Ettiquette Monday: How to Panhandle

We've all been panhandled. Most of us have given money. Most of us have also refused to give money. The difference between a successful beggar and an unsuccessful one is a fine one, and when you're in a pinch and need dough fast you don't have time to get good. This is a critical skillset to the modern human being; so you really ought to start practicing panhandling right away, using the techniques and methods described below.

First, what is panhandling exactly? According to the interwebs, panhandling is "to request a donation in a supplicating manner. Beggars are commonly found in public places, such as street corners or public transport, where they request money such as spare change. They may use cups, boxes or hats to receive the donations."

Panhandling is about getting money from people and getting nothing in return. Pretty sweet deal, right? Right. But less than 5% of people do it properly. Learn these methods, carefully perfected over many years of incredibly tacky poverty:

The View Blocker

Get up in the prospect's business and beg loudly and insistently for money until they give it to you. Do not attempt on men with tattoos or women with large purses.

The Passive Invite

Walk up to the person and stand about ten feet away, then stare at them so sadly that they ask you how they can help you. This method is much more effective on women.

The Vietnam Vet

You don't have to have ever been in Vietnam to be a Vietnam Vet. Just pull on a dirty green jacket, boots, and don't shave for a few days. Talk about how you can't find work because of wounds you sustained serving your country.

The Gulf War II Vet

If you're panhandling someone with an Obama bumper sticker, say you were wounded in Bush's illegal attack on Iraq.

The Public Charity

If you see a young couple on a date, tell the guy that he looks like the sort of upstanding charitable person who can spare some money for the poor. Without waiting for a response, compliment the gal on how lucky she is to have such a generous guy.

The Rehab Rat

Tell the prospect you need five bucks or they'll take you back to rehab. Surprisingly few people question this logic.

The Presumptive Close

Immediately thank the person for the five bucks they are about to give you. This is most effective on people who have just been in a car accident or are having an asthma attack.

The Matter of Great Urgency

Run up the prospect frantically and say you need five bucks. Be jumping up and down. Panic. Communicate that it's a matter of life and death. Clap your hands quickly and motion at the wallet or purse. Remind the person to hurry before it's too late. Then - and this is important - run like heck.

The Soon-to-be Dad

In a popular twist on the Matter of Great Urgency, tell the prospect that your wife is having a baby and you need gas money to get her to the hospital.

The Honest Abe

Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you'll use the money to buy drugs.

The Dishonest Abe

Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you won't use the money to buy drugs.

The Spy

Hold one hand to your ear. Tell the prospect you need them for a matter of national security. Lead them around a corner. Then peak around and say: "Rats! They followed me. Okay, quick - give me five bucks." When finished, tell the person to wait there because They didn't see your face yet. Then run like heck.

The Counterfeit Checker

After watching someone exit a store, tell them that a lot of counterfeit fives circulating in the area. Offer to to check theirs to see if they're okay. Then run like heck. This tactic is ill advised for prospects who can run faster than you.

The Concert Violinist

Tell the prospect that you're a world-class violinist who hit harsh times. You had to sell your family heirloom violin and now you're on the streets, but with a few more bucks you can get your violin back.

The Faux Lottery

Print out erroneous lottery tickets and sell them for a dollar each. Remind suspicious prospects that direct selling is "the old fashioned way."

These are, of course, just a few methods to get you started. Now go out and practice! Got your own ideas and methods? Comment below and help out your fellow washed-up readers.

Etiquette Monday: How to Avoid Paying for a Date

Let's face it: your association with this blog doesn't speak well to your ability to be the life of the party. Do people tend to look at you weird? Do you often wish you could smooth-talk someone into doing what you wanted? Are you often making embarrassing mistakes?

If you answered yes to any of those questions (and even if you didn't), you stand to benefit from the next few week's worth of Mondays. That's right, kids. Today, we begin Etiquette Monday. Let's start with one of the most important topics known to man: How to Avoid Paying for a Date.

If You're a Girl

Bat your eyelashes at your date and compliment him on being such a gentleman.

If You're a Boy

Well then. Things get complicated. Let's dig in.

Choosing a Restaurant

Restaurants that are well prepared to deal with dine-and-dashers are poor choices for a date. How do you spot these bistros? If they have security guards, a maitre d' with a tie, or any of the cooks have tattoos. Also, Denny's is a terrible choice.

Fast food restaurants don't serve you until you've paid. Never ever try a stunt there. You'll end up looking stupid at best.

Your best bet is to find a middle-of-the-road joint (somewhere between Baker's Square and Applebee's) that trusts its customers but won't go bankrupt if you can't shoulder the bill. Most such places smell classy enough that your date will be at least somewhat impressed.

Parking

Park away from the restaurant, but not too far away. Do not park in a position easily visible from within. Best case: park it around back where the employees park (provided they have a rear exit to the parking lot). If you have no other options, park on a side street. Visualize an escape route as you walk to the restaurant.

Finding a Table

The two things to stay away from are the restrooms and exits. If the restaurant has multiple exits, sit further away from the rear ones (which are more tactically useful). Try to find a table with a blocked line of sight; one which makes it impossible to clearly see anything. At the very least, claim the table with the best view of the doors so your date will have her back to them. Best case: dining on a rear patio, a casino buffet, or in a basement.

If you're being seated and you know where you want to sit, tell the maitre d' that such and such table has special meaning to you and you'd like to sit there again. They will usually accommodate.

The Old School Dine and Dash

Many people attempt the big double D but not many can pull it off correctly, often because they don't have the patience. It requires coordination and teamwork and is pretty risky, but it can be a great bonding experience with your date as opposed to most of the other tactics here which force her to pay.

Here's how it's done:

1) Establish to the waiter that you two are madly in love. Ideas: Order things to split, never stop staring at/touching each other, giggle at what the other person says. This will make you seem absent-minded and endearing while still slightly annoying the waiter so he won't miss you much.
2) Be nice to the waiter. This will prevent him from getting really really mad when you're gone and going after you.
3) Order big. You want to be able to eat your fill while still leaving lots of food on the table.
4) Wait for the waiter to check up on your table. This usually happens about 5-10 minutes after your food is served. When it is, give him a nearly full cup to refill, all the while staring into your date's eyes. This will establish that you don't need any help from him for awhile. Be sure you still have at least 50% of your food still on your plate.
5) Immediately after the waiter leaves, look at your cell phone as if you're getting a call on vibrate. Stand slowly, looking apologetically at your date, then put the phone to your ear and begin a conversation in very quiet tones as you walk quickly outside (to take the call). Take your date's purse with you. If you walk quickly enough people will assume there is a reason for it.
6) Go to your car and start the engine.
7) One hundred seconds later, your date should open her own cell phone as if to check the time. Then she should roll her eyes and walk quickly out of the restaurant. Because she is without her purse, it will occur to no one that she is leaving for good.
8) Skedaddle.

