Funny Class Notes

FCN's Last Post Ever of All Time

2010-05-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

Farewell according to F

It's that time of year again.

No wait! It's not that time of year. What am I saying? Fine, this isn't a good post anyway. It's a very sad one.

Fact is, our little baby blog here - FCN- it's been having some problems. It's been slowly lounging toward its own ... you know. We did everything we could to ease the burden. We reduced the frequency of posts. We even reduced the funniness of posts. Nothing seemed to work. FCN kept ... you know.

So now, we find ourselves collectively standing at FCN's bedside, listening to a gradually weakening "beep ... beep ... beep ..." I'm clenching my jaw in a manly way, secretly trying to hold back tears. C has his latest future emotional baggage weeping on his shoulder. N has his phone out. Chip couldn't make it but sends his best and promises to be at the funeral (as long as there are crab cakes). Jessica is just standing there. She's just standing there! Ana is in the hall arguing with the orderly. Mommy G is waiting in the lobby with brownies. Uncle Wally is sitting in the corner, asleep.

We've all come to a consensus.

You like that?

Consensus.

And this is what the consensus is: it's time to pull the plug. We can't stand to watch our baby be a vegetable. The doctor promised it'd be painless. Personally I think the doctor is full of it. It won't be painless. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do - well, hardest ever since I gave my first edition copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul to a homeless guy (in exchange for a back rub).

FCN has always been there for us. She's what - 3 years old now? 4!? She's seen us through some hard times, and we've seen her through some too. And now it's over. We're finally euthanizing her, for real this time.

Goodbye baby. In the immortal words of Wham!:

"Wake me up before you go-go, cause I'm not planning on going solo. Wake me up before you go-go. Take me dancing tonight."

Oh! Just one more thing I really ought to say ...

I am Iron Man.

Farewell according to C

I'm going to be more sentimental than F because I am so confident in my masculinity that a little reflection does not threaten my identity. When Funny Class Notes first started, I was a high school student who was tired of paying attention in class. I succeeded in distracting my friends and decided to go viral with my tomes, essays, satires, doodles and what not. In the last few years, FCN has become my repository. Teachers, classes, cars, relationships, favorite celebrities and, yes, teeth have come and gone but FCN remained constant. This page was a place of comfort, where I could dump my partially censored thoughts into cyber-space with pseudo-anonymity.

Of course, the few people who read these expressive and revealing posts were also the people who mattered. Friends would email me with the subject line "REALLY WORRIED ABOUT YOU" based on FCN content that was, I say with only a little shame, 85% true. Others would speculate about where the tale left the train tracks of veracity and entered the fanciful world of fiction. Still more people would refuse to talk to me again based on their portrayal in an FCN post. I'm sorry Carrie, really. As addictive as comfort food -- and almost as dangerous -- FCN was a bridge that made me almost as many friends as it lost. And it was worth it.

I'm going to reflect on my time as an author with a pleasant grin. I'll probably reread some of our posts and chuckle at their sophomoric creativity -- such is the perspective provided by time. None of this would have been possible without the amazing support of you, the faithful FCN few. I have regularly thanked you for your continued loyalty and supportive comments -- but no expression of gratitude suffices to fully articulate the high esteem in which we hold you. FCN was here because you were here. Thank you for the fun times.

[Note: Hyperlinks in this paragraph direct to a friend's blog, Vague Apprehension. It comes highly recommended without reservation.]

FCN has long been the Lady Gaga of blogs: We're popular, but no one really knows why. We produce content, the critics scratch their heads and we gain social currency. The similarities don't stop there: we also prance around in our underwear, have the musical taste of a baboon and have very public dating lives.

I hope Miss Germanotta (a.k.a. "Lady Gaga") takes the hint and follows our lead. Retirement is, I am told, very comfortable for former pop stars. Just stop releasing new songs and rest on the laurels of such magnificent pieces as "Alejandro" and "Telephone."

Like F, I will close this farewell with a pop culture reference. Mine is to Lee "Hacksaw" Hamilton, who put it best when he said: "Good night now!" Good night now, FCN!

Will the Last Person Leaving FCN -- Turn Out the Lights.

Farewell according to N

It's been a long run.

A LONG run.

Not literally of course. In fact, not figuratively either. More like a bumbling walk. But that's how we like it. Slow and stumbling wins the race. Or finishes it at post 865.

When I started writing with C in 2005, I was in 8th grade. I really didn't worry about college. In fact, now that I think of it, I wasn't particularly concerned about high school. But here I am on May 22th, 2010. Yesterday was my last day as a senior of secondary education. It's time to move on to a new part of my life.

No more Life Tips. No more hours on Wikipedia looking for applicable hyper links. No more picking up chicks by telling the ladies I was the one who actually wrote C's posts. (Sorry, F. I promised I'd tell you what my secret was when we shut FCN down.)

I will miss it. But most of all I will miss you. Yes, YOU. Not him, not her. YOU, my most favorite reader of all. Don't tell the others, but I loved you the most. I always have. Sniff.

I bid adieu with the immortal closing words from Nancy Pelosi's statement on Healthcare Reform:

"Thank you, my colleagues. Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I thank the gentleman for yielding. I thank all of you for bringing us to this moment."

Thank you for the wonderful moments you have brought us.

Farewell according to Chip

Hooey, people. Those tears are going to melt your faces. When I joined FCN I was an obese old splutterer whose only claim to fame was tenth reader status, participation in a short highjacking attempt, and a peculiar facility for producing "tawdry laughs." FCN's extraordinary longevity (both in time and in wordiness) doesn't give me fond tears or fond memories; it just reminds me that one more thing in this world isn't as short as me.

Yes, it's been a good run. Especially after the women got involved (which is exactly when I started running). But all good things must end, and when they do, they have funerals with free refreshments. It's been great to work with you, F, C, N, Jessica, and Ana. You've given me more chuckles than anyone except Marilyn Manson, and you've filled my homework hours with joyful and unproductive laughter. I don't know what I'll do without you. Good bye, dear readers. I have never seen you, but I believe you exist anyway. Farewell, FCN! May your august archives continue to pollute unsuspecting minds for years to come.

Can I have my crab cakes now?

Farewell according to Jessica

10:30pm. Began writing farewell post.

10:31pm. Turned on Pandora to the “Boys Like Girls” station. Skipped 3 songs, changed to the “Explosions in the Sky” station. Serious/solemn times call for serious/solemn music.

10:38pm. Resumed writing farewell post, now armed with copious amounts of ice cream and a box of tissues. Who knew this would be such an emotional turning point? Now I know how Kevin Jonas probably secretly felt when he got married. Happy a new chapter of life was starting, but sad to say farewell to millions of adoring female fans who would gladly date him without commitment. But, unlike C, I’m not looking to date anyone. And I’m not a dude. That analogy is starting to crash. Backpedal. It’s time to reminisce.

10:45pm. Blankly staring at computer screen. Skipped another lame song on Pandora. Finished first pint of ice cream. Logged in to Facebook. Oh, the hours I used to spend reading FCN. I guess now I'll have to turn to Facebook to fill those empty moments.

11:37pm. Still on Facebook. It’s almost like a pain-relieving narcotic. I completely forgot about FCN’s dissolution for nearly an hour.

11:52pm. Decided to face the facts and focus on the good times rather than the saddening reality of FCN’s conclusion. Skipped more songs until Pandora started cursing at me and exploded. Time for silence I guess. But that’s fitting. FCN deserves her moment of silence. Farewell, FCN. I’ve spent more time as a FCN reader than as a FCN writer. And frankly, I’m really sad to see the magic stop. Yes, it’s time. All good things must come to an end, and we just have to let them go. But did that kind of advice lessen the sting of the phase-out of eight-track tapes for Bill Lear? Doubt it.

This is it. Goodbye hijackers. Goodbye Anonymous. Goodbye faithful readers. We're sure you have more important things to do with your time online, like maintaining your farm on Farmville, or compulsively clicking the StumbleUpon button... but if you get the chance, look us up. These posts will be here as a lasting monument to the good ole days of blogging.

Like the Wicked Witch of the West after an accidental shower… I’m meltingggg…

Farewell according to Ana

I wish I could say that I'm sad to see FCN go. I wish I could cry a couple crocodile tears. I wish I could pretend to be a fragile female and fall into a faint at the thought of saying "Farewell, FCN." But I can't. Instead, all I can do is breathe a sigh of relief that this phase of my life is over. No longer do I have to dissect every aspect of my life, trying to extract something funny from every occurrence for the amusement of mere strangers somewhere in cyberspace. Instead, I can now simply go through life, laughing at the humorous moments and then promptly forgetting them. Finally, I can stop being a bum student who takes notes on strange things that go on in class, and I can instead take notes on what the professor is actually talking about (I wonder what that will do for my 2.37 GPA?). In short, I'm not really sad to see FCN depart. While it's been a big part of my life for the past 4+ years, I think the time has come to say goodbye. So goodbye, FCN. And goodbye stranger in cyberspace. It's been fun. Ish.

Facebook Status Updates

2010-05-08T07:30:00.000-07:00

We give you: The Top Four Most Annoying Facebook Status Update Styles

The Facebookitterer
This is the person who thinks their Facebook status update is supposed to function like a Twit. Updates may include the following:

John Smith is eating lunch.

Jess Smith is glad hubby is home to watch the baby...haven't been able to go to the bathroom all morning!

Elaine Craig is doing laundry.
Elaine Craig is folding laundry.
Elaine Craig is putting away laundry.
Elaine Craig clean laundry smells so nice!!!

The Confused Persons
This is the friend on your list who is a person confused by the concept of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd persons. They consistently write their updates in the first person, causing updates that read very oddly:

Grant Johnson I just had the greatest time ever at the beach!

Lizzy Jones me and my mom are loving this season of Dancing with the Stars!

Jane Victor I'm pregnant! Me and Bill are sooooo happy! Get the shotgun dad, lol

The I-Don't-Have-a-Life-So-I'll-Post-About-My-Family-Instead
The title pretty much says it all.

Elias Jones ' sister just came back from Costco with garlic bread!

Adrianna Ayers someone just pointed a gun at my brothers! YIKES! So glad they're OK!

David Daniels' parents just won a trip to Hawaii...wahoo! Can't wait for my lousy t-shirt!

The Trying Desperately to be Mysterious
This is the melodramatic person in your life who wants everyone to think their life is much more interesting than it actually is. They do this by posting vague, and sometimes worrisome, status updates:

Sarah Grant is trying to catch the rain.

Bryce Buckler sometimes, you have to die before you can live.

Top 40 Break Up

2010-05-01T10:52:00.000-07:00

Hello,

You're such a rude boy. How low can you go? You did say you would break my heart, but over the telephone? So we're over, onto the next one? What's going on in your head?

I feel like I never even met you! You said I was your baby, your (very attractive) chick, your american honey. When we were dancing I never wanted to let you go. I was addicted to your natural, young, glittery smile. I liked your dad and sister, too.

OMG, you meant everything to me. Nothing hurts as much as you running and turning your back. I thought I (made) all the right moves. Time is ticking; I need you and hope this is only temporary. Can we try again? I'm tired of talking about bad romance.

Imma be sleeping with a broken heart.

Have you considered the Marchioness?

2010-04-26T09:10:00.000-07:00

It was Friday afternoon and I was getting ready to quit work and meet a friend for drinks. It had been another tough week at General Mills and was fed up with the wheat dust. I wanted out.

Just as I was pulling my punch card from my pocket and preparing to bid adieu to responsibility for the weekend, the office phone rang. The caller ID said it was Diane, an office supply agent who came by regularly to restock paper and ink and gossip with the secretaries. Since I was the only one in the office, it was up to me to answer the phone. I picked up the hand piece with a memorized "Good afternoon. General Mills. How may I help you?"

"Hey is this C?"

"Yes it is, Diane, what can I do for you?" I hoped she didn't have any emergency that would take hours to resolve, like the time she wanted me to hand-siphon ink out of a broken print cartridge. That project had ruined both my evening and my brand new shoes.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Uh oh...

"Sure, fire away."

"Okay, I mean you don't have to answer if it's too personal or whatever. I just-"

"Diane, ask me your question. It's Friday afternoon, I'm in a good mood."

"That's what I was hoping...C, are you single? I mean, are you seeing anyone?" For context, note that Diane is a lovely woman in her mid-forties. We joke around when she comes to the office, but we are not good friends. This question came out of left field.

"Blissfully so, Diane. I'm as single as they come. Why?" I never shy away from a question.

"Well the reason I'm asking is my daughter is single. You know Fiona -- she's dropped off office shipments before for me -- she's beautiful and has a great personality. Anyway, tonight I was thinking about her and thought of you. You are such a nice guy and I know you would treat her right. Fiona's been through some rough stuff -- bad relationships -- nothing terrible mind you, just it would be good to see her with a nice guy. Anyway, do you think you'd want to give her a call?"

Diane was trying to set me up with her daughter! This was not my first experience with mothers setting me up with their daughters. If I had half as much luck with girls my own age as I had with their mothers, I would be set. Apparently being a nice guy is a great bonus with mom, but is a negative with girls who like adventure and excitement. To moms, nice = secure. To girls, nice = boring. Girls want a fixer upper. Moms want a mansion. Diane had used the term "nice" twice in the previous paragraph. I felt like she'd called me a heart of gold.

Pitching Fiona's previous rough relationships was not Diane's best play. She needed me to be thinking about how beautiful and smart her daughter was, not that she'd made stupid guy mistakes in the past or had some heavy relationship baggage to carry into any interaction with me. My mental image of a battered girl who's spirit had been broken like a wild stallion's was not going to make me push the ten numbers to have us connected. I gave Diane an "A" for gumption, but a "C" for execution.

For all of Diane's effort, I did not want to go out with her daughter. I'd met Fiona before and there was no spark between us. She was a pretty girl -- a California 7 -- but she wore her baggage on her face. Diane, too, was not the most enticing salesperson. A chain-smoking, overweight double divorcee, Diane's life served as more warning than enticement. Plus, the last few weeks had not availed very good dating experiences. I needed a break. But the fact that we worked together meant I had to turn this down tactfully -- if only to maintain detente.

"Look, Diane, I'm flattered you would call and offer your daughter like this, but there's some complications on my side. I'm getting ready to leave the state -- to move across the country for school -- in a couple months. It wouldn't be right for me to get involved with anyone -- much less your daughter -- knowing that I would soon be leaving." I dropped the clear hint.

"You're moving to New York, right? That's excellent. C, when I dated Fiona's dad, he had to move shortly after we started going out and I followed him to San Francisco. Even though we later divorced, we had a great marriage. I would marry him again today if given the chance. And Fiona was borne of that union. If you guys hit it off, there's nothing to say that Fiona wouldn't go with you to New York."

Diane had failed to make a great impression before, but her current efforts were permanently foreclosing Fiona's chances. I had never seen anyone move so quickly from "give her a call" to "move with you to New York." It was speed that would make Dez Bryant jealous. It made me want to get off the phone.

"Look, Diane, that's super sweet. Why don't you give me her number and I'll think about giving her a call?" It was the best I could do. Diane gave me Fiona's number and I punched out to enjoy my weekend. Just another Friday afternoon at General Mills.

Bessie

2010-04-17T05:39:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, on a farm not too far away, Bessie started her day like any other weekday morning. She walked lazily to the milking machine before the sun rose and sat still as an underpaid dairy hand plugged her in with no regard for her personal privacy or feelings. The teatcups tickled more than normal and Bessie let out a discontented “moo.” The dairy hand slapped Bessie on the rump and moved on about his chores. If Bessie weren't so distracted by the soft suction of the machine, she might have felt put out by the worker's callousness.

Bessie wondered briefly whether producing less milk would make the dairy workers respect her more. None of them appreciated the sacrifice required by a cow of her age to pump out quality milk with such regularity. They ignored her entreaties, verbal and not, choosing instead to joke among themselves or pay attention to Coco, a Holstein with udders so productive, they could support the entire cream division of Bayview Farms.

Coco. That was a heifer. With perfect coloring and minimal muscle, she was a milk machine and the envy of trough nineteen. Worse, she knew it. Coco would prance around the field when she should have been grazing and graze when she should have been sleeping. But she produced. And because she produced the dairy hands let her get away with it.

The worker returned to disconnect Bessie. With a relieved “moo,” she trotted into the cool morning air to graze. Grazing was the best part of Bessie's day. She loved a patch of crabgrass near the south fence and worked with Dairy Queen and Mama Moo to secure it from the others. Together they would partake of the greenery and forget about all their troubles.

By noon, Bessie was chewing her cud. She neither despised nor enjoyed the practice. It was just something she did. She left the south fence area to be alone. She liked to chew her cud in private. Even Coco would go off by herself for this digestive exercise.

That afternoon it was back to grazing. Tonto and Nutless, a couple of steers from next farm over, had jumped the fence and were eating the crabgrass. Everybody regarded the steers as strange and they were ostracized whenever they ventured out. Bessie had had a bad experience with T-Bone a few weeks ago and didn't want to deal with any more steers, so she joined the others eating in a large plot of sown Bermuda. Bermuda grass was the fast food of the milk cow's world, but Bessie would still eat it occasionally.

