SuperbowlTM Mania

Hype. That's the Kosher (meaning Terry Bradshaw approved) word to describe the rabid entertainment blitz surrounding the biggest football contest of the year. Its "two weeks of hype" or "really hyped." But Webster would turn in his grave if he heard the semantic application "hype" gets near the first Sunday in February. Hype comes from the prefix "hyper" from the Greek "huper," meaning "over" or "beyond." Etymology aside, the word is really sporty (notice I didn't say "sexy?") and gets thrown around a lot on the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network (ESPN), even though it could be considered pejorative. But I like "mania," because, well, because I like being obstinate (or is it abstinent) and I am incorrigible, or so my mother tells me, which is really sweet.

So the SuperbowlTM is almost upon us. In fact, the outcome will be pasted across America's front pages like McCain's wrinkled mug before the Florida Primary before you next hear from FCN. I know, 72 hours can be a long time, especially when all you got was a Life Tip on Wednesday. Here, have another Kleenex.

It may interest you to know that FCN was not idle on Wednesday. Au contraire my doubting amigo. We took the bus down to scenic Arizona (home of McCain and millions of other retirees) and attended one of the New England Patriot's media availability sessions. We wanted to go the SuperbowlTM, but the ticket prices were exhorbitantly high. It will be a miracle if anyone other than a fat rich white male gets into the game. Once at the press conference, C dressed up like a Latina and asked Tom Brady to marry him ("her" in the context of the proposal). Everyone was really impressed with the accent and feminine voice tones that C was able to put together and with the fact that he was able to fit into a wedding dress. While Tommy turned us down, he did compliment C on his good looks and said he would be a "lucky find."

Yes, that really was us down in Arizona.

If you've been listening to any of the SuperbowlTM mania, you have undoubtedly noticed how desperate the sports media are to get a decent interview. It's a well known fact that athletes are not trained to speak. That's why when they do open their mouths they are either immensely boring, incomprehensible or mind bendingly crazy. In order to compensate for what has been dubbed the "Oral Intellectual Deficit," many anchors resort to interviewing members of their own journalistic entourage and talking heads from other channels just so they can fill air time. If you are a little creative with the channel switching, you can actually follow the "experts" as they make their radio and TV rounds. First Fox Sports, then Westwood One radio and back to ESPN for last segment of the hour. The journalists say the same things over and over again, sometimes getting passionate and calling each other names so that audience members won't follow osmosis to a different station.

There is nothing "over" or "beyond" about this mania, but some folks still call it hype.

Well, no discussion of the SuperbowlTM would be complete without a prediction. Plaxico Burress, a player only two of our eleven readers had heard of before this moment, predicted that NY Giants would win 23-17. I agree with Plax in one regard: The final score will be 23-17, but it will be the New England Patriots who emerge victorious, with some extra weight on their championship ring fingers.

Sorry about the "emerge victorious" and "extra weight on their championship ring fingers" verbiage. Maybe the hype is contagious afterall.

Pine Scent Cologne

Everything is going back into the box and into the attic or basement, wherever seasonal garbage calls home. The wreaths, fake holly and bulbous objects that no doubt have a name, but are so rarely mentioned that they've been left out of the dictionary are meticulously wrapped in soft tissues and lovingly stowed for next Christmas.

The tree, too, suffers the same fate. Most American Christmas celebrators wouldn’t dream of bringing a real pine tree into their homes. The hassle of the pointy needles, the sticky sap and watering a live plant every day has been alleviated by corporate America. Now instead of visiting a quaint, rural Christmas tree farm where the old man who looks like Santa Claus without trying tells the story of the blight that almost “stole this year’s Christmas,” we march to our storage locations and find our perfectly symmetrical, seven foot “Holiday Tree.”

In the old days, fake Christmas trees were almost as bad as the real ones. The plastic pine needles would come off and had to be vacuumed, the branches needed manual placement and an artistic eye to simulate realism and some cynics concluded that the only advantage was the elimination of sap.

Today’s trees are much more technologically innovative. I’ve heard a rumor about a holographical tree that changes decorative themes every ten minutes. Apparently the computerized image is suggested for civic centers where one religion is frowned upon. The technology can change from a tree, to a manger scene, to a menorah and back again.

Our tree isn't so jazzed up that we had to take out a second mortgage to cover the cost of electricity, but it is a far cry from the "natural" monstrosities of old. The branches open as one with a swift, umbrella-like motion (think Veggie Tales Christmas Special), the needles are guaranteed green and will stay on longer with a new adhesive innovation and the smell of a real pine tree is matched with a spray-on scent that gives the plastic potpourri the final touches of the season.

After Christmas, the tree was folded up and returned to the attic with all the other holiday accoutrements, but we had oodles of spray on pine scent left over. And, smart marketers that the product developers are, the artificial pine boasted an expiration date of six months; it wouldn’t last until next Christmas.

Unwilling to throw out a perfectly good bottle of Christmas smell, I decided to use it as a replacement for my current dime store (or, as Carrie Underwood would call it, bathroom) cologne. The smell was only a little stronger and, as my younger brother pointed out, seasonally accurate. My old stuff caused a minor itch and some occasional hives anyway so I figured the change might be good for my skin.

I applied liberally, putting three complete squirts under my collar and a couple sprays each for my wrists. My senses were immediately assaulted by the wonderful scent of Christmas pine and I knew instantly I had made a good decision.

Work at General Mills was interesting. My boss had a smart comment about “somebody smelling a little fresh” and my female coworker laughed and shook her head when I explained the “alpine stench,” as she characterized my new style.

At lunch, a woman three booths over started sneezing and I a few small children stared at me with expressions reminiscent of posters for third-world starvation. I ordered a burger in the hopes that the smell would overpower the pine.

When I got home that evening (leaving my dress shirt by the washing machine, under the pretense that detergent would get the smell back to normal) and met my mother, who had been out when I left in the morning, a look of utter concern crossed her normally sanguine features. Apparently, the product had created a large, nasty looking rash wherever it had touched my skin. The marks had been covered by a long sleeved shirt during the day, but were now obvious in their hideous redness. Scabby and puffy, they emitted a stench that overpowered the pine. I was happy to smell something different, even if the new odor was unpleasant.

Fortunately another modern innovation - cortisone - helped alleviate the reaction and my neck and wrists are back to their normal pale color. Thanks for your concern.

I am, however, still looking for a use for quarter of a bottle of artificial pine scent. Any ideas?

Deconstructing Black Friday

I was considering a lawsuit. I consulted my attorney and discussed the possibility with likely co-plaintiffs. I even drafted a letter of intent. But I think I have recovered sufficient sleep and wits to keep my claim out of the civil courts. At least for now.

The events of Friday, November 23rd - Black Friday in everyday parlance - will remain forever etched in my memory and in my pocketbook. It is a story I will use on many a date, a cautionary tale that will be sternly retold to my children and my grandkids will hear a heavily embellished version of it.

If only I had been forewarned.