The choreography of the Old School DD is so well rehearsed and familiar to us FCN boys that we could do it in our sleep. Unfortunately, it's becoming a bit too popular. With dining staff becoming increasingly wary and cynical, new techniques for exiting the restaurant as a couple are arising, most of them involving public/explained exits. A few popular ones:

The New School Dine and Dash

Suddenly grab your date's purse and run out of the building. Have your date chase you, laughing. Never come back.

The Hokie Pokie

Break up with your date, leaving her in tears. Walk out of the building and have her follow you, begging you not to leave her. Never come back.

The Dutch Slide

Have an asthma attack. Recall that you left your inhaler in the car. Lean on your date as she helps you out. Never come back.

The Mambo

Get into a fight with your date. Start shouting at each other; continue until a dining staff person asks you to take it outside. Do so. Never come back.

The Old Friend

Spot an old mutual friend outside. Run out together to greet him, calling his name. Never come back.

The Good Riddance

Find a hair in the food. Scream and yell in shock together as if you're about to make a huge scene, then run from the building. Never come back.

Of course, you will probably find in many cases that your date is unreceptive to ethically questionable behavior. That's perfectly okay. If she wants to pay for the meal, that's her privilege. Here's how to get away from her around check time:

The Star Trek

Go into the bathroom. Hide until you're sure she's given up and gone home.

The Bait and Switch

Go into the bathroom. Text her saying that there was a family emergency and you had to leave. This works best if you arrived at the restaurant in separate cars.

The Ol' Forgot My Wallet Trick

When the check comes, tell your date that you've got it covered. Reach into your back pocket and register surprise. Then check all your other pockets. Wait for your date to ask you what's wrong. Tell her you think you left your wallet in the car. Run out to get it. Never come back.

The Nemo

Get a call on vibrate. Tell her it's from your brother the submarine captain. Take the call outside. Never come back.

The Lost Hero

See an old lady getting mugged outside. Run out to assist her. Never come back.

The Dutch Stag

Get an asthma attack. Tell your date you left your inhaler in your car. Never come back.

The Bus Stop

Be deeply offended and angered by something your date says. Go outside to cool off. Never come back.

The Leprechaun

Find an earing on the ground (that means coming prepared and seeding the carpet when she's not looking). Say that you think it belongs to that old lady who just left. Run out to give it back to her. Never come back.

The Discriminateur

Notice that something is wrong with the food. Go to complain to the kitchen. Never come back.

The Surprise

Tell your date you have a surprise for her, and that she should close her eyes. Never come back.

This is of course an inexhaustive list, but hopefully it's enough to get you thinking along the right lines. Skipping the check means thinking fast, adapting to the situation, and acting totally sincere no matter what. Remember: if you look confident, people won't stop you. The moment a flash of guilt crosses your face you're finished.

Be fast, smooth, and confident, and you'll never have to pay for a date again.

Will you be my friend?

You want to be cool. The cool kids have friends. You want to have friends. Here's how:

Make eye contact and smile, even when the other person is ugly and eye contact is painful.

Tell people you like their hair. People like to hear things about their hair. Don't be specific ("the grease in your hair has a great sheen") -- you'll only get into trouble.

Poke the person. That will get them interested. This is especially important if they start to fall asleep.

Say something. Anything.

Keep your shirt on, even if you think it would be entertaining to take it off.

Use pejorative language sparingly, especially as it relates to your conversation partner.

Use technology like phone, text, email and smoke signals to communicate. You can speak in person too.

Make sure the other person knows your name. Remind them of it occasionally in case they forget. If you forget the other person's name, you can ask them to remind you.

Apply pressure. Chide them for failing to invite you to be their friend. Call repeatedly at odd hours to get their attention and show you care.

Take it slowly, but make sure it takes.

Use the other person's secrets for leverage to get more friends. This will test your ability to listen and repeat.

Remember their birthday.

Miss a couple of promised events to keep things interesting.

When you are ready to make the big leap, push the add friend button. With all this wooing, your new Facebook friend should accept post haste.

FCN Clasic: Don't Eat Plants!

Warning: The following post contains content that may not be appropriate for all ages. It deals with a subject that is disturbing, frightening and disgusting. It also contains images (click to enlarge) that are shocking and perturbing. We show them to you only to highlight the nature of our opponents. Parental guidance is strongly advised. Proceed at your own risk.

A terrible travesty of justice, an iniquity that pervades this great land from right to left coast, just came to FCN's attention. It’s something of grand magnitude, terrible significance and horrid shock value. No, I am not talking about my new plan to grow my toenails out, but it is something that hits us similarly close to the heart (the stomach, to be exact).

The depressing and, if you haven't read the appropriate literature, surprising fact is that the vast majority of American kitchens (restaurant and home) subsidize rampant cruelty. I know that's a lot of big words and the faithful FCN few who attend college are already reaching for their PDs (as pocket dictionaries are affectionately titled), but let me see if I can spell it out more plainly:

In the past half century, most U.S. vegetable production has moved away from small family farms to factory farms -- huge warehouses where plants are confined in raised beds or greenhouses or a hydroponics bucket. The competition to lower costs has led agri-business to treat vegetables as mere objects rather than as individuals who can suffer. Large farming operations, that focus more on the bottom line more than ethical plant treatment, are systematically destroying all respect for the members of Kingdom Vegetabilia and desensitizing us to the trauma in the process.

From the time a vegetable is first planted, cruelty is on the mind of the farmer. Seeds are spaced so closely together that overcrowding is rampant and many plants are unable to get enough light to survive. Smaller plants are yanked out by their roots and left to die of exposure. Paid agents of the farmer exercise the explicit mandates of their boss, often never thinking through the consequences of their actions.