Darkness came quickly and Bessie joined Mama Moo and the rest of the cows in the trot back to the milking machine. The worker was nicer than the man on the early shift had been and Bessie was happy with her treatment. She thought her day would end with a contented cud chewing session and sleep, when Dairy Queen approached her with an idea.

No. It wasn't right. She couldn't do that. She would get in trouble. When Dairy Queen told her that Coco had done it, Bessie mooed her assent. She was game.

Mr. Cranky Pants was a handsome stud who lived in a well-kept pasture a few miles away. He had been at Bessie's dairy once before and had caught her eye immediately. She had always thought about going to see him. Mama Moo explained that the steers had knocked the fence down when they left that afternoon. This was their chance.

Bessie was surprised at how easy it was to climb the fence. A couple of other cows had caught wind of the mischief and decided to tag along. Bessie was not sure how many cows were in their group, but it was sizable. She was excited about the adventure.

At first Bessie was concerned when the group moved into the middle of the road. It seemed to her that cows should be on grass or dirt, not pavement. But Dairy Queen started making funny trotting noises on the hard surface and Bessie was so caught up in the hilarity of the situation that she surrendered her fears.

They continued this way for a few hundred meters, occasionally making comments about the houses they passed or the other cows they saw sleeping in their pastures. Freedom felt so good until it hurt.

Bessie never saw the car that hit her. It struck her from behind, pushing her forward several feet. She suffered an involuntary and very unladylike reaction to the car's force. Bessie was embarrassed by that and happy that her friends scattered quickly and probably hadn't noticed. The car's owner looked upset and disheveled, but was okay. That made Bessie feel better. She had never wanted to hurt anyone.

Emergency vehicles arrived quickly. A police officer started asking questions and taking measurements, but never thought to ask Bessie how she was doing. Remarkably well, thank you, given the circumstances.

The car was towed away and the driver taken to the hospital for minor injuries, leaving Bessie all alone on the side of the road. With a grunt, she got up and trudged back the way she came, cautious to stay out of the road and clear of traffic. She hopped the fence again and curled up to sleep near the crabgrass. She hadn't met Mr. Cranky Pants, but she couldn't wait to tell her amazing story to the other cows, especially Coco.

Boredom is the Mother of Creativity

2010-04-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

It was another typical, dreary day in my Organic Chem class. If Organic Chem was a type of weather, it would be one of those days in November when it's not quite winter or fall, but dark and blustery... and awful.

Fortunately for me, my best friend is in the same class. She alleviates the intense boredom caused by my professor's droning voice. Not only is she pretty and witty, she is also a closet poet.

And today she wrote a poem in class. I laughed out loud at the result of her creative energy. My professor now thinks his jokes are funny. My classmates now think I'm a lunatic. They may be right, but whatever. See for yourself.

I happened upon a man one day

(His palor markedly white)

An unabashed grin being all he wore

(It gave me quite a fright)
"Good God, dear sir, what happened to you?

Your skin's so markedly pale

You shouldn't leave such things for the world to see

Considering you're irrevocably male."

He responded "A long time ago much before your day

I was not but a wee lad of two

Minding my own in a bath when the nurse

Had an aneurysm and out with the water she threw

My humble self to the street."

"For shame!" I cried, "And let a curse hang upon her head,

But dear sir, you have failed to mention yet

Why you are still so... naked."

"My color I shan't account for

'Twas given me at birth

And I will always bless whom gave it me,

My only mother, Earth.

As for my persistent state

My theory is simple, you see:

It was naked my mother saw me last,

And I have remained so, lest she shouldn't recognize me."

-Lorelai

The Masters...on CBS

2010-04-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

A few months ago my faculty advisor asked if I enjoyed living with ambivalent purpose and suffering through the consequences of my wayward life decisions. When I answered with an affirmative informalism, he recommended I pursue graduate school. “The party continues,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “loans toll repayment and you don't have to get a job.” I was convinced and ran off write the graduate entrance exams. Fast-forward through an arduous process of alternately playing the vendor (“Look what I have to offer your school”) and the buyer (“But what are you offering that xyz school isn't, specifically can you offer me some money?”), I now have to make a choice between a handful of universities that, I am promised, will not disappoint the derelict.

To help make an informed decision, I have to actually visit the campuses of the schools in question. To that end, I am sitting on a scantily-cushioned waiting chair at Terminal C11/9 of Detroit Metro airport, an important regional hub in Michigan. My final destination is upstate New York. For this airport's size and puissance in the plane-flying world, it has surprisingly spartan food and entertainment offerings.

Before sitting down to pen this post, I finished a trek through the entire C Terminal looking for some caloric relief. Although planes and hungry people were flying all around, the closest I could get to credible sustenance was a twenty-person line at Fuddruckers, a restaurant name that would make a less mature writer want to giggle. I settled for an overpriced diet coke, a major disappointment given that Minneapolis, from whence I flew, had a full service California Pizza Kitchen.

Fortunately for the Faithful Few, my walk through Terminal C did produce something more noteworthy than a rude giggle and a bottle of colored fizzy water. As I exited one of over a dozen moving walkways – “please watch your step...please watch your step” – I noticed a crowd gathered at the Martini Cove. Ever notice how airport restaurants name themselves after popular food or drink items? It's not The Watering Hole, it's Jose Cuervo's Watering Hole. It's not a Food Den, it's Coney Island Food Den. I think I had lunch in Minneapolis at the Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich Shop, a glorified Subway.

The folks in the crowd were not waiting in line for overpriced and ostentatiously titled airport fare or even being remotely social. They were watching The Masters, a professional golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia, which, in the immortal voice of Jim Nantz, is on CBS. Every year the world's best golfers compete to win a claim to a hideous green jacket by trying to out-golf each other. An explanation of the “sport” of golf is both beyond the scope of this blog and utterly boring, but it suffices to say that the game more slowly than a salted slug on frozen molasses.

The disgraced Tiger Woods was getting ready to putt. He took a couple of practice swings, shook his head as if trying to banish the mental image of mistress number eight and hit the ball. It didn't go in. Woods gave his best “I'm disappointed” mime as he fell to his knees clutching his metal stick in angst. Then he got up and finished the hole with an easy stroke for par. Golf clap. The crowd dissipated quickly as soon as Tiger's infamous image left the screen. The parting mass was clear evidence for the view that the “sport” of golf is very much benefited by Tiger's scandals. My anecdotal experience here in Michigan suggests that Masters viewership will be through the roof. The number of people who tune in this week or watch the final this weekend if Tiger is playing might even rival the Super Bowl. Sure, Bill Simmons probably said it before me, but you heard it here first.

I wonder if golf would be more popular it were broadcast by Scott Hamilton, the ice skating legend. Instead of talking about dimpled girls twirling in toilet-paper dresses, he'd be commenting on dimpled golf balls being hit into holes in the grass. Using his signature grunting, Hamilton would describe the golfer's movements with an encouraging “It miiiiight go iiiiiin....Oh it did!” He could partner with the sarcastic commentator from that NBC reality show where contestants run through obstacle courses (please volunteer his name in the comment section, I'm too lazy to hunt it down) saying things like “that must have hurt” or “he'll feel that in the morning.” Now that's TV that I would watch.

Interested in locating airport goers -- any in the terminal -- who were not entranced by Tiger's performance, I spied a woman reading Cosmopolitan Magazine (Playboy for women). Her devoted attention to the text's glossy pages was not deterred by replays of the unfaithful golfer. An elderly gentleman with a legal pad was busy scribbling something important-looking. He did not look up either. Then Tiger reappeared to challenge another hole. The old man set aside his notes and the woman put down her girl porn. Woods had center stage and I looked around the terminal to see everyone sitting in rapt attention. I could have hijacked a plane right off the tarmac and no one would have noticed until Tiger left the frame.

No one, not even Fred Couples (Fred who?), demands the undivided attention garnered by Tiger Woods. The entertainment provided by his return to golf is enough, even, to make a visit to Detroit Metro interesting. Bravo Tiger!

Claudia – Part II

2010-04-05T05:49:00.000-07:00

The last couple weeks, members of the faithful FCN few have been clamoring to hear the epilogue to my brief encounter. If my reference to classic British film was too tangential, let me briefly recap what happened on my first few Ashley Madison-esque dates with Claudia:

I got her number and asked her out. That part was epic. Then I found out she's married. That revelation took the shine off the “epic” and made it more “weird, scary and unfortunate,” at least that's how Bill described it. Bill, my workout buddy, was instrumental in my securing a first date with Claudia, so I'm blaming the debacle on him, at least until he is spotting me at the bench press and is responsible for the well-being of my trachea. Then I might cut him some slack.

While the comments on the Claudia post had given me wide latitude in my options, their general theme advised moving on. But I didn't want to rush into terminating things. I had to know if she was telling the whole truth about Marco. How separated were Claudia and Marco? Was he a dangerous person – a man prone to fits of violent passion against perceived competitors for his wife's affection -- or a calm, affectionate soul? I'd never met Marco and therefore couldn't be sure he even existed. Was he a myth invented by Claudia to test my interest? To test my integrity? His name – the first part of a common kid's pool game – was suspicious enough. Who names their children Marco? Mongolians? Kublai Khan's descendants?

We met for lunch at a mid-sized restaurant near downtown. I knew the owners and liked the food. If things hit the fan with Claudia, at least I would be left eating in a good establishment. As the mid-week traffic filled the restaurant to about half capacity, we took out seats. We didn't say a word to each other until the waiter, a man who's thin frame could hold precious little muscle even if it wanted to, left with our drink orders.

Claudia: So?
C: So...the French dip here is fantastic.
Claudia: Haha. [Nervous pause]. I dropped a bomb on our last date. You were weird afterward – understandably weird. What are you going to do?

The words of such distinguished commenters as DTH Rocket, Jonathan and Anonymous (1) echoed in my head. DTH's reference about the necessity of a certificate of divorce was especially puissant. I decided to explore it a little.

C: Look, you're married to the guy. Marriage is a sacred institution. It's a commitment of monogamy, fidelity and trust. A dissolved marriage is sad – a tragedy really.
Claudia: C--
C: Let me finish.

I didn't know what to say next, so I paused. An interminably earnest expression covered Claudia's attractive features. Cute lips that were so often smiling were now pursed in an expression of concern. I charged on.

C: I don't care about your past. People change; our stories change. There is nothing you could have revealed on our first date that would have kept me from asking you out again. Part of that is due the fact that you're super hot and that I have terrible luck in the dating world, but another part is that you are a really interesting person and we have chemistry. I can't ignore our chemistry.
Claudia: Aw, you're sweet. But you're right, C, don't ignore our chemistry.

I'd thrown my bone to Anonymous (2) and (3). Now it was time to say something determinative.

C: I think we need to put those feelings aside. Let's put ourselves in Marco's shoes for a minute. He's out there somewhere – probably at the batting cages, gun range or lifting weights – thinking about the ten he let get away and how he can reconcile after his mistake. The fact that there's no progress on your divorce after a year tells me something. Claudia, there's a man there who messed up royally but still loves you and wants you back. I will not be the fool that stands between a man and his beautiful wife.
Claudia: But Marco cheated...
C: I know, Claudia. And that sucks. You have to make a decision whether you are going to reconcile with Marco or divorce him. But until that decision is made, we can't date. And you shouldn't date.

It had to be said. Claudia was hurt, but I think she got it. It felt good to speak my mind.

Claudia: I'm sorry you feel that way, but I understand.
C: Hey, for what it's worth, if I were married to a woman and she were out gallivanting with a guy as hot as me, I would be upset.

I had done my job. I had cut things off in the most respectable and decent way possible. The ball was in her court.

My self-satisfied reverie was interrupted by a commotion near the door. The thin-framed waiter was trying to hold back a large muscle-bound man in his early twenties. Trying and failing. I'm not sure how tall the intruder was, but I estimate over 6'4”. He barged past the server and stormed toward where Claudia and I were seated.

“Marco,” Claudia whispered.

Remembering Papa G's advice, I sprung into action. I hopped up out of my seat, flipping it over into the aisle to block Marco's path, and fled. I knew there was a service entrance behind the kitchen, so I booked toward the restrooms and through a swinging door labeled “Associates Only.” Marco never saw where I went. I was safe.

I spotted the owner sitting at a desk doing paperwork. I paid him for our meal plus a generous tip, hoping it make amends for the commotion Marco had caused. When I explained the situation, he smiled a broad, comforting grin.

“Did you learn anything?”

I chuckled and smiled. I haven't heard from Claudia since that afternoon and it's just as well. I wish her and her man the best.

Something Changed!

2010-03-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

Wait! Don't go!

Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Something changed. Don't freak out.

This is still FCN. Your old buddies. Sick, not-very-funny satire written in the back row of Spanish class for the last few years. It's us. Remember us? We just changed our look. Slowly, gently. Ease your mouse off that big X and read on.

Here at FCN, we're about more than just brownies, girls, and bad grades (though of course those are all wonderful things too).

I don't remember where that was going.

So let's get to the point: we've branched out. FCN now has a Twitter - yes, a Twitter - and a FormSpring. This allows you to ask us questions about anything, and allows us to tweet about anything you forget to ask about.

To symbolize these - upgrades? - we're tweaking the site format a bit as well. The tired old header that has graced this site for the past year or so has been replaced by a new, soon-to-be tired old header that will grace this site for a year or so. We decided to go for green as an apology for not posting anything on St Patrick's Day.

Check us out twitter:
http://twitter.com/funnyclassnotes

And ask us something on formspring:
http://www.formspring.me/funnyclassnotes

Oh and PS: this new format is a work in progress, so everything you hate about it is theoretically temporary.

Claudia?

2010-03-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life isn't spicy enough. The regular ebb and flow of daily interaction proves alternatively interesting and difficult, but it occasionally needs a small dose of excitement added in to make it truly provocative. I had one such dose a few weeks ago when I visited my local bank to make a routine deposit. The teller who handled my business was, you guessed it, an attractive brunette with a captivating smile. She moved swiftly between orders before calling "next," signaling my turn. Hers was a gentle grace that would be more at home in a museum of art than a pecuniary cesspool like my local bank.

I wonder how many other bloggers have had occasion to use the phrase "~~community~~ pecuniary cesspool” today. I feel special.

Her nametag read "Claudia." I said hello. I don't remember what sort of small talk we engaged in, but I do recall that it was simultaneously provocative and inconsequential. In other words, it was spicy. Ours was the verbal repartee appropriate of two singles in a big world of hormones. She flipped her hair and I smiled too big. I imagine the behavioral psychologist observing the whole episode through the bank security system was on cloud nine.

I did not ask her number or give any indication of interest besides my subtle flirting. My attitude was, in the immortal paraphrased words of the late great Charles Dickens, “really cool.” Claudia felt, I'm sure, that my departure from her service window marked the end of the story.

At this point, it is appropriate to borrow a trick from the great novelists of yesteryear by jumping to a seemingly unrelated topic only to reveal its tangential connection in a paragraph or so.

Meet William, or Bill as he likes to be called. Bill is a venerable septuagenarian who works out at my gym. We became fast friends a year or so ago when he offered to spot me and I discovered his freakishly muscled build. His is the physique that amazes and frightens. He has the build of a much younger man. If I didn't know better, I would guess Bill supplemented his rigorous diet with MLB level animal steriods. But I do know better. Bill's physically dominant form is due only to his diligence in the weight room and a God-given predisposition for massive muscle.

As it so happens, Bill was behind me in line at the pecuniary cesspool (2!). He was the next customer to talk to Claudia. And, he told me later, the conversation went something like this:

Bill: So, Claudia, do you have weekend plans with your boyfriend? [This may seem like a weird question coming from a super buff 74 year old, but trust me, it's not.]
Claudia: I don't have a boyfriend. I'm just chilling with friends.
Bill: No kidding. Have you met Cody? ["Haaave you met Ted?"] He's the most responsible derelict I know. And he's single (between us, his relationships always seem to suffer from early exit syndrome). Have you thought about going out with him?
Claudia: Well, I think he's cute.

She thought I was cute! Can you believe that? No girl has ever told me that before (or yet, because Claudia only told Bill who parroted it back to me). Cute. As Bill recounted these words over the bicep press, I knew it sealed the deal. I was going to ask Claudia out on a date. The only question was how to make the request epic and legendary.

My chance came one short week later. I walked into the bank and saw Claudia on break. She ~~waived~~ waved to me. I ~~waived~~ waved back. As I took care of my banking business, Claudia sat down by the exit to fiddle with her iPhone. I had to think quickly. I signed my name on the withdrawal slip and collected my receipt. Finished. I marched toward the exit and Claudia where we had the following exchange:

Me: Hey! Claudia, right?
Claudia: Yeah? [Smiling -- what a smile!]
Me: Did you take my deposit last week?
Claudia: Yeah...
Me: I think you missed something...you didn't give me your number.

