Avatar II: Pandora Returns to Strike Back

That's right, folks. Using the help of Uncle Wally and our own seared consciences, we were able to hack into James Cameron's personal laptop and boost an early draft of the already much-anticipated Avatar 2 movie. A quick summary of the plot follows.

The evil imperialist human corporation has been defeated, but the Na'vi now face a new threat: another evil imperialist human corporation. This one is ten times bigger and badder, and capable of producing even larger explosions than before.

Jake Sully has been having strange nightmares: flashbacks of things in his past that he can't quite remember. Neytiri puts her hands on his face and looks at him with concern but this doesn't seem to help. When the-all new, shinier corporation appears in the sky, Jake knows it's all up to him for some reason. He leads the resistance in a raid against the newly established human base, but sadly he and the rest of the Na'vi are captured and imprisoned. During the attack, Neytiri is machine-gunned in slow motion by the new arch-nemesis, who is notable for having a southern accent, gung-ho attitude, and tattoos all over.

In a stirring scene, the fifty captured Na'vi warriors are led, whistling in unison, into a prison camp. They agree to get out as soon as possible, or at least keep trying in order to divert resources from the front. They start tunneling under the fence with the help of a sympathetic and very cute human girl who is attracted to Jake's devil-may-care attitude, rugged good looks, and haunted past. While in prison, the Na'vi form close bonds with each other and learn to hope no matter how bleak things get. After they tunnel out, Jake begins hunting down the four men who gunned down Neytiri. His path will end with the assassination of the arch-nemesis.

The first target is a muscular, manly latina woman who wears sleeveless shirts and dog tags and likes to beat up men to show how tough she is. Jack and his men slaughter her entire platoon but in the end Jake is inexplicably separated from his men and must face her alone. They have a quick fight, pausing often to exchange snappy one-liners. When she realizes she is too weak, she escapes.

Jake moves on to target number 2: a robotic droid-man with various cyborg powers. Jake attacks his penthouse suite with a mounted gun on a helicopter but the droid jumps onto the helicopter with a motorcycle. Jake and the droid jump out of the chopper as it explodes. They free-fall to the ground, grappling as they go. Jake lands in a haystack and is completely unharmed. The droid lands in a propane tank, causing an explosion that really puts Dolby Surround to the test. Jake stands and brushes himself off, recovering from the battle. Then, hark! The droid rises from the ashes. The flesh has been seared off, leaving a freaky humanoid metal frame that for some reason moves much slower and more robotically than it did when covered in human. The robot tosses Jake around for awhile until more Na'vi show up and use all kinds of attacks on it, including rocket launchers, poisoned arrows, and custom-made katanas that glow and buzz and cut through anything (except the robot, who blocks the swings somehow). They are chased into a massive factory that mass-produces globs of molten metal for export all over the galaxy. There, the Na'vi work together to destroy the robot, culimnating in a victorious one-liner from Jake that implies that the destruction of the machine somehow makes Neytiri's pointless death allright now.

The cute girl from the prison shows up and urges caution, but Jake is hellbent on destruction. They are even more attracted to each other now. She flies him to the next dropoff point. As they part ways their faces get really close because they want to kiss, but then they both talk at once and head separate directions awkwardly.

The third target is a creepy alien from another subjugated planet the humans have subjugated. It's big and black and has lots of teeth, but it can speak fluent English with a wierd Transylvanian accent. The alien fights viciously until Jake is on his back and disarmed. Then, instead of finished the job, the creature starts talking victoriously about what a genius he is and what he'll do when Jake is dead. This gives the butch latina time to smash through a huge window in a fighter jet, use the b-word, and blow the alien to kingdom come. She extends a hand to Jake. Jake takes it and says thanks. There's a moment of cameraderie, and then a tentacle from the alien appears out of nowhere and stabs the latina, killing her slowly and painfully.

The cute girl shows up again and flies him to the final battle. They kiss briefly, which proves that they are soul mates, though they have exchanged no more than thirty lines of dialogue with each other. Jake attacks the main base riding his Banshee, only to discover that the main villain has an improved mechanized Banshee. An intense aerial dogfight ensues, during which Jake is forced to face his guilt over Neytiri's death. He comes to terms with it and destroys the mech banshee. He lands and dismounts to finish the job. The bloodied and defeated arch nemesis explains Jake's flashbacks to him - that he was a special black ops agent for the corporation and lost his legs and his memory on his first mission when he got cold feet and refused to kill the target. Jake is taunted for being too weak to make a kill even now. It's true that the only people Jake has killed in the movie are the droid and nameless henchmen with no souls. He realizes that killing the villain only makes Jake become everything he has fought against. He throws away his weapon and the villain throws him into a snake pit, along with the cute girl who has been captured by more soulless henchmen. Jake and the cute girl manage to climb out somehow and sneakily follow the villain back into the base.

