Waiting on the women

We were getting ready for a long hiking trip, the kind of excursion that makes heels blister and ages knees rapidly. The "we" in that sentence refers to an amalgamation of friends who held roughly the same age but occupied positions all across the gender spectrum. I was one of the guys in the group. The planned hike was sixteen and a half miles through some of the most gorgeous terrain in California - which is saying something - to the top of a national icon and back again. Only a handful of us were cognizant of the strenuous nature of the expedition, but even the ignorant like me knew the most important task to tackle before starting out: visit the trail head's head.

We approached the semi-sanitary lavatories with all gaiety. Afterall, we hadn't hiked but a click and our spirits ran high from the calorie loading of the day before. At least, my spirits ran high. Some of the members of our group felt mischievous. But I'm getting ahead.

Our tempers were dampened only a little by the long line that formed in front of the cement water closets. The queue was reminiscent of the formation by the men's room during the seventh inning stretch; a dead caterpillar that had no thoughts of revival.

I don't think any of us guys even noticed the line (although I did see an attractive brunette who smiled at me and said something very nice that I didn't understand in a foreign language when I asked the time) as we marched to the male lavatory and did our business. We expected the girls to do likewise in the facility marked for their own use.

When I emerged from the trail head's head, relieved and ready to start hiking, I discovered the girls had a completely different strategy in mind. Rather than wait out the lady line, they asked us to post a guard and shut down the men's room for them. Being impatient as well as gullible, we obliged.

Although I'll deny it vehemently if you ever bring this up at a party, I am a total klutz socially. Those of you who know me are entirely too aware of this fact, but it needs to be raised again for reference sake. I have the social skilz of a demented three year old, as evidence by the fact that I just used the word "skilz." But I am comfortable in my uniquely awkward persona and total inability to charm. I am satisfied with my delinquent personality and sub-par conversation abilities. I'm okay with being pushed around by those who are more assertive and better able to get their way than me. I am fine with being the door mat for all my friends. Really, I am.

For the record, I didn't write the paragraph above. I think it was Chip, our latest contributor, but if you have better information, please let me know.

For whatever unimaginable reason, I was chosen to guard the door. As soon as I assumed the bouncer position, a heavy-set male with a ruddy complexion and an Owen Wilson nose approached the door. Something about him told me he had to use the bathroom.

"Can I help you?" I learned the line from the service industry.

"Uh, yeah, is this the men's room?" Ruddy Nose looked tired; he wasn't in the mood to add another crook to his schnoz. I wasn't in the mood to give him one. For the moment we were amicable. But I had to answer this question.

"Some young ladies needed to use the restroom and didn't want to wait through the line which you can see to your left is longer than a Desperate Student post. If you'll just wait patiently--" My sentence was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the estrogen-swamped men's room. I grimaced and Ruddy Nose gave me an amused look.

But it got worse. I cleared my throat, adjusted my collar and spread my legs out to improve circulation. I felt a bead of sweat start to form at my hairline and reached to wipe it away without thinking much about it. Ruddy Nose noticed and evidenced his perception with a tight grin. He really had to go.

Another girl from our group arrived late and looked around for her friends. It didn't take her long to do the math and run into the men's room to join the others. I tried to stop her, to explain that there was now a guy in line who had a long established right to first restroom entrance and that there was another facility where she had the right of way. She would have none of it; her friends had invaded the testosterone sanctuary and she wanted to be in on the fun too.

I looked at Ruddy Nose, intending to shrug sheepishly, but noticed that a couple more guys had lined up behind the first male arrival. Each looking very ready for the trail head's head. Very ready. My shrug turned into a stare that extended straight forward above a gulping swallow. Now was not a time for making light of the situation; no joke would alleviate the tension.

If only the girls felt that way. Another peal of laughter accompanied a louder remark: "You are doing your makeup?" Whoa. I inhaled deeply, ignoring the pine scented air and tried not to think about the travesty I was dragging the other male hikers through. Or rather what the primping girls were dragging them through.

More laughter and jokes followed from the young ladies as the minutes ticked by. Three, four, five minutes passed as more men joined the parade in front of the blocked door like an extended tiger's tail. The line had grown to a couple dozen people by the time the girls emerged, looking nice, but too happy.

None of the guys said anything or even made eye contact with the exiting females. They were zebras leaving the giraffe's cage. The girls tried to claim that their shenanigans were planned and that they intended to put upon us. They said that and other things designed to assuage the tension and drain the embarrassed red from my cheeks. I didn't know whether or not to believe them. I still don't. Regardless, it'll be a while before I close down another men's restroom.

Fashion #1: Halter Top Ohio

The voters have had their say and, unlike the Democratic Party, we even counted input from Michigan and Florida. Lots of great ideas and a few perfectly good ones were floated around and the general consensus seems to be that FCN and rFCN should blog about fashion for the rest of the week. Why a bunch of guys should choose this topic to write about and why "fashion" is such a pressing issue is as elusive to us as Meagan Fox's beauty, but we have never let lack of understanding keep us from expressing ourselves and we aren't about to start now. Fashion you proposed, fashion you voted and fashion it is.