I had pulled a pen out of my pocket and extended my receipt toward her with a smile. She was surprised, but jotted down her digits. I took the paper, said I would call and walked out to my car. Epic and legendary.

The next day I set up the first date. That date turned into a second and the second a third. Things were going well. Claudia and I had chemistry and she seemed to enjoy my company almost as much as I enjoyed hers. But dark foreboding clouds loomed. Utopia is unsustainable.

After a movie on our third date, Claudia and I went for a walk in a local park. The conversation was light and she seemed cheerful, although a little apprehensive. I wondered at the cause of her reservation. Eventually she asked if we could sit down. Feeling the significance of her impending revelation, I acquiesced.

Claudia: C, I need to tell you something.
Me: Mmmhmm, what's that?
Claudia: I'm married.

Thunder and lightening! Fire and brimstone! Christopher Columbus! For the love of Brad and Angelina! She was married!? Married, as in a ring, a husband and a shockingly easy to void state license?

Me: I'm sorry. Come again?
Claudia: I'm married. When I was a teenager I married this guy. My family didn't approve. It was a mistake. He cheated on me. We are separated now.
Me: But you're still married to him.

Claudia spilled all the salacious details which, for the sake of brevity and innocence, I will mask here. It suffices to say that relations between Claudia and Marco were at an all time low. Only the delusional would predict an optimistic outcome.

It's hard to convey the gravity of that situation on a humor blog without portraying the picture with undue flippancy. I like and felt for Claudia. By her account, she'd done nothing wrong. Circumstances had victimized her terribly.

Claudia obviously wanted a disposition from me. She wanted to know if her marriage sounded the death knell for our budding relationship. I thought about giving her an answer, but knew that doing so would cheat the faithful FCN few out of a valuable opportunity to weigh in on my personal life.

So I put the question to you in all its glamor. Should I date a married woman? Is there a clear moral compass on this issue or is it an ethical vague area open to exploitation on emotional and or subjective whims? What would you do in my shoes? Let me know in the comment section and I'll make a decision based on your input.

Phone Art: Pt. 1

2010-03-04T10:29:00.000-08:00

Some of the earliest records of man's creativity are believed to have stone art. It was beautiful. Man had creativity. But what should he use his gift for? There was little question in the ancient man's mind: Food was awesome: so he drew food.

A man hunting antelope.

A man cooking antelope.

As man became tired of drawing using simple sticks and stones, it was found that paints could be made mixing various plants and organic materials (which is a nice way of saying animal innards). Ironically, the favored color was usually black, which happens to be the same exact color as the scratches made with sticks and stones.

History has records of almost every culture leaving behind some sort of artwork. This is good, not only for historical research, but for also for history text books, which would be unbearably boring without pictures.

An ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic of a chicken, representing the letter "A". c. 2500 B.C.

A Roman coin with a mug shot of Nero. c. 62 A.D.

Join us next time for part 2!

How to Argue like a Liberal

2010-02-27T07:34:00.000-08:00

Now that the Obama Administration has really proven that it can get great things done (like making you pay for everyone else's health care), there's no disputing the fact that liberals are better at debating that conservatives. Why? Because conservatives have clunky agendas that don't advertise what the listener wants to hear. Liberal messages are built on emotion, not fact; this makes them vastly superior because they can be presented in a slick and powerful way that appeals to everyone and makes conservatives look evil.

There's no reason you can't harness the power of liberal argumentation in your own life. Whether you're arguing over politics or whose toast is in the toaster, the playbook of America's leaders will get you straight to the top in no time.

1. "You're ignorant." The tried and true work horse of liberal argumentation; this strikes right to the heart of the matter by focusing on the fundamental reason you and the conservative disagree: ignorance. If your opponent weren't so poorly informed he'd obviously be a liberal. And why argue with someone who's blindly defending an ignorant position? Explain to your opponent that he is arguing from a position of ignorance and that all his ideas and worldviews should be promptly replaced with your informed ones.

2. "You're dividing the nation." If not for your opponent, there wouldn't have to be an argument. But because of his insistence on defending his dumb position, the whole ideological fabric of society is being torn asunder. You'll never be able to achieve true unity until your divisive opponent lets this issue drop, for the good of everyone.

3. "I have a plan." Made popular by John Kerry's 2004 Presidential Campaign (which should have won if not for John Edwards who is not really a liberal or he wouldn't be so embarrassing), this tactic presents a quick solution to all the problems in the current situation. You have a plan, therefore, if you're given power you'll be able to solve everything. That's simple logic. But apparently not simple enough for conservatives.

4. "Hope!" Made popular by Barack Obama's 2008 Presidential Campaign (which won in spite of Joe Biden, who was made stupid when he mistakenly drank from the Republican water cooler a few years back), this presents a less tangible but even more effective answer for problems. When your opponent says anything negative - anything at all - accuse him of being a harbinger of fear, conflict, and discord. Encourage him to embrace hope.
5. "This plan is not socialist." If you argue long enough, you'll eventually be called something unpleasant, like a socialist. While a conservative may want to get into pesky details like history and point of fact, you should focus on what really matters: your reputation. Immediately and vehemently protest. You don't have to explain why, in fact you can even say things like: "Just because I want to spread the wealth around doesn't mean I'm a socialist!" Never admit to a title that's anything but positive.

6. "Enough politics." Remember, you're bringing a message of hope and truth. Your opponent is engaging in politics as usual. Anything he says that can't be easily countered by the other tips can be dismissed by accusing your opponent of using the tired tactics that got everyone into this mess in the first place. You're rising above. You're not part of the system, and you're not gonna let your opponent drag you down.

And there you have it! The top 6 ways to argue like a liberal. The playbook is simple, but make no mistake: mastery will take years of practice, and maybe a few overdoses of organic cereal. Stick with it, and in time you can be a debater in the tradition of the greats.

The library cart Belle

2010-02-20T05:59:00.000-08:00

I spent the afternoon at CVS reading Hallmark cards. I've never understood why drug stores sell Hallmark stock. I can hear a wife calling after her husband: "hey, don't forget to pick up toothpaste and a Hallmark card." Maybe it's so that guys, who normally only visit drug stores if they need to get ready for a date, will have everything they need in one place.

My journey t0o Hallmark deserves brief elucidation.

My day started like any other Saturday. I slept in until hunger and the smell of breakfast drove me from my bed. I debated the merits of showering and settled on a necessity-defined shampoo-less rinse. I skipped my shave. The grease in my hair shined. I couldn't remember the night before but was sure that it was epic, maybe legendary. I ate a breakfast that doubled as a simple carbohydrate extravaganza and sat down on the couch waiting for my sugar high to subside.

Mind racing from the extra calories, I mentally motored through pickup lines. It's a sad testament to my psyche and loneliness that my brain's screen saver is pickup lines. Some would say cheesy lines are also my desktop image, although I argue that this space is filled with dessert foods. Then I remembered I needed toothpaste so I went to CVS.

Sometime in the car on the way to the store, I went on a sugar low. In the midst of my hypoglycemic haze, I wandered into the Hallmark section and began reading cards. I never did pick up the toothpaste.

Six sales people representing two shifts and four departments approached me that afternoon, asking if I needed any help. One of them was the manager. I told them I was looking for love in the Hallmark aisle.

My studies called and, mind still buzzing with pickup and Hallmark lines (which are very similar if you think about it), I wandered into my school's library. It seems like every time I go to the library, no matter how pressing my work obligation is, I end up logging in, plugging in my headphones and watching a couple of hours of Hulu. I call this the Hulu tax. It's the tribute I pay to Jason Kilar.

I was about to start work when I noticed the Belle. There are many words to describe physically attractive females. Hottie, eye candy, cutie, pretty, beautiful, fine, gorgeous, sweet, looker, et cetera. Each term calls a specific image to mind. There are women you would call cute who don't qualify as pretty. There are beautiful women that don't fit the hottie mold.

The best word to describe this girl is "belle." She had a confident presence about her; a flair that seemed sweetly southern. Her gentle confidence was pushed forward by a fine attractiveness. "Beautiful" sold her short but "cutie" sold her cheap. She was a Belle.

The Belle pushed a lightly loaded cart through the library. How long has she worked here? I wondered. She was a gem in any environment, but the Hope Diamond in the midst of the nerdy library regulars. The guy at the terminal next to me held a slack jawed gaze in her direction. Apparently others shared my distraction.

My studies were forgotten. I wracked my brain to remember some of the lines from a Hallmark card. Then I tore out a paper and started writing.

To the Belle at the library:

Somewhere between my open books

You walked today inviting looks

Your stunning beauty so confident

Makes all the guys incompetent

Do you want to go out sometime?

-C

The request at the end was my idea. I added my phone number and grabbed Nicholas Spark's Notebook off a shelf because I'd heard girls like that book. Then I walked past the Belle and handed her the book mumbling "I think there's a note in it." The Belle looked at me and smiled (what a grin!) and took the book. I paused. A beat. And moved back to my terminal. The Belle and I had shared a moment!

I couldn't study. I expected my phone to ring any minute. I had it out in front of me, ready to spring up and leave the library to take her call. It took over an hour before an unknown number buzzed.

"Hello?"

"Turn around."

I did. There was the nerdy library assistant from the basement. Somehow she had read my note. She wanted to know how I knew that Notebook was her favorite book. I didn't have the heart to say that she wasn't the intended target. So the nerdy library assistant and I went on a date.

Life Tip #97

2010-02-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

If you must live on welfare, don't sell black kittens over the internet.

If you must live on welfare and sell black kittens over the internet, do not advertise them as "gothic."

If you must live on welfare, sell black kittens over the internet and advertise them as "gothic," do not give them multiple piercings.

If you must live on welfare, sell black kittens over the internet, advertise them as "gothic," and give them multiple piercings, don't get caught by your welfare officer.

25th Do It Yourself Post

2010-02-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

Half of life's problems can be prevented by __________.

Oink Oink!

2010-02-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

The following is a guest post from Elsie,
one of our infrequent but faithful readers.

Today I read a great article - something I can finally feel warm and fuzzy about.

It is earth shattering good news. Science has moved closer to putting pig lungs in humans. Okay, some may argue that my sister already has pig lungs, because in every conversation she hogs the dialog; thus, in her amazing way, she is once again ahead of the curve…but I digress.

Today we can already choose from pig heart valves, tomorrow will be the breakthrough for pig lung transplants. Hey, someday Wilbur can give up his kidney for a good cause (too bad, Charlotte) and eventually many other pig parts can become spare human parts.

Got bunions? We got pigs feet.

We interrupt this post for a previously scheduled prank phone call:

Butcher: “Hello?”
Bored Brat:“Hey, do you have pig’s feet?”
Butcher: “Yes."
Bored Brat: “Well, wear shoes and no one will notice!”

I am sure there will be ethical questions arising from this muddied issue. At what point in the process of pig part accumulation does one, no matter what race and color, become the “other white meat?”

Where do one's voting rights end and animal rights begin? Should humans made up of hog parts even have voting rights?

Oh, I forgot about our political leaders – of course pigs have voting rights, just look at all the pork going around Washington lately.

Avatar II: Pandora Returns to Strike Back

2010-01-31T18:15:00.000-08:00

That's right, folks. Using the help of Uncle Wally and our own seared consciences, we were able to hack into James Cameron's personal laptop and boost an early draft of the already much-anticipated Avatar 2 movie. A quick summary of the plot follows.

The evil imperialist human corporation has been defeated, but the Na'vi now face a new threat: another evil imperialist human corporation. This one is ten times bigger and badder, and capable of producing even larger explosions than before.

Jake Sully has been having strange nightmares: flashbacks of things in his past that he can't quite remember. Neytiri puts her hands on his face and looks at him with concern but this doesn't seem to help. When the-all new, shinier corporation appears in the sky, Jake knows it's all up to him for some reason. He leads the resistance in a raid against the newly established human base, but sadly he and the rest of the Na'vi are captured and imprisoned. During the attack, Neytiri is machine-gunned in slow motion by the new arch-nemesis, who is notable for having a southern accent, gung-ho attitude, and tattoos all over.

In a stirring scene, the fifty captured Na'vi warriors are led, whistling in unison, into a prison camp. They agree to get out as soon as possible, or at least keep trying in order to divert resources from the front. They start tunneling under the fence with the help of a sympathetic and very cute human girl who is attracted to Jake's devil-may-care attitude, rugged good looks, and haunted past. While in prison, the Na'vi form close bonds with each other and learn to hope no matter how bleak things get. After they tunnel out, Jake begins hunting down the four men who gunned down Neytiri. His path will end with the assassination of the arch-nemesis.

The first target is a muscular, manly latina woman who wears sleeveless shirts and dog tags and likes to beat up men to show how tough she is. Jack and his men slaughter her entire platoon but in the end Jake is inexplicably separated from his men and must face her alone. They have a quick fight, pausing often to exchange snappy one-liners. When she realizes she is too weak, she escapes.

Jake moves on to target number 2: a robotic droid-man with various cyborg powers. Jake attacks his penthouse suite with a mounted gun on a helicopter but the droid jumps onto the helicopter with a motorcycle. Jake and the droid jump out of the chopper as it explodes. They free-fall to the ground, grappling as they go. Jake lands in a haystack and is completely unharmed. The droid lands in a propane tank, causing an explosion that really puts Dolby Surround to the test. Jake stands and brushes himself off, recovering from the battle. Then, hark! The droid rises from the ashes. The flesh has been seared off, leaving a freaky humanoid metal frame that for some reason moves much slower and more robotically than it did when covered in human. The robot tosses Jake around for awhile until more Na'vi show up and use all kinds of attacks on it, including rocket launchers, poisoned arrows, and custom-made katanas that glow and buzz and cut through anything (except the robot, who blocks the swings somehow). They are chased into a massive factory that mass-produces globs of molten metal for export all over the galaxy. There, the Na'vi work together to destroy the robot, culimnating in a victorious one-liner from Jake that implies that the destruction of the machine somehow makes Neytiri's pointless death allright now.

The cute girl from the prison shows up and urges caution, but Jake is hellbent on destruction. They are even more attracted to each other now. She flies him to the next dropoff point. As they part ways their faces get really close because they want to kiss, but then they both talk at once and head separate directions awkwardly.

The third target is a creepy alien from another subjugated planet the humans have subjugated. It's big and black and has lots of teeth, but it can speak fluent English with a wierd Transylvanian accent. The alien fights viciously until Jake is on his back and disarmed. Then, instead of finished the job, the creature starts talking victoriously about what a genius he is and what he'll do when Jake is dead. This gives the butch latina time to smash through a huge window in a fighter jet, use the b-word, and blow the alien to kingdom come. She extends a hand to Jake. Jake takes it and says thanks. There's a moment of cameraderie, and then a tentacle from the alien appears out of nowhere and stabs the latina, killing her slowly and painfully.

The cute girl shows up again and flies him to the final battle. They kiss briefly, which proves that they are soul mates, though they have exchanged no more than thirty lines of dialogue with each other. Jake attacks the main base riding his Banshee, only to discover that the main villain has an improved mechanized Banshee. An intense aerial dogfight ensues, during which Jake is forced to face his guilt over Neytiri's death. He comes to terms with it and destroys the mech banshee. He lands and dismounts to finish the job. The bloodied and defeated arch nemesis explains Jake's flashbacks to him - that he was a special black ops agent for the corporation and lost his legs and his memory on his first mission when he got cold feet and refused to kill the target. Jake is taunted for being too weak to make a kill even now. It's true that the only people Jake has killed in the movie are the droid and nameless henchmen with no souls. He realizes that killing the villain only makes Jake become everything he has fought against. He throws away his weapon and the villain throws him into a snake pit, along with the cute girl who has been captured by more soulless henchmen. Jake and the cute girl manage to climb out somehow and sneakily follow the villain back into the base.

The evil corporation has now collected enough unobtanium to activate a weapon that will wipe out the Na'vi and turn the whole moon into a desolate industrial wasteland. Jake and the girl are captured again and are made to watch. The weapon is activated but it malfunctions and kills all the bad guys in dramatic and horrible ways for which they can only blame themselves. Jake and the cute girl are about to be killed, when out of nowhere the mountain banshees arrive and carry them to safety.

Back at the tribe, all the surviving main characters drink organic happy juice and reminisce about how much has changed. We close with a slow zoom on Jake's face as he thoughtfully says something, and then repeats it.

The end.

Rainy Day Finger

2010-01-23T05:41:00.000-08:00

It's been raining pretty hard this last week around my house. I mean hard. It rained so hard, the pond scum came up to the porch to visit. It rained so hard, Scott Brown and Martha Coakley shared an umbrella. It rained so hard, Lindsay Lohan put on some clothes. That's how hard it was raining.

Water was falling so quickly, the roads filled up with thick layers of cold water. The main traffic artery in my town became a thin, rectangular pool that housed vehicles like awkward sea craft. I, a regular victim of road-way temptations, was seduced into speeding through puddles and sluicing water up on the side walk as I roared through town at speeds I would never have achieved had the roads been in good condition in perfect weather. More then one passer by got his second daily shower as I motored around aimlessly, enjoying the inclement conditions and my own poor judgment.