The evil corporation has now collected enough unobtanium to activate a weapon that will wipe out the Na'vi and turn the whole moon into a desolate industrial wasteland. Jake and the girl are captured again and are made to watch. The weapon is activated but it malfunctions and kills all the bad guys in dramatic and horrible ways for which they can only blame themselves. Jake and the cute girl are about to be killed, when out of nowhere the mountain banshees arrive and carry them to safety.

Back at the tribe, all the surviving main characters drink organic happy juice and reminisce about how much has changed. We close with a slow zoom on Jake's face as he thoughtfully says something, and then repeats it.

The end.

It's All About The Benjamins, Baby

Dear mom,

Since writing is my thing, I've concocted a get rich scheme that will either take off and bring in the dough or crash and send me into bankruptcy. I'll write a romance novel about two teenagers.

The protagonist will be a teen girl. That's a character most people can relate to, right? Besides, since the book is a romance, I need to reach my female readers. The guy in the book is virtually indestructible, so maybe some guys will want to read it as well.

Our heroine is also an incurable liar. Typical love stories portray characters as perfect. I want my characters to be almost repulsively flawed—it will make my readers feel better about themselves. I have to please the reader.

The girl has an unnatural fascination with death. I'm trying to reach emo readers here. She begs her boyfriend to kill her, but he always refuses. She jumps off cliffs, rides motorcycles, and spends an inordinate amount of time around monsters.

In the second book, my hero will leave for a while without a trace. This is another attempt to hook some more emo readers. The girl will wander aimlessly and spends her days being depressed and finding ways to die. She finds him and they get in huge trouble with the mafia.

My hero is drop-dead gorgeous. Model gorgeous. That's what every girl wants, right? Someone very handsome to sweep her off her feet. I don't want to give my readers unrealistic expectations of men, but seriously, I need to be able to sell this baby, so I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

In fact, his only flaw is that he is a dangerous guy who wants to kill her. Even after they're married he has to suppress his violent desires. Sure, this may be over the top, but if I'm going to make a name for myself, I need to be outrageously original. He's 80 years older than her. He sneaks into her room at night like a stalker, just to watch her sleep. Creepy, but I think my readers will understand what I'm trying to do. Every girl wants a guy who can't stand to be away from her, right?

But why think small? I've already planned my sequels! In the last book, my hero and the heroine finally get hitched. By delaying this momentous turn in the plot until the last book, I can milk out a few more bucks from my fans.

After the wedding, the story doesn't end. My heroine gets pregnant and dies shortly after giving birth to a beautiful baby monster. And they live happily ever after.

I'll give the books hippie-sounding names for added appeal... names like "Moonbeam" or "Starshine". Hopefully the books will sell well enough to require sequels, and if I'm lucky, maybe even a movie deal. I'll be set for life.

Your loving daughter,
Stephenie Meyer

Estrogen Assault

Meet Chester. Chester is a college student who uses his title as a way to get instant credibility. He works less than most people his age, but it's okay because someday he will have a degree. And he will make more money than the people who are working hard now. Chester is proud of how he thought this all through and looks forward to a time when he can rest on his laurels and live the high life. Because Chester isn't living the high life right now. Not at all. Chester needs to go to class periodically and some of his professors actually require him to do the readings. Life isn't hard for Chester, but it isn't as easy he'd like it, either.

It was nine o'clock at night and Chester was lounging in his room. His room was, at that moment, in the happy place between several month-long stretches of absolute disorganization. Chester could see his floor. It's always special when Chester can see the floor of his room. Chester had homework to do, but didn't want to do it and was creating all sorts of odd emergencies that needed resolving in order to avoid the ominous book lying prostrate on my desk in a manner that can only be described as unattractive. Chester had to eat something, Chester had to drink, Chester had to do some push-ups. Chester was almost ready to start preparing to get in the mindset to warm up to think up another excuse to avoid studying when his phone buzzed.

It was Bertha, an intelligent 20-something Chester knew from high school. He'd always liked Bertha, but never quite worked up the nerve to tell her or even act on his feelings. Bertha was home for the summer and wanted to hang out. Did Chester want to come over for a movie night?

