Claudia?

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.

My Professor is a Genius

Before the Christmas non-denominational winter break, my philosophy professor challenged me, as part of his "Intro to Worldviews" class, to be more aware of the subtle contradictions and inconsistencies of modern philosophies we discussed in class. I filed that challenge away long before finals, and let it sit undisturbed in my gray matter while I stuffed my face with fudge, pie and Christmas cookies.

Fast-forward 2 weeks to Boxing Day. You know, the day after Christmas. My grandma and Aunt Sue celebrate this joyous holiday by elbowing and/or stampeding the people in front of them in line for the super-amazing-day-after-Christmas sales.

I got into an argument with my cousin Devon, a 5th year senior, about who should get to play "Call of Duty 5: World at War" first. It occurred to me that Devon was a moral relativist. We'd had long conversations about the subject in the past, and although I'd tried to point out his misguided thoughts, we never got to an agreement.

At that moment, I had an epiphany. I remembered the charge my professor had given me. I grabbed the game controller out of my cousin's greedy hands and proceeded to start my own game. My cousin's jaw made an interesting thud as it hit the floor. "You… you can’t do that!"

With my best innocent voice, I replied, "Why not?"

"Because," he stammered, "you can’t!"

"Why not?" I was enjoying this too much.

"Because it's… it's…" He seemed to have a lump of confusion and defeat in his throat.

"Wrong?"

"No… because…." He walked away scratching his head. I'd caught him with his own "no right or wrong" trap. With a victorious smirk, I enjoyed the solitude my cousin had left in his wake.

Maybe I should pay more attention in class.

Miss-Communication

A long-running joke among men is that it is impossible to understand women. And they are correct. There are times women don’t even understand themselves. Girls over-analyze everything. And I do mean everything. What you think is a friendly wave or smile at one of your girl buddies could easily propel them into a daydream filled with you and your future children. Allow me to demonstrate how females easily misconstrue the intentions of the well-meaning gentlemen in their circle of friends. What a guy says is often not what a girl hears. Females will often read whatever meaning they want into a guy’s innocently simple phrases and gestures.

Guy says: Hey, is this seat taken?
Girl hears: You are so beautiful and mysterious. I want to keep myself in close proximity to you so I can learn more about your inner soul.

Guy says: It’s nice to meet you.
Girl hears: Where have you been all my life?

Guy says: You look nice today.
Girl hears: Hey good lookin… what’s cookin? You’d be a shoo-in for America’s Next Top Model.

Guy says: Do you want to hang out with me and my friends later?
Girl hears: I’m really attracted to you, I’d like you to meet my friends so they can give me a thumbs-up on my taste in girls. Once that’s done with, we can visit my parents next weekend and go ring shopping.

Guy says: It’s good to see you.
Girl hears: You are my heartbeat, I can’t live without you. I wither away to nothingness when we’re apart.

As if that’s not confusing enough, what girls say is often not what they truly mean.

Girl says: Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.
Girl means: I’m falling apart. Come on, you bimbo, ask me to tell the truth.

Girl says: Isn’t that such a cute baby?
Girl means: See what a wonderful mother I’d be? I already have our children named, I hope you like what I’ve picked out.

So, if a guy wants to avoid these common pitfalls, what are his options?
1. Be Spock.
2. Get a lobotomy.
3. Avoid all members of the fairer sex.

Whatever you do, don’t underestimate the female mind. It may be difficult to understand, but it is still quite dangerous. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who would know. Like your dad.

Complaint

My biggest mid-term of the year is this afternoon and I have not yet completed my preparation. Time flew by like Al Gore's son in a Prius, leaving my hair pushed back and my brain woefully empty. I tried to get ready - honest I did - but my life has been a big league pitcher, throwing me curve balls with all the strength of his steroid-bulked arm. Obligations too numerous to fully enumerate, but including email, Facebook, phone conversations, movie watching, jetpack and, yes, females took too much of my heavily appreciated time and left my exam study sheet as blank as the stare I gave my mother when she asked yesterday whether or not I was ready.

I may be a derelict. I may be a lazy derelict. I may even be a lazy derelict with bad hair, but I do have gumption. (As a side note, I considered starting my collegiate entrance essay with the last three sentences but settled instead for "Being an underprivileged minority youth is never easy, but when it is compounded by abandonment, addiction and abuse - the three As of my childhood - it can be the death knell for academic achievement, the two As of my future." In a related story, I got accepted to every school I applied. I'll post the entire essay sometime for all you aspiring derelicts.) So where was I? Ah, yes, gumption. It took a little psyching to prepare myself, but I marched directly into my professor's office yesterday and laid down my pathetic case in the hopes of finding some sympathy.