FCN got a monitory email from You Can Call Me Batman on the 24th, just one day after my fateful encounter with the corporate world of electronics and just a few hours too late. YCCMB had this to say:

Dear FCN,
Memo to the file: never go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, because you WILL be eaten alive. Yes, those sales are very tempting, but unless you are willing to risk life and limb, you should stay at home cowering under your bed and not spend any money in the first place. I discovered this firsthand. It even started out painful! We (my mom, cousin, aunt and I) had to wake up at 6:45 (a completely unrighteous hour in the morning) though the stores were opening up at about 4 a.m. We started out at Walmart, and it was already a madhouse of people. Emerging from there with only a few scratches and bruises, we continued on to Joann fabrics, which was a really bad idea. We lost one of our company there due to the HOUR LONG WAIT to get our fabric cut. And that was only the beginning! By about 10:00, we ventured into Kohls, and were almost immediately suffocated by the amount of people in there. And to top it all off, the line wrapped around the store. Luckily, I was able to dust off my (horrible, but nonetheless valuable) Ninja skills, and we were out by about sundown. Most of our group was injured. We returned from our venture battered and bruised, but we had saved a lot of money, and that made us feel better. (except me, but I didn't have any money to begin with.) So, unless you are willing to die to get that one pair of jeans that's 80% off, never go shopping on Black Friday.
-You can call me Batman

If only YCCMB had contacted us with this advice a few days earlier, we might have avoided a frigid night on the hard cement and a difficult lesson on the trials of consumerism.

'Twas not Walmart, Joann's or Kohls that the FCN contributors and a few friends found themselves in front of, but rather BestBuy, a major electronics store with some of the most scandalous BlackFriday deals. Despite this difference, YCCMB's advice is still pertinent.

The newspaper advertisement, lovingly clipped by so many in preparation, told of discounts of up to six and seven hundred dollars on hot ticket items like big screen TVs, laptop computers and GPS devices. Because the deals are meted out on a first come, first serve basis, it behooves the consumer to arrive early.

In past years, BestBuy has announced its price and informed prospective customers that tickets would be handed out to the first people in line a couple of hours before the store's doors open. Last year, you may recall, I gave a couple of hours of my life to BestBuy and was compensated handsomely. I didn't actually purchase any of the items I stood in line for; rather I resold the ticket (scalped it, if you prefer the vernacular) to those who had more money than time.

The way I see it, my scalping activity provides a legitimate service. Certainly, middle men are not the most respected of enterprisers, but in the big picture they act as wards of Adam Smith, pushing the financial advantage of Black Friday to those who are willing to pay for it.

BestBuy's doors were scheduled to open at 5:00 AM on the 23rd. The first faithful shoppers got in line at 4:00 PM...on the 21st. We here at FCN value our turkey and stuffing too much to give up the warmth of a Thanksgiving fire in favor of a lonely line so FCN found its place on the cold sidewalk at approximately 8:30 PM, eight and a half hours before opening and after an estimated 120 people.

There is little to do in a consumerism line other than wait. We felt like children of the Soviet Union, joining breadlines for our daily fare. We experienced first-hand the rigors of communist living and counted ourselves fortunate to have thought to bring lawn chairs.

But not everyone was so miserable. The place immediately down wind from us was occupied by a few bong-hitting hippies who let the sweet scent of their Wacky-Tobackie waft over everyone. (I am amazed to this moment that those folks were so brazenly consuming illegal narcotics. The line was heavily policed to ensure that nobody did anything untoward, but not one officer stopped to ask about the smell.) Still others watched DVDs or played cards, keeping warm with expensive looking blanket-like coverings or seeming not to care about the weather.

Eight hours in 37 degree cold. Some in Massachusetts scoff at how wimpy I sound complaining about any temperature that far above freezing, but to me, a California-raised kid who worries more about his state's radical politics than extreme weather, 37 degrees might as well have been zero degrees. I bundled up like an Eskimo papoose, with gloves, thermal undergarments (yes, long johns) and a heavy jacket. I even wore a beanie (no, this isn't F).

As cold as we were, shivering against BestBuy's stuccoed wall, a warmth surged through our very being when blue shirted employees began passing out the tickets.

By the time they reached our place in line, the most valuable tickets had already been claimed, but, remembering last year' success, I selected a 42" LCD HDTV (read: really fancy and expensive television) and headed to the back of the line to begin my sales.

That's when Black Friday took a turn for the worse. On my way to the rear, I passed two would-be scalpers as they followed BestBuy employees to the front. I recognized them as scalpers by their sheepish looks and the half-hearted attempts to plea their case. Several of my friends, including both F and N, bailed and gave me their tickets. I now had the salesperson's greatest wish: variety.

I was undaunted by the busted scalpers I had just seen. I couldn't understand what they could possibly have done wrong. Maybe, I pensed, they were liars who tried to cheat prospective customers on the value of the tickets. Or perhaps they were being detained for an unrelated offense; their past crimes were catching up to them. Certainly their fate would not befall me.

When I reached a likely group of line dwellers - they reminded me of people waiting to board lifeboats on the Titanic - I began a series of pitches:

"42-inch widescreen high definition television as advertised. $499 instant savings. I also have 32-inch, 30-inch and the 40-inch DLP. Anyone interested in purchasing the right to buy this discounted TV? Do I hear any offers?"

I was explaining how the deal worked to an elderly gentleman who looked genuinely interested in purchasing when I noticed a blue-clad female behind me and to my right. She wasn't saying anything, but listened intently as I plied every trick of Cialdini. I had nothing to be ashamed of, so I continued to plow on. It wasn't until we were just about to exchange money that she intervened and asked me if I was selling my tickets. When I answered in the affirmative and asked if she was interested in buying one, she asked to see the tickets.

Her move was quick and reminded me of something I'd seen Chuck Norris do. Before I could say "fifty bucks" the tickets were out of my hand and traveling and a brisk walk to the front of the line. I followed, protesting my view that these were my tickets, earned through hours of waiting and that the act of taking them was a blatant violation of my constitutional right to property.

Her response was to direct me to her superior, Chris, a man I victimized with my further remonstrations. I explained that if scalping were illegal or frowned upon, that fact ought to be detailed along with all the other fine print in the ad (which I had meticulously read in preparation for such an encounter). I pointed to the rapidly disappearing tickets and asked Chris where they intoned that they weren't for resale. Finally, I pled with Chris to listen to the voice of entrepreneurial reasonability and reward a derelict's money making efforts with official sanction. I pointed out that my service was legitimate and that there was a clear market for my activity. Chris never answered me, but instead asked me to leave.

I have probably felt more violated at some point in my nineteen years, but I don't care to recall when. The reality is that I was totally deflated by BestBuy's betrayal. I had promised a couple of friends that this could be a money-making opportunity, I had placed my dignity and credibility on the alter and it had combusted with a bright flash before my innocent eyes.

Over the weekend, I thought long and hard about the possibility of pursuing legal action. I may very well have a claim for false advertising, fraud or misrepresentation. The doctrine of detrimental reliance might be deployed to show how BestBuy broke an implied contract with me and I am confident I could convince a small claims court judge of the justice of my plight.

I have at least a year until the statute of limitations expires and my claim is legally preempted. And I will consider the courtroom every time I drive by that store on my way to school. But for now I am going to leave well enough alone. The civic minded side of me says that my claim isn't sever enough to drag BestBuy into court. But then again...

The Rise and Fall of the American Automaker

Try something for me, will you? Ask a handful of friends what kind of car they drive. You don't have to quit your day job or go all Zogby on us to get a representative sample - that kind of work has already been done - just ask around. If your circle of friends is like the students who take economics with me (poor and too hungry to care) you will hear a lot of Toyota, Honda and, Nissan; a lot of Japanese-made cars.