As the plants grow, the farmer applies stressing chemicals that, while inducing greater crop yields, often stunt the plant’s long term growth and give it a bleak future. Sometimes these chemicals are tested in labs on live plants (think Josef Mengele but scarier) and chemical companies show little or no regard to the life they regularly destroy.

Devastating poisons are sprayed on helpless plants via crop duster.

When a plant finally produces some fruit, it is brutally and violently “picked” and sent to be processed at a far away facility. Most plants never see their offspring.

Many plants are euthanized soon after “harvest.”

At the processing facility, vegetables undergo even more trauma. A sharp knife peals away a vegetables skin and it is often wrapped in airtight plastic wrapping for many weeks before being released. Those that survive this brutality must submit to freezing, storage and other associated indignities before being allowed to breathe.

Terrified veggies wait helplessly in a supermarket.

Even after being rescued by a shopper like you and I, many vegetables are further brutalized. A recent survey found that most veggies used in everyday snacks and meals are diced, chopped, cut, ground or pureed beforehand.

A veggie burial ground.

Kids learn destructive eating patterns that they keep with them their whole lives.

A well-supplied cook takes great pride in his or her weapons.

Perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that these vegetables are still perceived as appetizing despite the nature of their abuse.

A chef boils veggies alive in cooking oil.

Hidden from public view, the cruelty that occurs on factory farms is easy to ignore. But more and more people are taking a look at how farmed vegetables are treated and deciding that it's too cruel to support.

Secret meeting of a sadist veggie-abusing cult.

What we choose to eat makes a powerful statement about our ethics and our view of the world – about our very humanity. By not buying legumes, fruit, and vegetable products, we withdraw our support from cruelty to plants, undertake an economic boycott of factory farms, and support the production of cruelty-free foods. From children and grandparents to celebrities and athletes, compassionate living is spreading – and easier than ever! Today, even small-town grocery stores can feature a variety of burgers, dogs, and deli slices, milks, and dairy desserts – a bounty unimaginable only a decade ago!

Even if you like vegetables (and who wouldn't mind giving up a few veggies?) you can help end this cruelty. If everyone just cut their veggie consumption in half, billions of vegetables would be spared from suffering every year.

When you first discover the reality of modern vegetable agriculture, avoiding all products from factory farms might seem too big a change. But don’t be overwhelmed – just take small steps. For example, you could eliminate veggies from certain meals or on certain days. As you get used to eating fewer vegetables and find alternatives you enjoy, it may become easier to eliminate vegetables altogether.

When you share your new discoveries and ideas, some people may not only show resistance, but might even react with mockery or anger. In order to prevent suffering, however, we must let the compassion we feel for vegetables shine through the pain and anger we feel about the atrocities of factory farming. Unless others can respect us—as opposed to finding us cold and judgmental— they will have little interest in taking steps to end cruelty to vegetables.

Instead of expecting others to change immediately, we need to be understanding, giving everyone time to consider the realities of factory farms at their own pace and within their unique situations. Burning bridges with anger only serves to create enemies and to feed the stereotype that carnivores are self-righteous.

Although it may be tempting to argue over related topics (such as what our prehistoric ancestors ate), the simplest statement can be the most powerful: “I know that I don’t want to suffer. Therefore, I don’t want to cause others to suffer.” As long as we remain respectful, our positive example and the information we provide will ultimately be the best voice for the vegetables.

Tell your friends: DON'T EAT PLANTS!

Allo?

On July 1, 2008, California will join most of Europe in banning cellular phone handsets in cars. This is one of many areas of the law where California has become more European. The move comes at a time when communication gizmos are multiplying faster than the Jolie-Pitt family and tech-savvy consumers are working overtime to keep up with the innovations. Now we'll have to leave those fancy innovations in the glove compartment and install the cyborg earpieces over our pinnas.

I'm upset about the ban because I won't be able to use my new handset in my car. I got this nifty little communication gadget from the phone company a few weeks ago and have completely fallen in love with it. It's a flexible wire designed to drape over your hand with a microphone attachment for your pinky finger and a speaker over the thumb. You can purchase the wires in different lengths for smaller or larger hands so that the attachment fits snugly against your skin. As the salesman at the phone shop told me, there is nothing worse than a loosely moored phone.

The wire for the mic and speaker attach to a hub, which is about an inch thick and has a five line LCD screen with a green backlight reminiscent of early DOS computers. Most users like to keep the phone on their left hand, but I prefer the model oriented for the right, since it lets me look like the guy in the promotional material. The phone is almost impossible to misplace because as long as you have your hand, you'll have your phone.


Cingular is in talks with Hwang Woo-Suk, a South Korean biomedical scientist, to develop a microchip which can house all the phone's information. A keypad will be placed on the back of the user's hand, but no other changes will be made. I have volunteered for an experimental installation with Woo-Suk and could be experiencing the bliss of total connectivity as soon as next year.

I'm really happy with my flex phone and was looking forward to using it in my car this summer. Instead I'll have to pull it off quickly when I'm pulled over and tell the patrolman that I was just faking a phone with a hang loose symbol. Honest, officer, who talks into their hand? If only Tatum O'Neal had such creativity.

Dating Disaster

"Everyone has these days." That's what I told myself during a sixteen hour period when everything went wrong before even considering going right. You know what I'm talking about: Nothing works out as it should. Regularly taken gambles and risks are rewarded with the sort of destitution normally reserved for the risk addicted, things that should go up go down and vice versa, polite comments are interpreted as premeditated insults and even friends begin to question your sanity.

You've probably had these kinds of days - you may have even had a day as bad as mine - but it is unlikely that you shared that experience with a beautiful woman.

We'll call her "Alexis" because I don't want to spend a great deal of time agonizing over a name for a woman who probably detests me and wouldn't read my writing for all the orange juice in Florida. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I met Alexis at a nondescript social function through school, the kind of affair that the politically and socially savvy frequent and that neck ties enjoy because they provide a vacation from their wrinkled and lonely closet existence. One look at Alexis revealed she was out of my league. Blond and attractive, she had radiant features and a captivating smile that every guy in the room noticed.

When I first saw her, I was mid sentence with a group of jocks talking about n'importe quoi. I stopped and my jaw must have gone slack since the whole group turned to follow my gaze. As one they answered my unstated question: "She's out of your league, man."