Dr. Monarch, as my female instructor is aptly titled, was not interested in the sordid details of my personal life or the scheduling conflicts that landed me in the undesirable position of begging for mercy before sitting for the exam. Her lack of interest notwithstanding, Dr. Monarch did nothing to halt my remonstrations and even laughed occasionally, a gesture I interpreted as encouragement. On I plowed, through three minutes of memorized material and two of improvised verbal gymnastics.

I talked about my Spring allergies and the ill effect the wind was having on my general disposition. I drew attention to my dislike for particular breakfast cereals and established a link between Kashi Go Lean and indigestion. I talked about the Laker's game earlier in the week and how disappointed I was that the number one team in the Western conference had to clinch its seed at my team's expense. I even described a small sore that had cropped up between my big and second toes and how distracting little abrasions like that could be when trying to focus on something as arcane as macroeconomics.

In retrospect, I spent more time preparing my case for leniency than I did studying for the test. But I consoled myself knowing that an hour of writing and considering a grade defense was well spent when it precipitated a poor performance, because I would have a poor performance. If I could inoculate my evaluator to my inability to draw a Cartesian plain with straight lines (much less calculate an IS or LM curve) , she might think twice before smashing through my responses with red ink. Regardless, I might be able to make a friend in this lonely world.

When my verbal flow ceased, a silence so loud it could be packaged as the rebellion music of the next generation filled the room. Dr. Monarch cleared her throat, an action that was less productive than it was discouraging.

"Young man," she began, using a title that generations of males recognize as the prelude to a rebuke, "I have been teaching at the college level more years than you have been alive and yet I have never heard such locution. Have you considered developing that presentation for a politician? You would have to remove the bit about your big toe, but it might work otherwise. The style sounds vaguely like something I heard from John Edwards once (or fifty times). Anyway, kudos for that. The biggest mistake you made was a temporal one. You presented your spiel before taking the mid-term - a mid-term you might very well ace - now the only thing your words will motivate me to do is examine your answers more carefully. Congratulations. My advice to you is to go get a menthol lozenge and a good night's rest. And try to remember that the IS curve is downward sloping."

I was rejected like a basketball in the air against Hakeem Olajuwon. I was in the third row and heavily discombobulated. But I had made my case, said my piece and recorded my complaint. Now all I have to do is take the test. The test I haven't finished studying for...

Saturday Commentary on the Comments

EDIT: As of some time this afternoon, the post I wrote is officially the MOST POPULAR FCN POST EVER! The new record to break is 25 comments. I sure hope FCN has it in them!

These last few days have been a lot of fun and I'll really miss being in control of this blog. When I began planning my takeover a few weeks ago, I couldn't help walking around with a big grin on my face. That grin hasn't left me for more than 5 seconds in the 5 days I've had FCN under my thumb.

It's been terribly amusing to read the readers' comments and before I sign off forever, I'd like to address some of those commenters (commentors?). I'll start with April 1st's comments and end with yesterday's.

guitarbob: You may pride yourself on your ability to call April Fool's jokes, but you totally missed it on this one.

matt: Deliver the you-know-whats to 480 S. Marion Pkwy, Building A. Please leave the goods with the doorman and ask him to see that "Carleen" on the 6th floor receives it.

chris: You're right, it was an elaborate hoax. One that worked, too, since my goal was to fool the faithful into believing that FCN had not been hijacked.

big: Here's an aspirin. Hope it helps.

rob: Where's that post? And really, promoting your knock-off site on the site you knocked-off is is lamer than lame.

lazr: Good thing FCN doesn't base its self-esteem on the Blogger choice awards, isn't it?

matt: Would you like to join my cheerleading squad?

batman: No. Because. Classified.

big: Done.

OK, enough of that drivel. Now for the interesting part:

The Top 7 Most Popular Posts in FCN's History

Instead of using Uncle Wally's garbled formula to determine which posts in FCN's past were the most appreciated, I decided to use a simpler method and based the following statistics on the number of comments each post received. For the long-time readers who remember LLFCN, following the links will take you on a pleasant walk down memory lane; for the new FCN readers, the links will provide a valuable glimpse into FCN's past.

#7. Two posts tie for seventh place, each one clocking in at 16 comments. The most recent was a retelling of a famous fairytale by FCN's last-but-certainly-not-least author. It tied with the 2nd Todd post. The first one had only half as many comments.

#6. Here we have a 3-way tie. These posts received 17 comments each. All three were written in 2008. If you add up the numbers 2+0+0+8, it doesn't equal 17. I don't think it's a coincidence, though, that two of those posts are do-it-yourselfers, and the last is a high in a long series of lows.

