak to keep warm.

It was so cold, the microwave joined the dark side.

It was so cold, we huddled with Nancy Pelosi for warmth.

It was so cold, we tried to burn the house and failed.


- Special thanks to an FCN fan who helped compile this list.

FCN makes it big time!

Special thanks to all the LLFCN members who have given us support these last few weeks. Thanks to the hard work of many members, FCN has been added to the Acronym Finder as an official definition!

Check out the link here.

Which, for those of you who don't click on things, is:

http://www.acronymfinder.com/af-query.asp?string=exact&acronym=FCN&s=r

Special thanks to all the LLFCN members' support! We hope to get in the 2007 Websters Dictionary next.

FCN's First Bonified IQ Test

Ladies and gentlemen, it is our distinct pleasure to announce our first ever fully certified, totally free IQ test. It has 10 questions + 1 for good luck, and is available

>>>here<<<

which, for those of you who don't click on things, is:

http://www.chatterbean.com/uquiz/myquiz200611290416118.php

Yes, we used ChatterBean. So we're cheap. There's no shame in that.

Anyway, this is your chance to find out how you match up against the FCN underachievers. You don't want to be classified a Moron, do you? Of course not. Take the test and discover your mental fate.

BSA

WASHINGTON DC (FCN) -- Press Secretary Tony Snow announced a new Cabinet level position to help deal with “residual indigenous populations” and “ensure tranquil interactions between man and his forefather.” The new Bureau of Savage Affairs will handle all the duties of the old Bureau of Indian Affairs, but will have more authority to quell the “Indian problem.” J.A. Custer, a direct descendant of the 7^th U.S. Cavalry leader and former undersecretary of persecutions for the BIA, will lead up the new regulatory body.

Speaking in broken English and using inter-langual hand motions, Snow encouraged his “savage” listeners to take heart; the BSA plans to provide even more welfare handouts and assorted financial benefits to those with Native American heritage. “We want to make sure that the children of those who suffered discrimination at the hands of the American government are adequately compensated for their parent's hardship. We feel that subsidizing single-parent homes by giving mothers who have children out of wedlock generous financial compensation and allowing Indian males to support their rigorous alcohol habit is the best way to show our remorse.”

America's Indian population had a mixed reaction to the BSA announcement. Shoshone Chief Michael SleepsDuringDay welcomed the BSA saying that he stood to gain weight by it. “My great-great-grandfather was treated brutally by the white man. A welfare check would make me feel a lot better about that,” he said after the press conference. Ute leader Damian FastFood had a different take. “I don't think the new BSA goes far enough. We savages had to endure years of brutal treatment at the hands of the white man during the plains wars and have suffered additional humiliation since through the BIA. The BSA should compensate us for not only the atrocities of the 1800s, but recent abuses as well.”

Indian issue lobbyist Phillip Schmidt, a blue-eyed blond and former big tobacco consultant, was more critical. “While we praise the Administration for throwing more money at the Indian problem, the use of the term 'savage' in the bureau title may be construed as derogatory.” Schmidt pulled out a heavy dictionary to argue that the average Indian isn't barbaric or uncivilized. “It's the Cherokee Nation, not the Savage Nation,” Schmidt added, taking a jab at at a prominent anti-Indian talk show host.

Asked why the bureau refers to Native Americans as “savages,” Snow replied that behavioral analysts had determined the word Indian was to inflammatory and wanted to find a term that was more “reflective of social attitudes.” Snow pointed to several treaties from the late 1800s which used the term and said that “even though most of these have been broken” the term is widely accepted within the “savage community.” To an agreeing press room chuckle, Snow added “[i]t's more fitting than 'Indian.' After all, they don't live in India, do they?”

At the end of the press conference, Snow gave the Indian Nation peace sign to a standing ovation.

Black Friday

It takes a lot to get me to get up early on a holiday, especially one that follows the great feasts of Thanksgiving. I normally snore through through at least half the morning on my days off because I need my beauty sleep. I actually sleep in because I'm lazy, but beauty makes a better excuse. It also helps explain my looks. This morning I got up at 2:30 in the morning, crawled into some warm clothes and drove twenty minutes to an electronics store to wait in line for the biggest consumer spree all year.