With my friends' statement as encouragement, I grabbed a couple of the cheesy fondue pieces that passed as "refreshments" at the shing-ding and moseyed in her general direction. When we met I was pleasantly surprised that she was able to overlook my many social faux pas and general lack of grace. We had a conversation (she was more than just a pretty face) and, by the end of the evening, a scheduled date. Take that, jealous jocks.

To get to the distant amusement park for which I'd bummed tickets in time to enjoy an entire day of nauseating fun, Alexis and I had to leave at an ungodly early hour. For a derelict like me, any hour before noon is early, but when the alarm rings much before twelve it's easy to ignore the noise as irritation and sleep on. That's exactly what I did. When I rolled out of bed, groggy eyed and rested, I glanced at my clock radio with the curious expression of a six year-old. The green numbers were not what I expected to see when I'd prepared myself for an early departure the night before. Nor, for that matter, did they represent a time at all close to the rendez-vous time Alexis and I had set for our trip.

It's always a tad embarrassing to stand a girl up. There was that time my senior year in High School when I accidentally scheduled two dates at once and took the "where are you?" call from one girl while dining with another. My "thanks for the call, mom" hang up line managed to further infuriate the girl I'd stood up and was unconvincing to the young woman I was with. If you're reading this, Liz, I'm sorry. And you deserve better, too, Becky. Then there was the time I decided to stop for pizza on the way to pick up my date for a dinner and dance. She smelled the pepperoni on my breath when I got to her house thirty minutes late and my flat tire excuse deflated quickly. There was also the time I plumb forgot about a lunch obligation and was halfway through my break and on the other side of town when the young woman called with a reminder.

These "Great Moments in Stand Up History" pale in comparison to my half-dressed, 45 minute late arrival. As soon as I remembered my date, I determined I didn't have time to shower, shave or shine, the three Ss of my morning routine. So I grabbed Lysol from under the bathroom sink and gave my entire body a quick application. The smell was overpowering, so I dug around for the Febreze and gave the strategic locations a few squirts. Still dissatisfied, I turned a bottle of aftershave upside down over my head and toweled my hair dry. In retrospect, a little cologne might have added some musk to my potpourri of scents, but I didn't think to reach for my room mate's bottle of Stetson.

I actually entered my car wearing only underwear but managed to dress while averaging over ninety miles per hour on the freeway. Did I mention I was driving a manual transmission? Or that my super efficient economy car is on the opposite end of the spacious spectrum from Loretta Lynn's Lincoln. I pulled into the parking lot where we were to meet, having been awake only 45 minutes, but smelling, I'm sure, like I'd just gotten out of the soap factory. When Alexis sat down in the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze. I pointed to my car's frame, which was home to more dirt than the underside of a horse's hoof, and said I'd just had it waxed. Alexis' nonpulsed answer revealed my lie's ineffectiveness and I noticed her glancing furtively at my hair which I admit had a sort of Vegas air.

At that moment, sitting next to a young woman who really did justice to the term "beautiful" in her chic green jacket and white blouse, my day was not going badly. In fact, had it ended right then with some kind of meteoric disaster, I'd have few regrets.

But it didn't end there. Alexis has the political views of a slightly demented Maoist minion and, after a few minutes of listening to her compare Dennis Kucinich to Mike Gravel, two men who have the combined political clout of my deceased dog, I told her as much. Some people watch Crossfire for entertainment, but few want to experience that level of argumentative intensity on a first date. I was no exception. It took the restraint of a Gregorian Monk to keep from pulling to the side of the interstate and leaving her to walk back to her communal abode.

I was just starting to warm up to Alexis when we stopped for breakfast. For some reason Alexis wanted to take a walk, so we hoofed around for twenty minutes before selecting an eatery. With the words of Avril Lavigne ringing in my ears ("I have to pull my money out and that looks bad"), I insisted on paying for the meal. Only the restaurant didn't take credit. And I didn't have any cash on me. I turned glumly to my date. "Alexis?" Like me, Alexis was a plastic aficionado who had about as much of the green stuff as the hairy guy with the shopping cart on Fourth and Vine. In fact, the richest entity between us was my car, which likes to keep some money in the ashtray.

From car to eatery and back was a little over three miles, but I ran it in less than twenty minutes, a pretty good time for an out of shape derelict. I also ran it in jeans and shirt, both of which lost their soapy smell by the end of the ordeal. Alexis enjoyed her meal while my body recovered from the run.

After rinsing out my shirt (Alexis' idea), we got back in the car and continued toward our destination. That's when the unthinkable happened.

I was on a sparsely trafficked freeway, going at about the speed of the other cars, maybe a little faster. I'd stopped sweating and Alexis wasn't talking politics. Things were looking up. Then, in one moment, my biggest claim to driving fame evaporated and, with it, I lost my tax rebate. That's right, I got ticketed. I did everything right. I told the officer I was late for work at In N' Out burger (an establishment that gives uniformed police officers a discount), that my new shoes had a bigger sole than I was used to and that my friend was in labor and that I was driving her to the hospital. When I mentioned my date, the officer took a closer look. His reaction was as unpredictable as it was crushing.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

That's right, I got pulled over by my date's cop dad. He wrote me up for the maximum and confiscated his daughter, telling her that she shouldn't be "keeping the company of such..." while gesturing toward me to emphasize his unfinished sentence. He also told me Alexis was out of my league. I drove home alone and went to bed as quickly as possible. I wanted that date to be over.

The next day, I called Alexis twice and left imploring messages. I emailed her, too. A few days later I blocked my number and called, but she hung up as soon as I identified myself. Her meaning could not have been more clear: another dating disaster.

Fashion #4: Yeah, I wear a speedo.

People like athletes. They are a tad like airline pilots, military personnel and Carrie Underwood in that few have anything negative to say about them and their good faith and humor is almost universally assumed. Some of my less athletically minded friends have considered introducing themselves as athletes to girls, just to get more positive attention. When asked how he would answer an inquiry about what sport he plays, one of my more innovative friends answered he would brush it off with a "you know, the one with the ball and the points that requires great feats of physical prowess." Yeah, that one.