#5. With 18 comments, number three is all by itself. It includes a video that contains the most highbrow discussion of facial hair to ever grace this site. Ok, sorry. Bad pun.

#4. We once again have a 2-post tie. This daring duo amps it up to 19 comments and tells us just how long a post should be and why we should always pay heed to fortune cookies.

#3. I don't know why there are no posts with 20 comments, but for some reason FCN's readers saw fit to skip that quantity and go right to 21. It should come as no surprise that this was the 1st Do-It-Yourself Post.

#2. I have to say I was shocked when I realized one of the posts I wrote would be included in this list. Having received 23 comments, it came in just 2 shy of breaking the FCN record.

#1. Finally, number one in the Most Popular Countdown received 24 comments, for what reader can resist the opportunity to tell FCN which posts to repost?

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this peek into FCN's past as much as I did!

Goodbye for now,
Your hijacker

Homies, Day 5: Cleanup.

For the last full day of our housesitting, we decided to do the responsible thing: to cover up as many of our errors as possible. This is not as easy as it sounds. The house had been practically emptied of anything sellable and had sustained significant structural damage around the front door (from careless moving of large furniture), the plants we were supposed to water were dead, and all but one of the animals were missing, eaten, or wumped. The house had seen better days. We knew that our friendship with the family was pretty much terminated, but we wanted at least to keep them from hiring a hitman. So we set about patching the place up as best we could off of a very tight budget.

We started with the obvious stuff. First came a thorough mopping of the floors and walls. Then we bought three full sets of wicker furniture and spread them around the house, then blew fifty bucks at a garage sale for broken kitchen appliances and plugged them into various outlets. We pasted duct tape over the cracks in the bathroom mirror and put used gum over the holes in the pipes. We glued cardboard across the holes in the front wall, dug up the neighbor's lawn and spread it in ours (by which I mean Theirs), and "borrowed" produce from a road-side stand to stuff the "fridge." Then came the really tricky business: replacing the animals.

I had spoken via phone with one of the members of the household. She had told me what made Jake (the cat) distinctive and irreplaceable:

- 15 pounds
- Parentheses markings on side
- Responds to "Jake"
- Bites people on ankle when they don't feed him

This seemed doable. Off we went to the animal shelter to find Jake's body double. After several hours of shopping, we found the dream cat. He was eighteen pounds - a little on the heavy side - but he had those distinctive parentheses markings and bit people on the ankle all the time, including when they didn't feed him. He also bit them other places. And he scratched. And he hissed. And he hated people. And he drew plans for his doomsday machine when he thought no one was looking. His name was Osiris. We told him to answer to Jake or we'd take away his paper and crayons. He said he'd behave, then issued an evil buahahahahaha and bit my homie on the ankle.

Next came replacing Coco (the mangy mutt). We shopped for a long time, but couldn't find a dog that would really suit our needs. We decided to revisit that problem and moved on to find Snickers II. Once again, we had no luck.

In anticipation of the day's dinner, we bought a black guinea pig named Mortimer who's fur seemed a bit like Charlie's. If our benefactors didn't get within forty feet or so, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

We eventually gave up on replacing Coco and Snickers. Instead, we took a mottled brown-and-white Shetland pony named Applejacks. He looked a little scrunched when we hobbled him in the suburban backyard, but we were sure our benefactors would appreciate the gesture, so we rolled with it.

After a long day's work, we were ready for something tasty. Charlie Pot Pie seemed like just the thing. Lacking pots, utensils, and a working stovee, my homie got a fire started on the kitchen counter. I went over to Charlie's cage, opened it, and reached in to wring his neck. Something black and sharp attached itself to my beautiful face and started biting and scratching. My homie came by with a hatchet and "helped out." I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon next Wednesday.

Anyway, we gave up on the pot pie and settled for sitting on the wicket couch sucking our thumbs. We don't call him Charlie anymore. Now, we call him PKB - the Purple Killer Bunny.

Running Up A Tab (Room)

There are two kinds of FCN readers, those who have never been in a Tab room and those who don’t know what the heck a Tab room even is. If you are in the first group, take heart, the next few paragraphs may provide some of that forensics enlightenment that has thus far eluded your consciousness; if you find yourself in the second group, you’re probably going to find more humor in Larry King (although Larry King apparently had enough humor to marry six times) and should reconsider accordingly.

Tab (or Tabulation) is the nerve center of a debate tournament. It’s where all the results are recorded, pairings are determined and winners noted. It’s a completely objectified, rational bastion of patriarchal narcissism - yes, narcissism, but we’ll get into that more later.

