$175,000

The comptroller general of the United States, the man who has the very stressful and harried job of measuring how far in debt our government is and reporting said number to the Department of Treasury, recently released the current data on our financial situation. And the synopsis was, at predictable face value, very red.

According to report that made its way to Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson's desk late last week, if the national debt were divided up evenly over the entire population, we would each owe $175,000. The comptroller general wasn't specific as to whether this number includes illegal immigrants and minors, who in their own way contribute to the national economy, or was just limited to taxpayers, but regardless the number does look very red. But I said that before.

Financial experts will give themselves a litany of medical conditions as they worry about this new information and poorly informed Americans - those who don't read FCN - will wonder why this figure is so high and how such seemingly gargantuan debt is justified. Dogs will also bark, terrorists will blow themselves up and the Olsen Twins will lose weight, but none of these are, as far as I can see, related to the debt issue.

What a lot of Americans are ignoring when they decry the $175,000 is that this debt provides some serious lifestyle advantages to us. The funds are not wasted. In fact, some would say debt is the path worn smooth by the American Dream. We, the FCN staff, took a vacation from our usual dereliction and went to the library to conduct some research on the advantages our government is providing you and me with the $175,000. Here's what we found:

$1,000,000 (about six people's worth of debt) from the Defense Department is spent to fund an Allen Telescope Array in Mountain View, Calif. This “alien” project is part of SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence). SETI describes the telescope as “dedicated to astronomical and simultaneous search for extra-terrestrial intelligence observations.” A good investment considering the dangers aliens pose in our modern world. The Defense Department was thinking ahead with this one. I'll bet this Allen fellow was happy to spend $175,000 on it, too.

$5,500,000 (about 31 people's worth of debt) from the Defense Department to fund the Gallo Center, a neuroscience clinic designed to study the effects of alcohol and drug abuse on the brain. The folks in DC figure that, after aliens, drunks are the biggest threat to national security. No private sector organizations were willing to undertake this responsibility The government is looking out for us.

$352,000 (about two people's worth of debt) from the Department of Agriculture for floriculture research. It's only two people out of 300 million and think of how much more beautiful flowers will be. You will be thanking Uncle Sam for this expenditure next Valentine's Day.

$2,300,000 (about 13 people's worth of debt) from the Foreign Operations budget for the International Fertilizer Development Center (IFDC). The IFDC, now in its ninth year, helps to augment foreign soil management. Because soil is a terrible thing to mismanage.

$350,000 (about two people's worth of debt) from the Department of Interior to fund hanging baskets in Chicago. Boy, those little floral and straw arrangements really spruce up the Windy City. In fact, the program managed to design, install and maintain 950 baskets so far, at a price of roughly $368 each. Money well spent.

$150,000 (about one person's worth of debt) from the National Park Service budget for the Actors Theater in Louisville, Kentucky. One of the theater’s productions is called Bad Date, in which “a feisty single mom relocates to the big city, finds a new career and jumps back into the shark-infested dating pool only to find herself on the wrong side of the law…the hilarious and unforgettable story of one woman's love life, her anticipation of (and recovery from) each new date and the fabulous shoe collection that saves her every time!” Expensive and edifying!

$450,000 (about three people's worth of debt) spent by the Legislative Budget for plantings on the eastern front of the Capitol. This will allow members of Congress a chance to “stop and smell the roses” before they proceed with spending more of our money. Don't worry, though. For almost a half-million dollars, these roses are sure to be extra-nice.

$250,000 (about two people's worth of debt) from the Transportation Budget for the National Cattle Congress (NCC) in Waterloo, Iowa. Fair activities include: the Second Annual Cattle Congress Cage Combat, the ‘Survivor” Family Game Show, Jocko & the J’s Monkey Show, and Steeple’s Wild West Bear Show. Well worth the price of admission.

$47,326,000 (about 270 people's worth of debt) by the Department of the Interior for projects in the state of Alaska, including: $1,100,000 for the Matunuska-Susitna Borough; $750,000 for the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park; $450,000 for the Bering Sea Fisherman’s Association; $400,000 for the Ketchikan Wood Technology Center; $150,000 for the Alaska Whaling Commission; and $98,000 for the Alaska Sea Otter Commission. Too bad Alaska isn't pitching in more; at least the otters are happy.

And that's just scratching the surface. Our elected officials find so many ways to satisfy our every need and desire. It just seems so wrong to complain about the price tag. Capitol Hill means well and we end up will all kinds of cool stuff when they decide to be generous in what they bestow. Why do we have to be haters? Can't we just enjoy the blessings of our government?