The event is Black Friday, a quintessentially American holiday wherein stores offer hugely discounted goods for the first customers in the store. No one really knows why it's called Black Friday, although some have speculated its because the day begins when its still dark or because every store will turn a profit (operate in “the black”). I personally believe the title refers to all the black eyes that are given on this day as millions of angry shoppers rush stores around the nation and hack through lines indiscriminately in search for a deal.

This morning, I wasn't looking for any deals. My brother had heard about a few heavily discounted laptops at BestBuy and wanted to be in line to take advantage of the sale. I went along for the ride, as a curiosity seeker.

At 3:00 A.M., when my brother and I jumped out of our hastily parked car and sprinted toward an already pregnant line, it was apparent that we were a tad late. We took our place and began obediently shivering. Brief interviews with those in front of us revealed that practically everyone was waiting for a laptop as well. My brother expressed the concern that perhaps no laptop would be available by the time he entered the store and that maybe the deal would sell out.

This particular store was so accustomed to Black Friday crowds that it had a carefully regulated system in place to reduce incidental deaths. Instead of opening the doors and letting mayhem ensue, BestBuy gives “tickets” to those who are in the front of the line (one per person) and promises to honor advertised deals only if the customer has a ticket.

Soon after our arrival, the laptop sellout was made official. Maybe they should call Black Friday “gullible day” because we stayed in line anyway, as did many other shoppers whose stated purpose was the same as my brothers.

Let me tell you, it was chilly! A thinking entrepreneur might be able to make a mint off judicious coffee sales or even selling time under a heat lamp. As I shivered in the frigid morning air, I thought that this must be what it was like for the citizens of the old Soviet Union. Unable to control the market by with their purchases, communist Russia's central planning regularly forced its citizens into long lines and shortages made Black Friday-esque events common place.

What I did next, however, would never have been allowed in the Soviet Union.

When the ticket man came by our position in line, I had a quick thought: why not resell the ticket to those further down the line? I would essentially be trading sleep for money; all I had to do was find someone who had enough money to afford the luxury of sawing Zs. I hastily asked the woman next to me, who was equipped with BestBuy's newspaper advertisement, which of the deals had the biggest discount. She answered that it was the 42' LCD HDT, which was being sold for half off its normal $1,000 price. I regurgitated the information to the BestBuy employee and was handed a ticket worth $500. Armed with this, I turned to those who had joined the line after 3:00 and began marketing my ticket. It took about 50 pitches, 45 minutes of coaxing and two handfuls of blue fingers before I ended up selling the ticket. The kind gentleman who bought the ticket made me sign a non-disclosure agreement that doesn't allow me to say what I charged. I will, however, note that I was well compensated.

I didn't learn the real meaning of Black Friday until the store's doors opened and we joined the throng heading toward the laptop computers. Never have I heard such shouting, cursing and swearing! Everywhere people were pushing and shoving, backstabbing and conducting every manner of read meat. The real shock came when I reached for a discounted DVD player and had the item ripped from my hands by someone with a ticket (10% off). We hadn't been in the store 10 minutes when people were already checking out with cartloads of expensive merchandise, some of it damaged by the brawl they had just escaped.

We didn't buy anything and ended up spending two hours in line for naught. Unless of course you factor in the shiny Andrew Jackson sitting in my wallet. Then, it was a productive couple of hours. I returned home and caught some sleep, a bag of frozen peas on my puffy eye.

The ... thumb ... knows.

My old laptop crashed a few weeks ago, taking with it a lot of precious files. School was in full swing, so I hastily went shopping for a new computer. My choice: IBM's new Thinkpad T42, which has a load of cool features, including a little red ball between the G and the H that moves the mouse, and the latest in biometric security: a fingerprint reader. That's right, there was no longer any need for me to be memorizing and changing passwords, because all I had to do was push my thumb on a little pad next to the keyboard to verify that the user was me. Without that thumbprint, no imposter could log on and steal my files. This was the major selling point for me. I paid a little extra, but I figured the peace of mind was worth it.

The new computer worked great. I always got a grim satisfaction from pushing my thumb onto the reader every morning. "Take that, hackers!" I thought.

