Boredom is the Mother of Creativity

It was another typical, dreary day in my Organic Chem class. If Organic Chem was a type of weather, it would be one of those days in November when it's not quite winter or fall, but dark and blustery... and awful.

Fortunately for me, my best friend is in the same class. She alleviates the intense boredom caused by my professor's droning voice. Not only is she pretty and witty, she is also a closet poet.

And today she wrote a poem in class. I laughed out loud at the result of her creative energy. My professor now thinks his jokes are funny. My classmates now think I'm a lunatic. They may be right, but whatever. See for yourself.

I happened upon a man one day

(His palor markedly white)

An unabashed grin being all he wore

(It gave me quite a fright)
"Good God, dear sir, what happened to you?

Your skin's so markedly pale

You shouldn't leave such things for the world to see

Considering you're irrevocably male."

He responded "A long time ago much before your day

I was not but a wee lad of two

Minding my own in a bath when the nurse

Had an aneurysm and out with the water she threw

My humble self to the street."

"For shame!" I cried, "And let a curse hang upon her head,

But dear sir, you have failed to mention yet

Why you are still so... naked."

"My color I shan't account for

'Twas given me at birth

And I will always bless whom gave it me,

My only mother, Earth.

As for my persistent state

My theory is simple, you see:

It was naked my mother saw me last,

And I have remained so, lest she shouldn't recognize me."

-Lorelai

Fan Letter from Germany

FCN received the following fan letter several weeks ago. We post it now to prove that ladies sometimes read our blog, and because it makes us so happy. In an attempt to preserve an "Age 2 and Under" rating on this blog, we have gently censored the fan mail. We have not corrected any English (mainly because Hanna's guess is as good as ours).

Hey FCN-team,

my name is Hanna (22), I come from Germany how do you like me so far?
I'm about to write you a fan letter, so listen and repeat. OK then, listening suffices.

I hope my English is good enough to understand, I just had a beer, cause alcohol improves my foreign lenguage skills just to be on the safe side. But it actually doesn't matter, don't worry, I'm not gonna say anything interesting. By the way, fair warning, cause if words fail me, then they positively run in terror from my bad grammar. But chocking noises are serious comments as well, right? No, seriously - in that case I try other ways of expression: taking pictures of flowers, juggling axes, fire twirling with socks stuffed with coconuts, taming wild horses, making human sculptures

(I thought that's funny at least in my head).

Well, instead of learning I always do any crap in the internet that's basically how I found your website. Meanwhile four days had past and I can't stop reading. I just can't. When I had time to be online as from the evenings, I did nothing but reading your blog since the last three nights. And when I had a look at the clock again, it was already too late to go to bed early - and besides, sleeping at night is way too mainstream, don't you think?

So I made three nights of it. Result the next days I was so overtired that I wasn't able to focus on anything. I had to turn down the radio to back into a parking space (granted, I always have to do that),

I confirmed important information with: I get it, hmm, yes exactly yeah, right no, I didn't understand that , I was so absent-minded that I didn't notice it actually was my friend's new jacket I diplomatically commented with oh my gosh, how [unfashionable] is that oh it's yours scuse! and I had to say sorry that I'm still laughing um does it still hurt way too often.
I sort of felt like: Who am I? And if yes, how many ? That should be on your conscience. Just saying

I can't handle sleep deprivation well and I really shouldn't forgive you. But I'm totally in love with this blog! So I think I do forgive you nevertheless.

Everytime I was bored in the past, I just took a look into the fridge. Then marveled at the sausage, closed the fridge and continued to be bored. Today I laugh about your storys.

I thought about it for a few minutes now but I just don't get the bridge between sausage and your blog It's just everytime it's funny (the blog, not the sausage).

I laughed in that embarrassing way you do when the laughter just bursts out of you; laughed so hard I had to cross my legs to keep from peeing my pants; came very close to spitting water all over the table; snorted and there are moments I expected a doctor to say I think we lost her . Are you [!] trying to kill me? ;-)) Im sure it added a year to my life; but it could have taken a year off and it still would have been worth it! Thanks!

Since I discovered your website I actually laughed that much that I had to practice looking grave again. Though I probably shouldn't have practiced in public because my friends soon got disturbed and I had to come up with an excuse: I'm not frowning! This is Editorial Posing you spaz !

They think I'm insane.

Moreover your blog offered me a new way to bother my friends. I like to annoy people, that's just my thing. So I've been spamming them with the FCN-link for like two days now (constantly with requesting a read confirmation) and no one was able to offer resistance. Even my friend Rina had to rofl at the storys - judging from the fact that her English is like good music I dance, not good music I not dance .

(I intended it for a compliment).

Thank you so so much for making my days (which actually are nights) and please please!! keep it up!

I love you guys. I really do! ;-)

-Hanna

PS: If you need inspiration, what about headings like:

[These suggestions censored because we're pretty much using all of them later on].

Have a good one, guys! In Germany, it's 2.00 a.m. and I have to catch up on some sleep now. J

My Manifesto

The following was sent in by a verbose reader:

Yesterday I was walking in a field. I thought to myself 'Hm. Perhaps I have struck upon something brilliant.' and then I thought to myself 'Maybe not' I carried on this way for some time, until finally I said out loud "Dash it all I think I have." and I did. An idea had snuck its way into my head while I wasn't looking. It was, without a doubt, the most brilliant thought of this age. My head nearly exploded. "My good sir, you have it" I said to myself. I thought 'without a doubt' and 'most assuredly' and other helpful thoughts which raised my spirits and granted me confidence that my idea, my brain child was truly brilliant. I even thought that to myself. 'Brilliant'

You may wonder to yourself 'What possibly could have entered his mind?' or 'Did he find a new way to boil water?' or some such unhelpful thought. No matter how hard you think though, you will never strike upon it. I struck upon it in a moment of unbridled mastery. I controlled the elements while I looked at a butterfly and wondered to myself 'How' and 'Perhaps not' and 'Just as I thought it was' and other helpful thoughts. Now you may wonder, 'what in the world does a
butterfly have to do with anything?' this thought is most unhelpful and I will consequently pretend it wasn't said. I will also ignore the butterfly.