Undocumented Workers Hope to Change California's Flag

MAYBRIDGE, CA (FCN) -- Illegal immigrants in the agricultural heart of the Golden State have made a a concerted effort to change the Californian Flag. Pedro Cortes of the Sociedad por Liber California (roughly translated the Society for Free California) told FCN in a recent interview, "We really feel the current symbol of California is wrong. Just plain malo, as we would say. It's not fair to the illegals in this area, much less to the millions of undocumented workers in many of California's regions. And what's up the bear anyway? How many bears do you see roaming in a central valley vineyard?" Cortes also criticized the red star in the upper left hand corner of the flag, calling it "a symbol of communism."

Aside from the fact that many undocumented immigrants disprove of the "no es frio" or "uncool" look of the flag, many also feel that the current symbol of California is in conflict with the rights granted to illegal immigrants by the U.N. While these arguments are often dismissed by government officials, so-called sojourners take these claims very seriously. Cortes noted in the same interview, "the U.N. human rights charter says that is it the priority of all governments to help individuals living in its borders get jobs - and that's the opposite of what the plans of the status quo do. How in the world does the current flag help me or my buddies get jobs?"

Experts fear that the current situation will only get worse as pilgrimaging workers move to the United States. Dr. Schultz author of Illegal Migrations, explained in a recent interview, "Illegals get what they want - and by Jorge, they want California."

Many undocumented workers want the Californian flag to be changed to resemble the Mexican flag. Some hope a compromise will be made, suggesting that the California background be changed to include red, white and green stripes. While this proposed change may calm the offended immigrants temporarily, others fear that an appeasement will only escalate the controversy.

Illegally immigrating Hispanics aren't the only ones pushing for a flag change. Proclaimed free spirit Daisy Moon argued, "You know man, it's so unfair to the other dudes. Totally. And we so need to get rid of the bear. Enchilada, taco, burrito, world peace, man." Moon was last seen enjoying a lazy afternoon beneath an interstate bridge.

Regardless of what change is made to the flag, Mexican-Californian's feel that it should reflect the multicultural diversity that has marked the state's heritage for the last few decades. The new flag shouldn't be too white or brown either.

FCN Classic: Mike Winther Should Shave

This post was written as a plea to Mike Winther requesting that he remove his attractive but altogether inappropriate facial hair. It is republished here as a classic, only so that our plea might once again be noticed. I had the honor of seeing Mr. Winther a week ago, and his face was just as hidden. It was great to see him, but I couldn't help but be saddened by his facial hair stubbornness.

Mr. Winther: I'll go ahead and make you a deal. If you shave your beard and send me a picture of the finished product, I will remove my sideburns and send you a picture to show the results. That's how serious I am about this; C'mon Mr. Winther!

We all love Mr. Winther. He has lived competitive academic debate for the vast majority of his life and artfully leads students through the process of becoming better speakers. His debate prowess, intellectual integrity and good humor make him one of the most adored debate coaches in California, perhaps even the nation. Those who know him are not likely to forget his contribution; those who don’t are missing out. Despite his individualism as a coach, Mr. Winther has made one concession to popularity that is visible to even the most casual observer: Mr. Winther has a full beard. While there is nothing inherently wrong with wearing a beard -- Santa Claus wears a beard and nobody complains – there is something terribly clichéd about a debate coach hiding behind whiskers.

After some deliberation, the folks here at FCN sat down to state our objections to Mr. Winther’s beard in an organized manner. We don’t in any way intend to impugn this lovable debate guru, just promote a visit to the barber, a Fusion purchase or whatever method he likes to remove his facial hair. We also aren’t promoting a completely clean shaven visage. If Mr. Winther likes a mustache and goatee combination or wants to keep his sideburns, we’ll be happy.

Without further ado, here are 10 Reasons Mr. Winther should shave:

1) Abraham Lincoln wore a beard

The bastion of inconsistency, patriarch of situational ethics and wet noodle executive chose not to shave and sported some rather unruly clumps of facial hair. Lincoln’s beard wasn’t just on his face, it is on the penny; it's his trademark. His striking features were made even more impressive by the dark growth he refused to hold back. While Mr. Winther’s beard is nicely trimmed, the very fact that he wears a beard creates a mental link between a libertarian hero and pragmatist politics. Cut the link: cut the beard.

2) People you love want to see your face

Since Mr. Winther grew his beard he has started a debate club, had a child and changed careers. While we don’t know the exact period of time (he has covered his presumably beautiful face as long as any of us have known him), we can deduce from personal interviews with Mr. Winther and a family member that the period of facial disguise has been for longer than 10 years. That’s a long time to keep one’s face covered. No one wears a hat or a pair of socks for that long. Few keep the same hairstyle for ten straight years, much less a facial hair arrangement.