Did Chester want to come over? Does Batman fly? Do basketballs bounce? Do Rice Crispies make weird popping noises after you pour the milk? Of course Chester wanted to come over. When could Chester come over? Were there any other excuses Chester could use to visit?

Chester did not think about what he was agreeing to. He did not ask what movie would be showing or who else would be present for the "movie night." His mind was completely occupied with thoughts of Bertha. An evening with her would be pleasant no matter what. Chester convinced himself of this.

Chester arrived at Bertha's house in his typical fashion: a few minutes late, out of breath and slightly disheveled. His afternoon had been stolen by YouTube and he only regained control of his body in time to sniff check his shirt and speed to his friend's house.

When Chester pulled up, he saw Bertha's father sitting placidly in the front yard with a .306 rifle. Chester knew he was Bertha's father because of his Dad T-Shirt. Chester stopped his car, but left his engine running. With the air from his car's central system cooling the sweat drops that formed on his brow, Chester debated the merits of continuing. He had a fast car; he could zip out of the driveway and be on the interstate before Bertha's Daddy could draw a bead. Chester wanted to see Bertha, but Chester did not want to be shot.

As if to make up Chester's mind for him, Bertha's Daddy motioned for Chester to get out of the car. Chester gulped, twisted the key out of the ignition and slid the door open. After brief introductions ("You must be Chester"), Bertha's Daddy pulled the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off a quick shot toward the a fence outlining the perimeter of the property. When Chester extricated himself from the fetal position and the blood returned to his head, he saw a collection of tin cans on the fence. Bertha's Daddy was taking target practice.

"Missed," Bertha's Daddy muttered. "You'd best get inside and get cleaned up; looks like you might have done something involuntary." Chester hadn't, but he appreciated the other man's concern and walked briskly toward the house. Once inside, he had another shock.

If the outdoors were teaming with testosterone, the inside was paved with estrogen, hard compacted and then decorated with more estrogen. Bertha had invited a bunch of female friends for the occasion and the house was a roar of giggling, cooking and dress making. Yes, dress making. Even Bertha's brother, an overweight n'er do well with whom Chester had a lot in common, had flown the coup for the evening. Chester did not know what to do. He wanted to be very small, to be an ant on the ground that everyone ignores. Some of the girls tried to talk to him, but Chester didn't know what to say or how to answer. The conversation continued without him and he felt utterly lost, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful, giggling people who he would never understand. Chester almost felt that facing the .306 would be more pleasant than the estrogen assault. Almost.

Dinner was worse. Chester spoke English, not estrogen and he had a hard time keeping up with the pigeon dialect of his host and the other guests. At least Daddy Bertha was there. Chester now found him comforting as the bastion of masculinity in a sea of girls. He was the buoy Chester used to navigate his conversational ship and, although Daddy Bertha brought his .306 to the table with him, Chester started to like the man.

Chester had forgotten all about the movie that formed the pretense for his visit when Bertha asked if everyone was ready. Chester had never been asked whether he was "ready" for a movie before. He thought that was funny, but didn't laugh because his throat was too constricted.

To this moment, Chester cannot remember what movie he saw. It might have been the utterly pointless Beaches, the overrated Sleepless in Seattle or the tragic failure Steel Magnolias, which was, by the way, saved from utter destitution only by the stunning Dolly Parton. Chester does recall that Daddy Bertha did not watch the movie and that everyone in the room but him was bawling like a hungry two-year old somewhere near the end. Chester didn't see what was so sad, but he had a hard time staying awake, too. And at the only remotely interesting part of the film, the others told him to look away. Crazy.

When the credits rolled, Chester found an excuse to leave, got into his car and drove a mile or so, his mind blank. Then he got out and rolled in some dirt. He didn't know why, but it made him feel better - more like a man. He also stopped by GNC and purchased some supplements that would be illegal in the NCAA. Chester knew he wasn't Dara Torres; he could take these drugs.

The next day, when Bertha asked if Chester wanted to join her next weekend for a shopping trip, Chester did not hesitate before giving a negative response. He had been cured; at least for a little while...

To Take Up Arms...

There is a time for everything, Solomon said, and so there must be a time for sleep. There must be, but but that doesn't make it easy to find. And about two evenings ago, it was more elusive for me than real estate on the moon.