I was on vacation in Indiana. The reason why my family chose this state over the plethora of others with better weather to spend a week of our leisure time eludes me at this moment, but I've heard it may have had something to do with friends. Regardless, we couldn't wait to get out of Indiana (even Gary is pretty bad, despite rampant rumors that the "town that knew me when" is "the only place that can light my face") so we packed ourselves into a car and drove across a slow moving and very dirty looking river into Ohio.

Once across, we found the only fun thing in Ohio: an amusement park full of nausea inducing rides and cotton candy (there's also an airplane museum, which is ironic given that the first thing to fly from Ohio was an export).

I don't remember too much of what happened at the amusement park but I did endure a very moist rendition of the "Submarine Adventure" which pretty much consisted of dousing a cart full of paying customers with frigid water a la Taylor Swift. Soaked to the skin and feeling about as proud as Kellie Pickler after a trivia quiz, I marched through the park looking for more thrills.

That's when fashion enters this story. See, I knew you were getting impatient; sometimes you have to wait through an elaborate set up and a few references to cute country crooners.

A normal looking guy who carried himself as if he thought he were buff walked up to me and said in his best Brady Quinn voice: "Were you eying my girlfriend?"

I looked at the newcomer with surprise. I'd never seen him before and I certainly didn't remember his girlfriend. "Who?"

"You passed a girl a minute ago...she was wearing a pink halter top. I don't like how you looked at her." The Quinn clone was trying to start a fight.

"Good sir," I answered, trying hard to avoid an English accent, "I've passed about twenty women in the last minute. It is quite possible-" My words were cut short by a clear image behind my questioner. Not twenty feet away was a young woman in the most hideous pink halter top I'd ever seen, and I've seen some pretty hideous halter tops. She wasn't particularly awful looking - in fact she was downright ordinary - but her poor fashion choice detracted from any of her natural good looks. When people looked toward her they didn't see a girl, they saw a bright pink top.

"What?" The Quinn clone had followed my gaze and was seething.

"Look mister," I said, growing some nerve, "you are a pretty dodgy boyfriend, you know that? First, you can't stand anyone looking sideways at your girl when you should view it as a big compliment. You mitigate your own manhood in an overzealous effort to stand up for her and upset the tenuous equanimity of others (me specifically) in the process. Second - don't interrupt me - second, you are a terrible boyfriend for not getting your girl something better to wear. Subpar is the nicest adjective I can think of to describe the outfit and even that doesn't begin to approach the horrendous attire she has chosen and you have allowed, by silent consent or otherwise. The fact that she is halfway good looking does nothing to vitiate her abysmal attire."

Only when I'd finished my monologue did I realize that the drop zone siren had sounded over my words and rendered my remonstrations incomprehensible. My friend who was standing next me shook her head as a warning and I rethought my retort.

"Look man, I didn't look at your girl. If I did, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. Hey, have a cotton candy on me..." This time my words were heard loud and clear. My new version worked wonders as my accuser's face transformed and he eagerly grabbed the Lincoln I extended his way.

"Hey, no hard feelings bro." He took the money and left, leaving me wet, cold, scarred by the image of his terribly dressed girlfriend and in Ohio. I was out five bucks, but I had a story worth a lot more. And maybe, just maybe, those few dollars would go toward improving the wardrobe of that poor girl.

"A gentle answer turns away wrath but a harsh word stirs up anger." ~Proverbs 15:1

25 Reasons Not to Defenestrate Yourself

1) The wooden desk in front of the window does not give freely.
2) The first pane of glass is painful.
3) The second pane of glass is painful.
4) The plastic molding holding the panes of glass together are stubborn.
5) The plastic dividers on the window are not amenable to breakage.
6) The screen.
7) The drop.
8) The landing.
9) The cost of cleaning up the mess.
10) The cost of repairing the window.
11) Explaining to relatives.
12) There are better ways of leaving a building.
13) Gravity.
14) The laundry.
15) The emulative friends.
16) The friends who won't understand.
17) The friends who will understand.
18) The difficulty of reentering the building.
19) The people on the ground.
20) Trees and other scratchy green things.
21) Your back.
22) Your knees.
23) The fun doesn't last.
24) The "fun" may end up lasting.
25) It's not original.

FCN's Godchild needs your help

You read it right: FCN is asking you, the faithful few, to get off your collective duffs and do something for an unprecedented second consecutive day. Consider it a Valentine's day gift for three guys, who tried hard but weren't able to scare up a Valentine. Consider it an expression of goodwill and self effacement; a declaration that the self is less than the whole.

But enough with the altruistic promulgations.

Last Summer, FCN celebrated the arrival of rFCN, a website established in the vein of Funny Class Notes but with much funnier jokes (hence the name, Really Funny Class Notes). This blog was, for all intents and purposes, the Godchild of FCN: It was birthed of our seed, in its infancy it created little messes for us to clean up, later it started maturing and finally rebelled against FCN wholeheartedly during its "teenage" period.

We even share a name. Yes, "rFCN, I am your father."