In fact six of the top ten most commonly stolen cars are Acuras, made by a division of Honda. The most commonly stolen Acura is the Integra. While some feel this is a reflection on the relative ease with which a delinquent can steal these vehicles, others note that common cars are the "safe" cars to steal. The authorities will notice the Mustang GT they see on the freeway and may let a Honda Civic roll on by because of how easily it can be confused with the umpteen others just like it on the road.

As an aside, the most commonly stolen car in 2005 was the BMW Roadster. Now that's just cruel. No good, very bad, awful, pathetic, nasty and sordid. Somebody gets a souped up vehicular, a really nice whip and a neglected youth wearing pants that were designed for Rosie O'Donnell and a jacket from Jay-Z's line has to go snitch it. Seriously, if you're going to rip someone off, take the clunker. Do the owner a favor. At least with the lemon, the insurance has a chance of overvaluing the car.

In my class, seven of ten students drove a foreign car and over half of the students drove a Japanese car. I was in the minority - GO USA - with a Michigan manufactured Ford.

Apparently, my minority status extends beyond the walls of my classroom because Americans are buying foreign cars like they're shares of Google. Bloomberg, a business news organization that tried to make an optimistic sounding name but instead ended up confusing everyone, reports that Toyota is actually increasing market share in the United States.

I'm going to write that again so everyone who was browsing the other tab and waiting for me to stop presenting facts can catch up. Toyota, a car company whose first three letters spell "toy," is selling more cars to people in the US. Can you get your mind around this? While you and I, the American taxpayer, are pumping billions of dollars into these domestic companies to get support their ridiculously extravagant employee pension programs, we turn around and buy a car designed in Bunkyo Tokyo. Sure, lots of Japanese cars are made in North America, but the feds don't pump $51,000 per year per employee into bailing out Kiichiro Toyoda's brainchild.

Instead of letting you and I pick which cars we like, our elected reps choose for us. And, like most political decision makers, the suits in DC are terribly inconsistent with their vehicle selection policy. While they pump your piggy bank savings into the coffers of bankrupt domestic car companies, foreign-made hybrids like the Prius and Camry are given differential treatment on our highways. Ever seen a fuel efficient car glide down the carpool lane in rush hour traffic with only one occupant? Well I have. And they never get pulled over by the traffic pigs. That's because our beloved government grants hybrids an eco-pass.

Can you understand this? Watching this situation is a little bit like seeing Tom Brady get sacked (by a linebacker, not Gisele) - you can't comprehend it. OK, so that's two Patriots analogies in three weeks; I have nothing to say for myself.

Back to the topic, my point in addressing the vehicle market is simply to advise you, the faithful FCN few, to buy domestic. The federal government has made an important decision for us and we would be committing utter folly to not follow Uncle Sam's lead. A caring and considerate big brother is pointing us toward the appropriate vehicle choice - a choice that secures employee benefits and allows the worker ants of our economy to be confident in their retirement. Buying foreign wastes that $51,000 per employee.

In other words, when you buy foreign, you deprive America's hard working middle class of pensions, eliminate the gifts they would otherwise bless their grandchildren with, ruin the outlook and inherent happiness of the American way, destroy economic cohesiveness, anger the government and start wars. Yes, you start wars. Bleep you!

Think of it this way: If that Corolla costs you an additional $51,000 on top of the sticker price, would you still buy it? Is an economy car really worth $70,000? And do you really want you car stolen? I didn't think so.

See? DailyKos doesn't have a corner on the mindless anger market. Conservatives can be irrationally mad, too!

What the heck, just buy a Roadster.

All Things Patriots

I am a huge New England Patriots fan. I know Tom Brady, Asante Samuel, Teddy Bruschi, Randy Moss and Lawrence Maroney by name. I regularly watch the highlights of Patriots games and am ecstatic when my team wins. I know players stats by heart and can tell you how many points per game the Pats defense has allowed since 2003 (16.5), how many consecutive seasons the Pats have won in the Playoffs (4) and the number of times Brady has lost on artificial turf (1). I know the nature of Lawrence Maroney's injury and can describe Samuel's lanky stride to a T.

I also cheer on the Patriots no matter what. When head coach Bill Belichick admitted to using illegal field level videotaping to catch opponent signal calling, I compared football to baseball, where such a practice is legal and expected. When Brady left his pregnant supermodel girlfriend to date the world's richest supermodel, I sighed and dug desperately for words of justification. When Rodney Harrison was suspended for taking Human Growth Hormone (HGH), I argued the substance, while illegal, served to help the athlete tackle his knee injury. When NFL bad boy Randy Moss was signed by the Pats, I got to my knees and prayed with all the sincerity of a teenager that Moss would become a choir boy. I am still on my knees.

And don't go thinking that I'm a late blooming band-wagon hopper. I've been rooting for the Pats since they started Brady back in 2000. I liked the mascot and I figured, even at a tender age, that I should decide which sports teams I would support for life and stand consistently by my prognostications through all weather. The fact that my football team has since won three Superbowl titles and has established itself as the class of the league is extra icing. In other sports I've been humiliated. My baseball team, for example, is the San Francisco Giants and my NBA squad is the Sacramento Kings. Neither of those teams are playoff caliber, but that doesn't keep me from ardently cheering them on.

This brings me to the recent past. I was looking around my room the other day and noticed I had no Patriots memorabilia. My wall is adorned with posters for the Sacramento Kings and the Marine Corps, a couple pieces of art, and a few maps, but nothing to commemorate my NFL team.

Using Bruce Willis' internet, I navigated to the Patriots paraphernalia and memorabilia page and looked among the Patriots stuff for what might best reflect my fanaticism. The site looks like an organized dump with all manner of useless items and hokey souvenirs listed in neat rows. The interested fan can purchase a throwback trailer hitch which allows the owner to tow a trailer while advertising his fanaticism, a Brady 16 ounce glass with Brady's number 12 emblazoned on the side or a salt and pepper shaker with the Pats logo. More usefully, you can purchase a padded folding chair, set of four placemats, BBQ set or air freshener, all plastered with the Patriots mascot.

Although not available today, I am sure the competitive market for NFL memorabilia will soon drive sports teams to produce a wider variety of trademarked goods. Anyone who wants to use Vince Willfork's deodorant, brush their teeth with the same paste as Mike Vrabel or shampoo with Troy Brown's hair wash will have a product designed just for them.

I, for one, don't want to drink Randy Moss' Kool Aid.

(Incidentally, Bob Kraft, the owner of the Patriots, also owns Kool Aid, so don't scoff.)

Anyway, all of this is making me wonder why fanaticism is OK in sports but not in religion or politics. I mean, you would have to be flat out, certifiably crazy to max out a credit card buying the emblazoned junk the Pats webpage offers. You would have to be Amy Winehouse about to go on tour in the US. You would have to be Toshikatsu Matsuoka on a Seppuku-free spending spree. But such behavior is normal. People actually wear the Bellicheck hoodie. I've seen it. And it looks awful.

Put a message about your God on your shirt and some circles call you preachie. A bumper sticker for a political candidate means you are inviting conflict and tension. But be a fan of a sports team and all manner of irrational purchases are reasonable.

I just wanted a poster, hat or T-Shirt, not a velvet winebag, steering wheel cover or beverage opener keychain. Oh well, I guess that's what it means to be a fan: put up with all the junk your team sends your way.