It was just one of those nights. The kind that start two hours early, when your eyes begin to rebel against the light of day just as your boss is walking by full of energy that he is alarmingly ready to funnel into the gory task of setting you straight. The kind that won't completely kick in even two hours after they're supposed to, because those rebellious eyes have rechanneled their restlessness and sandpapered themselves into an insurrection against you in your weary hour of need. The kind that you must slog through despite the fact that you just watched a certain film about crystals and skulls and fiery ants that eat people alive, and every little itch on your skin is beginning to send tingles of terror and images of fiery red legs through your addled brain, and you are suddenly and strangely feeling more little itches than you thought possible just a few hours ago when your boss was glaring at you in the deliciously comfortable, air-conditioned facility.

That's how I felt, anyway, as I tossed and turned in a hot, sticky bed under hot, sticky covers trying to keep my hot, dry eyelids shut. Gradually I dozed off, feverishly reeling through fields of Martians and Aztecs and Soviet soldiers. The little itches continued in my dreams, magnified by the sincere belief that behind them were the malevolent little jaws of a hundred malevolent little army ants. My right arm, nestled safely behind my head, began to tingle with innumerable little needlepoints, and I could sense the poison at work. The dream grew louder and busier, until the jaws began to sound like Goliath playing a timpani (no hyperlink; just use your imagination).

Then I awoke, trembling and sweatier than ever, the crickets peacefully chirping outside and my heart racing wildly in a successful attempt to outpace their chirps by a factor of five to one. I tried to sleep again, but my mind was on autopilot at about 95 miles an hour, just like my car had been some time earlier. I put my head back on my lumpy pillow, and that was when I discovered my arm.

I say I discovered my arm, but the fact is that I discovered its absence. There was an awful itch on my nose, and I summoned my right finger to destroy it. Alas! My right finger had gone AWOL, along with my hand and biceps. My brain sent signals, but my muscles ignored them, and worse, the nerves wouldn't send back any reply. I reached around with my left arm and seized the delinquent appendage. It was cool, clammy, and limp, almost like a piece of dead meat or your two-year-old cousin when you have to carry him inside from a nap in his carseat and his lifeless, snoring mass seems to weigh ten times more than your barbells did at the gym earlier that day.

I lifted my carcass of an arm until I could see it. There was no mental connection between that thing and myself. For all I knew or cared, it could have been a hapless, five-pound bass or trout poisoned by CapeNature officials. Or it could have been the steaming lump of brisket that I had dropped on the driveway a while back. In the spirit of the unsettling occasion, I let this lump drop as well. It fell on my face with a thud which made me realize the gravity of the situation.

My arm was dead. I peered at it, in the dim light that an opalescent moon managed to smuggle around my window blinds, with a growing mixture of fear, surprise, and self-pity. "This is a sorry sight," I felt inclined to mummer. What could I do without a right arm? What would my boss say? What would my mother say? How would I type this post? I lifted the arm again several times and dropped it, with more curiosity than hope. Then, somewhere around the seventh try, I realized to my wonder that the ants had begun to arrive again. I dropped the arm several more times, and subsequently started pounding it with my left fist. The ants returned with a vengeance, tearing and devouring my lifeless flesh. With a supreme effort, I lifted the arm and curled my fingers. It was a fist of victory, and in a short time I was able to shake it defiantly at the ants themselves. Feeling the familiar blood course through my veins was such an exhilarating experience that it was almost worth the sleep it cost me the rest of the night.

Almost.

I am AxxO

Online piracy, long a thorn in the belly of the IRAA and a boon to bandwidth wholesalers the world over, is as much an industry as the entertainment off which it siphons its life blood. We pirates put countless hours into developing, marketing and distributing our product to a pimply faced consumer base while hiding our activities from the authorities. We take music, movies and other media and make them accessible for free on the internet.

Expressed acronymically, we bring MMM to the WWW.

My name is AxxO. That's not my real name, of course. That jealously guarded secret is housed with a cool million in cash where the FBI will never find it. AxxO is the name I use on any of the millions of piracy sites where normally expensive media are available for free, not unlike the gum beneath eye level at a convenience store.

I purchase movies and rip them to my hard drive, using a pirated proprietary software that is, I am sure, really expensive for most people. I then upload these ripped files to millions of users the world over, who share them with others in a big commune of entertainment equality. My files are relatively small (often a tenth of the size of the original film), but they maintain most of the quality, leaving pirates with the impression that they are watching the real thing, not a cheap knock off.

Only my name, AxxO, identifies my product.

You may have seen my moniker on various piracy websites (my name is the most common search term on several of them) and you may even have one or more of my ripped (off) files on your computer, if I can truly call them mine.