This isn’t a matter of style, but responsibility to loved ones. A child should be able to know his or her father’s face, friends should not have to read between the hairs when gaging someone’s sincerity and those Mr. Winther judges in debate rounds would really like a peak at his real face. Mr. Winther should cede to the understandable wishes of those around him and pick up a razor. Cut the frowns: cut the beard.

Please excuse the uncharacteristic sentimentality of the above paragraph; we wrote it while listening to Kelly Clarkson’s Because of You. Strange things happen when you listen to that song.

3) Mrs. Winther wants you to shave

We don’t know this for a fact. Mrs. Winther never said anything to us, but she didn’t have to. We here at FCN take non-verbal communication very seriously and it doesn’t take a degree to read the wistful remorse on Mrs. Winther’s face every time she glances at her husband’s visage. She would never mention it to anyone, but the feelings are there, burning deep inside her. As with all non-verbal messages, we can’t be absolutely positive as to meaning of these looks. But we’re pretty confident here. 90 percent.

4) To whom much is given, much is required

Let’s face it; God gave Mr. Winther a really nice face. From the limited information we were able to gather, he was once very handsome. That’s not to say that Mr. Winther is ugly now, just that he has made lifestyle decisions that limit other’s ability to enjoy his good looks. We feel that he has been given a responsibility to show off his face and that he is abandoning his duty when he covers his features. If someone were gifted in horticulture, he should try to use his skills to God’s glory. If someone has a penchant for mathematics, the rest of us can be benefited from the utilization of that ability. Mr. Winther has been gifted with excellent physical attributes to accompany his intellectual abilities. He doesn’t keep his mind covered; why shouldn’t he display his face?

5) You will look younger and healthier

The last time Mr. Winther had a clean shaven face, he probably looked at least ten years younger. If he wants to enjoy that feeling again, the razor is waiting. As far as looking healthier goes, it is an empirically verifiable fact that clean shaven men look more vigorous. Unless Mr. Winther has some kind of terrible skin disease or a persistent wart that needs camouflaging (an independently disproved question) he will look better without the extra hair. Look younger, look healthier: snip, snip.

6) The comfort of five blades, the precision of one

Razor technology has advanced to such an extent that shaving is no longer a hazardous experience. The new Gillette Fusion, for instance, allows a reasonably cautious man to get a really close shave without fear of nicks and abrasions. And, as the ad shows, it makes people like you more too. The fact is that the morning shave is no longer something to be feared. Experts and novices alike are perfectly able to navigate the razor over their face and remove even the thickest growths. If technology is holding Mr. Winther back, we advise a trip to the Modesto drug supplier to look at today’s shaving alternatives. And hey, if the whole razor scene is too scary, chemical hair removers and laser surgery are viable substitutes.

7) That’s gotta itch!

Some members of the FCN staff have tried to or are currently supporting facial hair. While none of us approach the complete coverage Mr. Winther has achieved, our experience is enough to teach us that goatees, sideburns and mustaches can itch! Due to our relative youth, many of our hair growth attempts have yielded pitiful fuzz instead of the manly bristles like Mr. Winther’s. But even our fuzz itches. We can only imagine the torment Mr. Winther must suffer every day as he must live through the ticklish spines on his face. The pain isn’t necessary!

8) You need to show Kyle how to shave

Mr. Winther’s youngest is becoming a man. Kyle is, indeed, attained the age of twelve and has consummated his years by debated at his first tournament. Facial hair will inevitably follow. It would seem very hypocritical of Mr. Winther to ask his son to shave while not doing so himself. Sure, Mr. Winther could set up a dummy or bring in a volunteer, but a shaving lesson is best accomplished with a mirror, a razor and two faces. Don’t leave your son in the five o'clock shadow: shave!

9) The biggest libertarian thinkers are all clean or mostly shaven

What do David Boaz, Edward H Crane, James A. Dorn, Chris Edwards, Thomas Firey and Daniel T. Griswold have in common? These libertarian thinkers are all clean shaven. Join the crowd: shave the beard.

10) Because you like multiple points

We threw this one in to satisfy Mr. Winther’s carnal desire to see a wealth of arguments for a position.

Envoy Mission, and other stories ...

For the last 2 years, FCN has published the nerdishly popular Envoy Forest series (Envoy Forest and Return to Envoy Forest), showing the members of a Californian NCFCA club as they truly are. As a side note, if you read the letters NCFCA backwards, they stand for Avid Collectors of Funny Class Notes. Anyway, the writer of the Envoy Forest series has retired from the league and is now engaged in more respectable pursuits, like saving the world. So, there will be no Envoy Forest this year, or any other year. I know, I know. It's tragic. But there is good news.