It may be because people like to watch those who are in shape perform at their best. Or maybe it's just that people are awed and intrigued by all those impressive feats. It could also be that people like the thrill of a being in a cheering stadium, the shocked feeling of seeing someone stomped to a pulp, or the tingling butterflies they get in their tummies when a hush falls over the crowd at the climax of a game.

So when people ask me what I do, I bring up my best feature first. I confess that the first thing I tell them is that I am a swimmer. It usually works well for a few moments. The other person is impressed that I would devote so much time to swimming back and forth in a body of water with no one chasing me and they ask about how many people I've seen drown.

Then comes the test. There is no foolproof profession or extra-curricular activity. Lawyers may be wealthy, smart and well dressed, but their ethics put them in the same category as the smaller members of the Mustelidae family. Plumbers may work hard and have strong bodies, but their salaries and close proximity with "ewwey" substances makes their work imperfect. For extra-curricular activities, members of the debate team may be intelligent and have good prospects for the future, but their meager social skills and utter nerdiness balance out these qualities. Jocks may compensate for the deficiencies of debaters, but they carry their own liabilities.

Turns out, there are two types of people in the world. The ones who ask a swimmer what his favorite stroke is and the ones who ask if you wear a Speedo. Invariably, on a bad day, it will be the latter. The conversation usually goes like this:

"Do you actually wear a Speedo?"

"Well, if you mean Speedo brand, yes." [note, the question is left unanswered]

"Whew, for a second I though you were, uh, one of those kind of people..." [laughs]

"Well, I kind of am. I prefer to call it a competitive suit." [gulps]

"Wait; say what?"

But for a swimmer, wearing a suit isn't a fashion statement. It's a tool for speed. The electrician doesn't remove a pair of pliers for its aesthetic appeal; rather he worries about how well it will snip a wire. Similarly, we swimmers are not concerned about our apparel - until, of course, a friend asks the fateful question.

My new approach is to make like Billary and avoid the question entirely. I talk about how full body suits are becoming the norm for professional athletes (you know, the clothes that Jessica Alba wears to parties?) and start to talk about the greats in our activity. Heck, I'll even get into a conversation about my sister's music before I answer the speedo question straight up.

But just because we're athletes doesn't mean we never think about how we look. Just stop at a finish sometime and watch the guys and girls adjust their hair after a race and we most definitely still care about our tan lines.

Fasion #3: The Fashionista

Meet Bill. Bill was a student in my French class last semester but his was the sort of nondescript behavior that rarely makes it to FCN. Bill has, however, seen a mention on these pages before, although the reference was less than flattering.

In case you don't follow hyperlinks, Bill is automatically a weird person because he is one of the few males in this world to choose to study French. He builds on this eccentric base by wearing his red hair ragged in an undecided way. It's as if his barber started to clip it short but stopped when Bill got scared of how it might look. The result was a keritanized collection of hairs that sprouted from his head with all the organization of the business end of a mop.

Bill is thin and frail. His weight puts him in the same category as anorexic Hollywood, but instead of showing off this corps léger with a Mick Jagger top and emo pants, he sports the kind of unremarkable clothing that says "I'm in college, but my mom bought me this shirt and I'm wearing it for the third straight day." He could have dressed like a music store employee and tried to develop an identity around his sub-100 pound frame ("crack fiend on slim fast" is in, or so I read in TMZ); instead he hid his European figure as if in shame.

Bill had a girlfriend. The fact was a continual source of entertainment for the gossips in class who wondered how such a character could possibly scare up female companionship. I'll admit that I was flummoxed and a little jealous of his success. Then I met the girlfriend and everything became clear. She was the portly opposite of Bill and wore the sort of loose flowing garb you might see Arabian Nights. She walked with a pronounced waddle and had a face reminiscent of the woman in the Planter's Peanut ads. She was a soprano (i.e. the fat lady of the opera) and had a personality to match.

Bill lost his girlfriend. He never told me the juicy details, but I knew the loss hit him hard. He said some nasty things about singers and pledged to move on with his life. At first, Bill was his normal undecided self; then things started to change.

Bill came to class one day in a collared shirt. He still had the forty-year old jeans and ratty tennies, but something about that ironed top was a harbinger of future change. Bill started to grow his hair out and added some product to create an intentioned style. He started showering more and his skin looked more clear. One day he stopped wearing jeans altogether and replaced his old pant selection with pressed slacks. Wingtips followed and some days he even wore a blazer or a suit jacket. Bill purchased a belt which lent his outfit an air of completeness and, even though he was still his abrasive self, he started to act more confident. On the day of the final exam, Bill came to class with greased hair in a Georgio Armani suit with shoulder enhancing pads and silk shirt. He was completely out of place with the PJ bottoms and hoodie tops most of the students wore, but he had managed to find an identity and we were willing to look a little under dressed in order to see him develop a style.

I saw the Bill the other day. He is still lighter than Keira Knightley after an hour in a sauna suit, but now his wardrobe doesn't look like an accident. Whereas before Bill had all the aesthetic appeal of a doorknob, his new outfit made him look approachable and interesting.

I imagine Bill will be working as the CEO of a Fortune 500 company before I can get out of General Mills - he certainly dresses for the part.

25 things not to do at the dinner table...

Taken from Amy Vanderbilt and personal experience...

1) Compliment the food and then ask why it tastes so much worse than usual.
2) Dilute the stew with water from your cup.
3) Dilute the stew with milk from your cup.
4) Strain water out from your stew into your water cup using your hands as an improvised colander.
5) Talk about Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi or Michael Jackson.
6) Wear headphones.
7) Raise your hand to ask a question.
8) Take notes.
9) Read back from your notes during the conversation.
10) Use your fork as anything other than an eating utensil.
11) Bend the tines on your fork for better mastication assistance.
12) Use the term "mastication assistance."
13) Take food from a passing tray with your hands.
14) Justify the taking of food from a passing tray with your hands.
15) Apologize for taking food from a passing tray with your hands.
16) Ask questions about the nutritional qualities of the meal.
17) Wonder out loud about the pesticides used on the vegetables.
18) Mention the PETA poster posted to your cubicle wall and describe in detail the images displayed thereon.
19) Bounce you knee up and down to get a cardiovascular workout.
20) Say "PETA poster posted prettily" three times fast.
21) Ask what the menu will look like tomorrow.
22) Wonder aloud if the meat at the table once had dark or light fur.
23) Sing an Avril Lavigne song and/or attempt to lead others in an Avril Lavigne song.
24) Draw comparisons between the taste of the food to anything eaten during last summer's family camping trip.
25) Ask how long it will be until the meal ends.