Regardless, you know where I'll be Sunday afternoon: Watching as the Patriots take on the NFL's top rated offense and try to remain undefeated. And I'll be wearing an unmarked shirt, sitting in a normal chair and drinking from an unemblazoned cup.

How to Count to 10 like a Consumerist

How do our young learn to count? Do they learn in kindergarten in front of a caring teacher and a colorful piece of cardboard? Do they grasp the fundamentals of our numeral system by watching road signs as their parents drive them around? Or is it by flipping channels on a TV set?

I learned to count to ten by consuming print, radio and television advertisements. That’s right; a difficult number would appear in front of me and I would try to grasp its meaning. If I was really stumped, I would ask the closest adult: “Daddy? What does the ‘two’ in ‘Halo 2’ stand for?” I must have been such a cute child. Here is how my parents first heard me count to ten:

Coca-Cola Zero Soda

Pepsi One Soda

ESPN 2

Halo 3

Fourthmeal at Taco Bell

Take Five (XM)

Rainbow Six by Tom Clancy

7Up Soda

Super 8 Hotel

Cloud 9 Productions

Hang Ten Clothing Company

FCN Classic: Louis XVII

Jack was my best friend and room mate. We were both Political Science majors at a bad state university, and one day, Jack got an envelope in the mail. It said - and I'm not kidding - that some distant relative had died and deeded all his worldly possessions to him. This included so much money I need a drink every time I think about it. It also included the deed to Versailles.

Versailles is located about twenty miles away from Paris. It is one of the most impressive palaces in the world; with a massive statue of some French king - I never figured out who - in front, a grand courtyard that could hold tens of thousands of people, and a massive, massive palace structure that took Louis the XIV hours to cross. In the back and on either side are miles and miles of incredible gardens, with fountains, summer villas, fake country hamlets, massive canals, statues everywhere, the works. It backs up to a huge forest where French nobility used to go hunting.

By some freak of the legal system, though the French government operated Versailles, it didn't technically own it. Now, Jack had the property.

First thing he did was send out an invitation to all his friends. I still have my email copy. It ran like this:

Hey guys: I just got a new place and I'm inviting you all over for pizza to celebrate. I have everything planned. Bring a dessert or a snack. If you can't get a plane ticket, call me and I'll see what I can do. - Jack

And then it had the address and driving directions from Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Needless to say, Jack's girlfriend Jacqui (I think the name was on purpose) called a few hours later and said, in a word, are you nuts. Jack said he wasn't. Jacqui said she couldn't afford a ticket. Jack said he'd fly her over himself.

He did the same for all his friends. All of them were really surprised about him moving to France. At the appointed day, limousines came by and picked them up (there were about forty of them), then drove them to the airport, where Jack's private plane was waiting. It had his name written in big letters on the side. Remember, up until then, no one but me knew he was filthy rich. I need a drink.

When we arrived, there were thousands and thousands of tourists all over. You don't have to pay to get into the gardens, so the doors were open, and there was a crowd of people strolling all over, just like old times, only their clothing was modern. There was a line a quarter of a mile long to get in.

Jack had thought ahead. He'd hired one hundred armed security guards, and they were parked just out of sight behind the stables, which is across the street from Versailles, which is about a mile away. I am not kidding. Versailles is big.

There is a gate with the Fleur-de-Lis in gold (everything there is gold) all over the tops of the bars, and we went through. Then Jacqui said:

"This is nice, Jack, but I thought we were going to your place." Rather than explain, Jack punched some buttons on his new, very ritzy cell phone.

"Stand very still," He said calmly.

"Why?" Asked Jacqui. Jacqui is a very smart girl usually, but that was a stupid question. Within seconds, guards were swarming all over the courtyard waving M4s, which have never been seen before in France and will probably never be seen again. They're really dangerous military rifles made by Americans.

The M4s had rubber bullets, which the guards were using very freely. People began to scatter in all directions. A few people tried to fight back. The French police showed up and had to be roughed up a little. For about four hours, things were pretty ugly. Jack invited his friends into the palace accompanied by a dozen bodyguards while the rest of his boys flushed the gardens.

When Versailles was clear, the servants were invited in. There was a huge French police presence outside the gates; they'd even sent in a helicopter and it was shining a spotlight down on us (it was getting dark). But Jack's guards, who were now using real bullets, were holding tight.

It was a great party. We had some of the hottest music idols performing live, and the rooms were all huge and interesting, and the pizza was fantastic. The only thing that wasn't good was Jacqui's dip, but nobody complained, as far as I can recall. Jack had studied up on Versailles before we arrived, and he gave a guided tour of the King's Apartments before we settled down to sleep around six in the morning.

Here's a sample:

"And this is your room, Bob. This used to be the Dauphin's private study. Three doors that way is the restrooms with all the modern luxuries; I had it installed in the former Monsegnieur's bedroom. Don't touch that painting, it's really old. Everybody else come with me, please. This next room is the Monsengieur's first antechamber ..."

We slept really well. The air mattresses were fantastic. I woke around noon and, after a shower with one of those new ten-mode showerheads, got lost in the palace. After awhile, I noticed there was an intercom system installed. I called Jack, who was just getting up in the King's bedroom (which has the most awesome view of the courtyard ever), and he sent a bodyguard to pick me up. It took the guard fifteen minutes to find me and twelve minutes to lead me back.

We had brunch in the hall of mirrors, where the treaty of Versailles that ended World War I was signed. While we were eating (the food was fantastic; so was the live music), a smoke grenade came through the window, which is a shame, because it was really old and expensive, followed by three ninja types who shot the four guards in our room immediately with shotguns. Then they made us all put our hands in the air. They wanted to arrest Jack. Jack showed them the deed.

They got really upset and talked into their radios a lot. They were talking in French. More people came in, and Jack's guards came in and there was a confrontation, but Jack had them hold on so they could get this thing sorted out and put away the helicopter and the snipers.

Finally, the French left. They said, in French, that they had been bad little boys and they were sorry. Actually, I don't know what they said. I presume they were cursing at us. The chief inspector Kluzo was really mad.

After breakfast, we toured the gardens. Then we came back for dinner. Two hundred more guards had shown up and the whole left wing was being remodeled. There was scaffolding out and it was pretty loud. Priceless paintings were being taken out (or cut out, in some cases) and carted away to sell to the Louvre. There were a few protesters, but they kept their distance.

During dinner, which was in the courtyard, somebody showed up and asked if he could join us (in French: permitay?). Jack said oui. I hadn't known he could parlay-voo until then.

The bash was awesome. We went to bed at sunrise. Jack put the newcomer, Jean-Marie, in Marie Antoinette's bedroom. I don't think he got the joke. French.

The next afternoon, word had gotten around about Jean-Marie, and there were a thousand outside wanting in. Jack let them in and beefed up security to around four hundred and quadrupled his staff. There was a grand party in the chapel with more live music and great food. I was starting to get used to this. Incredibly, Jack managed to find rooms for everyone, but he was up so late making arrangements that he slept until nine the next day. In the evening. Of course, that's when things were really picking up anyway.

The day before it had been a thousand. Now it was forty thousand, with more people coming every minute. By the time Jack woke up, they were starting to get angry about being ignored and were chanting for him to come out.