Envoy Forest has spawned a significant crop of spin-offs, and we're going to direct you to two of them, if you really must get your 2007 fix. First, check out the blog The Adventures of Oyi and Clari, which, of course, can be found here:

http://oyiandclari.blogspot.com/

Four side notes: First, the authors didn't give us permission to label their blog an Envoy Forest spinoff, but we're sure they don't mind. If they do, they won't know which of us wrote this post, so we'll still be safe. Second, this blog is pretty confusing even to its authors, so don't feel bad if you end a post standing on your head or something. Third: no, we do NOT write Oyi and Clari. Fourth: yes, Dan the Viking is the same Dan.

For something shorter and more direct, check out this story recently emailed to us by freelancer Randy Hawthorn, for which we take neither credit nor responsibility:

ENVOY MEETING, by Randy Hawthorn

--
DISCLAIMER: All characters in this story are purly fictional. Any
similarities between characters in this story and real life
individuals is purly coincidental. That said we do not apologize.
--

One day about a year ago, I was walking along the road with absolutely
nothing worthwhile to do when I was greeted by a young man. He was
thin and pasty white. In any other circumstance I would be afraid that
I was about to be mugged based on the disheveled appearance of the
individual but his absolute lack of muscle assuaged my concerns
appropriately. He greeted me in smooth English.
"Pardon me, are you here for the Envoy meeting." I looked at him
quizzically. Having nothing better to do with my time and desperately
wanting to get this man off my hands, I gave him some change and
walked into the building me motioned to with his left hand as he bowed
his head and profusely thanked me. "Thank you so much! My names
Trevor. Trevor Ward. They don't pay much for being a peace lobbyist.
Oh yes thank you!" My mind quickly moved to other things as I entered
the room ahead of me.
Immediately to my right there were two boys furiously writing on a
chalkboard. Their handwriting was bad enough for them to be doctors.
They wrote with such enthusiasm that I felt compelled to speak with
them.
"Hi." I said, extending my hand. "I'm Hank."
"Greetings!" Said the shorter of the two, pushing some over sized
glasses up on his nose. "I'm Jesse." He turned to his companion.
"Maybe if we include more phosphorus the mixture would be less
volatile."
Jesse's companion nodded his head importantly. "I'm Zack." He said
thrusting his hand in my direction. I shook it cautiously.
"I'm Hank." Zack had already forgotten about me and was moving on to
mixing two nasty looking fluids together. I left the Einsteins and
moved on. A blond man approached with a woman on his arm. The woman
smiled pleasantly at me. The man grimaced.
"Hi. I'm Hank." I said, trying not to stare at the man's hair which
looked like a failed attempt at keeping girls away.
"I'm Sam. And this is my girl, Adrienne."
"Hi." I said again feeling a little uncomfortable. Neither of the two
noticed me. "Well...I'll be see--" I stopped short. Something I had
initially taken to be a bush moved from behind Adrianne. It was large,
furry, and smelly. I tapped Adrienne on the arm. "What is THAT?" I
asked.
"Oh." Said Adrienne, her face falling. "That would be Travis."
"What?" Said Sam, turning and firing a shotgun from the hip. The
blast caught Travis full in the chest. Thankfully, the hair took most
of the impact. A coke can flew out of Travis' hand and clattered in
the distance somewhere. Travis ran for cover. I walked over to see if
he was OK, but by the time I arrived all I could get out of him were
sobs and cries of 'Adrienne'.
Not a little disconcerted I walked on. I came to a small, very square
box. From inside I heard laughing. I knocked on the boxes side and a
little Irish man poked his head out.
"Whadya want?" He said, his voice slurred from intense drinking.
"Um...I didn't mean to disturb you, I ju--" He cut me off with a
string of Irish curse words and an invitation to join him for a drink.
I accepted and climbed into the box. There was a young lady sitting in
the corner of the square sipping tea and reading a "Mere Christianity"
Next to her, there was a stack of books which reached the roof of the
box with ever single thing CS Lewis ever wrote. She was rapidly
discussing random things she discovered with the drunk Irish fellow. I
had a beer, nodded to the lady who had hardly noticed me in the time I
was there and left the square box. Let me say it was the most freeing
feeling to leave that box.
Almost as soon as I left I was greeted by a charming young lady.
"Hi. I'm Jessica." She said.
"I'm Hank." I said. Relieved to find someone normal finally in this
place. Jessica had a haggard look on her face, like someone who has
seen to much pain, too much fighting, and is ready to put up her sword
and take a long rest. I asked "What are you doing here?"
Jessica looked a little confused. Her answer was stifled by a call
from behind her. It sounded like a mix of a wolf snarling and a boy
crying.
"Hey Jessica, you owe me $20!"
Jessica cringed. "Get down," she said "It's the Nazi!"
I ducked behind a convenient crate full of paper. I peered over to
see something that resembled something out of my nightmares more than
a human. It was crouched in a corner sniffing a smelly, yellow
substance. It hard dark, cold eyes which darted about the room.
"Nazi?" I asked.
"Yes...steer clear of him if you can" Jessica panted.
His face looked like it had been through every war since the war of
1812. The nose (if you can call it that) was bigger than the rest of
his body and covered in pot marks and breaks. It resembled a staircase
more than anything else. With every snort of the yellow substance he
cried out half in pleasure half in pain.
"Who is he? How did he get like that?"
"His name is Logan. I don't know how that happened to him. The best
we can tell, it comes from overdoses of folic acid and vitamin C."
"You can overdose on those?" Jessica's answer was cut short as Logan
snarled and pointed behind the box. He began to run towards us
snorting and howling the whole way, opening another packet of
Emergen-C.
"RUN!" Jessica yelled. I never saw her again. I was running away from
the scene as fast as my legs could carry me when a young, burly
looking, helpful man stopped me.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"Run...Jessica....Logan..." I panted. He smiled knowingly.
"I have a place you can hide." He said opening a trapdoor and
ushering me in. Inside there was another man who had a horrific
looking growth on his cheeks.
"Haha!" He laughed. "You two look more scared that Paris Hilton in
jail!" I wasn't amused.
"Are you OK?" I asked motioning towards the growth on his face.
"Better than Matt Damon in an armory!" He said cracking up again.
"Why? You like my sideburns?" I shrugged not wanting to start a fight.
"I'm Hank."
"I'm Cody."
"I'm Daniel," Said the helpful man who had aided me in my flight from Logan.
"Thanks for helping me, Daniel."
"He is always helping. A veritable Angelina Jolie he is!" Cody added
grinning. There was a knock at the door and Daniel got it.
"Hi there. I am Allison and I was wondering if I could convince you
to vote for Ron Paul." Daniel smiled and welcomed her in. I left
before the libertarian could get her hooks into me. As I left I passed
by a crying baby surrounded by diaper bags. Needless to say, I never
went back to that place.