I decided to meet N for lunch at a local bistro. We picked the one furthest from his house so we could sluice our way through downtown. We approached one intersection that was particularly flooded and I saw a man about my age getting ready to cross the road. The car in front of me had about as much respect for pedestrian traffic as NBC has for Conan O'Brien. It put-putted past the white lines without so much as a brake light.

The man was clearly flustered by the lack of respect. He'd evidently read his driving manual and knew pedestrians had right of way. As a trained observer, I saw the anger rise in his being and flow through his tensed shoulders and squared jaw. The untrained observer would not have noticed this, but might have seen the obscene gesture he utilized to express his feelings, in clear violation of at least one local ordinance.

This man's outrage and subsequent willingness to express it in sign language made me feel good for some reason. I flashed him a thumbs up sign (the only one-finger gesture allowed by city regulations), and drove on.

I thought the FCN-worthy content had been wrung from my day. But work that afternoon held new surprises.

I work as a glorified paper pusher at General Mills. Actually I'm just a paper pusher, there is nothing glorious about it. I move paperwork from one end of my desk to another and, sometimes, when my boss is really interested in giving me responsibility, I get to mail things. Not nail things, you inflicter of structural damage. I get to mail letters and such.

The other day I sent out over twenty letters. I dutifully put the documents in their envelopes and dropped them off at the post office where an overworked government employee accepted my payment and affixed the "appropriate postage" on each letter. Nothing was unusual about my exchange with the postal worker and I returned to work with my suspicion unaroused.

That rainy afternoon, the postal fiasco struck. One of the letters I had mailed was returned for insufficient postage. The postage amount had been determined by USPS and the letter mailed at the office at the hand of the able government employee. I hadn't touched the letter after giving it to her. But somehow the postage had been insufficient. I wondered how this could have happened and if all twenty envelopes would be forthcoming with their delinquent "returned" stamp.

I felt like one of the people I had splashed that morning while cruising in the rain: unsuspecting, innocent and now soaked. I hadn't done anything wrong. The post office had made an epic mistake just as I had been an epic jerk on the road. Now I had to face my superior in the hierarchy of office politics and explain how our office had managed to underpay for this letter.

For a brief moment, I felt like the man at the intersection. Tension rose to my shoulders, anger expressed itself in my visage. Then I smiled and nodded. I would take care of it.

To assure my superiors, I extended a thumbs up: the only one-finger gesture appropriate in office environments.

Lower Education

2010-01-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

Just because you’re a college student doesn’t mean you’re smart. I don’t care if you got a 36 on the ACT. I don’t care if you took college classes starting in junior high. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the honor roll. In fact, even having a doctorate doesn’t guarantee that you’ll be smart. Because sometimes, no matter how hard a person tries, they can sound like a high school dropout. Perhaps you already know this.

On any given day, I go to the cafeteria, or a well-trafficked area and sit. Sit and listen. Ok, I’ll be honest. I shamelessly eavesdrop. I figure if people didn’t want other people listening, they wouldn’t be talking in public. It is my social responsibility to pay attention when other people are talking.

And if I didn’t do that, I wouldn’t have come across these dialogical gems.

“Are bananas a fruit?”

“If a Mexican person learned French, what would his accent sound like?”

“I hate crunching on salt when I walk on snowy sidewalks. I feel like I’m stepping on my ancestors.”

“Did you know that if you stick earbuds up your nose playing music you can hear it through your mouth?”

Guy: “Dude! We all need to get some girl jeans.”

“Do you think it would be a bad idea to drink this hand sanitizer?”

“I should not have saran-wrapped my legs together”

“HERE, H-E-A-R. GET OUT OF HERE!”

“I have no idea where it came from, but there’s this loaf of bread under my bed. And I’m pretty sure something’s growing on it.”

“What makes a cookie tough? Or smart? Why don’t people just say ‘You’re one tough person’ and leave the baked goods out of it.”

Guy 1: I want to be a midwife.
Guy 2: Uh… dude… you have to be a girl to be a midwife.
Guy 1: Ohhh… yeah. I’d be a midhusband.

Girl: “I’m all about cute little old men.”

Girl 1: “While watching the music video for “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha) She looks really familiar.
Girl 2: Yeah.
Girl 1: You know, she looks like Taylor Swift on drugs.
Girl 2: Hmmm… no, she kinda looks like Ashley Tisdale. If Taylor Swift and Ashley Tisdale could have a baby…

So, even though we're in an establishment of higher education, we don't necessarily belong there. Common sense is something you have to learn on your own. The school of hard knocks doesn't have a graduation date.

Live long and prosper. And for goodness sake, think before you speak. You never know who's listening.

FCN Personality Profile

2010-01-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

Personality Profiles are great. They let you divide yourself and your friends into a small number of basic boxes, letting you know who in your social circle is interchangeable. They're also useful for employers when deciding who to fire first.

This just out of the FCN Labs: an all new, scientifically formulated Personality Profile to precisely pinpoint your basic behavior patterns. Try it!

25 Ways Not to Ruin Christmas

2009-12-20T07:00:00.000-08:00

Christmas can be a finicky thing. Here, we detail 25 ways to get through it. Because no one wants a horrible Christmas.

1) Respect the expiration date on the egg nog.
2) One Christmas play is enough.
3) Never leave figgy pudding unattended.
4) Your car should be bigger than your Christmas tree.
5) Make sure the turkey is dead before you cook it.
6) Do not use ornaments that require the use of actual fire.
7) Carol at hospitals, not dark alleys.
8) Shopping should be done in November.
9) Always keep a fire extinguisher handy.
10) Never spend more than $20 on someone not immediately related to you.
11) Not all shopping mall Santas are created equal.
12) The presents will still be there when you're done sleeping in.
13) If you blow a fuse when you click on your lights, change something before turning them on again.
14) Comments about use of the word "gay" in old Christmas songs stopped being funny long ago.
15) Actually make a physical list of names, and check them off when you've sent a gift.
16) Have Christmas dinner at someone else's house and leave ("to feed the homeless") when it's time to clean up.
17) No matter how much you love a certain Christmas song, at some point, enough is enough.
18) Shop for extended family at Wal-Mart.
19) If you must neglect someone, don't let it be your girl or her mother.
20) Remember kids: Christmas is fun, but safety is funner.
21) Grab some Taco Bell just before eating so you're not hungry enough to make some terrible mistakes.
22) Save the important announcements (like "We're engaged!" and "I'm pregnant!") for next week.
23) Double check that you don't mix up who's gift is who's.
24) Pets and Christmas do not mix.
25) Nobody likes your rendition of "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire."

FCN Roundtable #1

2009-12-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

What follows is the first ever FCN roundtable discussion of...well, we never did quite stick to one topic. Unfortunately, not all FCN authors were able to attend. At the last minute F and Jessica bailed on us, even though it was Jessica's idea. It's all her fault. We blame her. Shea culpa.

7:47 PM N has joined

Chip has joined

Chip: Hey people.

7:48 PM Ana: We're just waiting for C now

Chip: That sounds like a song.

Waiting for C.

Ana: I got a message from Jessica that she won't be able to join us b/c her mom had Christmas plans for tonight

N: mmm thats whatcha say

Ana: ok, ok. i'll admit it

i eliminated her and that's why she can't come

7:49 PM Chip: Lucky her.

Oh. Not lucky.

Ana: i wanted to be the only girl in our group *pout*

N: miss murder

Chip: Hehe, one is plenty.

Way to go. :P

7:50 PM Ana: [btw, everything we're typing right now could very possibly end up on the blog. if you have something to say that you don't want included in the post, please enclose in brackets like this]

Chip: [I heard this cool joke today about a Lebanese barista.]

Ana: [ok]

Chip: [It's really funny but I'm not going to tell you.]

Ana: [this is so going in the post]

7:51 PM [and you better tell it or else]

Chip: [You'd better not put it in the post.]

C has joined

Chip: [It's off limits.]

Hi C.

You missed the best part.

Ana: Hello C

7:52 PM good to have you with us

is everyone ready to begin?

do we want every man for himself style or should we have teams?

Chip: Teams for what?

Is there going to be a competition?

C: That makes it all sound very adversarial

Ana: well, this is a debate

you of all people should understand that, C

7:53 PM C: Like a conversation between Elin and Tiger (1)

Chip: Oh I didn't get that memo.

Ana: haha

Chip, would you be more comfortable with the term "discussion?"

C: I'm counting my ex-golfer references

while sipping my Arnold Palmer (2)

Ana: sheesh

Chip: Lol.

7:54 PM C: Who's here right now?

Chip: As long as it includes ex-golfers, I don't care what term is used.

Ana: C, N, Chip, and Ana

F and Jessica won't be able to join us

Chip: They are no longer with us.

C: Like the Pittsburgh Steelers

Ana: They both gave plausible excuses, but I'll bet money that they're really on a date and didn't want to tell us

7:55 PM C: Is that allowed?

Ana: Betting?

Chip: A date...

That reminds me.

Ana: on the Steelers? I don't know if you'd want to...

C: I think there's an FCN policy somewhere on inter-author dating

Chip: Lol.

Where can that be found, C?

C: I'll look it up, give me a second...

7:56 PM Chip: Right...

I'm figuring it's in a file cabinet in a bathroom in a basement behind a sign that says "Beware of the leopard."

Ana: N, are you with us? You're awfully quiet tonight

Chip: [I killed him.]

7:57 PM C: That's where F keeps his perfume, actually, but close.

N has left

Ana: [why?]

Chip: [I figured if Ana could do it, I could.]

Ana: [N's my brother. you're dead]

[i didn't kill anyone's little sister!]

Chip: [You're not allowed to be the only murderess.]

C: [What did I miss??]

Chip: [Oh wait.]

Ana: [you want to be a murderess, too? interesting...]

Chip: [That's what the "oh wait" signified]

7:58 PM

C, anything in brackets is off the record.

Ana: [uh-huh, i'm sure]

[that's what i said, anyway - do you trust me? ;) ]

Chip: A priest and a rabbi walked into a bar. You'd think [they would've seen it.]

C: I got that...I'm just lost. There's a lot off the record :-P

Ana: [i'll take that as a no]

7:59 PM anyone have a topic they'd like to discuss tonight?

Chip: Incriminating evidence is always off the record.

Ana: looks like we really did lose N

Chip: Ana!

What did you do now?

Ana: [it wasn't me - you admitted to the murder yourself]

8:00 PM [what'd you use, that sweet little Colt?]

Chip: [And you admitted that you're the only murderess here.]

[Yeah, I used my C.]

[a C is a good murder weapon.]

Ana: [did not. you're the one who thinks I murdered her. how do you know she isn't tied up somewhere?]

Chip: Answer: Yes, I have a topic to discuss tonight!!!!

N has joined

8:01 PM Ana: what is it?

N: holla holla

Ana: holler back in the woods

C: We're all dieing to know!

Chip: Connection problems, N?

Ok, the topic:

Ana: you could say that

C: Here it is, Chip: FCN has a “no on-field dating” policy. This includes newly formed couples and couples who are already dating. All forms of physical contact (hand holding, kissing, hugging, sitting on laps) are prohibited both in public and in private. This necessary policy helps us maintain integrity and team unity, helps FCN concentrate on good humor writing, and also allows future FCN writers to join in the fun.

N: yup

Ana: i think he has other problems :P

N: sad face :(

C: From section 6, paragraph 2, clause four of FCN's bylaws.

8:02 PM I added the sitting on laps part after observing a disturbing scene involving N and F.

Ana: whiiich you * just * wrote

yuck! so glad I wasn't there to witness that

Chip: The topic: F said that he needs to work right now to get moolah to buy clothes to impress girls.

Ana, do nice clothes really impress girls?

8:03 PM C: That's a really good question.

Ana: sometimes

it depends on the definition of "nice clothes"

C: And that's a really cryptic answer!

Ana: i don't know if F has the necessary sense of style

also, he needs a haircut more than he needs nice clothes

Chip: C, I wish I had had a chance to vote on that section before last Friday.

Ana: Why? Ur not dating any other FCN authors

C: Do tell...

8:04 PM Chip: lol, so you don't want to admit it Ana?

I say let's keep things out in the open.

No secrets.

Ana: * blush *

Chip: Yeah...

C: This just got juicy. I'm Xing out of Hulu in the other window to pay full attention to this revelation.

Chip: You know why I was asking about the clothes now.

Ana: Chip, that's not fair. You know I don't do long-distance relationships!

8:05 PM Chip: lol, there didn't seem to be a lot of distance last Friday.

C: TITCR!

Chip: Very little distance indeed...

Ana: Please restate the question in full. I obviously did not understand it.

TITCR = ?

Chip: TITCR?

C: Google it.

8:06 PM Chip: GYS

Ana: C is a Google addict and very snobby about it, too.

AKJDF

C: You're a sucker for typing in random letters. I'm a sucker for retyping them into Google.

8:07 PM Ana: Right back at you, C

Chip: Mr C, how are you liking Chrome for Linux?

C: This year, I have conducted 6,646 Google searches.

Ana: *** censored ***

Chip: Chrome or Linux?

8:08 PM *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

Chip: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

C: Chrome is a sensory overload: think eating ice cream while sitting in a sauna.Ana: hmmm, i think there would be a meltdown

Chip: *** censored ***

8:09 PM C: Except the ice cream never melts

Chip: You're making me drool, C.

My ice cream is getting sticky with drool.

Ana: if you're trying to praise Chrome, your choice of metaphor could have been better

C: You say meltdown, I think of Tiger again (3)

Ana: no, you can't count the same guy twice. not allowed

8:10 PM C: Which brings us back to the original question, or a variant on it: Do pretty girls like guys who can spin a good metaphor?

Ana: see section 9, paragraph 7

C: Touche

Ana: pretty girls who know English do

the other girls won't notice if it's poor or rich

8:11 PM c is typing for a very long time

Chip: This should be good.

8:12 PM C: This might explain my relationship luck. How are you working the metaphors with Ana, Chip?

I had to censor my comment, because my mother might read it.

Ana: C, does she still have access to your account?

Chip: Hehe.

Then I'll censor mine and not answer. ;)

C: She has access to FCN

Ana: mmm-hmm...riiight

8:13 PM C: Which is probably better, as far as digging up dirt goes.

What do girls notice first about how a guy is dressed?

Chip: I notice the sweater.

Ana: that's a difficult question

Chip: Oh sorry.

C: *** censored ***

Ana: obviously, if the guy's wearing pants down to his knees, that's a turn-off

C: Hahaha Chip!

8:14 PM Ana: especially if his boxers are Hello Kitty

*** censored ***

Chip: What Ana, you want his pants to barely reach past his crotch?

C: (for chip)

Chip: I like pants down to the ankles...

Ana: Pants should be around a guys hips

8:15 PM LOL

Chip: Oh, you're talking about the waist, not the legs.

That sweater is so hot! (Notice how metaphorical it is.)

C: I think you mean that it is "tho hott."

Chip: The dude obviously has a cheerful personality.

8:16 PM Ana: OK, here's the deal: a nice dress shirt with a tie and slacks (or even nicer jeans) can make even a below-average looking male look HAWT

Chip: Yeth, that'th what I mean but I like to spell it right.

C: Seriously? you expect a guy to wear a tie on a date?

Ana: why is N so silent? it makes me sad
o brother, where art thou? :(

C: And slacks?

Ana: black pants or khakis

8:17 PM

C: That's GQ, not life.

Chip: Ana, this what you're thinking?

Ana: ummmm....i guess so...but will schuester just seems soooo gay to me

and it's not because he sings and dances - he's a total wuss

C: You stole the words from my mouth...

8:18 PM Ana: not that gays are wussy. at least, not all of them.

C: the song and dance thing doesn't help, tho...

Chip: He is NOT a wuss!

N: {sorry im afk i just got a really serious phone call)

Ana: no it sure doesn't

Chip: I love that guy!

Ana: ummm yah

my grandma could take him

C: Um, Chip, case in point.

Ana: what does that say about you, Chip?

Chip: I can't believe you're insulting that paradigm of manhood.

What does that say about you, Ana.

Ana: you're not helping your image here, you've already referred to yourself as a "murderess" once tonight

Chip: You know what, it's over.

8:19 PM Ana: it was never under. so yeah. goodbye!

Chip: That's what she said.

Ana: i saw that coming

Chip: That's what she said :P

Ana: unfortunately, there's no backspace once you hit enter

Chip: That's what she said.

8:20 PM

C: You should just stay quiet for a minute, Ana ;-)

Ana: ok, now i have a question for each of you guys to answer individually: What are the top 5 hottest professions a guy can have?

C: Chip -- if you want a paradigm of manliness, take a look at Jesper Parvenik (4)

8:21 PM And his fashion should make Ana happy.

Ana: sorry, golfer is NOT one of them

(unless you make a gadzillion $)

what, no link?

C: Fine.

8:22 PM Chip: 1) Dancing choir coach, 2) Fireman, 3) Soldier, 4) lumberjack, 5) bodybuilder.

Ana: yummmmm

Chip: That Jesper guy is hot.