I was with him when he woke up. He opened one of the three huge windows to the King's Bedroom and wandered out onto the balcony in his striped pajamas. The crowd roared. Jack literally jumped.

"You know something," He said, "The last time there was a crowd like that outside those gates, it was the French revolution. That was two hundred years ago. They broke down the gates and killed everybody inside."

That got me thinking.

"This might be bad," I said. "There's no way we can keep that many people here."

"Maybe," Said Jack. "I have a lot of money, remember ..."

I need a drink.

Anyway, Jack's solution was to get a bunch of catapults and launch food, water, and pup tents by the thousands over the fence. There was a huge scramble and some people got hurt. Jack realized he needed to organize things better. With the help of the guards he got everyone in lines. They gave their name and were then handed their allotment: two days food and water, one pup tent, a first aid kit, and a cell phone with three hours and lots of cool games on it so they could call whoever and say they weren't coming back for dinner.

The French were theoretically in control of the city of Versailles, but they couldn't do much about this. They started complaining, so Jack bought the whole town from them. Of course, by morning, there were a hundred a fifty thousand people outside, and Jack's guards were working round the clock to keep the people with tents and food from getting stormed. More people got hurt.

Jack made a speech to the people in the palace that evening (a Versailles morning), and said that everyone was going to have to make a few sacrifices while he got everything sorted out. Then they got back to the feasting. Afterwards, Jack went with Jacqui and me to the gate. The whole city had been taken over and most of it was burned, which is a shame, because it was really old and expensive.

Jack distributed more pup tents, phones, and rations than I care to think about. Everyone had their name recorded. Then Jack chose two thousand people from the list and invited them in, kicking out the people who had been there before, except for his old friends from America, including me, and Jean-Marie, who was overlooked in the madness.

The next day, there were a quarter million people there, and Jack's police force was huge. It had taken most of the hunting forest for headquarters. A UN ambassador landed next to Le Grand Canal, which is French for The Grand Canal, and helped Jack set up his new government, which Jack was calling The Oligarchy of Versailles, which you can just call Versailles. I didn't find that very clever, but he was adamant. I suppose he was referring to the original forty, or forty-one, if you count Jean-Marie.

Versailles was a protectorate of the French Republic, but that didn't keep it from building its own standing army to defend itself from lawlessness in the former city, which was starting to become known as the slums.

Finally, we settled into a system. Everyone was given a card that identified them. Every four days, two thousand people were rotated out of the palace and into the slums, and from the slums into the palace. Every six months, the whole crowd was told to leave so new people could come.

When the world heard that they could book a spot being a bum in an burned French city with a pup tent and a cool cell phone for six months, Jack's secretaries got very busy booking tickets. The next six months sold out in two and a half hours.

By the way, for those of you who can't count, only about a third of the folks in the slum would ever get called up to the palace, and then it was only for four days.

After a week, Jean-Marie realized that there was a huge garden going to waste, and told Jack to let some of the bums, as they were starting to be known, take up residence there. Jack agreed.

Every four days, twenty thousand people were called up to the gardens. Two thousand of the old batch were sent to the palace, and the old occupants of the palace and gardens were sent back to the slums. Soon, names developed: King Jack, Council of Forty (forty-one, actually), Courtier First Class (in the palace), Courtier Second Class (in the gardens), and Bum (in the slums). Even a bum carried his title as temporary resident of Versailles with pride.

"Long live the oligarchy!"

The feasting, live performances, fun and games, and general state of luxury continued nonstop, with parties all night and sleeping it off all day. The first four days passed. Then, when the rotation started, Jack invited three people to stay indefinitely. They agreed. Duh.

Well, that turned out making things pretty complicated. The next rotation, everyone was trying to get a piece of Jack, and he realized he'd have to change something if he wanted to get some piece and quiet. He announced he would decide who could stay randomly. That settled them down.

I was there when Jack "randomly" selected the people. He put all the names in a hat, and then fished around until he found the ones he wanted. Then he drew four more just to throw people off.

By now, there were fifty-eight people in the council, and a few were starting to think long-term. Jack gave them unlimited expense accounts, so folks started building summer villas off in the gardens. Jacqui's was the coolest. It was modeled after the Taj Mahal and was placed at the end of Le Petit Canal (the Small Canal). When you looked out the right window, it looked just like India. Only Jacqui's palace was a bit bigger than the real thing.

"Viva l'oligarchie!" (Long live the oligarchy!)

Well, you can probably see where this is headed. Five and a half months later, the Council of Forty consisted of One thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six people. One thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven, if you count Jean-Marie. That meant not very many Courtiers First Class were being turned out; most of them stayed to build their summer palaces. The mood in the slums stated getting ugly. They saw their opportunities closing up. The gardens started getting permanent residences too.

The morale at the palace had never been better, though. Versailles had all the conveniences and festivities money could buy. I need a drink.

One day the President of France called asking for a tour of the oligarchy. Jack told him there were a few tickets unsold for the slums three years from now, but he had to act now if he wanted to get them because they were selling fast. The president got angry and said some rude things. Jack said some ruder things. Then he hung up. The French can curse pretty well when they put their minds to it.

"Xx xx xxxx xxxxxx!" (Xx xxxx xxxxxxxx!)

At the six month mark, the non-permanent residents of the gardens were sent to the slums, and then everyone was told to leave. By now, the council of forty was a full two thousand, one, counting Jean-Marie. The quality of life as a Versailles bum was actually pretty good, they had set up semi-permanent communal residences and played with their big screen TVs all day. But when the bums were told to leave, they refused. Jack sensed that a blood bath might be coming and told his guards to pull back behind the gates.

The next morning (evening, technically), there was an angry mob outside the palace demanded entrance. Most of those people had waited for six months and had never been allowed to the palace. The rest had only been there for four days. They demanded that Jack permitay. Jack said non.

"Vers le bas avec l'oligarchie!" (Down with the oligarchy!)

"Mise à mort Jacques!" (Kill Jack!)

"Brûlure dans l'enfer!" (I am unhappy!)

Eventually things went downhill. They got out a battering ram made of big screen TVs and knocked down the gate. The guards started shooting at them, and they were slaughtered, but there were so many of them that the guards couldn't do much about it. The mob stormed the palace and started killing people with silverware and remote controls. I was with Jean-Marie in his bedroom, which had a great view. A guard showed up at the door and yelled:

"Sauvez la reine!" (Run for it!)

Then he mised à mort. We sauvezed. There's a secret passage (passage) next to Marie Antoinette's bed that she used to escape from the French revolution (revolution), and we made good use of it. We snuck through the palace and made our way outside, where the bums were using a lawnmower blade to behead the council of forty one at a time. I decided to make good my escape. We ran for a rendez-vous point (rendez-vous point) we had discussed before hand, which had a helicopter (helicopter) hidden behind some tall hedges.

Jean-Marie started powering up the helicopter. Then he realized he'd forgotten his suitcase full of souvenirs (souvenirs). I told him to forget them. He said non and ran back for them. The bums caught him and put him in line, then started going for me. I lifted off the tarmac and sauvezed myself.

I was the only survivor out of the council, as far as I know. Eventually the French came in and put a stop to the whole mess. They tried to sauvez the palace and restore it to the way it had been before, but it was too far gone. Now it's a museum to Jack and his friends. I personally think Jacqui's Taj Mahal was the best.