I am a sworn enemy of the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), a terrorist organization with ties to Hollywood and Tom Cruise. I will do everything in my power to see the record labels brought to their knees and to keep the owners of intellectual property from making money off of their media. I am the Marxist of the internet world and the file housed in your share folder is my manifesto.


Funny Class Notes is my online home. That's right. I, AxxO, am a contributor to FCN.

For years I have kept my identity secret. Despite pleas from thousands of webpages and tens of thousands of fan emails, I have not revealed my true identity. And I will maintain my secrecy even through this post. Know, however, that one of the authors of FCN leads a secret life as AxxO. Now you know; don't tell the RIAA.

This post should answers a lot of questions. I hope it clears the air on what has become an unnecessarily convoluted subject and an issue that has divided many in the peaceful world of cyber stealing. It is such a relief to get this off my chest in my own way and own time, exactly the way Roger Clemens didn't. The truth was bound to come out eventually: IP addresses can only be concealed for so long and a demanding public loves to uncover embarrassing connections. Why not reveal the truth on my own terms? You know my work; now you know my blog.


Thanks for believing. Thanks for uploading. Thanks for reading. Please, upload what you’ve downloaded, and then some.

Bond Stunt Man Injury due to Incompetence, Cowardice

LAKE GARDA, ITALY (FCN) - Yesterday on the set of the next Bond movie, Quantum of Solace, Aris Comninos won the dubious recognition of stunt man with the weakest sauce in recent memory. "It's unbelievable," says fellow stunt man Aston Martin, who skidded into a lake on the same set last Saturday, "he definitely wins the Darwin award."

Comninos participated in a fairly straight-forward one-take stunt involving driving a moped off the top of a skyscraper, activating his jet pack just before striking the ground, then firing a rocket into a hummer (pictured) to blast it out of the way so he could streak, inches above the ground, into a parking garage just before a B-2 Bomber crashed where he had been.

"The moment he drove off the building," says stunt coordinator Gary Powell, "I knew it was going to go sideways." Comninos began his comedy of errors by losing his cool halfway into his three-hundred foot fall and sawing away at the jet-pack spark plug. "It's lucky the activator on the unit was only for show," says Powell. "He could have ruined everything. Not that he didn't anyway." Powell had his own remote activator in his hand, and activated the jet-pack at the correct moment one and a half seconds before impact.

Alas, the incompetent Comninos was in charge of the controls. Instead of steering toward the parking garage, he maxed out the power and got as much distance as possible between himself and the ground. He wasn't fast enough - the B-2 intercepted his upward course and crushed him deep into the pavement.

"The medical breakdown isn't complicated," reported Seth Mont, one of the paramedics who flew the cowardly stunt man out of the area by helicopter. "Basically he broke every bone in his body, including those really tiny little bones you have in your ear drums." Mont predicted a full recovery following two years of therapy and a hot water bottle, pending new advances in cryogenic and teleportation technology.

"What's really tragic about it is the shot," replied director Marc Forster when asked to recount his feelings regarding the incident. "Film isn't cheap, and he totally ruined the take... it's very unprofessional to... sign as a stuntman and go and do something this childish. If you don't want to be a stunt man... get out of the way, because I can guarantee ... there are a million other people just waiting in line for a chance at the life Aris leads."

Or led, as the case may be.

Alone on Valentine's Day

It's the 14th of February and all across the land,
Little boys and girls take each other's hand.
It's a happy sight, all sweet and pink,
But someone isn't happy, I think.

He's tried his hardest to get a girl,
But when he gets close, most just hurl.
He doesn't smell or look that bad,
He's just too desperate, which is sad.

Amid all the laughter hugs and kisses,
Stands one guy alone, no one misses.
His heart is full of love to share,
If only a girl would dare.

On Valentine's Day when all are happy,
He writes poems, and they get sappy.
His rhymes are weak, his verse uncreative,
It could even be packaged as a sedative.

Love and warmth he does not inspire
But his writing does make others tire
So I'll tell you the story of how I got this way
Alone, miserable and sad on Valentine's Day

It's an open secret that I have been as indefatigable in my search for female attention as a dog and peanut butter. In turn, females have been just as adamant about denying it. Whether it's been Luce or Carrie or, well, all the others, I've had about as much luck as Dennis Kucinich in politics (speaking of which, remind me to pass on the latest about Carrie: never talk politics on a third date). I'm batting like Jason Giambi after knocking off the steroids.