Make Golfer #2

8:23 PM

Technically Ana, you should be the one answering this.

Or me.

C: This is in our opinion? I mean, we have already established our credentials as completely uninformed males....

Chip: Not fair making Cody judge the female perspective.

8:24 PM Ana: please don't say anything bad i have a ybos

i have to bellyslap him until he leaves

hang on a sec brb

8:25 PM C: All right. Based on my understanding of the female psyche:

1) Chief executive, 2) Physician/surgeon, 3) Dentist, 4) Lawyer, 5) Aircraft pilot and flight engineers.

Chip: I wonder why you put lawyer on the list, C. ;)

C: Actually there's a trend to the occupations I included. Can you sniff it out?

8:26 PM Ana: *** censored ***

8:27 PM the only one you got right is lawyer

i CANNOT believe you put dentist on that list

Chip: You think women are completely venal.

C: Here's a hint: I was chatting with a buddy about a new scent that's supposed to make a guy irresistible to the opposite gender. Some kind of miracle smell that makes you as hot as Brad Pitt or that guy from New Moon. My buddy's answer: Does it make you smell like money?

Chip: I know they are sensual.

Ana: Here's the real list:

8:28 PM C: Venal (Search number 6661) -- culpable to the pecuniary motivations

8:29 PM Chip: (Don't you mean "vulnerable," not "culpable"?)

Ana: culpable of, probably

*** censored ***

C: [Yes I do, please amend to avoid vocabulary embarassment]

Chip: That's just your bias, Ana.

Ana: hang on, i've got siblings trying to pick the lock on my door. if i leave abruptly, you'll know why. OK, list:

8:30 PM C: [Although "culpable to" gets 76k hits on google (6662)]

Chip: I'll bet #1 is baby sitter, Ana.

Ana: that shows how many idiots there are in the world

Chip: [Google is stupid.]

Ana: 1. Firefighter

C: I was going with nanny, but that's just because it has been in the news lately (5)

Ana: 2. Lawyer (high level)

8:31 PM

3. Doctor

4. Airforce

5. Paramedic/Police Officer/Navy

C: What is a high level lawyer?

No. 5 is cheating

8:32 PM Ana: a lawyer who makes a lot of money

yeah, i know, but they're tied

C: It's several in one.

WOMEN ARE VENAL!

*** censored ***

Ana: and visual - notice everyone in those categories will most likely be fit

8:33 PM C: How come airforce is ranked above the other military branches?

I know a fair number of fat lawyers.

Chip: Problems that I can foresee: 1 poor. 2 sleazy. 3 busy. 4 risky.

Ana: Firefighters are #1 b/c they are required to stay fit in their profession, make a good amount of money, have awesome benefits, and get a lot of days off. Also, they're usually tall.

C: They sit around in libraries and offices all day reading cases and writing briefs. Tend to be very soft, especially in the thorax and morals.

8:34 PM Ana: AF is ranked higher because their uniforms are the BEST

Chip: Thorax. I like it.

C: Firefighters are like chain smokers, only without the nicotine.

8:35 PM Chip: LOL

That's going on my status C.

C: I think every guy secretly hates AF members because they're scared they will steal their GFs.

Ana: STOP IT!!!!!!!!

oops, sorry, i was yelling at the sibs

i guess typing my yell is not very effective. they're close to getting in

8:36 PM

Chip: Why, did they not hear it?
C is typing...

Ana: i think c is writing a book

Chip: I think I'll buy it.

C: And as far as the police go, you would really date a guy who gives out tickets for a living? Did you know I spent last Saturday with a bunch of other derelicts learning the rules of the road in traffic school? I think dating police officers is prohibited in section 8, somewhere...

Ana: C, you're not allowed to dictate who I date or do not date

Chip: Ditto to that, Ana.

8:37 PM Ana: and writing more sections of the FCN code is not a fair way to do it

Chip: You tell him. We know.

C: It's in the rules, girl.

Chip: We'll stand up against this.

Ana: Chip, I think you and F should get together

8:38 PM Chip: Do tell.

Ana: [awkward lag]

[are we done?]

[that's what she said]
[ha! beat you to it!]

C: [I was working on another golf joke...]

N has left

Ana: [n doesn't like usj]

8:39 PM [did u phone him]

C: [Yeah...it went straight to vm]

Chip: Poor N, I wonder what his phone call was about.

C: This girl Jamie, probably.

Ana: oooh, tell us

C: She looks good from far, but is far from good.

8:40 PM N is trying to get further away, if you get my drift.

Ana: i think that could be said about many people

C: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

C: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

8:41 PM C: N might use this post as a way to finally end the deal...

Ana: sounds like a good strategy

is he sure she reads the blog? wait, stupid question

C: Chip...what are the hottest lady professions?

Ana: of course she does...wait, is she reader 5?

C: I doubt it...her mom might tho...

8:42 PM Ana: does she change shape the closer you get to her?

C: Ugh!

8:43 PM Chip?

Chip: Lol, dude, that question is no fair.

C: *** censored ***

Chip: Are there even 5 lady professions? Nurse, teacher...ummm....

8:44 PM

Ana: * jaw drop * what?

Chip: Enlighten me Ana.

Ana: excuse me, ladies do pretty much everything men do

i don't know if there are 5 "hottest" lady professions though

Chip: I believe your sex shares every profession with men.

Ana: thoughts?

Chip: A firefighter is traditionally male. But what's traditionally female?

8:45 PM

C: Are you thinking of professions that are distinctly feminine?

Ana: *** censored ***

C: Like a man can't do that?

Chip: "distinctly feminine."

Ana: prostitute

Chip: Exactly.

C: Wet nurse

Chip: Omg Ana.

C: Surrogate mother

Chip: You did not just say that.

Ana: oh yes i did

C: These are things men cannot do.

Men can be prostitutes, thank you very much.

8:46 PM Ana: yes, but they're not "traditionally" prostitutes

Chip: They're no good at it C.

C: Mike Tyson would have a thing or two to say to that!

Chip: Believe me, I know.

Ana: and Tiger Woods (1)

C: *** censored ***

8:47 PM Chip: *** censored ***

C: But baaaaack to the original question, before Chip insulted women and Ana took us on the path of Nevada's biggest taxable income source.

Ana: *** censored ***

8:48 PM C: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

C: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

8:49 PM

C: *** censored ***

Ana: *** censored ***

C: *** censored ***

Ana: which was?

C: Hottest female professions

8:50 PM Chip: Ok, here goes: Musician, Teacher, Author, Nurse, Stripper.

Ana: i think there are only 2

oh wait - stewardess!

Chip: Oh, scratch #5 and make it "actress"

Ana: *** censored ***

Chip: :P

Ana: should "waitress" be on that list?

C: My list: 1) Musician, 2) Actress, 3) Dancer, 4) Athlete, 5) Secretary

Chip: Waitresses are losers.

8:51 PM C: *** censored ***

Chip: Secretaries are slaves. Athletes are masculine.

Ana: musicians make zero money

C: You are catching my drift ;-)

wait wait athletes are masculine?

Chip: Women don't have to make money to be hot.

Ana: yeah, what? figure skaters, hello

Chip: Yes, figure skaters.

C: Allison Stokke...hello!

Chip: Put that on the list.

Ana: well hellooooo

C: *** censored ***

8:52 PM

Chip: Point taken, C.

C: Oh yeah...Michelle Wie (6) booya!

8:53 PM Ana: what, did u just google "female golfer"?

C: Or, if you play as her on a video game console, it's Michelle Wii.

Ana: heehee

Chip: Lol

C: Um... (6676)

The number of google searches I have conducted this year.

8:54 PM

Ana: brb my bros are shooting off fireworks

C: *** censored ***

8:55 PM

So our readers don't think reading this is a total loss, what are some takeaways?

Chip: Um...Money is good. Google is god. Golfers are good. Mr. Schuester is hot.

8:56 PM

If you're a woman, you can get any job you want. You can do anything a man can.

If you write for FCN, don't date a colleague. N is on the phone.

8:57 PM

C: If you are F, come to the next roundtable so you can defend yourself.

Ana: *** censored ***

C: If you are Chip and Ana, talk to HR about how to handle your budding relationship and may your hearts fall in love like precipitation.

8:58 PM

And never evaporate.

Ana: ummm no

please may that never happen

please!

please!
please!

(no offense chip)

Chip: This sounds like a hybrid matching-selection game.

C: Ouch Chip

8:59 PM K...I'm out. This was good. I can't wait to see it edited so I sound smart. Later!

Chip: Yeah, she's just pretending.

Lol, cya!

Ana: have a great weekend boys

Chip: *** censored ***

C: u2

Attitude. Sold Separately.

2009-12-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

Batteries sold separately.

Perhaps those words bring back memories of Christmas mornings from days gone by—memories so miserable that they can only be compared to the tingling in your chest that accompanies a nearly-regurgitated dinner, or a bad heartburn. Memories of opening your long-awaited remote-control car or flashing spaceship or talking robot, only to find that it was as exhausted and powerless as your parents, who had spent all night wrapping it. Memories of excitedly dragging your exhausted parents into the cold Christmas morning to find an open gas station that carried batteries.

That is the joy of childhood. Things were so simple back then. Now you are the bleary-eyed grownup driving around in the cold to find batteries, and now your metabolism has deteriorated to the point that your Christmas dinner comes back up as fast as those miserable memories. Nature is paying you back, you see, for what you put your parents through. (Actually, nature is the only one in America that still pays anything back to anybody.)

Attitude sold separately.

Those words are definitely more welcome. If they sold kids with those words printed on their foreheads, I'd have a lot of kids by now. Of course, nature would never stand for that kind of thing. (It would be too easy on parents.) Instead, I found the label on a Mountain Dew bottle: "Attitude sold separately."

Also on the label was an 800 number. I called it and got a young lady with an attractive voice. (Use your imagination.) The conversation went something like this:

"Hello, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I have a question about my bottle of Mountain Dew."

"Sure, go right ahead."

"It says 'Attitude sold separately.' Do you know where I can get the attitude?"

"Excuse me, what do you want?"

"I'd like some attitude. Do you know where I can get the attitude?"

"Oh, that's just a slogan. We don't sell any."

"What? How can you disappoint me like this? I need attitude!"

"Believe me sir, you don't need any more of that."

"Oh you know it."

Happiness Sold Separately

This is the title of a novel. It is true—there is no way the book will ever make you happy by itself. Real happiness is the last piece of the puzzle—the one that's always missing. The one that's sold separately.

Pop Quiz #5

2009-12-05T05:57:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday and you know what that means: great time for a pop quiz. You didn't expect a weekend pop quiz did you? Did you study over the weekend? No? Neither did we, but we are administering the test so we don't have to be accountable for our poor study habits. Never mind that the last four pop quizzes have been on Thursday or Friday, Saturday is as good a day as any to try the patience of the faithful few.

Put away your notes, tuck your backpacks under your desk, close all the windows on your computer (except this one, bien sûr!) and prepare yourself for the rigor of a difficult pop quiz. Matthew, stop looking at You Can Call Me Batman's work. This is an individual assignment. If you and YCCMB want to work on the quiz together we can divide both your final grades by two to reflect the assistance. You'll have to get YCCMB's approval though. No? I thought not.

Pick the best answer to each question and then scroll down to the bottom to see the answers. Hyperlinks contained in the question will lead you to the answer, but no fair clicking on those until you grade yourself.

NOTE: Check out the post tag Pop Quiz for previous tests.

1) Which alcoholic beverage did Ron Artest admit to drinking during the halftime of his NBA games?

a) Schnapps
b) Brandy
c) Beer
d) Cognac
e) Port

Answer.

2) Which of the following women is not alleged to have slept with Tiger Woods?

a) Elin Nordegren
b) Rachel Maddow
c) Rachel Uchitel
d) Jaimee Grubbs
e) Kalika Moquin

Answer.

3) Which of the following states did NOT cast its electoral votes for Barack Obama in the 2008 Presidential Election?

a) West Virginia
b) Colorado
c) Nevada
d) Pennsylvania
e) Ohio

Answer.

4) Who came up with the idea of daylight savings time?

a) Elin Nordegren
b) John Ott
c) George Vernon Hudson
d) Benjamin Franklin
e) Thomas Jefferson

Answer.

5) Which is largest?

a) 1 billion
b) 1 nonillion
c) 1 novemdecillion
d) 1 sextillion
e) 12,000,000,000,000,000

Answer.

6) Who is listed as weighing more?

a) Ben Roethlisberger
b) Mike Tyson
c) Kevin Garnett
d) Warren Sapp
e) Glen Davis

7) How many consecutive losses had the New Jersey Nets lost to start this year's NBA season before last night?

a) 15
b) 16
c) 18
d) 20
e) 22

Answer.

8) If the Florida Gators win the SEC championship tomorrow, how many consecutive wins will the program have recorded?

a) 15
b) 16
c) 18
d) 20
e) 22

Answer.

Key: 1) d, 2) b, 3) a, 4) c, 5) c, 6) d, 7) c, 8) e.

Each right answer is worth 12.5%. Brag about your score in the comments.

48 Hours of Thanksgiving

2009-11-28T07:59:00.000-08:00

How did you prepare yourself for the Thanksgiving holiday?

Studies consistently demonstrate that Americans under-prepare for the Thanksgiving festivities. While they devote significant energy toward preparation for the other major holidays, especially Christmas, Thanksgiving is relegated to the back-burner.

Thanksgiving is a culinary anomaly and it would behoove us to treat it as such. You wouldn't run a marathon without training. You wouldn't buy a car without checking the Car Facts report. I hope you wouldn't approach the Feast of Feasts without first preparing your GI tract.

Proper preparation for Thanksgiving begins 48 hours before the Feast and continues through the end of the munchie bonanza. You will want to make sure you don't have any significant social obligations before Thanksgiving and that you can devote the menu at every repast toward making the Thanksgiving Feast a successful experience.

48 Hours Before the Feast

INSTRUCTIONS: The key to the Feast diet is to enlarge your stomach while keeping it empty at the appointed time. This requires meal plans that enlarge the gut but allow for quick digestion. This means you want to be eating a lot of simple sugars. And you want to eat them quickly so that your stomach feels the need to expand. The day two days before Thanksgiving, eat two times. Eat a large meal around noon and eat an even larger one just before you go to bed. You will feel sick and probably won't sleep very well. Put these temporal pains aside by thinking about the wonderful Feast you will enjoy.

MY EXPERIENCE: It worked pretty much as explained. I had a plate of dough-nuts for the first meal and several plates of pasta for dinner. It felt as if someone had surgically inserted a bowling ball into my gut and my anti-bodies had been programmed not to reject it. But I slept okay and was ready for day two.

24 Hours Before the Feast:

INSTRUCTIONS: Eat a very small first meal. Starve yourself until dinner, then bomb your stomach with as much food as it will hold. Allow it to stretch some and bomb it again with second and third courses.

The purpose of this diet is to allow your stomach to empty (starvation) and then ensure that you keep it nicely enlarged for the Feast tomorrow (bombing).

MY EXPERIENCE: I attended a basketball game the day before Thanksgiving so I bombed my gut with three concession stand personal pizzas and two tubs of nachos. It was expensive, but worth it, until I noticed a teenage girl texting her boyfriend in front of me at the game. She had the gangly appearance of a Miley Cyrus fan who desperately wanted to be allowed to go to a Lady GaGa concert. She looked to be somewhere in vicinity of 16, but wore accessories and makeup to look older. I wasn't fooled: Her textgility revealed her youth. The correspondence went something like this:

Boyfriend: Yeah... [evidently referring to something previously texted]
Teenage girl: Why do u hav to be so short? Are u mad at me? Gosh, ur stressing me
BF: [after a pause] No. Chill.
TG: See? ur treating me like **** u havee no respek. im srsly worried about us
BF: Babe...w're coo. ur stressing me now.
TG: I think were done.

Et cetera.

I was watching this exchange with awe. I may have been witnessing this girl's first breakup. Over text no less! Although, in all probability, she had done this a thousand times and whoever "Travis" was on the other end of her conversation was just another innocent victim.

Anyway, watching the breakup reminded me of my own failings at love and took away my appetite. So I didn't go back for a fourth mini pizza.

Before the Feast

INSTRUCTIONS: Do not eat before the Feast.

MY EXPERIENCE: Easy enough. I used the time to recover from my concession stand food hangover.

During the Feast

INSTRUCTIONS: Go to town. Remember that every forkful of stuffing is three forkfuls of something else you can't eat.

MY EXPERIENCE: I liked the diet. I think I will avoid drama with teenage girls next year (always a good idea) and maybe see about what I can do 72 hours before the Feast...

Creeper 101

2009-11-21T08:00:00.000-08:00

I try not to text in class. Except on days that end in "y".

This particular day, I got a facebook message that I read on my phone in the form of a text. To give a little background for the story, a guy sent me a facebook friend request in the first month of this semester. Since I didn't recognize him, I ignored it. I didn't think about it again... this happens pretty often. One day I got 2 friend requests from guys I don't know, one in Ghana, the other in Romania. Apparently I get around.