Todd’s Problem

Todd gets up this morning, as he does every morning to the sound of his Quartz alarm ringing on his Stanley dresser. He showers under a direct stream from his Price Pfister nozzle and enjoys the clean feeling of the Suave Essentials in his hair. He soaps with Dove, scrubs with Avon and conditions with more Suave Essentials.

On exiting the shower, Todd enjoys the soft feeling of the Strawbridge’s blue cotton chenille bath rug beneath his toes. He dries himself with Martha Stewart Everyday Living linen.

Feeling clean all over, Todd applies Tag (chest), Old Spice (armpits) and Nivea (under the eyes). He Colgates his teeth with a Gum brush and rinses with Listerine. Satisfied with the general cleanliness of his oral depression, Todd swabs his face with Brut cream and begins shaving with his Gillette Fusion. Todd never understood why a product made exclusively for men would have an “-ette” suffix, but he prefers his current tool to his old Braun Activator. When all the cream has been wiped away, Todd dabs on the Afta and uses a special anti-bacterial wipe from Equate.

Todd opens his RepleniSH contact lens container and removes a FreshLook lens. He squirts a quick stream of Opti-Free solution on the lens and sanitates with a quick movement of his fingers. With a deft and practiced motion, Todd inserts the contact lens into his eye and blinks thrice to clear some irritation. Not satisfied with the mechanical solution, Todd looks upward and drips three droplets of Visine into his eye. The irritation clears. He repeats the same process - minus the Visine - with his opposite eye.

Smelling like the latest issue of Vogue, Todd steps through his Panorama walkway and into his bedroom where he applies 273 Indigo, his favorite scent. There, sitting on his Simmons mattress across from his full length Eagan mirror, Todd pulls off his Plow and Hearth Woodland pajamas and slides into his Bresciani dress socks. He dons Fruit of the Loom boxers and matching undershirt, then pulls on a pair of Hanes dress socks before entering his spacious John Louis walk-in closet to select a shirt.

Shirt and tie selection is always painful for Todd because as many options as he has, only one ever seems to be viable. Todd likes his burgundy Hilfiger but it seems a little too flashy for a Monday. He selects a Hawes and Curtis with French Cuffs and a Ludlow tie. He completes his dressing with a Giorgio Cerruti pinstripe suit, a Fossil belt and a pair of Oxford Wingtips.

Todd accessorizes with a Luminox analog and a Borsalino fedora.

Fully dressed and ready for work, Todd walks past a Lay-Z chair, a Pottery Barn coffee table, and a Manchester couch and into his kitchenette. He puts a couple scoops of Folgers into his Krups coffee machine and flips the on switch. Todd feels hungry this morning, so he fries three Sunnyside Farms eggs in a Dupont Teflon pan. He puts a handful of Hillshire Farms ‘Lil Smokies into his Sharp microwave and plops two pieces of Bohemian Hearth into a Sunbeam toaster.

Todd removes Tobasco and Smart Balance Light from his Frigidaire refrigerator and sets the table with Cutco silverware and a Corelle plate. He eats quietly, listening to the New York Philharmonic play on his Bose speaker system.

Fueled and ready to meet the day, Todd puts his used dishware into his Triton dishwasher, inserts a cube of dissolvable Cascade detergent and pushes the start button. Todd sets his Bay Alarm system and locks the door. He hops into his Honda and pulls out of his suburban driveway.

On his way to work, Todd turns on the radio to listen to the news. Before he learns anything, however, he listens to six advertisements; four national and two local. The national advertisements are for Proctor and Gamble, Nissan, Kraft and Safeway; the local ads are for Enterprise Rent-a-Car and Cheeser’s Pizza. Todd passes eight billboards on his way to work; Motel 6, Chevron, Shell, McDonald’s, H&R Block, 300, Windows Vista and John Deer are all promoted on roadside signs.

Todd stops his CR-V in a designated spot in the Washington Mutual (affectionately nicknamed WaMu) parking lot. His work is mundane but it puts Healthy Choice on the table, so he doesn’t mind it so much.

At lunch Todd eats a Jiffy and Smucker’s sandwich on more Bohemian Hearth whole grain. He follows the PPJ with a Dole banana and a glass of Lucerne 1%.

Todd is happy that he only has to work a half day and reapplies Indigo 273 in preparation for a date he has set in the late afternoon. He and his friend meet at the Stadium 12 Cinemas to watch the new Will Ferrell movie, Blades of Glory. But Todd’s mind isn’t on the movie, or its excessive product placement; rather he is thinking about his financial situation.

Todd makes less money than 60% of WaMu’s employees; he lives in a house that could have used a remodeling four years ago and his “wish list” is longer than his “have list.” Todd struggles with feelings of wealth inferiority and seems to just barely scrape by every month. By the time the names finish scrolling across the movie screen, Todd still hasn’t resolved his state of mind. He exits the theater with a somber expression and drives his date home with sparse conversation.

Todd slides quietly between his Westpoint Stevens sheets and lays his head on the matching pillowcase. He leans into his Cequal Bedlounge and sets his Quartz. He turns his head and falls asleep. Another day.

Red Bull Blast

Wow. I just had my first Red Bull in over 10 months. The last time I treated myself to the lightly carbonated deliciousness of the world’s best energy drink, I was speaking on the fifth of five consecutive days at the National Debate championships and was living off taurine, caffeine and adrenaline. Then, I didn’t just drink the stuff; I guzzled it as if it was going out of style. I averaged 3.25 cans a day (over the course of the tournament) as I slurped raw energy with raw abandon.

Last summer’s blast of Red Bull had given me some problems. It took a week before my hands stopped shaking and I had cardiac irregularities for a few months afterwards. My vision reacted strangely to light and I absolutely had to have some caffeine to wake up in the morning. I decided that, though tasty and metabolism strengthening, Red Bull was 8.3 fluid ounces of early death and I’d rather abstain. There is a reason, after all, that this beverage is banned in Denmark, Norway, France, Uruguay, France and Iceland and wouldn’t be sold to minors in Finland.

My resolve lasted until about an hour ago.

Earlier today, while eating lunch with Amanda and Tony, a couple of Red Bull sales people approached our table and, after discovering that Tony and I were athletes for the school, insisted we take a canister of their product as a sample. They practically forced me to succumb to their requests with such persuasive entreaties as:

“Red Bull is the most heterosexual drink ever produced in Austria.”

“This stuff is stronger than Peyote.”

“It’ll do wonders for your times.”

I packed my can away, knowing I had a mid-term in my night class that evening and did not want to risk any adverse side-effects that might impair my performance.

But something about the cold tin of an unopened Red Bull can was too enticing for even my academically focused psyche. After track practice, I opened up the can, enjoyed the oddly comforting depressurization noise, and took a large gulp of liquid myocardial infarction.

I smiled, exhaling slowly and feeling a quiet hum in the back of my head. The stuff was working. I could feel my heart rate increase and knew my blood pressure had to be in the danger zone. I had hypertension, but it was a good kind of hypertension. A dull throb pounded throughout my body and my hand started to shake.

I took a second gulp.

Memories of last summer washed over me. I paused to enjoy them; some memories are best remembered the way they were experienced.

Before I knew it, I had drained the entire can. I couldn’t remember the last time I drank any beverage that quickly, much less a highly mephitic blend of semi-toxic stimulants.