Running Up A Tab (Room)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RFD: The Affirmative team had a better tie.

DECISION: Affirmative.

RFD: Nice Shoes.

DECISION: Double Loss.

RFD: What are you doing tonight after the tournament?

DECISION: Negative.

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

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

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

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.

Observation One: Redefinitions

I apologize to CJM for the nerdiness of this post. It was unavoidable.

The FCN writers were all present at a large debate tournament in Southern California a couple of weeks back (the one that got one of us drunk on coke and the others roadsick -- as opposed to homesick) and we had the opportunity to sit in on some of the policy debate rounds. In the course of these surprisingly long events (you wouldn't believe the windbags they had ka-chooing behind the podium), we discovered something that many high caliber debaters missed: the duty to define the resolution is rarely, if ever, fulfilled.

That's right, team after team would walk into a round and completely renege their affirmative duty to define the terms of the resolution. As many of you know, this year's debate resolution is “Resolved: That the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) should be significantly reformed or abolished.” Well, instead of defining all the terms the way they should, most teams just define so-called important terms like “NATO” or “the.” This results in a very skewed interpretation of the topic.

In the interest of setting a sound example and in order to give any of the debaters who count themselves among the faithful FCN few a late Christmas present, we are going to show you how definitions should really be done.

Here are the definitions we found after a few minutes of research:

Resolve: To separate (something) into constituent parts

That: something

The: beyond

North: cardinal point on the mariner's compass

Atlantic: the second largest ocean

Treaty: a formal agreement between two or more states

Organization: administrative personnel of such a structure

(NATO): (a musician who dresses like a Muslim woman)

Should: it is logically necessary to

Be: exist in actuality; have life or reality

Significantly: considerably

Reformed: produced by cracking

Or: and

Abolished: extirpate

When we add punctuation and articles, the defined resolution reads:

To separate something into constituent parts: beyond [the] cardinal point on the mariner's compass [and]the second largest ocean, a formal agreement between two or more states [or] the administrative personnel of such a structure (a musician who dresses like a Muslim woman), it is logically necessary to exist in actuality, have life or reality considerably produced by cracking and extirpat[ing].

With a resolution about cracking open an ocean to create dry land, why are were so many teams talking about Kosovo?

Alternate definition scenarios are welcome in the comment section.