Yesterday he friend requested me again, and when I saw his picture I recognized who he was. I didn't remember ignoring him a few months ago. I accepted.

Ok, so I read the facebook message. And since I was bored (Chemistry at 8am tends to cause those feelings), I replied. The following story is an epic example of how NOT to get a girl's attention. So for all of you desperate bachelors out there, it might help you to grab a pen and paper and take some notes. Here's how the conversation shaped up:

Creeper: hey, what made you change your mind? Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly okay with the fact that you did, I'm just curious.

Me: well, I get friend requests from guys I don't know fairly often, so if I don't recognize them I ignore them. but I recognized you this time. I think you're in my Psychology class and my brother dorm group. right?

Creeper: No its just the Psych class...unless you haven't been showing up to any of the brother/sister events. You're in Crawford hall, right?

Me: Nah, I'm in Bailey hall.

Creeper: dang it! honestly I couldn't remember which it was....I stalked you via the student database to get your last name and I had just forgotten if it was Crawford or Bailey. :-)

(Note: If a guy shamelessly admits to stalking a girl, normally we do NOT think this is cute. Multiple alarms go off in our head and we run for the hills faster than the Von Trapp family. At this point, I sent a text to ChaCha to ask "how do I deal with a stalker?" ChaCha replied: "The best way to deal with a stalker is to save any threatening messages or emails sent to you and present them to the police." That seems a little harsh.)

Me: why go to so much trouble for a friend request?

Creeper: wouldn't you like to know. it wasn't that much trouble. honestly for some reason you just stick out in our psych class so that was the reason i requested the first time and this time.

(Note: If a guy says a girl sticks out, that phrase had better be followed with a sincere compliment of explanation. It should not be left hanging like John Brown. I texted ChaCha again to ask, "How do you deal with a creeper?" ChaCha replied: "Call the cops and get a restraining order ASAP!!!!!! Be careful and Good Luck!!")

Me: I'm hoping I stick out in a good way, not simply cause I'm weird

Creeper: no, its totally because you are weird! all the way...lol jk, No its in a good way defiantly.

My roommate wants me to de-friend him. Unfortunately I think he actually is in my brother dorm so I'm supposed to be nice to him. But that's only if he can find me. I plan to do my best to blend in for a couple weeks until I don't stick out anymore.

EPA Bans Water

2009-11-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

In a recent ruling underlining the Obama administration's determination to stamp out rampant environmental devastation, the EPA ruled to ban water near cities, suburban areas, and within three hundred feet of schools.

"After classifying CO2 as a pollutant, we knew we were ready to go all the way with this thing," said EPA administrator Lisa P. Jackson. "It's time to take a stand against pollution, no matter how widespread it is."

Jackson pointed to numerous red flags suggested a ban, including water's dubious legacy as a chemical used by farmers to promote plant growth and the high concentrations found in acid rain. "If we're willing to ban a bunch of trace gases causing global warming, we may as well hit the problem where it really hurts."

The human body produces approximately 2.3 pounds of CO2 per day, but that's nothing compared to the rampancy of water. "It was the devastation of Hurricane Katrina that really pushed me over the edge," Jackson added. The EPA will submit reccomentations to Congress within the next few weeks on ways to reduce water emissions by evil industrial corporations.

Water has become so widespread in recent years due to reckless human behavior that it now covers 71% of the earth's surface and looms in ominous clouds over most of the planet. Agency officials unanimously agreed that the only way to put an end to the vicious water cycle (evapotranspiration, precipitation, and runoff) was to "nip this thing in the bud."

Said Jackson: "Think of the children." The coming weeks will show us just exactly what that means.

Bluetooth

2009-11-07T06:04:00.000-08:00

I was more bored than usual in my milktoast philosophy class. To help make course material more real to her pupils, our instructor had assigned several of the readings as group presentation projects. It looked and sounded as if the group in front of us had read David Copperfield the night before and had all the understanding of that Classic that SparkNotes could provide. I hadn't moved in twelve minutes; my contact lenses were starting to dry against my stiff eyeballs. I was completely uninterested and wanted badly a frivolous distraction.

Around me students played thumb war with their phones. Some were texting, I am sure, sweet nothings to their squeezes. Others were setting up post class hangouts or commenting on the latest campus scandal -- a raunchy article about the University's first female President in the school newspaper. Still more were surfing the 40-year old Internet.

I was jealous. My QWERTY-slider phone was not Internet enabled. Sure, it was capable of downloading the WWW's latest fare, but doing so would cost me 10 cents for every impossibly slow turn of the globe icon. I had disabled Internet at the AT&T store as soon as I purchased it. Other students were using their parents' money to keep up on theI CANN regulated world. The guy to my right was staying abreast of the World Series game. He passed me score updates on his phone. The girl to my left was in the facebook world. Her occasional involuntary giggles demonstrated clearly that her mind was somewhere other than the Dickens presentation.

Everyone else was finding ways to entertain themselves! I couldn't think of any questions to ask Cha Cha, I'd played the pre-installed BowlerBash 3.0 demo several times that night and was not in the mood for three more minutes of TETRIS. I resented my phone as a mistake. I looked at it the way I looked at the burrito I'd ordered at lunch: a decision proved poor by 20/20 hindsight.
That's when it hit me like a Ray Lewis shoulder pad: my phone was not completely inept. Burried deep in its list of petty features was Bluetooth, an ambiguous feature who's utility I had not yet discovered.

Using my notebook to shield my phone from the instructor, who sat in pretend rapture staring almost catatonically at the powerpoint presentation, I navigated to the settings menu and enabled Bluetooth. Nothing happened.

I considered BowlerBash 3.0 for a split second before the screen went blank and a rotating globe avatar appeared. I wondered whether I would be charged 10 cents a spin but didn't care. It was my turn to be transfixed.

"Searching for new devices" the screen intoned. I was glad I had silenced my phone. A notification noise then would have stood out from the speakers' droning like a baby's scream in a Sunday sermon or a pretty face in a bar fight, I am undecided on similes.

Slowly a list of devices was populated. Apple, Blackberry, Palm, Motorola -- all the major phone brands were represented followed by official looking model numbers. These were the phones in this room!

Devious thoughts filled by head. I thought about the celebrities whose phones had been hacked and whose pictures had ended up on the Internet because of equipment like this. I always knew I had a future as someone who is paid to harass other people. This was a chance to perfect that skill.

With only a passing thought toward the ethical implications of my action, I selected an LG phone from near the top of the list.

A beat.

Then a password menu popped up. Cowabunga! It was asking for a PIN (not "PIN number," which is literally "Personally Identification Number number" but "PIN"). Although I had breezed by the ethics issues, Ipensed on this question. How much effort do people put into their PINs anyway? If I were a student setting up my phone and was asked to enter a PIN, I would probably punch 9999 and be done with it. So I pressed 9999.

Another beat.

The instructor's phone started buzzing, breaking her trance. She looked down at it and pressed a button to disable its vibration. I tried to look nonchalant, but inside I was screaming: I had just hacked the professor's phone!

I had access to everything. Pictures, addresses, call history, music and ring tones poured over my screen like cheese over a fondue pot.

Ethical pangs stabbed at my brain. The moral philosophies we discussed in class -- Deontology, virtue theory, categorical imperative, natural law -- were applied quickly. Criticisms from our reader popped into mind and I debated out the morality of my next decisions.

Ironically, it was my indecision that saved me from a big mistake because I was about to download the instructor's pictures when the class erupted in a loud applause signaling the presentation's conclusion. I disengaged the Bluetooth and wiggled out of the room as quickly as possible, denying the professor the eye contact she obviously sought.

If my professor doesn't adjust her PIN before next class, I am going to change her ring tone to Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" and turn her volume to its highest setting.

When to stop smiling

2009-11-04T08:38:00.000-08:00

You just finished talking with a classmate in the library. You smile. Maybe it was a funny subject or perhaps you were smiling so that he would think you got the joke.

For whatever reason (see below), your cheeks crinkle up, your lips pull back so severely that your top lip threatens your nasal cavity and your natural dentures peak through the gap.

You've probably been holding this awkward pose for several seconds. Your psyche has clicked into red carpet mode and you are stuck.

You turn away from your friend to attend class and accidentally make eye contact with a pretty young woman who looks up from her studies at the wrong time.

You are still smiling even though the conversation that triggered your expression has ended.

She looks behind herself self-consciously, confirming in her mind that your grin is directed at her. And by the time she turns back around, you have straightened your features. But that's when she smiles back and the whole encounter repeats itself with you turning around.

It's awkward.

This exact scenario literally almost happened to me. I made up the fact that the woman was pretty and a few key details. But to draw a lesson from "I, Rigoberta Menchú," inaccuracies mustn't keep us from learning lessons.

The smile is, of course, a defensive expression. It is like brandishing a shield in conversation. When someone insults you terribly -- say, refers to your mother as a poorly bred monkey with gingivitis -- you smile. Your expression protects you from harsh words and allows you a moment to recover before responding (it takes a second to "unsmile," especially if you are Nancy Pelosi or John Edwards, for whom the act of grinning requires several minutes of warmup and stretching). If a hoodlum holds you up, the IRS calls or you misplace your shoes in someone's fridge, the textbook reaction is to smile.

When you fail to timely remove the grin, it's like walking down main street porting a buckler on your arm. Everyone will wonder why you have a hand-to-hand combat defense tool and will want one of their own. If they have one handy, they will remove it to demonstrate preparedness.

That's why the woman at the library smiled back. Seeing that I was armed with a toothy grin, she returned the expression and showed that she was similarly equipped.

Yes lady, you do have teeth.

But you (reader, not lady) do not want to cause smiling arms races. They are wastes of people's cheek energy and can threaten those without good smiles.

How would you feel if the entire village were having a buckler parade and you had gotten rid of yours in a garage sale? Pretty miserable, I'll wager: Everyone takes to the streets in a display of shield firepower and you have to loiter defenselessly.

And you are conspicuously absent. (Conversation in street. Bystander with buckler (BWB)1: "Where's reader?" BWB2: "I don't know, he sold me this sweet buckler, though!")

Those who think they have bad smiles often return grins with blank stares or threatening looks. They feel threatened by your smile. They know that you are a better defensive conversationalist because they see your gleaming pearly whites.

If you threaten enough with your grin, people will take counter measures. They may work on their own smile -- visit an orthodontist, invest in whitening creams or schedule an appointment with a plastic surgeon (the modern day blacksmith).

Or they may go on the offensive and try to ruin your smile. Many barnyard tools will accomplish this; shovels, hoes, pitchforks and sledgehammers will all do a number on your smile.

Dentists and orthodontists benefit whether your friends choose the defensive (whitening) or offensive (shovel) approach. But you might have a preference.

I don't mean to scare you. But I think you should at least consider the dangers the next time you smile at a stranger. Or the next time you smile at a farmer. Or the next time he smiles back.

Welcome to the all-new FCN

2009-11-01T17:29:00.000-08:00

It's bigger, it's badder, it's ...

Okay, it's not. Unless badder counts for being worse. Like ... 80% worse.

Here at FCN, we've always taken a sort of pride in our mediocrity. We're a vastly inferior blog with bad layout, poor taste, and tacky ideas. Basically the only thing we ever had going for us was post frequency. We've given you about 800 posts in the last few years: enough humorous content with which - by means of fire - to roast more than a few marshmallows.

In a recent FCN team meeting which we did not tape or video, we came to an important decision. Here are the notes, which were kept by the copiously attentive F:

FCN TEAM MEETING LATE OCTOBER TOO LAZY TO CHECK EXACT DATE Role call. Everyone present. Mommy G does not approve of N's dating behaviors. N is a very sorry little boy. Haha to you, N. Whats her face wants to post less often. Sounds cool to me. Instead of voting, let's play Halo.

What that means, for those of you who are unaccustomed to the complex formatting and lingo of meeting minutes, is this: we can't keep posting 5 times a week. It's burning us out. We need oue beauty sleep, and we need to wake up in time to get our nails done and our cereal poured. Time is of the essence, and it today's fast-moving world no one has enough.

We don't have time to write a bunch of posts each week, and you don't have time to read them. So let's simplify.

Starting immediately, we hereby reneg on all previous promises of constant content. You may no longer depend on us for a post EXCEPT on one day: Saturday. Saturday is a very special day. On it, we will - you know - post something. So come back then. And if you wanna come back between, you have 800 posts to catch up on. We're sure you missed a few here and there.

We love you, our faithful FCN reader(s). Lots and lots. Hearts! Please don't leave us. Just come to terms with the new distance in the relationship. Okay? Okay.

PS. Welcome back!

Sabbatical

2009-09-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

One of our writers is pregnant.

One of our writers has contracted a very violent and contagious disease.

One of our writers is afraid of the Internet.

One of our writers woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

One of our writers was left in the drier.

One of our writers was mauled by a mythical animal.

All of our writers are out of ideas.

One of the above excuses is true.

Please give us some time as we sort this out. We will be on sabbatical until the first of November.

Ideas are appreciated in the interim.

Thanks and see you in a month.

FCN

If chairs could talk...

2009-09-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

My goodness this is lonely. I've been standing here for eight hours and no one has paid attention to me.

A week ago, someone came and wiped me down, brushed off some crumbs and made sure I was ready for service. I like it when that happens. The people who take care of me are really nice. I have lived a hard life, but they make me feel good.

The cold is making my legs ache. They feel really hard. I wonder if someone fiddled with the thermostat again. Turning the preferred temperature down wastes energy and is not considerate of those who are unable to leave the room of their own accord.

But people generally ignore chairs, especially the ones that are a few years past construction. Two years ago, an angry boy kicked me in the legs and knocked me over. I don't know what he was mad about but I was left stranded on my back for several minutes. I have never felt so neglected. Some time after that, a toddler gnawed on my left leg – one of them anyway. His teeth left some deep marks that will probably never go away. I heard talk about having something done to get the marks fixed, but no one really cares enough to get the ball rolling on the idea.

Finally, someone entered the room. It must be Thursday, because no one comes in this early on a Friday. He's a nice guy who doesn't rock back and forth or adjust his seating regularly. He is not abusive of his chairs. I hope he will come sit on me, but he takes the ugly seat in the back. Darn.

Oh my. There's Ingrid! She's the class hottie. She sat next to me the first day of class, but sat in the back every class thereafter. I wish I could raise my hand and get her attention. I wish I had hands so she would notice me. Her pretty eyes scan the seating. I can tell she is evaluating the pros and cons of each chair. I wish for the umpteenth time that my legs didn't have toddler bite marks. She must be looking at those. Ingrid sits next to the nice guy in the ugly chair and they start chatting. Darn.

Several more people filter into the room. Some hesitate before they sit, others take a seat without a second thought. Then Big Rob enters. Big Rob played defensive lineman in high school and, from the look of things, has not been to a gym since he graduated. The floor thunders and the outer edges of his massive thorax jiggle with each step. There is one chair left in the second row. It is me. Rob takes five labored steps, catches his breath, and finishes the trek to me. I take a deep breath just before he sits down. Darn.

My legs really hurt now. I preferred it when I was lonely.

Fame Comes Swiftly On Another's Name

2009-09-11T08:06:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, a reader requested that we do with Taylor Swift's songs what we did with Rascal Flatts'. Unfortunately (or perhaps that should be fortunately?), Taylor Swift hasn't written enough songs of her own to make up a long enough or half-way sensible post. So, we decided to combine her song titles with those of the man upon whose name she built her fame, Tim McGraw.

Tell me why, because just to see you smile I'd come in with the rain from outside and stay forever and always. I guess you don't love me anymore because I've got the cowboy in me. My next thirty years can come not a moment too soon. I'm a real good man and you got the wrong man and that won't change. The way I loved you was fearless so stay beautiful while I cry teardrops on my guitar. Who says grown men don't cry? Tim McGraw? Well he's just a picture to burn because our song is a walk down memory lane. Our love story was the best day with a place in this world where the green grass grows down on the farm. Give it to me straight. I still think you belong with me, but it's your love so you can take it with you. Just please remember me.

---

Hey Stephen,

I see the eyes of a woman everywhere and I'd lie if I said I'm smiling. You're my best friend, so please take me away to welcome to the club. Just don't mention Memphis or try to comfort me. I didn't ask and she didn't say why we said goodbye. I guess one of these days when she wakes up she'll realize what she left behind and she'll try to cook up refried dreams. Ain't that the way it always ends?

- Angel Boy

Personality quiz...

2009-09-08T06:08:00.000-07:00

What's your Jung-Myers-Briggs personality topology? How do you rank on an IQ test? Are you smarter than a fifth grader? Two of these are common online personality surveys. The other is a popular TV show that reveals what we already knew to be true: Pretty people aren't always smart people.

When the online personality craze began -- or when messages related to the craze first entered my world through a Facebook notification -- I considered these tests to be sophomoric exercises in vanity designed to entertain teenyboppers and the reserve army of the unemployed. I still believe this, of course, except now I identify with these people categories and am perfectly comfortable spending a few minutes every day psycho analyzing myself.