Prayer of Confession

Heads were bowed, eyes were closed and hands were folded as the pastor led his congregation in a Prayer of Confession and Declaration of Forgiveness. Everyone was still and silent and pastor’s soft words were heard plainly from the pulpit.

“We come to you Father mired in and cognizant of our transgressions...”

In the front row, between two fatigued parents, sat a young girl. She looked to be somewhere in years between five and seven, but was a tad stout and had the ornery air of a person who enjoys rebellion, which rendered an accurate age assessment impossible. To that point during the service she had made a number of mischievous dalliances toward inappropriate behavior, but she had never gone so far as to cause a disturbance. Only my eyes, peeled as they were to youthful societal infractions, picked up on her desire to sin.

With both parents distracted by the prayer, the young girl saw her opportunity. Posterity will never know exactly what she did that scratched her sin itch, but it must have been satisfying because it immediately drew a “SHHHH” from one of her parents.

Pastor continued his prayer:

”We acknowledge our shortcomings and humble ourselves in Your presence knowing that You and You alone...”

The girl in the front row succumbed again to temptation and this violation put her over the threshold. Mother grabbed daughter’s wrist and marched deliberately toward the back exit. Both women were wearing stylish sandals that made a distinctive flip-flop sound as they moved, such that even without lifting my head I could track their location.

“We disappoint You routinely – such shortcomings are in our nature – but You in Your benevolence see fit to correct us...”

The walls of the church building were thin and the sound of a sobbing girl was not restrained to the nursery room. Apparently her rebellious desire was extinguished quickly by a stern look from mom and in its place were shrieks of expectant agony. The girl knew she was going to get a spanking and everyone in the sanctuary knew it too.

“Save us heavenly Father from the punishment of eternal damnation and the flames of hell...”

The retort of a blunt impact reverberated around the room and was followed by a bellow of unrestrained agony punctuated at times by girly sobs. Another smack was recorded in the ledger or our ears and more screams reinforced pastor’s prayer.

”You know our hearts and minds, please see our penitence...”

“I’M SOO SORRY MAMA!” The temptation was firmly erased from the young girl’s mind and her only thoughts were for her own comfort. Although she was hidden from view, I am sure tears were streaming down her cheeks and that sitting down would be unpleasant for the next few minutes.

Another voice, much quieter than the young girl’s sobs and more feminine than the pastor’s prayer joined in saying “It’s OK, honey. Come on; all’s forgiven.”

“Thank you Father for sending Your son to give His sanctifying blood on our behalf...”

The flips-flops made their way back to the front of the sanctuary, accented by gentle sniffles from the young girl. Daughter looked embarrassed and mother appeared oblivious to the fact that the entire church had witnessed her meted punishment. Pastor made no comment, he only concluded his prayer:

”In Your blessed name we pray, Amen.”

Green SUV

Environmentalist extremists are hypocrites. It seems that that's the message sent by every major "green" political figure from Al Gore III to Paris Hilton. I don't want to believe that, though; I want to think that every conservationist who puts plants and animals before human beings has the purist of intentions and a consistent heart. I want to believe that environmentalist extremists put the same fervor behind their convictions as Tookie Williams. I really really do.

In fact, I put myself to sleep every night not by counting sheep, but by saying over and over again "Greens are people too, Greens are people too, Greens are people too..." My room mate says he wants me to find help.

Anyway, that's the overly elaborate setup for my trip to work from school the other day that had me zipping (siren sounds) along the interstate listening to Emerson Drive's rendition of Devil Went Down to Georgia. I really think the Campbell Creek Gang has a better version, but regardless the devil was just getting his fiddle licks in when I noticed a Chevrolet Suburban up ahead of me. The Suburban was guzzling along at the speed limit so I quickly gained the distance to its bumper and had to tap the brakes to keep from tailgating.

That's when I noticed that the car was adorned with several bumper stickers. Seven to be exact. They covered the back window and bumper like a poorly applied wallpaper and left small gaps where I could see the car's original color.

The bumper stickers were, as you may have anticipated, strongly from a Green persuasion. "Vote Green," "TREEHUGGER," "Treehugging Dirt Worshipper," "Plant Seeds and Sing Songs," and "Love Your MOTHER" with a small avatar of the globe are the only five I remember, but you get the idea. The driver of the car had obviously bought out the campaign offices of Ralph Nader and done a number on her vehicle immediately thereafter. I didn't even want to think about resale value.

The obvious question in my mind is why in the wold a Greenie would be driving a Guzzler. A little research reveals that the 2006 Suburban gets a meager 15 miles per gallon in the city. Each additional gallon burned, according to the propagandists who write those bumper stickers, is more environmental pollution and further propels our nation toward global warming or cooling, whichever doomsday scenario is in vogue.

It was plain hypocrisy and a laughable inconsistency to see an environmentally unfriendly vehicle with Greenie stickers.

But FCN isn't a blog that just sit backs and snipes. No! We offer solutions and find ways around hypocrisy. What the driver of this vehicle (a female, in case you just had to know) should do is purchase a bike or SMART car (0 to 60 in sixty seconds!) and paste all her messages onto this green form of transportation. Or, if she were really environmentally conscious, she could just walk everywhere and save the manufacturers of the bike the pollution of corrugating the steel and place her favorite bumpersticker on her back. (Notice I didn't say backside, because that would have been inappropriate).

I consulted a friend in search of the reasons that might drive (note the pun!) a young woman to such ironic hypocrisy, and my friend pointed out that maybe she is a new driver, put-putting around in her parent's vehicle. If so, maybe she felt the need to express her individuality without shelling out the big bucks for a ride of her own. Or, and this is my idea, someone vandalized her vehicle with the stickers and she has yet to notice.

This episode does present a rule of thumb that you, the faithful FCN few, can draw from: whatever you are driving, make sure your bumper stickers match the make and model. If you are driving a hybrid (Prius, Camry), you can roll with the greenie tags. If your whip is a slick sports car (Porsche, Mustang), you can ride with an arogant and speedster sticker. If you ride around in a truck or beater sedan (S-10, F-150), a military pride message or something having to do with beers after work works well. Expensive cars that send a message on their own (Beamers, Escalades) should generally leave their bumpers with their factory installed shine; they should be clear of anything that would block the natural beauty of the car.