There was one woman in Tab – a mother figure who more than once saved the tournament by saying “no” – and the tournament director (also a female) made our room of relaxation a regular respite so she could rebuke us rudely, so we couldn’t quite claim to be completely patriarchal; but that didn’t keep us males from acting like a bunch of bachelors.

As head of Tab at a small national qualifier, I had a barrel load of responsibilities. The tournament had to be run on time, the Tab staff needed their caffeine fixes, ballots had to be double checked, the donut supply had to be maintained and, well, you get the idea. We started early and worked late, which is a lot to ask of a bunch of derelicts, especially on a weekend.

Folks get this picture of Tab workers wearily sitting in front of a computer in a dark room endlessly crunching numbers and reworking statistics like so many silicon-based life forms. While I’d like this sympathetic stereotype to live on unedited, the truth is that we sit in a well-lit room surrounded by refreshments and chew the fat. Then, whenever a ballot is returned, we get all excited and two staff members (designated “Affirmative” and “Negative”) Ro-Sham-Bo to determine the victor. These results are then quickly entered into a computer and we resume our arduous task of shooting the breeze (which consists of chatting it up, ingratiating with one another, schmoozing, bragging, and, perhaps, a little gossip).

After every round we would print the tournament’s to-date results and post them on the wall for all the initiated to see. There, with results in 2-D, we would make bets on the next rounds. One of us would be Bill Bennett and the other Pete Rose and we’d lay down our pocket change and await the results of the next Ro-Sham-Bo match.

Perhaps the most exciting part of Tab work is figuring out who “breaks.” The term “break” is a semantic oxymoron because, while it sounds bad, it actually means someone can advance to the next round. At any other tournament, any team with a winning record would advance; but not in my Tab room.

To determine “breaks” we brought out a dart board, eight darts and some sticky notes. We pasted the names of all the competitors to the board and started chucking the darts from across the room. When all the sharp objects were cleaving to the wall, both undefeated (ballot-wise, not Ro-Sham-Bo) teams were off our break list.

Fortunately for the tournament participants, the female tab member intervened and created her own list of breaks, one that all of us guys regarded as a cheap fake imitation that wasn't even real.

One of the most fun parts of running Tab was reading all of the contestant’s ballots. Yes, I did just admit to an extremely freaky and somewhat perverted espionage, but that’s in the job description. Actually it was pretty fun because, after years of reading one-line disappointments on my Reasons for Decisions (RFDs) over the years, I got to see the newcomers flail in the quicksand.

Without revealing any confidence (the Judge – Tab Room – Tournament Director – Competitor chain of confidence is to be broken only by parents, coaches, siblings, friends, pastors, counselors, pen pals, hair stylists and perfume consultants), I can tell you some of the real headline grabbers from the tournament:

RFD: The Affirmative team had a better tie.

DECISION: Affirmative.

RFD: Nice Shoes.

DECISION: Double Loss.

RFD: What are you doing tonight after the tournament?

DECISION: Negative.

Doesn’t that tickle you in places you just don’t talk about at parties? It’s enough to give every debate parent a chill from nape to cape. What good, substantive, groundbreaking discussion our youth are sharing in the competitive environment of academic forensics, eh Squanto?

And the salvos just kept coming. But whenever we felt our Ro-Sham-Bo tabulation would have been more accurate and were about to break out the Liquid Paper to “fix” the judges’ mistakes, a really fine bit of judicial writing would enter the room and our feelings of superiority would be assuaged.

I don’t think I’ll ever be invited to run a Tab room again. But if I am, no women will be allowed to help out. None.

All Hail The Entrée!

The following is a transcript of a speech given before supper at my family’s dinner table. Hoots, hollers, cheers and other assorted audience reactions are recorded in brackets.

Brothers! We stand at an Archimedean point in human history. Behind us lie months of difficult preparation, years of physical conditioning and hours of careful planning. We’ve been through the valleys, over the mountains and through every of conceivable trial. It’s been a road full of potholes – the best food is rarely processed – but the path has been worth the reward. Our weapons are sharp, our minds are ready and fate is poised to decide the next few minutes.

As I look around this room, I see brothers who are eager to perform the required task. I don’t see students, laborers and white collar workers; I see hungry men with one objective and the means to satisfy that objective together.

I see a whole army of my countrymen, here in defiance of hunger! You have come to eat as free men. And free man you are!

[Applause]

Eat and you may die. Run and you will live at least awhile. And starving in your bed many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance, to come back here as young men and tell our enemies that they may take our lives but they will never take our hunger?!