I wonder if the shrinks who design these quizzes know how addictive they are. They have to have an incling. I think they even plan the "Internet connection failed" glitches that force you to go back and reenter all your data a second time. After all that work punching in our info, we can't leave now without knowing our four character typology! I need my IQ number! So instead of acting out my intelligence, I press the refresh button and start over, hoping for a better connection next time.

This morning I was tackling one of FB's numerous personality profiling tools. It doesn't matter which one; they are all the same, only with varying spelling and grammar errors. I figured I would knock out a quick test before breakfast so I would have a good idea of the intelligence I would have to work with for the day. It was like checking the oil on your clunker before hitting the highway.

I was happy with how quickly I was moving through the questions. Each response was simple and there were usually only one or two options per query. I could see a pattern behind the test's construction and worked deliberately to create a positive result. My Internet connection was solid and it looked like the oil would come out full. But I started getting hungry. Page after page of questions filled my screen and I started to wonder if I was completing an IQ test or e-Harmony's notoriously extensive personality profile. I was pretty sure I was over 29 levels of compatibility by now.

40, 50, 60 questions I answered, obediently watching the little firefox circles turn as the pages advanced. I knew I was doing well, but this was taking a long time. I made a mistake on a question and had to go back to fix it. I ran into a question that required some thought and opened a new tab to enter a term into my Quicktionary. That search took too long (Quicktionary is almost as bad a misnomer as "JiffyLube"), and I guessed on the answer. Then Quicktionary found the term and I had to go back and correct the guess.

I spent just over forty minutes mulling, revising, answering and reanswering the questions. Then, without warning, the screen went white. Did I want to support site's sponsor? Did I want to purchase a discounted vacuum cleaner? Did I want to become more virile? These are the questions I had to answer before the Internet would reveal my score.

Then it happened. My number appeared. That couldn't be right. I was well below average. I knocked the monitor with my palm, as if the impact would jar my score to another percentile. This was my worst test yet and I had passed a shorter version the day before with flying colors. How could it do this to me?

My confidence is shot. I worry that everyone I meet will have seen my sub-par scores and will question my intelligence. I am concerned that nothing I say will be taken seriously because all will focus on my two digit IQ instead of my ideas. This one test has cast me into an eternal realm of intellectual irrelevance. Here will I sit in the spongy mire and pity myself...until tomorrow when I can take another quiz.

Man, I am starving...

Vote for ?

2009-09-04T12:09:00.000-07:00

One of my hall mates approached me yesterday on my way to class and threw her catchy campaign slogan at me. I liked it. See, she's running for freshman class president and is trying to raise support. I encouraged her, promised her my vote, and kept walking.

This morning, one of my other friends accosted me in the college cafeteria at lunch and declared his intention to run for freshman class president. He promised, in a very Pedroesque style, to make all my wildest dreams come true if I vote for him. I encouraged him, promised him my vote, and went back to eating my hamburger-turned-meatloaf-turned-goulash-turned-chili.

Oh snap.

I'm in so much trouble. There's a few options I have to fix this situation.

I vote for the guy. We become BFFs. My unit mate hates me. And unless you're a girl in a dorm, you have NO idea how much drama that would cause. Seriously... I have goosebumps just thinking about it.
I vote for the girl. We become BFFs. I influence her to have hand lotion dispensers put in the women's restrooms all over campus. The guy hates me, but my wildest dreams have come true anyway. Come on, free hand lotion, right!?
I abstain from voting. No hand lotion, no wildest dreams coming true, but neither friend has cause to hate me. So boring.
I lie about who I voted for, and tell each one not to tell the other friend who I voted for. Sneaky. So secret agent-ish. But this is a Christian University and that just doesn't feel right.
OR... I run for freshman class president. I beat them both. They hate me, but can't help but be happy for me. I get the hand lotion dispensers. How hard could it be?

I don't know what to do. What do you, the omniscient and wise faithful few, think I should do in this situation? Is there really a "right" way out of this mess?

RSS Feed

2009-09-02T10:54:00.001-07:00

Hey Shannon, can you add a link to this post to the sidebar or put it somewhere easily accessible for incoming readers? Thanks.

Really Simple Syndication. We thought Blogger had it all lined up until a new reader contacted us to complain that our feed wasn't working. As we near our 800th post and get ready to celebrate that joyous occasion with all the apathy our college student muscles can muster, FCN figured that a working RSS feed would be important. So, in a completely out of character move, FCN overachieved. We went out and created a few blog-specific RSS feeds that you can use to follow FCN from afar.

(NOTE: If you have no idea what the above paragraph is talking about, check out this page).

You can now follow FCN at the following links:

http://feedity.com/rss.aspx/blogspot-com/UlZSUlZU

http://funnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default?alt=rss

http://www.ponyfish.com/feeds/68570kLzhamOr

Should I raise my hand?

2009-09-01T06:19:00.000-07:00

Hey guys I need your help. No, I am not stuck in a bar with a crazy woman who only wants my body. Can you let that go? That was months ago. I have a restraining order now and I'm doing my best to turn my body into a soft, unattractive mass that no longer tempts crazy ladies. Seriously, why did your mind go there first? Actually my request relates to my first day of advanced philosophy class.

It's the first day of class: Everyone is bored, knowing that we'll probably get out early and be able to knock some of our extensive social obligations that afternoon. Some of us are even coordinating those obligations via text message. I think boredom showed on our faces because the teacher became more animated and worked with each labored sentence earn our attention. She was failing. In my mind, I was already filling out the end of semester class evaluations and marking down her lecture points.

Just when I was in the throes of developing a scathing review, the instructor said something that jolted me from my reverie. She asked a question to which I knew the answer. The question was a hard one -- the sort of thing you learn at the end of first semester philosophy -- but because of the course's prerequisite, I figured about a third of the class would be able to answer correctly, half would get the right answer out of a list of choices on an exam and two-thirds would be able to start toward the right answer with a wandering response.

But I knew the answer. Not only did I know the answer, I had written a paper on the issue in high school, was familiar with the concept's key proponents and detractors and could dissertate on the issue with some ease. She had pitched a slow one right over the plate.

My question: Should I swing?

Late in the semester, when a good participation grade is riding on answers to arcane questions, the correct response would be a no-brainer: Always answer if you think you can even lead in the right direction late in the semester. But early on the equation is different. Many professors base their semester grade on student's ability to learn material through the class. Improvement is valued more than end knowledge. A student who starts with nothing and learns a lot will get a better grade than the student who starts with a lot and learns nothing.

So should I swing? The teacher's silent stare betrayed an expectation. She wanted someone to put themself out there on the first day of class, to answer her query and prove their knowledge. But this is a class stuffed with seniors. We are wary of the bait. And our professor only has an MA! That's only an extra year of education than we have. We simply don't respect her as much as the teacher's who have devoted their lives to their career.

The silence is getting longer. Maybe the other students genuinely are unaware of the answer to the question. NO! They are bluffing. They, too, are familiar with the post-modern grading and effort-based pedagogy of the modern classroom. They are holding back in the hope that I will betray my knowledge and create a harder semester for myself.

Maybe I don't know the answer to the question. Maybe my idea is wrong and I based my paper on faulty assumptions. Doubts creep into my mind and I force them out as the silence stretches on.

The teacher looks disappointed. She wanted an answer. But her savvy class gave her none.

What about it, guys? Did I do the right thing? Should I have answered her question?

How to Play Pedestrian Polo

2009-08-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the wildly successful game Traffic, we give you it's evil twin, Pedestrian Polo.

OBJECT OF THE GAME

To score as many points as possible by fulfilling achievements that involve impacting your car against pedestrians at a speed of no less than 15 MPH (unless otherwise noted).

REQUIRED TO PLAY

- A car.
- Bumper protectors (like the ones you see on cop cars) are recommended but optional.

RULES

Pedestrian Polo is like making car payments: it never ends. The moment you get behind the wheel, the game is on; you have a chance to score fresh achievements and get ahead of your friends. The ongoing, honor-based point system keeps drivers constantly on the lookout for new pedestrians.

As a rule of thumb, double your point value for striking two pedestrians simultaneously; triple for three, and so on. Also, double all your points if you are a professional driver (bus, taxi, race car, etc).

ACHIEVEMENTS

Little White Man Indeed. Stop at a crosswalk on a red light. When pedestrians pass in front of you, ram them.

2 points: The pedestrian squeaks on impact.
4 points: The pedestrian has a cane or walker.
5 points: The pedestrian attempts to leap out of the way but fails.
8 points: The pedestrian hesitates, and you wave that it's okay to pass.
10 points: The pedestrian is your landlord.

Fresh Air. Without slowing down, cross to the left side of the road and take out a pedestrian with your door.

3 points: The pedestrian is just exiting a building.
4 points: The pedestrian is holding no less than two bags of groceries.
6 points: Close the door just before striking a telephone pole or other object.
8 points: The pedestrian is on a crosswalk.
13 points: Use the passenger side door.

Collateral Suicide. Impact a pedestrian as you go off a bridge.

2 points: The pedestrian was considering suicide already.
6 points: The pedestrian had considered suicide and had just decided life was worth living.
8 points: Leap out of the car just before it goes over the edge.
15 points: Stay in the car and survive.

No Safe Haven. Impact a pedestrian indoors.

5 points: Shopping mall.
8 points: A spa.
13 points: Traffic school.
18 points: The top of a sky scraper.
35 points: A basement.
39 points: A legislative building.

Part of the Plan. Impact someone to whom you have just given a ride.

1 point: Pick up a hitch hiker, drive him at least a quarter mile, then have him get out and ram him.
3 points: Drive your friend to school.
7 points: Carpool with a coworker.
14 points: Carpool with your boss.

Mesmerizing. Approach the pedestrian slowly for at least twenty seconds, then accelerate and ram.

3 points: The pedestrian never saw you coming.
9 points: The pedestrian watched, stupefied.
27 points: The pedestrian had a gun pulled on you and was yelling at you to halt.

Ambush. Impact a pedestrian who is between you and the road.

4 points: Hide in an alley until the opportune moment.
7 points: Conceal your car in trees and bushes.
16 points: Wait in a building, and crash through a large window on your way to the target.
29 points: Crash through a large window on a story other than the ground level and land on the target.

That was Deliberate. Impact a famous or dangerous person.

1 point: Registered sex offender.
3 points: Politician.
6 points: Actor.
8 points: Simon Cowell.
9 points: Barack Obama.
14 points: Bruce Willis.
15 points: A wanted terrorist.
40 points: Chuck Norris.

Only Yourself to Blame. Impact without turning on your engine.

3 points: Push your car down a hill.
10 points: Push your car along a flat plane.
12 points: Tow your car behind another, then disengage the tow line and slingshot into your target.

Karma. Impact another pedestrian polo player.

20 points.

Trying to Write a Post

2009-08-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

Every so many days or so, it is my turn to write a post for FCN. Sometimes I forget and nothing gets posted, sometimes I have something ready, and other times I don't have anything prepared and my mind is a blank slate. Today is one of those times.

Trying to come up with a post when you've got nothing is like trying to rip off your own toenails. It's like being interrogated by Jack Bauer. It's like trying to get your younger siblings to do their chores. And it's like having your innards ripped out of you and set on fire before your very eyes.

So here I sit at midnight on a Thursday, trying to write something funny, or at least clever, to post on Friday morning. But, I've got nothing.

Meanwhile, I'm listening to Pandora and watching espionage shows on hulu. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. Why not write a post about a musician who is an undercover spy for the Russian secret service? It would go something like this:

Vladimir was having a long day. He had already eliminated five spies from three different foreign agencies and he was ready to get some sleep. Unfortunately, his coffee was only 1 hour into his system and he'd be awake for at least another four hours.

"Oh well," he thought. "I guess I'll just try to arrange a meeting with Banov."

After that, it's pretty fuzzy. I suppose I'd finish off with an explosion and Vladimir's death or something (anything to prevent having to continue a series), but I really don't know. This post, at any rate, is over.

Awkward Situation #8

2009-08-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

Note: This is a true story.

Picture this.

You're checking into a 4-star hotel.

There is a long line, and several people are in front of you.

The girl at the front desk is apologizing because apparently a group of about 60 soldiers checked in unexpectedly and she's having to re-arrange the accommodations.

She checks a lady into the hotel and sends her to her room. Lady seems glad to be out of the line and makes her way toward her room.

The desk girl starts checking in the man in front of you. The process takes a while. You begin to tap your foot impatiently.

A few minutes later, the lady who was checked in comes back to the desk. She doesn't look as happy as she was when she left. "Miss," she hisses through clenched teeth, "there's a problem with the room?"

"A problem?" the desk girl cries, "What seems to be the problem?"

"Miss, I used my key to get into the room you gave me, and... there was a troop of soldiers in there. Let's just say that after a long day they had apparently been excited to get out of their uniforms and make themselves comfortable."

The flustered desk girl tried to make amends, but you don't remember what they were because you were trying very hard to conceal the laughter brought on by this entertaining occurrence.

Drouble dropping first date

2009-08-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

Heather was a cute girl from a part of town that just appeared in the last ten years. You know, middle class track homes with pastel stucco and 1/8 acre backyards. There's probably a neighborhood like that in your town, in in a suburb of your town. Her house looks exactly like the one you conjured up in your mental image. Exactly.

Heather's dad worked an office job in the Bay Area and commuted a lot. Her mom worked a part time office position about thirty minutes from home, mostly to pay taxes. When I picked up Heather at 6:00 on a Thursday evening, my first thought was that maybe the family was carrying an upside-down mortgage. It just seemed like that kind of situation. My second thought was that the neighborhood's irrigation policy was lax. I'd arrived during a peak time, but at least three houses on her block were using their front yard sprinklers. I also wondered about air conditioning use. My third thought was that Heather was a pretty cute girl and that her blouse carried itself well on her.

I selected a quaint, out-of-the way eatery on the north side of town. I'd checked the location on Google Maps and knew it was only a few minutes from her house. Yum Yum's Chinese Grill seemed a good choice for a first date with a middle class white girl and I was ready to make a good impression.

Restaurants do a weird thing when you enter and ask for a seat. A "host" asks the number in your party and, if there's a wait, for a name they can call when a seat is available. Then a "seating assistant" guides you go your seat and, depending on how expensive the food is, pulls back your chair for you. Soon a "server," which is the politically correct term for a "waitress," comes and takes your order. If you eat for long enough, another waitress comes along to spell the first one while she's on break. If something goes wrong, you see a "manager" or, if the food is cheap, a "shift supervisor." Finally a "bus boy" (note the lack of a politically correct, gender-neutral alternative) comes along to clean up the mess and ready the table for the next diners.

Heather and I took our seats and I was relieved that the seating assistant did not pull back our chairs. I might be able to get out of the evening for less than thirty bucks! Conversation before the order was casual. Heather was starting at school again next week at community college. She didn't like her classes and wasn't sure what she was going to do with herself. I nodded and feigned interest, but the whole time I wondered at the pattern of our waitress' table assignments.

Normally serve staff are responsible for tables in a particular region. If five waitresses are working a shift, they will split their assignments geographically. I'd noticed this pattern before and was expecting it again. At Yum Yums, I could not make any sense of the table assignments.

Marissa finally came to take our order. I had seen her at three corners of the restaurant and was immediately suspicious. I ordered a beverage and so did my date. We ordered our food at the time. I had the pasta and she had the Macadamia nut chicken and shrimp. I remember because I'm allergic to Macademia nuts and I made a mental note not to try her food. This recounting is tedious but hang on, there's a point.

The date went well. Heather talked. A lot. I listened. And watched the wait staff. And laughed when Heather laughed. I was working well. We were having a good date.

Then Marissa dropped the bill. I waited a second, hoping Heather would reach for it. When she didn't, I grabbed the bill slowly. The leather cover felt heavy in my hand. Again, I waited for Heather to protest. Again she stayed silent.

Oh well, I thought, and opened the mini-binder.

Jumping bullfrogs, I thought, making a mental Mark Twain reference as I looked down at the itemization. This wasn't the right bill. The items were listed wrong. There was no "Macadamia" next to the chicken reference, my pasta was titled "angel hair" (as if I would order angel hair pasta on a date!), and the beverages were not labeled. Ice tea is always a labeled beverage.

My suspicions about Marissa were confirmed. She had given us the wrong bill. Maybe she had even double dropped us, giving us the same bill as another table and pocketing the difference. I knew she was manipulating the restaurant's geography to get non-adjacent tables. She had the suspicious eyes of someone hiding something other than a deep hurt. I should have trusted my gut and requested a different waitress!

"C, is everything okay?" Apparently my brow had furled and I was staring at the bill like a poker player holding a low pocket pair after an all-in call.

I had a major dilemma on my hands. I could announce Marissa's error in front of Heather and let her know I was on my game. But doing so would betray the fact that I had been restaurant watching for the last hour instead of engaging her in meaningful conversation. And what if Marissa argued? I could end up looking like a cheap date who didn't want to pay for the drinks. I would that guy, the one who stiffs his girlfriend with the bill whenever the pay arrangement is pre-arranged.