Then, four days before my midterm paper was due, calamity struck. I was working in the kitchen putting away dishes, my mind distracted by visions of a frustrated criminal trying to discover my non-existent password. Then I looked down and saw blood all over the towel. I had absently swiped my thumb across a paring knife, causing a minor flesh wound which was more irritating than painful. I dutifully bandaged up the cut and finished putting away the dishes, then sat down to finish writing my term paper. It was only then that the true magnitude of the situation hit me. I pressed my thumb on the reader, and it gave an error beep. I removed the bandage and tried again. Error beep. I tried the other thumb. Error beep. I tried all my other fingers and toes, and those of nearby friends and family members. The infernal reader wouldn't let me in. I had weeks of research on that hard drive. I frantically raced to the nearest computer lab and started my research anew, pushing the space bar with my left thumb. It was too late. My paper got a D.

When I saw that grade come back, I vowed never to let that happen to me again. So I did the only thing any reasonable person would do: I went down to the nearby arts and crafts store and bought myself a fake thumb. You know, the kinds magicians use for stupid parlor tricks. I went home and reprogrammed my Thinkpad to accept the fake thumb as mine. I then kept the thumb in a jewelry case in my laptop bag under lock and key (the key was in my wallet). Satisfied, I went back to daily life.



A week later, I went into Starbucks and ordered a Frap. Then I sat down in the corner. I removed the laptop from the bag, removed the key from my wallet, removed the thumb from the case, and booted up. I then promptly got engrossed in my work, and the next thing I knew, I was a half hour late for class. I frantically packed up and dashed out.

While sitting in class drawing pictures of burning houses, I suddenly realized with a start that I had forgotten to pack my fake thumb. It might be sitting on a table in Starbucks right now, waiting for some dastardly coffee-drinking hacker to find it! I nearly jumped up and ran out of class right then. But I am not that bad a student. I waited for it to finish, feverishly counting each passing second (as always). The moment class was dismissed, I grabbed my bag, hurled myself out the door, slipped and slid down the stairs, vaulted over a little old lady with a walker, and fired up my car. Minutes later, I was back at Starbucks. I burst open the door and cried:

"Has anyone seen my thumb?"

Q&A with curious guys

FCN is always open to answering your questions. We put our team of highly trained delinquents on any problem, query or concern that crosses your mind, and even a few that don’t. Below, we have a series of questions from curious guys who never quite got a satisfactory answer from other humor blogs.

Question: Why is it that middle age people often joke about their age but generally old folks never touch the subject?
~Joseph, Omaha, KS.

Answer: The same reason any joke gets old (pun intended). When a person starts getting on in his years and realizes the grave isn’t in the too distant future, he tries to hide his fear by making jokes. The jokes don’t make them any younger; they just help relieve the pressure of their coming demise. Then, as that eternal phone call in the horizontal telephone booth becomes as eminent as a Democrat’s tax increase, the joke stops being funny. It’s probably still funny to you, Joseph, because you are a young guy with many good years ahead of you. Realize these old codgers have intense pressure to stop making age jokes; whenever they are at the country club and let rip with a “boy, these legs just don’t want to walk anymore” line, they are greeted with horrified stares. Sometimes those jokes can cause the management to suspend the membership of a truly egregious joker. So generally really old people stay quiet about their age.

Question: Why do most married couples engage in all sorts of really intimate behaviors including mouth to mouth kissing but insist on using their own toothbrush?
~ Ike, Carbondale, Ill.

Answer: Cooties. It really is a shame, too, since using the same toothbrush can be a great way to get closer as a married couple. Can you imagine the romance in gathering around the bathroom sink and removing each other’s plaque with the same utensil? Mutual brushing, as this practice is called by people in the therapy industry, is a great way to help couples who are on the rocks get realigned.

Question: Why is it that the more expensive a piece of clothing is, the more quickly it wears out?
~ Blythe, San Francisco, CA.

Answer: You know Blythe, that really hasn’t been our experience. A 2-3 dollar shirt (the bottom end of our price range) usually tends to be pretty flimsy, while a really expensive 10-15 dollar garment tends to last a lot longer. You can also wear the more expensive shirt for greater intervals between washing. At all the stores we shop, you get your money’s worth.

Question: Why is it that people stare at me when I wear white socks with dark clothes and shoes?
~ Trevor, Colorado Springs, CO.