Now the site is going through its midlife crisis. After a period of almost two and a half months with only one post of new content, even the most loyal rFCN fans were beginning to think FCN's spinoff blog had gone the way of Shinzo Abe. What are readers to think when an unannounced break continues into seeming perpetuity? That you've taken a extended bathroom break?

rFCN has returned from its hiatus with an ultimatum: 15 unique comments or the plug is pulled, the water will drain out and rFCN will be placed on permanent suspension. No more inspiration for us derelicts or regular, throat-clearing guffaws. Our abs will no longer be worked by uncontrollable laughter and happy tears will have to be simulated with Visine.

Yes, rFCN's position is as dire as it sounds. Unlike its Godparent, rFCN does not have Mommy G making brownies or offering an unconditional stream of motivating comments. Without such support, I might consider leaving the blog world behind as well. Heck, I've done it. Twice.

As we intoned when rFCN first broke the plane of blogosphere mediocrity last July, having a spinoff blog is the highest form of praise. It shows a level of support and adoration that cannot be duplicated by boxes of chocolates and flowers. Imitation is the highest form of praise and we here at FCN figured we'd about made the pinnacle of blog success.

For a blog that can't even muster a dozen readers, having an imitator is high encouragement. But if rFCN goes the way of the Brontosaurus, we will no longer have that acclaim. Our regular ego boost will be deflated and FCN will be back to generating its own motivation (which often means burning Supreme Court justices in effigy).

For you, the faithful FCN few, losing rFCN might mean a reduction in the quality of FCN posts, which isn't saying much, I know, but it is still something.

If this post warmed your heart at all. If it increased your blood pressure or drew one iota more color to your face, please consider visiting rFCN and commenting on their desperation post. The link, for those of you who don't click on things is:

http://reallyfunnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/2008/02/did-you-ever-get-feeling-you-were-being.html

And if that impassioned plea doesn't do the trick, maybe this will:

TheS paceb arT ypo

Whent ypingq uickly,i ti se asyt od epresst hes paceb ara tt hew rongm oment.I na nyones entence,t hes paceb arm ayb ep resseda s manya st ent of ifteent imes.T hef astert het yperm ovesh isf ingers,t hem orep recises heh ast ob ew itht hes paceb ar.I fs hem akesa m istaket her esultl ooksl iket hisp osta ndi sc onsequentlyd ifficultt or ead.

Thoseo fy oui nt hef aithfulF CNf eww hos peedr eado na r egularb asisw ill,h owever,h aven op roblemk eepingu pw itht hee rror.

FCN Classic: Extract Of Curiosity

In my humble opinion, the following is one of the best posts I have ever written for FCN. This is a completely true story and it really happened to me when I was fifteen years old. I am still embarrassed. Our posting it here is Dan's way of getting back at me.

Some years ago, when I was old enough to know better and young enough to do foolish things anyway, I decided to sample interesting items in our pantry. As I entered our spacious walk in, I looked around for any items of interest. The extracts quickly caught my attention. Lining the back row were many small dark bottles with exotic and romantic names like “Rum Extract” and “Dark Chocolate Concentrate.” Some tasted wonderful, others bland and still others wickedly bitter. The Vanilla Extract was sharp and left a burning sensation as it went down; the Lemon Extract made me gag.

It was a small bottle at the far end of the row with a faded label and a suspiciously inviting cap that finally got my attention. I opened it and smelled its contents. Nothing. So I took a swig. The taste, except for a mild bitterness, was unremarkable and it struck me that perhaps the extract was old or had otherwise lost its flavor.

I left the pantry satisfied with my explorations.

Ten minutes later the worst case of nausea struck me. Before going any further, it’s important to understand how our family treats nausea victims. When someone throws up, they are starved of dairy products for three days, of hard food for two and are allowed only the meager comforts of a sip or two of Sprite every hour for the first day. It doesn’t matter if the cause is food poisoning or just exercising too quickly after drinking a coke; starvation is the only way to settle the innards. This scheme, argue the powers that be, ensures that no painful relapse will render the nausea victim prostrate on the bathroom floor a second time.

This strategy has the unintended consequence of discouraging the act of throwing up. With such a powerful disincentive, who would want to vomit?

I struggled against the impulses of my body for over four hours. By breathing deeply, taking small sips of uncarbonated liquid and praying with every ounce of my being, I delayed the inevitable until just before lunch. When I finally succumbed, I emptied myself of a large breakfast and the remainder of several earlier meals. As my mother watched my pitiful retching, I knew I was losing future repasts as well.

I bowed before the porcelain god for over an hour; my abs felt like jelly and my throat like a fireplace flu before my convulsions ceased. But when I stopped throwing up, the nausea disappeared. I felt wonderful. I could have eaten a large hamburger had the starvation mandate not been in place.

That evening, as my family enjoyed a steak dinner, I took slow swallows of the sprite my father had purchased on his way home from work. Despite my earnest entreaties to be allowed to fully join the table, I was not allowed any more then my soda.

Before breakfast the next morning, I returned to the pantry to make a closer inspection of that last bottle in the line of extracts. I peeled away the label to read “Ipecac, use to induce vomiting.” Sighing, I went into the kitchen and took a frustrated sip of warm sprite.

“I loathe that low vice curiosity” ~Lord Byron