"Is everything all right?" It was Marissa asking the painfully obvious waitressing question. Ironically, it was the same question Heather had asked moments earlier. Marissa and Heather both expected answers. The moment of truth:

"This isn't our bill. The food items are inaccurate the beverage items are listed incorrectly. Also the total is a good fifteen dollars off what this meal should shave cost, given menu-advertised prices." Heather looked at me, obviously surprised by my show of restaurant genius.

Marissa didn't look at the bill. "You must be mistaken, this has to be your bill. There is no way it isn't." Manager arrived. I asked to speak to the manager alone and told her my suspicions about Marissa. She nodded wisely, weighing the evidence about the non-sequential seat placing and bill inaccuracy. It took me about five minutes to lay out all the evidence, but the manager listened to me attentively the entire time. I think she blinked three times.

When I was finished, she nodded again. Apparently Yum Yums had suspected Marissa of double dropping bills for a few weeks, my observations were enough to put together the case. Marissa was fired on the spot and Heather and I got our meal for free.

In the car on the way back to her house, Heather seemed unimpressed. "You saw that on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, right?" she asked. She caught me. That's where I'd heard about double dropping, but how in the world did she connect the dots? I thought briefly about lying but instead gave a truthful "yes."

"That is so cool!" Came Heather's unexpected answer. Apparently the brash sit-com is her favorite TV show and Sweet Dee's double dropping escapade was her favorite episode. And, Heather wants to see me again before she leaves for school. I think I am going to keep being attentive at restaurants!

Re: Mushy Date

2009-08-11T06:04:00.000-07:00

FCN received the following email about a recent post. Have you got a witty response to one of our tomes? Send it in here!

Dearest C,

As a human I must comment on your date. As a man I must give you some
pointers. As a friend I MUST speak to you and teach you how to REALLY
be romantic.

C...you miss the point. You are trying to mushy, not romantic. Mushy
has no place in relationships. It is not an objective. The objective
is love. Your goal is to communicate how much you love her with every
word, deed, thought, everything. Here are your mistakes.

A) "Did it hurt?" As if pain is in any way related to Grethel?!?
Grethel is not pain. She does not make you think of pain. There is
absolutely no link in the whole wide world between Grethel and pain.
This explains Grethel's surprised "Did what hurt?" response. You lose
1 point.

B) Grethel did not fall out of heaven. This implies that she was cast
out the same way Satan was. If there is no link between pain and
Grethel then there is DEFINANTLY NO LINK BETWEEN GRETHEL AND SATAN!
No! Linking Grethel with Satan was a colossal error. You lose 5
points.

A better way to handle this situation would be to say as a more
appropriate greeting: I am glad heaven sent you to me. This statement
has numerous advantages. It sends all the messages of your attempted
line without any negative connotations. It also implies that she was
picked by heaven specifically for you. Good. Avoid the temptation to
add the word 'tonight' at the end of the sentence though. If you do
you will be stating that this is only a temporary arrangement at best.

C) YOU ZONED OUT WATCHING SPORTS?!? You can zone out staring into her
eyes, that's fine. But do not zone out looking anywhere other than her
eyes on a date. Ever. Mistake. You lose 1 point.

D) Nice save. You realize your sports zone out mistake and cover it
with the old 'getting lost in your eyes line' Good cover up. You gain
1 point.

E) "your eyes are blue like the ocean and I just keep getting lost at
sea" Lost at sea? What? You are NEVER lost with Grethel. When you are
with her you are found. She has the key to your heart. Getting lost
implies that you are unable to find your objective. Grethel is your
objective. If you are lost it means you aren't with Grethel. You lose
2 points.

F) There is no need to rearrange the alphabet. That implies that the
natural order needs to be changed to accommodate your relationship.
Instead of moving U and I together. Talk about how your alphabet runs
from 'A' to 'G' because once you hit Grethel there is no need to move
on. You lose 1 point.

G) "thorn by a rose" would be a nice line if it wasn't so close to
thorn in your side. Also, thorns are bad. You may be inferior (all
guys are right?) but you are not bad. Say that she is the rose and you
are the lowly leaf which supports and give nutrients to the rose. This
shows the two of you working together. That is a good thing. Thorns
are not. You lose 1 point.

H) Her smile was in your back pocket?!? You lose 10 points!!!
- If her smile was in your back pocket that means you were sitting on
it the whole meal!
- Anything, and I mean ANYTHING that Grethel gives you or you find
from her is near (or in) your heart (much less something so precious
as a smile) You have the key to her heart on a chain around your neck.
Her smile is in your heart. Near your heart you always carry the first
picture the two of you took together etc.

I) 3 points for the wonderful way to hold hands. Brilliant. I applaud
you. However you lose 1 point for wasting her time. You tell a long
story that ultimately leads to nothing? NO! Again I say NO! Say that
there is a rabbit who wants to get across the river and the rabbit is
named 'C' Then say that a bunnyrabbit, 'Grethel', comes along, you
build a raft together and happily sail down the river of life
together. After telling this story shrug and say "Maybe I'm silly. I
don't know, I just wanted to hold your hand."

J) Excellent afternoon is a very noncommittal response. No points
gained or lost. A better response would have been to say: "May the God
who gave you to me guide my steps to you again in the near future.
Until then may he watch over you and give you a wonderful day." THAT
is a farewell.

Those are just a few of the thoughts I had as I glanced over your
limited commentary on your meal. Please consider these comments in the
same friendly spirit in which they were given.

Your total score is: -17

I doubt you will see Grethel ever again.

Remember C...love. Not mushy. Just: Love.

Sincerely,

Randy Hawthorn

Snakes On a Plane Are the Least of My Worries

2009-08-07T07:30:00.000-07:00

Even with all the post 9-11 efforts made by the TSA to crack down on terrorism involving aircraft, I'm surprised no one has tried something and succeeded in doing something treacherous. Not that I condone terrorism, nor do I like danger. I'm not even saying someone HAS in fact tried something yet failed. Surely there have been many foiled attempts. And rightly so. I'm glad to be protected by airport security.

I was reminded of that security recently when I packed to fly across the United States. Packing to fly is... well it's a pain in the neck. I decided to liven up the process by letting my mind wander. It went places no peaceful, innocent mind should go. My thoughts were dedicated to figuring out ways people could turn permitted carry-on items into harmful, or even lethal weapons. It was unsettling. Suddenly my pencil wasn't just an ordinary pencil. It was a ice-pick-like stabbing utensil. My broken hand mirror became several sharp blades, useful for cutting throats. A harmless bobby pin could be used to put an eye out. My book could knock someone out cold if I hit them hard enough. And honestly... why even call a safety razor by such a deceiving name. Does security believe no terrorist would be smart enough to de-safety a safety razor? Geez. Wake up and smell the scalding hot, disable-the-flight-attendant coffee.

So why does the TSA still allow carry on baggage that consists of anything other than some socks, a magazine, and a snickers bar? Seems like they're taking a huge leap of faith by trusting people (and potential terrorists, no doubt) to use their belongings in the way they're supposed to be used. I for one am glad carry-on baggage is still allowed. I don't personally want to fork over $30 bucks round-trip to check my bags. Assuming I had $30 dollars after buying that plane ticket. Sure, my idea of creative weaponry may be a bit far-fetched. But if someone eventually uses a pencil, mirror, bobby pin, book, razor, and a cup of coffee to disable a flight crew and hijack a plane... don't say you weren't warned.

Life #96

2009-08-06T09:21:00.000-07:00

Be a nice boss.

If you aren't a nice boss, don't bring two bb guns, a shotgun, and a handgun to work.

If you do become agitated with an employee for sarcasm, don't threaten him with a gun.

The problem with lady contributors

2009-08-04T06:04:00.000-07:00

A year ago this August, Funny Class Notes invited Chip to join our writing staff. His impeccable wit, coupled with a double chin that, if unified into one jaw, would make Jay Leno jealous, drew him instantly into our good recognizance.

It wasn't long after he joined that Chip was a favorite at the FCN headquarters. One look at his full figure striding toward us in his singularly jocular way and we would know something fun was about to happen.

Chip is just the sort of vivacious personality you can rely on for a good chuckle or even a tawdry laugh. If you have never engaged in a tawdry laugh, by the way, they come highly recommended. TLs, as we call them around here, are exceptionally pleasant and very good for the tonsils, if you still have yours.

As a contributor, Chip was anything but a disappointment. He brought his A game to FCN and we are exceptionally proud to have him as contributeur extraordinaire. In the interest of full disclosure, Chip is going to use this post as a letter of recommendation.

I wish I could say the same nice things about our lady contributors. A few weeks ago, FCN hosted an article about image consciousness at the gym. The article was written by one of our writers from the female persuasion and was, admittedly, full of well-considered prose.

But guys and girls do not talk about the gym the same way. When guys write about the gym, they write like this. When they talk about the gym, guys talk like this.

Females do not have the same way of expressing themselves. For one thing, females have a completely different reason for going to the gym. Most want to stay or become slender and work on their "tone," whatever that is.

Guys want to bulk. Adding weight is something they do to dumbells and their biceps.

Most guys I know are happy when they make a new weight (meaning a higher one). They announce their weight to everyone in the locker room and make sure all in earshot are aware of their accomplishment.

When guys ask each other about their weight, it isn't an insult. Guys ask perfect strangers, other guys they just met and their spotter about their weight and when guys lie about their three digit number (and it's always a three digit number), it's usually to inflate the truth, not lighten it.

I know some girls who get ecstatic about changes in their weight, but it's usually because they're seeing a lower number on the scales, not because they added a few pounds over the weekend.

But back to our lady contributors. Every post published on this auspicious webpage is automatically republished on my facebook. My facebook feed is terribly lonely without the regular spice of FCN content and I hate to leave my followers (or is that twitter?) without some kind of update about my life and times.

The gymvisiblity post -- the one that brought an estrogen-filled perspective to your local fitness center -- received some interesting reactions on my facebook:

My friend Katie, who I don't see very much, said "oh...my." She thought I was growing into a woman.

Samantha, from the swim team, tried to encourage me to work out harder to impress people instead of hiding.

My buddy Phillip called me an ox. Try calling a woman that, Phil!

Nick from school said I was a total spaz. Or a genius.

And Jeremy completely understood my plight. Apparently he, too, thinks like a woman when he goes to the gym.

So I'm stuck with whatever the ladies on the team write. You gals are awesome, but sometimes I wish you were more...manly.

Rascally Love

2009-07-31T08:05:00.000-07:00

You Help Me Remember The Day Before You Walk the Llama Backwards and I Can Almost Love You Out Loud but Life Is a Highway so Me And My Gang are Fast Cars And Freedom to Mayberry. My Wish and My Worst Fear are What Hurts The Most is Words I Couldn't Say and I Breakaway From Time To Time to Stand This Everyday Love.

Too Good Is True 'cuz When The Sand Runs Out I've been Waiting All My Life to Love Another Day and I Was Born To Bless The Broken Road. Some Say you're Better Now but I Feel Bad I'm Moving On.

But She Goes All the Way. Her Secret Smile is a Long Slow Beautiful Dance that Still Feels Good and I Melt into her Skin. The Glory of Life is One Good Love and These Days This Everyday Love Takes Me There.

So, While You Loved Me I was The Man In Love With You. But now you're Bubba's Girl and Head Over Heels so Shine On. Here's To You. How Strong Are You Now?

Life Tip #96

2009-07-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

Don't lie to the person helping you exchange a ten for change.

If you are going to lie to the person giving you change for a ten, don't steal the cash register when he doesn't help you quick enough.

If you are going to lie and steal the cash register from the person giving you change for a ten, come up with a better escape plan than running on foot down the street.

Living in a Haunted House

2009-07-24T06:35:00.000-07:00

I live in a haunted house. Ever since I was little, I've struggled with the fact that I am one of the few people who believe in ghosts. The ghost that haunts me is not me. Ok, maybe that doesn't make much sense. I should capitalize proper nouns, right? The ghost that haunts me is Not Me. Allow me to explain.

As a child, I often got in trouble for things Not Me did. I would try to tell my mom what happened, but she never truly believed me. One day she came in the room to find her favorite crystal vase shattered on the floor. I was still in the room trying to convince Not Me to be a man and take responsibility for his actions.

"WHO BROKE MY VASE!?" (When my mom is upset, she speaks in all caps.)

"Not Me!" I cried.

"What do you mean 'not you'? Who else could have done it?"

"I'm serious, mom! Not Me!"

I got several more deposits into my spank account before that tragic episode was resolved. It's not that I'm mad at my mom for not believing me. After all, I'm a little bit freaked out by seeing ghosts. Don't worry about me, I'm getting some good therapy now. As it turns out, I'm not the only one haunted by the ghost, Not Me. What a relief.

Re: Hello Dear

2009-07-21T05:59:00.000-07:00

FCN recently received the following from one Sonia Mohamed Atif:

Hello Dear,

I know that this mail might come to you as a surprise because you don't know me and I don't know you too. My name is Sonia Mohamed Atif , I am 24 years old girl and an orphan from Sudan. My late father Mr Mohamed Atif was the deputy general manager with CNPC oil company at Khartoum refinery in Sudan. My late father was killed alongside with my beloved mother and our family house burnt down by the rebels during the last crisis in my country when Janjaweed militant came to our house, and this was what sent me away from my country to Burkina Faso as I made my escape only by God's special grace. You can read more about my country in the bbc news
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6469857.stm

I am constrained to contact you because of the maltreatment which I am receiving from my step mother. She planned to take away all my late father's treasury and properties from me since the unexpected death of my beloved Father. Meanwhile I wanted to travel to Europe, but she hide away my international passport and other valuable documents. Luckily she did not discover where I kept my father's File which contained important documents. Now I am presently staying in the Mission in Burkina Faso. I am seeking for long term relationship and investment assistance. My father of blessed memory deposited the sum of US$ 8.5 Million in one bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I had contacted the Bank to clear the deposit but the Branch Manager told me that being a refugee, my status according to the local law does not authorize me to carry out the operation. However, he advised me to provide a trustee who will stand on my behalf. I had wanted to inform my stepmother about this deposit but I am afraid that she will not offer me anything after the release of the money.

Therefore, I decide to seek for your help in transferring the money into your bank account while I will relocate to your country and settle down with you. As you indicated your interest to help me I will give you the account number and the contact of the bank where my late beloved father deposited the money with my name as the next of kin. It is my intention to compensate you with 20% of the total money for your assistance and the balance shall be my investment in any profitable venture which you will recommend to me as have no any idea about foreign investment. Please all communications should be through this email address only for confidential purposes.

Thanking you a lot in anticipation of your quick response. I will send you details in my next email for you to know me well. I am waiting for your reply,

Best regards,
Sonia Mohamed.

If someone is interested in helping out one Sonia Mohamed Atif, please send us an email.

Gymvisibility

2009-07-17T08:16:00.000-07:00

One thing I really, really hate about going to the gym is the possibility of seeing someone I know there. Or, rather, the possibility of someone I know seeing me there.

While I genuinely enjoy unexpectedly meeting up with friends anywhere else, I prefer to not see them at the gym. You see, anywhere else I can wear clothes that hide my flab and reveal only the toned portions of my body. Unfortunately, exercise clothes don't give me that option.

Even more than the clothes, though, the number one reason I try to avoid people I know at the gym is that they will know I'm human, that I have to work to look as good as I do (which, granted, isn't very). I'd rather people think I look good with no effort. It would be so much less...humiliating.

I'm afraid gym invisibility has become somewhat of an obsession with me. Living in a small town with only one exercise facility certainly has its drawbacks. Lately, I've been going to extreme measures to avoid being seen there.

For instance, the other day I was happily chugging away on the elliptical when I spied (with my little eye) an acquaintance working out on the stair-stepper. Immediately, I could feel myself shrink inside and I stopped right away, making a bee-line for the door, not minding the fact that my gym bag and car keys were still in the locker room. For the next half-hour I crouched between two cars, keeping an eye on the door to watch for my acquaintance to emerge.

When she finally came out, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I could finally go back inside and finish my routine. Unfortunately, she began walking in the direction of my hideout and I realized that she must have gotten a new car, one that I was hiding next to at that very moment. I could either stand up and reveal myself or try to sneak around to the other side of the black car.

I decided to stand up and walk casually away. Maybe she wouldn't notice me.

"Hey!" she called out. I turned and waved at her. She continued. "It's so..." she looked at me and her features began to contort into an expression of disgust - but she controlled them quickly. "...It's so good to see you again!"

She was lying. I knew she was lying.

I ran home, humiliated, and buried my head under my pillows. I doubt I'll ever have the courage to go to a gym again.

Life Tip #95

2009-07-15T09:24:00.000-07:00

Don't steal.

If you are going to steal, don't hold up the security guard of a parked armored car.

If you are going to steal from the security guard of a parked armored car, don't burn your getaway vehicle before you have committed the crime.

If you realize you have set your getaway vehicle on fire before stealing from the security guard of a parked armored car, just don't commit the crime instead of taking the money and burning it as the police arrive.