A friend kindly took me aside on Valentine's Day morning and advised that the holiday has diddly squat to do with establishing a relationship and is actually intended as a time to strengthen relationships and renew passions with existing girlfriends. V day is about servicing, that's why guys go out of their way to buy all the goofy chocolate, mawkish cards and childish teddy bears. In Aretha Franklin's terms, girls are "zoomin'" guys on Valentine's Day.

Oops, did my cynicism seep out? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date yesterday...

The morning wasn't that bad. Most students don't take their beaus to class (unless, of course, it's "take your beau to class day") and I'd almost forgotten about the Holiday when Melanie leaned over and stuck a pink heart on my to-go coffee cup. She giggled when she did so and I think, deep down in her diabolical Melanie mind, she was daring me to forget about my horrid love life. The heart starred at me for the duration of the class. I wanted terribly to rip it off and chuck the cup, remaining liquid and all, but was mesmerized by the anatomically inaccurate shape.

Work at General Mills was even better. None of my coworkers wanted to chat about relationships and the conveyor belt seemed to move more slowly. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad afterall.

Little did I know how much Saint Valentine had lured me into a false sense of emotional security.

Plans had been laid well in advance for me to get together with my hetero lifemate and watch an action flick, which I figured would be largely unattended. I've known my lifemate since before I met my father and I'd seen my mother's face and we get along really well, apparently, but he still doesn't count as female company.

Walking into the theater reminded me of a scene from Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. If you haven't seen the movie, Chuck Barris walks into the cinema feeling down on his relationship luck. As he sits down, the camera pans away to reveal everyone around him kissing. It's kinda disgusting and, if you're there without a date, it's depressing.

The movie was a gore-fest and the romance wasn't even romantic. Despite these impediments, the couple to my right couldn't get through any of the fight scenes without fooling around and a couple below me started snogging every time the screen went blank. After the film, duos held hands, giggled and skipped away, oblivious to the impact they were having on my psychie. Deflated and wishing the movie had been better, I walked alone to my car (the hetero lifemate drove separately) and meandered home.

On the way back to my house, even the streets were deserted, a reminder of the emptiness of my heart. One car did follow me for a few miles, but it was a police cruiser and I was too worried about making an infraction to enjoy the company.

Maybe I should have purchased a box of chocolates or a bouquet of long stems. Perhaps a little more effort would have had me asphyxiating in the dark corner of the theater with a beautiful girl by my side. Maybe I totally blew Valentine's Day.

Or maybe I didn't. My selfish perspective on the Holiday is as wrong as it is depressing, I just can't help myself. I feel I'm entitled to the attention of others and I have repackaged V day for that very purpose.

But something about that kind of approach never jived with a male college student, ticking away the final months of his derelict teenage years. So, I wrote a poem.

Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you

A continuation of previous Crush episodes...

Luce and I met in front of the theater and I almost didn't recognize her. Her hair, normally a golden blonde, had been dyed bright red, like Maureen O'Hara only longer. At first I thought she was wearing a wig, but on closer inspection I saw that her hair had indeed been dyed all the way to the roots.

"You dyed your hair." I probably should have thought first and come up with a better introductory remark, but I was in a blurt mood.

"Oh, hey! Yes, do you like it?" Luce had a smile that was both pleading and brilliant. I didn't want to disappoint her and deny her earnest complexion the complement she sought, but I also wanted to be honest.

It looked ugly. The hair, that is. Her smile and complexion were awesome, but the texture of her locks was inconsistent with the dye and it came together to form a muddy consistency. From close up, you could see blonde strays that hadn't taken the color correctly. Finally, the color was wrong. It didn't fit with the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks or the hue of her lips. The whole picture was, as we guys sometimes intone, good from far but far from good.

I must have taken too long to answer because Luce's face soured and she sighed in disgust.

"Oh, whatever. Let's get our tickets."

I tried to smile and followed her to the box office.

As we entered the theater and sat down to await the previews, I tried to break the silence with conversation.

"Well, that was a pretty bad first date we had, wasn't it?" I honestly can't recall the thought process that lead me to that question.

"Uh-huh..." Dang; Luce thought I was going somewhere with this.

"Um...Well, why would a girl like you go out with a guy like me?" I asked, inadvertently deploying a line from Eric Church's Guys Like Me. I had a feeling the answer had nothing to do with "drinking too many beers on Friday after work," but I asked anyway.

"I have a crush on you, remember?" Luce had a smile on her face that invited me to laugh. I obliged, then turned away to return to my thoughtful musing; her answer was, as always, completely unsatisfying.

Just because you have a crush on someone doesn't mean you go out with them after a disastrous first date, or does it?