I drove home more alert than I’d been in years. I took a phone call from my brother and told him more in three minutes than I had in three weeks. I think he suspected something.  I wrote this post in record time and did so while editing a term paper and writing an email.

My mid-term felt good, but I ended up getting my worst grade yet this semester. That’ll be the one I drop.

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.

Of Females and Football

We received the following in an email, accompanied by a quaint message reminding us that we have more female friends than just our moms. Thanks girls!

It was the day of the big game. Superbowl number XCBMLCZII or whatever had arrived at last. The room was divided into many factions, those rooting for the Bears, those cheering for the Colts, and those that were simply there to watch the commercials – ie, the females. Now don't think us to be utterly disinterested in the spirit of the event. We dove right in amongst our male counterparts and upped the bets about what we were about to see. Namely, which company would have the first advertisement after kick off. (I, a female, won with the bet of Budwiser against such lucrative entries as Pepsi and Miller.)

The thrills of the game had us all captivated (ok, so it was just that we had nothing better to do) as Peyton Manning lead the Colts to victory and earned the MVP award for himself. At least that's what the guys told me. I had long before escaped to the relaxing haven of my room with some softly playing music, cuddly stuffed animals, and a lovely novel. But something about that glorious day stayed with me (and I'm not talking about the smell the guys left after their own reenactment of the game.) And so today, not quite two weeks later, and right after the girliest holiday ever invented by Hallmark, I made a momentous decision.

I was tired of love, chocolates, delicate roses and mushy cards, and decided to demonstrate my inner guy. Ladies and gentlemen, today, I played football. ::cue Rocky theme::

Yes! It was glorious, it was painful, powerful, it was dirt-and-grass-stains, make-your-mother-wonder-what-in-heck-happened-to-you, overkill the use of the hyphen, downright manish. And then, when we females joined, it became a lovely time of intricate footwork as we played two-hand touch.

Soon the air was filled with the noises of groans (from the few guys who decided that tackling someone for making a touchdown was the appropriate formality to bestow), "hut-huts" and "hikes," with an occasional "blitz!," "hail-marys" and (slightly higher pitched) "what the heck is going on?"

Finally, after much patience and fortitude, we were able to understand this complex world of football. All you need to do (so the guys told us) is to catch the ball, and run either toward the trees on one side of the field, or the concrete sidewalk on the other which served as the end zones. After about 30 minutes of broken nails and sprained fingers, a talented girl was lucky enough to catch and, here's the shocker, hold onto the ball! "Pumped" (that's a manly term) by her success she bravely followed the directions to a T and sped her way to the side walk which resulted in highlighting a shortcoming of the what the males had told us. They had forgotten to mention which way to run with the ball. Thankfully, her own team was able to tackle her before she scored for the other team.

The males, being very gracious, time and time again passed the ball to us faltering females, never giving up on the hope that at least one time we would be able to dodge the opposition instead of running around in circles crying "I finally caught it!"

By the end of the game, we were tired, a little dusty, and had used up all of the memory on our digital cameras, but we had at long last learned the one essential of football – stick to the commercials.

Top 10 Fairy Tales You Were Never Told As A Child

Yeah, yeah. I know. You graduated from Fairy Tales and don't plan on returning until you have children. But these Fairy Tales aren't the ones you were told as “bedtime stories” or picked up when you first learned to read. Those had the distinct disadvantage of being false; these have the advantage of being funny.

Here they are; the Top 10 Fairy Tales You Were Never Told As A Child:

10. Three Kind Mice

The charming story of three friendly rodents who learn the importance of being gracious and generous.

9. Alice in Blunderland

A collection of exciting children's stories that follow the life and times of a young girl (Alice) who falls down a Rabbit Hole and starts tripping over things.

8. Hassel and Gretel

An endearing story about a brother and sister who cause a lot of problems for their parents.

7. Rapulzive

The oddly poetic tale of a disgusting young critter with hair like Davy Jones who is locked up in a castle.

6. Cindersellya

Story of a beautiful princess who forces her sisters to cut off their toes and peck out their eyes so she can marry the handsome prince.

5. Rumpeledstillskinny

A bedtime story (literally). An old man lays down to sleep in a last ditch attempt to gain weight (he figures he is burning too many calories by staying awake). When he rises from his bulimic slumber, years later, he is still thin. He lives happily ever after.

4. The Golden Gecko

Sponsored by Geico. The Gecko lays an egg which has various magical powers.

3. Snoring Beauty

In this enchanting story, a beautiful princess is discovered by a buff prince because of the noises she makes while sleeping.

2. The Big Mermaid

In this delectable tale, a mermaid discovers she doesn't need Curves to develop body confidence.

1. Ali Baba and the Forty Muslims

A delightful story about the Religion of Peace.

Minimum wage hike not big enough

As aspiring minimum wage earners, we here at FCN took the news of the House of Representative's approval of a wage hike very seriously. Yesterday the House passed a bill that would increase wage rates for the lowest earners in America. Over two years, pending approval by the Senate and a signature from Mr. Doesn't Veto Anything, the minimum wage in the United States will increase by just over two dollars.

Quite frankly, we oppose this measure, but not for the same reasons as our gun toting, tobacco chewing, "let them starve" brethren. While the yellow toothed of America make a compelling argument, we oppose the wage hike because it is yet another example of Congress tackling a problem with the effectiveness of J. Pierpont "Ponty" Finch and leaving a nasty predicament for the next guy.

The goal the wage hike is undoubtedly noble; ensuring that no member of society is left behind is as American as welfare checks and WIC coupons. But somehow this bill misses the point.

Why ensure partial wage equality when full egalitarianism is knocking at the door?

This bill ignores major wage discrepancies on the higher end of the earning bracket and also deprives middle class employees of a wage increase. In short, it leaves too many behind.

There are two ways Congress might have achieved the parity goal without compromising with mediocrity.

The first is to set a higher minimum and would be called the "No Worker Left Behind Act." If Americans can "survive" on $7.10 an hour, wouldn't they do "better" with 8.00 or 9.00? Heck, why even worry about the "living wage" and cost of living concerns? Wouldn't ten dollars an hour help the lower income families hoist themselves out of poverty? How about twelve? Fifteen would allow them to save and maybe invest in real estate. Sixteen, argue some experts is the ideal wage.

We here at FCN are of the opinion that an appropriate minimum is somewhere between fifteen and twenty bucks an hour. That covers the movie and girlfriend funds pretty well and would allow us to eat out at least five times a week. And wouldn't twenty dollars an hour be doable for the richest nation on earth?

Under the No Worker Left Behind Act, employers would have the freedom to set individual incomes based on the productivity of a particular worker. A successful employee could earn as much as he or she deserves, but they could take comfort in high floor from which they operate.

Who knows? If the wage is increased enough, all poverty might be eliminated!

The second strategy is to establish a flat national income and is called the "All Workers Left Behind Act." The income of everyone from George Soros and David Beckham to Kevin Federline and Isaac Cohen would be averaged and all Americans would make a decent wage. It wouldn't matter if you were an entertainer, physician, bedpan cleaner or floor sweeper; the wages would be the same for all.

This creates a uniform society where no one has any claim to greater success than anyone else. It would eliminate jealously, vehicular pride and thievery. Can you hear the happy sighs? They sure sound like utopia to me.