Answer: That’s a question that has bugged us a lot, too. We honestly don’t have an answer, but we picked your question to highlight a major injustice in today’s fashion. We’re white, we wear white undershirts, have white bellies, etc. But for some reason, society says we have to wear dark socks. This stipulation totally destroys any individualism we might otherwise be able to express and turns us into dark clothed, zero imagination zombies. This much we do know: people stare because they have been ingrained with the lie that white socks are taboo. The average person is scolded by his mother when only a prepuberal babe and scared into believing that white is somehow morally wrong. When they see free spirits like us choosing not to be tied down by color distinctions, that whole episode of their lives is reopened and they are forced to relive their painful maternal rejection. Sympathy for others is about the only reason we can think of to avoid white socks.

Question: With all the craze over paternity tests, why don’t curious kids insist on maternity examinations as well?
~ Richard, Anaheim, CA.

Answer: All it takes is one look at the Maury or Jerry Springer shows to notice that no one questions maternity these days. They should though. Anyone who doubts their paternal lineage should reserve similar suspicion for their mother. Think about it: any woman with a paunch could claim to be the mom. It wouldn’t be that hard either; the devious woman would sneak the biological mom a significant cash amount and then jump into the delivery bed and pretend to be in pain. The substitution wouldn’t even have to be devious; all babies look alike at birth and with the myriad of mistakes hospitals make, parents really don’t know that the kids they take home are really theirs. Few are willing to admit this fear and most try to cover it by cooing “oh, s/he looks so much like you” to their spouse. Instead of these common-place “you are not the father!” routines, shows like Maury and Springer’s should bring in kids who don’t think their mom really is. That’d mix things up a bit.

As always, if you have a question for our FCN staff, feel free to email it us. That’s funnyclassnotes – at – gmail – dot – com.

Are you an Athlete or a Sports Fan?

One reader sent us this insightful comparison...

Athletes study the playbook (Ps. 119:160)
Sports fans study the sports section (Prov. 14:12)

Athletes trust their coach (Ps. 32:8; II Pet. 1:3)
Sports fans trust talk radio (Micah 7:5, 6)

Athletes are recognized by performance (Dan. 11:32)
Sports fans are recognized by team garb (I Sam. 16:7)

Athletes value training (Heb. 12:11)
Sports fans value cable (Ec. 2:10)

Athletes step onto the field (I Sam. 17:40)
Sports fans stay on the couch (Prov. 24:30)

Athletes gather for a purpose (I Cor. 14:26)
Sports fans gather for a show (Is. 5:12)

Athletes experience sore muscles (Prov. 20: 30)
Sports fans experience spare tires (Prov. 26:14)

Athletes collect strength (Ps. 18:39)
Sports fans collect memorabilia (Matt. 25:24-30)

Athletes run marathons (Dan. 11:32)
Sports fans run to the bathroom (Matt. 25:1-13)

Athletes are crowned victorious (I Thess. 2:19)
Sports fans are crowned with spilled beer (Ps. 28:19)

BE AN ATHLETE

Printer Phobic

Everyone is afraid of something. I can't stand anything that has more than 6 legs. My grandma hates anything that has less than one. My sister is afraid of deep water. One of my buddies is achluophobic. He talked to his psychiatrist, but was told that there's not much anyone can do for someone who's 16 and still afraid of the dark. And my mom - she's printerphobic.

It all happened a few days ago. My mom had been trying to print on our Lexmark L51 Ink Jet, when she noticed the color cartridge was almost empty. She clicked the pause button and removed the ink canister. She extracted the new color cartridge of ink from its leak-proof protective covering and proceeded to click in into its place, when for no apparent reason, the machine came to life.

It is important to understand how a laser jet printer works. These printers consist of three main parts. The first is main unit or the outer-casing, which basically holds all the mechanics together. Then there are the electronics, which receive messages from the computer and tell the printer where to put the ink on the paper. Then there is the mechanics. On our printer, there are two ink canisters that slide back and forth on a track, spewing ink all over the page.

I remember little from the confusion that ensued. The two cartridges slide back into their printing positions. Because the color ink cartridge was not in place, it became stuck inside the printer. Unfortunately, the electronics was still telling the mechanics to print. Eventually, after much girly screaming on the part of my sister and mother (not mine by the way), my mom pressed the off button, shutting down the power.

After a few tests, my mother realized that the ink cartridge was stuck, and no amount of begging was going to get it to leave its hiding place. My mom took a screw driver and proceeded to tear the printer apart. The outer-casing separated pretty easily, splitting into two parts. Unfortunately, the ink cartridge had completely emptied its contents - all over the inside of the printer. My mom proceed to clean up the mess.