[Cheers, scattered applause]

Remember: I don't want to get any messages saying that we are holding our position. We're not holding anything; we are advancing constantly and we're not interested in holding onto anything except our forks and knives.

[Applause]

Give them nothing! But take from them everything!

[Applause]

It has been an honor to live, breath and eat at your side; it will be an honor to die at your side.

Three weeks from now, I will be harvesting my crops and preparing for another meal. Imagine where you will be, and it will be so. Hold the line! Stay with me! If you find yourself alone, riding in the green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled. For you are in Elysium, and you're already dead!

[Laughter]

Brothers, what we do in life echoes in eternity.

[Muttered agreement]

Take hold of your silverware, spread out your napkins and prepare to approach the meal table like hungry men. May there be no one who leaves this room ashamed or hungry.

You are men; eat like it!

[Guttural roar accompanied by a flurry of mastication related activities]

All Hail The Entrée!

Lost In Translation

I know that in writing this I am undoubtedly communicating to a passel of aspiring linguists who have a rudimentary understanding of every tongue spoken on the seven continents (and then some, if our faithful few are prone to “inventing” languages), so please bear with your author who, though bilingual, knows about as much of most languages as he does quantum physics, which isn't much.

Anyone ever used Google Translator? The website is a lifesaver when it comes to interpreting obscure foreign languages encountered on the web. You just type in the text and BOOM, like some David Copperfield episode, the text is transformed into the language of your choice.

Only it doesn't always work so brilliantly.

Languages vary by a zillion different factors that keep us amateurs confused and professional translators in the cheese. They vary in idiom, syntax, conjugation and pronunciation; even their tenses are different. A word in English could mean the exact opposite in another language (Don't try saying “tootles” in England; I learned the hard way.)

If you have traveled in a foreign country and read the translated tourist signs, you probably believe, as I do, that many cheap businesses use online translators instead of professional human beings to aid their communication to American tourists. Think of it as linguistic plagiarism: Many companies try to skate away from costs by connecting to the ol' WWW and finding out what to say for themselves and, not surprisingly, most fail miserably. For example, a sign in one Morrocan shop reads "Here speeching American." Yeah, right.

You can't escape from the curse of Babel that cheaply!

Here at the FCN lab, we took a simple phrase and ran it through the linguistic grinder. We wanted a sentence that we could use against any malicious people who looked like they might beat us up in a dark ally. You know how dangerous foreign countries can be and its good to have a snazzy line to pull out if someone suspicious starts following you. Well, we gave it the old college try, but our results looked more like linguine than language.

Here's the breakdown:

Original: If anyone follows us, we will ditch them, we will cream them, we will squash them, we will pound them into the ground and tear them to pieces.

French: Si n'importe qui nous suit, nous les entourerons de fossés, nous les écrémerons, nous sirop les, nous les martèlerons dans le sol et les déchirerons aux morceaux.

French Translation: If no matter who follows us, we will surround them by ditches, we will skim them, us syrup them, we will hammer them in the ground and will tear them with the pieces.

German: Wenn jeder uns folgt, werden wir sie mit Gräben umgeben, wir werden sie abrahmen wir Sirup sie, wir werden sie im Boden hämmern und sie werden an den Stücken zerreißen.

German Translation: If everyone follows us, we are surrounded it with ditches, we will them skim we syrup them, we to become them in the soil hammer and them at the pieces will tear up.

Chinese: 如果我们每个人以下,这与我们四周沟渠,我们将他们我们糖浆, 我们成为他们和他们的土锤片将撕毁.

Chinese Translation: If each one of us, which shows us around drains, we will be their skim syrup. We become their hammer and they will tear up the soil.

Russian: Если каждый из нас, который показывает нам около водосточных систем, мы будем их сироп. Мы стали их молотком, и они будут уничтожать землю.

Russian Translation: If each one of us, which shows us about the drains, we are going to skim syrup. We have to hammer, and they will destroy the land.

Korean: 하수구에 관하여 저희를 보여주는, 우리 각자가 우리 가는 경우에 시럽을 우리는 망치로 쳐야 하고, 그들은 땅을 파괴할 것이다.

Korean Translation: Regarding the drain it shows us, our each one us it is thin in case the syrup skim. We must hit with the hammer, them will destroy the ground.

I can just see calling a mugger thin and syrupy.

“Oh, you're going to destroy my land!”

The pronunciations on some of those languages look brutal. Take the Korean, for instance. What do you do with “하?” Does that have some kind of phonetic significance or does it mean what it looks like it means, a fat man and his date?

Seriously though, stores should stop forging their own trials through the quagmires of language and hire qualified experts for assistance. I, for one, would be happy to volunteer.