I thought a change in subject might be in order.

"Why did you dye your hair orange?"

"You don't like it, do you?" More earnest nonverbal pleading.

"Well..." Luce was obviously insecure about her hair. And why wouldn't she be? She had replaced her gorgeous blonde locks for a garage sink special that reeked of ammonia. My guy friends had advised me to be complementary in any comment I made about Luce's looks, so I made an attempt:

"It's not antipathetic or entirely odious. In fact it has an aura of originality that's almost congenial. Um...It's not posh, but it isn't schlocky either." I smiled while wincing. Maybe I'd thought too much about my answer. There were a lot of SAT words in my response and I did not want to splice their meaning for Luce.

I don't think Luce understood what any the adjectives meant because she had a pleased look on her face when she sat back and said "ok." I exhaled deeply with relief.

Just then the previews started, and we began almost two hours of uninterrupted screen watching. I never had to say anything to Luce; she never had to conversate with me. We sat within inches of each other, faced straight ahead and just looked. It was glorious.

Several times, after Jason Bourne made a heart stopping leap or performed another noteworthy stunt, I leaned toward Luce to whisper a comment I thought humorous, but then chickened out before I was close enough to speak. We were so tranquil, watching the movie without intervention, I didn't want to mess all that up by saying something.

Neither Luce nor I said anything for the entire movie. I don't even recall us laughing at the funny parts, although I laughed in my head.

As we were walking toward the exit, I made another attempt at conversation.

"Great movie, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen..." Luce paused as if struggling to phrase her next sentence. "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I think you are really boring. You haven't said more than fifty words all evening. When I saw you interact with people at school, you were animated and, well, interesting. Here, tonight, and the other night, you were completely deadpan. Are you high or something?"

"Well, no, not intentionally, um, well, not that I know of, I, well, I...Luce..." I was trying to be eloquent.

"No." Luce paused and looked as if she might cry. "Let's just let this die, ok? You aren't the same person as the one I have a crush on. You're boring. You used the word "schlocky;" I hate that word; what kind of guys says "schlocky?" The movie was terrible. I hated this evening. Don't even...Don't call me, ok?"

With that, my date left the theater in her Bronco, leaving me to rationalize the situation by tearing Luce down. The Bronco was probably her dad's. She probably never worked an honest day in her life and planned to go on milking unsuspecting males the rest of her days. Such a Daddy's Little Princess; everything must be just so. Dependant and completely selfish; a spoiled brat. Her home life was probably a total wreck and she was taking her disgruntlement out on me. I was the real victim here.

Then again, I thought, maybe I was uninteresting. It was true that I hadn't said much, but Luce didn't leave a lot of room to talk. I'd tried hard, but come up short.

But Luce hadn't liked the movie. Could we be compatible as mates if she rejected my man crush out of hand? Wasn't a relationship with me somewhat like a relationship with Damon? Does that concept make me more attractive?

I drove home that night with a heavy heart. More than once I had to fight back tears as my car stereo played the latest hit love songs. Why couldn't I be like the guys on the radio or TV? Why was I so inadequate in the female department? Why did Luce hate me so much? Why in the world did she decide to dye her hair that ridiculous orange?

I called a meeting of the guys this morning and their take was bleak. They think my chances with Luce are blown, but I'm not so sure. I've got a couple new ideas that, though disapproved by my advisors, may get me back in the game.

Confession #1: I like Chick Flicks

"Confessions" are a new series from FCN in which readers submit or the FCN staff write secret or private confessions for the amusement of others. Like other confession driven writing enterprises, the author of the confession will remain anonymous. Unlike other confession driven writing enterprises, the truth of the confession will not be guaranteed or even supposed.

If you have a confession for the faithful FCN few, send it in to us at FunnyClassNotes -at- gmail -dot- com

Confession #1: I like Chick Flicks

I'm a guy. I'm a shade under six feet tall and athletic. I have a pretty deep voice and I know how to talk tough. I don't flinch very often and I can't stand sissies. That's why it's ironic that I like chick flicks.

Guys are supposed to appreciate the "art" of dramatic gun, grimace and go home flicks, a genre generally labeled as "action movies." We men are supposed to be disgusted at the simple plots, thin acting and male pansies who adorn the screen of so-called "date movies." We are supposed to roll our eyes when our female friends talk about the latest Lindsay Lohan, Charlize Theron or Mandy Moore production; we aren't supposed to appreciate the clichéd acting of Kate Winslet or get excited at the thought of a movie with Cameron Diaz.