And, as always, FCN readers should consider the FCN bumpersticker collection for their cars. OK, terribly sorry for ending an otherwise solid post with a shameless stub, but, well, that's the kind of car I drive.

"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be on every beast of the earth, on every bird of the air, on all that move on the earth, and on all the fish of the sea. They are given into your hand. Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. I have given you all things, even as the green herbs."
~ Genesis 9:4

All Hail The Entrée!

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

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

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

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

[Applause]

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

[Cheers, scattered applause]

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

[Applause]

Give them nothing! But take from them everything!

[Applause]

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

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

[Laughter]

Brothers, what we do in life echoes in eternity.

[Muttered agreement]

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

You are men; eat like it!

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

All Hail The Entrée!

Don't Eat Plants!

Warning: The following post contains content that may not be appropriate for all ages. It deals with a subject that is disturbing, frightening and disgusting. It also contains images (click to enlarge) that are shocking and perturbing. We show them to you only to highlight the nature of our opponents. Parental guidance is strongly advised. Proceed at your own risk.

A terrible travesty of justice, an iniquity that pervades this great land from right to left coast, just came to FCN's attention. It’s something of grand magnitude, terrible significance and horrid shock value. No, I am not talking about my new plan to grow my toenails out, but it is something that hits us similarly close to the heart (the stomach, to be exact).

The depressing and, if you haven't read the appropriate literature, surprising fact is that the vast majority of American kitchens (restaurant and home) subsidize rampant cruelty. I know that's a lot of big words and the faithful FCN few who attend college are already reaching for their PDs (as pocket dictionaries are affectionately titled), but let me see if I can spell it out more plainly:

In the past half century, most U.S. vegetable production has moved away from small family farms to factory farms -- huge warehouses where plants are confined in raised beds or greenhouses or a hydroponics bucket. The competition to lower costs has led agri-business to treat vegetables as mere objects rather than as individuals who can suffer. Large farming operations, that focus more on the bottom line more than ethical plant treatment, are systematically destroying all respect for the members of Kingdom Vegetabilia and desensitizing us to the trauma in the process.

From the time a vegetable is first planted, cruelty is on the mind of the farmer. Seeds are spaced so closely together that overcrowding is rampant and many plants are unable to get enough light to survive. Smaller plants are yanked out by their roots and left to die of exposure. Paid agents of the farmer exercise the explicit mandates of their boss, often never thinking through the consequences of their actions.

As the plants grow, the farmer applies stressing chemicals that, while inducing greater crop yields, often stunt the plant’s long term growth and give it a bleak future. Sometimes these chemicals are tested in labs on live plants (think Josef Mengele but scarier) and chemical companies show little or no regard to the life they regularly destroy.

Devastating poisons are sprayed on helpless plants via crop duster.

When a plant finally produces some fruit, it is brutally and violently “picked” and sent to be processed at a far away facility. Most plants never see their offspring.

Many plants are euthanized soon after “harvest.”

At the processing facility, vegetables undergo even more trauma. A sharp knife peals away a vegetables skin and it is often wrapped in airtight plastic wrapping for many weeks before being released. Those that survive this brutality must submit to freezing, storage and other associated indignities before being allowed to breathe.

Terrified veggies wait helplessly in a supermarket.

Even after being rescued by a shopper like you and I, many vegetables are further brutalized. A recent survey found that most veggies used in everyday snacks and meals are diced, chopped, cut, ground or pureed beforehand.

A veggie burial ground.

Kids learn destructive eating patterns that they keep with them their whole lives.

A well-supplied cook takes great pride in his or her weapons.

Perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that these vegetables are still perceived as appetizing despite the nature of their abuse.

A chef boils veggies alive in cooking oil.

Hidden from public view, the cruelty that occurs on factory farms is easy to ignore. But more and more people are taking a look at how farmed vegetables are treated and deciding that it's too cruel to support.

Secret meeting of a sadist veggie-abusing cult.

What we choose to eat makes a powerful statement about our ethics and our view of the world – about our very humanity. By not buying legumes, fruit, and vegetable products, we withdraw our support from cruelty to plants, undertake an economic boycott of factory farms, and support the production of cruelty-free foods. From children and grandparents to celebrities and athletes, compassionate living is spreading – and easier than ever! Today, even small-town grocery stores can feature a variety of burgers, dogs, and deli slices, milks, and dairy desserts – a bounty unimaginable only a decade ago!

Even if you like vegetables (and who wouldn't mind giving up a few veggies?) you can help end this cruelty. If everyone just cut their veggie consumption in half, billions of vegetables would be spared from suffering every year.

When you first discover the reality of modern vegetable agriculture, avoiding all products from factory farms might seem too big a change. But don’t be overwhelmed – just take small steps. For example, you could eliminate veggies from certain meals or on certain days. As you get used to eating fewer vegetables and find alternatives you enjoy, it may become easier to eliminate vegetables altogether.

When you share your new discoveries and ideas, some people may not only show resistance, but might even react with mockery or anger. In order to prevent suffering, however, we must let the compassion we feel for vegetables shine through the pain and anger we feel about the atrocities of factory farming. Unless others can respect us—as opposed to finding us cold and judgmental— they will have little interest in taking steps to end cruelty to vegetables.

Instead of expecting others to change immediately, we need to be understanding, giving everyone time to consider the realities of factory farms at their own pace and within their unique situations. Burning bridges with anger only serves to create enemies and to feed the stereotype that carnivores are self-righteous.

Although it may be tempting to argue over related topics (such as what our prehistoric ancestors ate), the simplest statement can be the most powerful: “I know that I don’t want to suffer. Therefore, I don’t want to cause others to suffer.” As long as we remain respectful, our positive example and the information we provide will ultimately be the best voice for the vegetables.

Tell your friends: DON'T EAT PLANTS!

The Day I Ate A Whole Mess Of Taquitos

The other day I ate a whole mess of Taquitos.