Almost three hours later, the printer was back and working. It makes a peculiar clicking noise whenever it prints, but my mom doesn't mind. She hasn't touched the printer since the incident. We don't know why the printer malfunctioned. I don't think we ever will. I can promise you that no one in our household is going to take apart the printer to find out why it makes that annoying clicking noise.

Everyone's afraid they'll become printerphobic too.

Visor Vanity

The other day I hopped into a car with a few friends and started my normal on-the-highway daydreaming routine. My brain was flat-lining as I watched the little white lines wiz by and I began to reverie of happy things. On this particular occasion, I believe the daydream involved a beautiful woman and a lot of ice cream. Anyway, my thoughts were interrupted when my friend in the passenger seat pulled down the visor and looked at herself intently in the mirror. She stared for a while, squinted and then opened her mouth for an oral inspection. There were no visible marks on her face, she wasn’t adding makeup, her hair looked well quaffed and she hadn’t eaten anything in the last two hours so she wasn’t conducting post facto dental hygiene. In short, there were no conceivable reasons for her to be using the visor at that moment.

Now, we all know and love girls. This post isn’t meant to knock girls – that subject has gotten old – rather it is a critique of what I like to call Visor Vanity: the urge a passenger has to use the car’s built in mirror to ensure that their good looks remain intact. This phenomenon isn’t isolated to girls; I have, on more than one embarrassing occasion, caught myself pulling down the visor for a quick peek. And I am not a girl. It’s not that I’m particularly sensitive about my features (I often go through my morning routine without ever glancing at the mirror, but that’s probably because it is so covered in grime that such a look wouldn’t be productive) or that I seek regular approval (excepting, of course, in my love life) or that I am very, very extremely vain.

So why do we thus abuse the visor? I think it has something to do with the popularity of photographs.

In the old days, pictures weren’t that common. Most of them were grainy, black and white and, if you go back far enough, daguerreotypes. Mirrors were the only opportunity to find out how we looked. Today, with every trinket on the market photo-enabled – from the cell phones that take pictures, to those little cameras over stoplights – our picture can be found all over the place. The other day I even found a picture of myself in the local obituaries. I am still trying to figure out why I was thus honored. Anyway, pictures give us the likeness that others see while a mirror provides the mathematical opposite of that image. When we see a picture, an image of ourselves is ingrained in our minds. But when we look in the mirror, that picture is contradicted. In an effort to convince ourselves that either the photo or the mirror is accurate, we must constantly look in the mirror. Some people have a similar problem called Photo Vanity, but that only occurs in the left-handed.

Test this out. Grab a picture of yourself and go to the mirror. Which image do you like better? The one in the mirror or the one in the photo? Odds are you’ll like the mirror better.

In response to Visor Vanity, I have taken a picture of myself and put it up as my background on my cell phone and computer and pasted it all over my bedroom, coving a full length mirror. This picture reinforces the correct image of myself and, hopefully, obviates the need to pull down the visor.

My deceptive water bottle

It was the second hour of French class and I was getting pretty thirsty. The professor was droning on about stress accents and the tails of Cs when my wandering eye caught the cap of the water bottle stuck in my backpack. Excellent! I reached under the desk, pulled open the container and chugged a couple comforting swigs. The lecture didn’t get any more interesting, but at least I wasn’t parched anymore.

I kept the water bottle on my desk in case the thirsts decided to attack again and once again pretended to listen. That’s when it hit me: I was a victim of false advertising! I know, I know, that doesn’t make any sense. But it will. Keep reading.

Below is a picture of the bottle from which I drank in the first paragraph:



It looks really normal, doesn’t it? “The kind of water that tastes like water” as they say on the TV. Looks can be deceiving. This particular bottle is actually none of those; it is just Safeway’s generic “Refreshe” brand and nothing fancy. Either the typist who wrote out the label was new or French, because refresh is not spelled with an “e.”