I break the mold. I thought John Tucker Must Die was an absolute delight of a film. I thoroughly enjoyed The Holiday and thought Mean Girls was one of Lohan's better productions although Just My Luck gave it a run for its money; Bridget Jone's Diary left me panting and Something's Gotta Give was so sweet; The English Patient was slow, but worth it and Titantic, oh, Titanic!

The Horse Whisperer was one of Robert Redford's better performances; You've Got Mail was the highlight of Tom Hank's career and was a perfect showcase for Meg Ryan; The Beach House had me spinning until the end; and one line brings back all the happy memories of Truly, Madly, Deeply: "I really, truly, madly, passionately, remarkably, deliciously... juicily love you...." Oh yeah!.

Don't get me wrong; Rogers and Hammerstein is a bit much and kiddie movies don't do the trick. Some musicals are excellent, others are too slow to justify the viewing and I outgrew Anne Hatheway years ago.

As a rule of thumb, if it's on Lifetime or O!, I will probably appreciate it. Like any genre, it needs to be done well; I didn't confess to liking cheap movies, just chick flicks.

(As an aside, I just realized it took me about three minutes to write the above four paragraphs. That's how conversant I am in chick flicks. Ask me any question about the genre; I can probably answer it).

It's not that I don't like action movies - the Die Hard series was excellent and Jason Bourne is still my man crush - it's just that I also appreciate the tender films. That's my confession.

EDIT: Thanks to an email from a concerned reader for the reminder, I should note that none of the above referenced movies come with the FCN endorsement. In order to garner the requisite knowledge about the films, we are sure our author viewed the Clean Films version or closed his eyes during the inappropriate sequences.

Open Letter

Some of you were apparently distraught by yesterday's post which referenced the past in the future tense. We used the word "yesterday" to refer an event which happened the day before and today we will make the old record current. Got all that?

Some probably assumed, erroneously, that yesterday's use of "yesterday" was a mistake. You know what they say about assumptions. We were actually trying to point out a major flaw in the time space continuum and derive a semi-semantic conclusion about the ineptitude of the modern tongue. So, in reality, you were the ones who made a mistake. Makes you think twice about the English language doesn't it?

Well, how's that for an excuse? I think we're getting better at it.

Dear Matt Damon,

You rock. You have this knack for adding gravity to every role you play and transforming mediocre scripts into critically and popularly acclaimed masterpieces. Your face has this amorphous quality to it exudes manliness, sensitivity and art all at the same time. You are, without a doubt, one of the finest male leads ever to act in Hollywood and have proven your versatility with numerous roles. You are an A-list actor and one of the best on that list.

You – and this is going to get even more gushy than the first paragraph so skip down a few lines if you're the judging kind – make me swoon like no other man. I mean that in a purely man-man context; but you still make me swoon. Maybe swoon isn't the right word...

At the same time there is an ugly rumor – the kind of rumor that ruins the reputation of respectable junior high girls – that you will be abandoning your loyal fans; leaving us behind and ignoring our cinematic desires. I'm writing, of course, about the Bourne franchise and the recent announcement of two new movie adventures in planning...without you. Rumor has it you are leaving Robert Ludwig's creation behind and that, because you don't want to be typecast as an action hero, you are going to seek your fame and fortune elsewhere. You said as much in an promotion interview for your latest film, Ocean's Thirteen.

You, Matt, are the only person who can carry the role of Jason Bourne. I have followed the series since you were first introduced in Identity and completely associate you with the quick thinking former black operations officer. You define the role. Matt Damon and Jason Bourne are synonyms in my book. Your parents may just as well have named you for that role; had they known Ludwig, I would suspect the connection.

If you choose to move away from the Bourne franchise, you will join legions of down and out actors who left what worked to “try something different” only to be panned later on. Al Pacino could have stuck with successful movies like Godfather, but he decided to seek himself in overacted critical flops like Simone. Halle Berry had a great career ahead of her before she settled for Catwoman. Even Robin Williams, the genius behind Mrs. Doubtfire, had to let it all go to star in stupid comedies like the one in theaters now. William's only recent good movie was Good Will Hunting, which, coincidentally, was a movie you wrote and starred in.

Can't you read the tea leaves?

Please say that your comments were a publicity move to direct the media to your current project. Please deny the rumors and say you will never forsake your loyal fans. Please don't abandon us. Please make another movie so I can get of my knees and stop my crazy Bourne vigils. Please, Matt?

Respectfully,

Funny Class Notes

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.