I went to the freezer and opened a large blue box of El Monterey Steak and Cheese Flour Taquitos. The box said 24 count, but I didn't intend to eat all of them. I put the box in the kitchen by the microwave, tore open the sealable plastic inner packaging and laid a handful of frozen Taquitos on a microwavable plate.

I wasn't hungry, it was just the time to eat. There were healthier foods in the house, even more convenient faire, had I looked for it, but Taquitos were a comfort food. Just watching them rotate slowly on the turntable reminded me of their salty aftertaste and rich flavor. The microwave's gentle hum had a prozaic effect and the morning's stress seemed temporarily repulsed by the thought of Americanized-Mexican finger food.

When the microwave beeped, my appetite had improved and I tore into the first Taquito quickly. It was still a little cold in the middle, but that didn't bother me. It tasted just the way I rememberd it and my stomach was ignited to the possibility of more Taquitos. I finished the plate quickly and, before anyone saw what I was doing or my voice of reason could interrupt my decision-making, I grabbed another handful of Taquitos and started the microwave again.

As the next batch heated, my stomach sent a message to my brain saying that it was pretty close to full and that no more food was really needed to satisfy the hunger requirement. My brain treated the message the way the CIA treats urgent FBI bulletins.

The next batch seemed to have less flavor than the first, but I wolfed it down as well and started on a third.

I ate the third plate of Taquitos while touching up my Philosophy term paper. In one greasy hand I shoved morsel after morsel toward my gullet while the digits on my other appendage helped explain Descartes' Cogito.

I wondered briefly if the Taquito has feelings and mental formations we might call thoughts. But I didn't wonder for long.

My plate again depleted, I returned to the kitchen for more. This trip wasn't out of hunger or even desire for more, it was just habit. One eats at lunchtime and Taquitos are food. The eating doesn't stop until the food is gone and, since none of my brothers were there to join me in devouring the box, I was alone in fulfilling the Taquito task.

The fourth plate emptied the box, and it felt strange to throw away the now vacant packaging which had been so full of calories a few moments before.

It was kind of hard to eat the fourth plate. My stomach was now sending urgent bullitens to my brain to stop the incoming nutrients and now and again my mouth had to fight against the gag impulse. But I got them down.

I felt heavy. Five minutes after the last Taquito it hurt to stand up. Ten minutes afterward, my stomach felt bloated and tight. I had to loosen my belt by three notches. Twenty minutes later I got really thirsty. But the crazy thing about the thirst was that I didn't want to drink anything. My stomach was too stuffed for fluids. Thirty minutes later I decided to write this post.

I dug the box out of the trash and looked at the Nutrition Facts. The serving size was Two Taquitos (230 calories, 12g of fat, 490 miligrams of sodium); I had eaten 24. After a quick visit with my computer's calculator (I was too stiff to get up and get my own), I found that in the last fifteen minutes, I had consumed 2,760 calories, 144 grams of fat and 5,880 miligrams of sodium or over 240% of my daily value of salt. No wonder I was thirsty.

That evening I tried to eat a normal meal and, to my surprise, was successful. Five hours after the Taquito binge, I was ready to approach the dinner table again. My Gastrointestinal tract was unphrased by the barage of calories and my body was ready and willing to take additional punishment.

I don't suggest the Mess of Taquitos as a daily meal plan -- the activity is not without side effects -- but it was a good experience and one I may repeat if habit and hunger permit.

The post-meal burp

While watching the Chuck Heston classic Ben-Hur with some good friends the other day, I was reintroduced to the Islamic post-meal burp, a soft belch to tell the cook the meal was delicious. As a well read college student, I had, of course, already encountered the Muslim burp, but the significance and vulgarity of the act had been on my mind's back burner, so to speak, and the concept was only elevated to mental awareness in the scene where Hugh Griffith waited for Heston to “gush forth.”

That burp was so disturbing that it haunted me throughout a very violent chariot race. While horses and riders were crashing to the hard packed dirt of the circus, I tried to softly force a burp as the film's hero had done on screen. Fortunately for those sitting in my vicinity, my attempts were futile. Even during the climactic conclusion depicting Christ's Passion, my mind was distracted by thoughts of the mechanics of my gastrointestinal tract.

This would be a good time to tell you that if you are munching on taquitos while reading this, you would be well advised to lay the food aside until the post is concluded.

But I digress.

After a little experimentation at home and during class, I discovered that carbonated beverages like Root Beer and Coke are best at inducing oxygenated disgorgements. It took a little practice, but I was finally able to teach my esophagus the appropriate muscle memory to coax a long and loud belch at a moments notice. Oh, what skill!

But personal ability doesn't answer the Muslim burping question; why do the dudes in turbans and the girls in burquas always let it out after a hearty chow down?

In search of answers to the Islamic burping question, I discovered the International Dining Etiquette Guide (IDEG), which is one of the most respected authorities on post-meal burping. IDEG had the following revealing advice:

A natural phenomenon that occurs after filling up your insides, burping, is considered impolite in the modern West. But this used to signal, in certain corners of the world, that the host had provided enough food and if the guests didn't burp at least three times, they were clearly not satisfied and the host was poor, or just plain cheap.

As the Burger King advertisement reminds us, we mustn't “hold back.”

But three times? Who does the guide think we are? Tom Cruise? 

IDEG continues:

This [belching] idea comes from the religious reformer Martin Luther...who said:

Warum pfurzet und ruelpset ihr nicht, hat es euch nicht geschmecket?

Which roughly translates as:

Why don't you [pfurzet] and burpeth, didn't you fancy the meal?

IDEG is not able to explain how a concept supported by the Christian reformer Martin Luther has become so accepted within the Muslim community, but we can accept the assertion for the sake of argument.

The ancients, then, have long regarded a little gas as a sign of gratitude. To rhyme: “a little air down there gives the meal a flair.”

Apparently the good Luther was successful at propagating his belching concept in more lands than just the oil rich Middle East. As IDEG explains:

It is actually considered a compliment in some parts of the Southern United States to burp during a meal. For some reason, though, men are expected to give this compliment and not women.

How sexist! For the record, I like a woman who can rip off a good belch. 'Tis a sign of tranquility...except, of course, for the stomach for whom it is a sign of upset.

So the next time I visit a southern home or travel in a Muslim country, I will inconspicuously sip a carbonated beverage during the meal and hold back the little hicks for one giant post meal thanks.