My sensibilities were comforted by this label on the side of the bottle:



I’d had pizza and a diet soda for lunch (both high in salt) so the fact that the bottle didn’t have any sodium was comforting. I smiled inwardly. Then my eyes wandered to the opposite side of the water label where I saw:



“Cody, ça vas?” My teacher had a concerned expression on her face as she looked at me from the front of the class. In my horror, I had probably done something ungentlemanly. “Oui, ça vas bien.” Then my brain went on auto pilot. “Et vous? Comment allez-vous?” Sodium Bicarbonate! SODIUM Bicarbonate which adds an “insignificant” amount of sodium! Whatever happened to that “Sodium Free” label with the heart? I almost coughed up the water right then. What a blatant act of deception! Anyone who cares about their health could take the time to flip the bottle over and find out what was really going on.

My curiosity piqued, I turned the bottle and began scrutinizing the label for other inconsistencies.



Some people might find this comforting. But for me, in my deception induced heightened state of alert, this was a clue. And an oxymoron. How in the world is osmosis reversed? We learn in biology that osmosis refers to the act of any liquid going down the concentration gradient (like water down a hill, only different). Without some serious magic or technology, it is impossible to reverse that. And the reversal is never natural.

My teacher interrupted my line of thinking to ask me a question. I mumbled out an answer that I and the rest of the class forgot almost as soon as it was uttered and returned to my aqua thoughts.

The front of the bottle advertised that the water was filtered using a microfilter (just below the sodium free notification and two pictures up in case you forgot). In my book, water cannot be both microfiltered and reversed osmosised. It’s impossible. They must have mixed up the bottles somewhere down the line.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat. No one paid any attention (At this point in the semester, I could come to class wearing a speedo and no one would bat an eyelash; there is one guy who might, but for the most part, no one would care.) and I rusticated in my disappointment. I had purchased this bottle of water as part of a thirty count case a week ago and I could think of no way to legally express my disappointment in a manner that would effectively relieve the stress. Then I saw it:



The bottle still contained a third of its original contents and I knew the Safeway where I’d bought it. All I would need to do was run down and get it replaced. I was antsy until class ended and I raced down the stairwell, fully intending to cross the street and return the bottle. That’s when another attack of the thirsts hit. And I stopped. Desperate, I looked to the deceptive bottle for quenching liquid. Before I could think through the consequences of my action I had swallowed the last drop, reverse osmosis, sodium bicarbonate, money back guarantee and all.

The worst part about this story is that I was back in Safeway yesterday. And I purchased another 30 count package. Hey, it was the cheapest there.

FCN voted Least Likely to Succeed

The three members of FCN have just recieved a rare and notable distinction: tying in a recent class vote of Least Likely to Succeed. That's right, by what would seem to be a unique coincidence, all three contributing members of Funny Class Notes recieved exactly the same number of votes in this election. I'm not entirely clear on the methodology myself, because when the vote was taken, I was sitting in the back drawing strange and, frankly, gorgeous designs all over my test paper. They were mostly of zebras. I would have voted for one of the other two freaks who post here, but I don't remember getting a ballot.

I know, I know ... being voted Least Likely isn't a good thing. But there's something to be said for it. It shows your classmates really do know you exist, for instance. I was actually beginning to wonder. It also shows that I'm not the weakest link in FCN - we're a group of fairly equal underachievers will all go down in similarly unspectacular fashion. But perhaps best of all, we serve as an encouragement and warning to the A students (and B and C students): Keep studying, or you'll end up posting with a bunch of underachieving, Least Likely freaks on an obscure humor blog.

But for those of you who don't want to heed the warning, I am now setting up the Least Likely Fan Club N. I put the N in so the initials are LLFCN, which looks just like FCN, which is ... okay. I'll stop. Anyway, if you're interested in joining LLFCN, send us an email and we'll include you, ananymously, of course. Who wants to publicly support underachievement?

FCN has a new home.

It's bigger. It's better. It's badder ...

Actually, it's the same old FCN, with some damaged furniture from the move. But we've got a brand spanking new home which should make it much easier for us to pipe you Funny Class Notes in real time, and even give you the chance to give us feedback, so we can see just how lame we're really being.

To read the classic FCN posts from back in the good old days, check out

>>>here<<<

which, for those of you who don't click on things, is:

funnyclassnotes.googlepages.com

Note the absence of a www. This is because there IS no www. If this is confusing, blame that Paige fellow.

Anyway, we hope you enjoy reading FCN as much as we enjoy writing it. And please remember: If you don't like what you see, it was one of those other two freaks who post here.