Unfortunately, the political wind isn't blowing the right direction and a complete evisceration of the capitalist system may take a few more years.

Winter Solstice

In case you missed it, yesterday was the Winter Solstice, the beginning of the end of the cold months. The significance of the Solstice as a meteorological milestone was really easy to miss -- unless you live in Denver, CO, in which case the Winter Solstice came upon you like a blizzard. The days will begin to get longer gradually and you won't see any major changes for a few weeks. So don't feel bad if you forgot to wear white or vandalize your car or whatever kids do these days to celebrate a holiday.

One person who didn't forget about Winter Solstice was Al Gore, the former Vice President and climate change advocate, who regularly celebrates his Major Winter Holiday four days before Christmas. Gore does this, not so much because the holiday season begins to wear on him and, like that one time when he had too many ice teas, he needs to go early, but rather because the Winter Solstice better represents his reason for winter-time celebration.

There is something really depressing about worshiping the earth. Why follow something that is in orbit around something else? Why not worship the person who made the earth? Maybe the earth worshipers -- or whatever the planetary adherents call themselves -- forgot about the Third Law of Thermodynamics or figured the rocks would eventually overcome entropy. Regardless, it's a little like worshiping yourself: poorly conceived.

So the Winter Solstice came and went and now the days are going to get longer. Big deal, right? Not if you live in Alaska. The frozen north is about the only location where marking your calendar around winter's peak makes sense and that only because it means you can stop rationing the alcoholic beverages.

In typical American fashion, businesses have found a way to turn the Winter Solstice into a shopping holiday. Signs saying "Solstice Sales" and several other sublime alliterations adorned the parking lots of major retail outlets, as stores tried to rope in the last desperate holiday shoppers. Yesterday stores were flaunting there wears more than usual in a last ditch attempt to sell more stuff before Christmas. Maybe they were just cold.

Ironically, very few of the sales centered around anything remotely related to winter (what do a coffee maker and weed eater have to do with the cold season?), but the stores hawked their goods unabashedly nonetheless. Some outlets even had posters depicting snowy 'scapes, hoisted ridiculously huge plastic snowflake replicas toward the ceilings or played Frank Sinatra's White Christmas softly over the PA system, even though it hasn't snowed in my hometown in nearly twenty years.

It wasn't even that cold yesterday. The weather certainly did not reflect the frigid temperature my Black Friday experience foretold. It was a little foggy though, which, around here, means Winter.

Despite the consumerism and fanfare, the Solstice was well received in my neck of the woods. By that I mean it was received by an uneventful tear of the December 21st page from our Dilbert Calendar Pad and a questioning look from my father accompanied by the question, "Today's the Solstice, right?"

“Merry Christmas”...Indeed!

In response to my post about wanting to celebrate Kwanzaa this year, I got a very thoughtful (read: long) email from an FCN reader on the importance of Christmas, reminding me that celebrating our Savior's birth is much more important than remembering “heritage.” She further rebuked my post, saying that I was detracting from the Christmas spirit.

Frankly, she’s right. To the three other readers out there, know that I am not really intending to celebrate Kwanzaa. The post I put up yesterday was the result of hours of counseling with socio-noneconomic, cultural and ethnic therapists who are trying to introduce human-like emotions to my psyche. They went on a Kwanzaa tangent at my last session and somehow they got to me, causing my inadvertent Kwanzaa support. Please be comforted by the fact that I am still going to celebrate Christmas this year.

In fact, my family and I decorated the house for the occasion yesterday. We pulled various suspicious items from storage and organized ornaments for hanging. Maybe organized isn’t the right word. We opened up the dusty crates that house the ornaments eleven and a half months a year and dumped their contents out over the tile floor and then used a bottle of Elmer’s glue and some string to repair the most precious memory filled decorations. Then we hung dull colored, but highly reflective ropes at awkward angles and scattered shiny confetti around the house.

When we were finished there were about as many decorations on the floor as the wall, so we brought out a vacuum cleaner to clean up the mess. We emptied some of the contents of the vacuum cleaner bag on the tree immediately, the rest we put in the decoration crates for storage until next Christmas.

It's amazing how a few hours of work can bring holiday cheer to an otherwise calm household. Decorating turns my normally docile family into a horde of perfectionist fiends who must have the house just so. One brother feels confetti should cover the mantle, another wants it to “flow” out from under the coach; I like it in the fireplace. Loud Christmas music is a dangerous catalyst to our frantic resolve and we move around as if we are on a reality TV show.

The best part about yesterday was setting up the tree. A few years ago, my father decided that purchasing, transporting and setting up a real pine was too much work. I personally think the decision had something to do with the average eight months it took to remove all the pine needles from the carpet after Christmas, but my father said something about having to water it every morning. Our last real tree was unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road and my brothers and I watched mournfully as the garbage man hoisted it into the compactor and drove away.

There was a certain quiet in our house after the last pine left; somehow, we felt, a fake tree would never quite cut it. The tree is a symbol of Christmas. And a fake sign of a symbol of a real event rings hollow.

By the time the next year rolled around I had forgotten all about the real pine and put up no protest when we visited our first specialty fake tree boutique (actually it was Wal-Mart). We ended up getting a spring loaded “tree” that opened up like an umbrella. The product – we purchased “heirloom strength” – was guaranteed to unfurl at least 20 times, theoretically lasting more than 20 Christmases. Unfortunately, I opened the new fangled thing at least that many times while trying to figure out how to put it up the first time. We ended up leaving it, in all its heirloom strength fakery, on the sidewalk after the holiday, just like a normal tree – an expensive spring loaded plastic normal tree.

The next year we looked into miniature trees. These are exceptionally small fake trees that look like the victims of a terrible birth defect. “Miniatures” are wrapped in red to hide their pitiful roots and are infused with a pine scent that usually turns into the smell of a happy meal forty-eight hours after purchase. Unfortunately, but they are too small to hold many ornaments. The one we got was artistically titled “Petit Noël” and came “pre-lighted.” It was also covered in “snow,” tiny shards of white plastic that, if viewed from blurred eyes at a distance, looked like cat litter. So many people guests in our house were curious where our tree was and, after pointing several times to the ugly pile of white sitting next to the hearth, my family decided on reform.

This year we have a fake tree that takes a few minutes to set up, but looks perfectly triangular when in place. It has built in color rotating lights and a motion detector that shouts “Merry Christmas” if you get too close. The chief feature of the tree, a fancy star that only turns on as nighttime approaches, broke when we pulled it out of the box, but we imagine it works anyway and are compensated liberally by all the “Merry Christmases” the thing shouts.

We took our time, yesterday, emptying the vacuum cleaner over the tree and spreading the dust around to look like snow. The branches are stiffer on fake trees and we were able to hoist large quantities of grime on the greenery before they began to sag.

I learned something about Christmas doing all this decorating: It really doesn’t matter what you put on the walls or how you remember Christ’s birth; as long as the message points to the Savior and the ornaments tell the Christmas story, nobody cares if they are done “right.”

Now, as I look around the family room, it really feels like Christmas. The stockings are hung upside down to keep dust from collecting inside and the confetti burns brightly in the fireplace, but the Christmas story is evident in the crumpled ornaments on the dusty tree. I sigh happily and begin to unravel the garland that is mysteriously wound around my neck.

Black Friday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My deceptive water bottle

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

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

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



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

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



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



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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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