Now we come to the point of this manifesto. Laughter. Yes, I thought that when I thought it as well. When I thought laughter that is. We can put that in the same category where the butterfly is and forget about it. My thought was beyond such childish, dreamlike sensibilities of flowers, butterflies, laughter and great big men with red beards. But I digress. Even a mind as sharp as mine will wonder 'It is not so!' or 'But why not brown' or possibly 'Happenstance!' In fact, I
once spent an entire day wondering 'Why is it so?' and then 'Because it must be' and then 'What if it's not?' and then 'Perhaps you have a point' and then' You DO have a point' and then 'Dash it all I forgot what I was thinking' and then back to 'Why is it so' and so on. Finally I fell asleep and dreamed of birds eating pumpkins. Yes I know, it was THAT sort of dream.

Now we come to the essence of the manifesto. The thought. The inspiration. The core. The thesis. The catalyst of all thought as we know it in this great age. The theme. The purpose of this torrent of verbiage. My thought. I say that with some pride (I think to myself as I write this 'I did' and 'Quite so' and 'Didn't I' and 'Of course' and all sorts of other helpful thoughts) But parenthetical comments aside (Except for this one which reminds you not to fall asleep just yet), let me say what I came here to say.

But first, a description of the field. It was a nice sort of field. With flowers, and the butterfly we forgot about (the one we aren't going to talk about). And a man with a great red beard. I thought to myself at the time 'Norwegian?' and 'African?' and 'Asian?' and all sorts of other helpful thoughts. I think, in the end, that he was Spanish, or Portuguese. It really doesn't matter.

Now you may be thinking, 'Why am I reading this?' or 'What is the point?' or maybe 'Just as I thought!' or other unhelpful thoughts. I cannot stress enough that these thoughts are most counterproductive and must be put aside instantly! How can I think when your barrage of negative thoughts are constantly assaulting my cranium? All I can think of is 'Most unhelpful!' and 'Positively negative!' and other thoughts which in another circumstance would be helpful, but at the moment are more of a nuisance. I say again: Stop thinking such thoughts.

Here is the conclusion. The recap. Here we look at the brilliance that I have espoused in my first manifesto. I had an unparalleled thought, one even better than John Thornton's "Perhaps in the end it really is a cow:" or Mabel's "Three step biscuit." I couldn't put the thought on this page though. Perhaps in a later manifesto. When people are ready for it. I thought I might. I even thought 'I must' and 'Dare I?' and other helpful thoughts. However I cannot. For your own sake. My head almost exploded. I can't bear to think of what may happen to the minds of the younger readers of this fine work. Therefore I must say goodbye. I think I will. Goodbye.

On the Appropriate Length of a Humor Blog Post

When FCN was started, the topic was just a faint glimmering trace of discontent. Since then, it has risen to be one of the most hotly contested issues on a blog that frankly isn't very hotly contested.

How long should FCN's posts be?

Some of our readers see long posts as free content. A recent 2400 word Desperate Student made them feel happy deep down inside. Other readers just skim the headlines - literally. The latest FCN staff meeting yielded inconclusive results. Some favored the 3 to 8 paragraph rule. Others favored making the posts as long as the author preferred, consequences be hung. Still others favored removing all the HTML in the blog with the exception of a nice Hannah Montana background. This includes removing the posts.

With this inconclusive non-consensus, we were forced to consult FCN's extended family. Mommy G pointed us to that famous Justin Timberlake quote: "Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away." Or was that Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I can't keep the two apart in my mind.

Uncle Wally started crying when we approached him. Between sobs, he urged us to make our posts as short as possible - preferably between one and five. Syllables.

Em refused to give us advice unless we promised not to use her name in the post, which of course we just couldn't do.

So we're left in a bit of a tizzy. We don't know what to think. And with every sentence we draw this post out, we alienate some (like jellyfish) and please others (like 200). So we turn to you, the noble reader. How long should our posts be? Tell us what to think.

I am Not a Reader - Part 2

After a spasm of confusing and conflicting comments to the first post in this series, we sent Trevor an email to make sure we were still on speaking terms. He wrote from his hospital bed to assure us that we were still chums, and then followed up this display of good nature by writing a second part to his I am Not a Reader note, which we present here.

I am 98.156542% sure that there is a small doubt nagging at the back of your mind. At random times, and even awkward moments, it whispers to you: “Trevor wrote that comment. Trevor no liiiiike you. Or he have a split personalityyyy….”

In order to quell that doubt, or perhaps to negate the aftereffects, I set out one day to find the imposter.

I was… released… from the hospital at 12:12 P.M. By 12:13 I pulled up to my driveway in a stolen ambulance. I rushed inside with a single thought -- to change from the embarrassing hospital gown to something more befitting a secret agent. You would have thought that I would have learned from my previous encounter, but as I burst into my room I was knocked flat by a full-sized ninja with pink tights and a gorilla mask.

Later I discovered why ninjas seem to enjoy robbing my house. It’s a migration instinct left over from the mass population flood of Siamese midgets… but you’ll hear more about that later.

To make a short story long, the ugly ninja which makes this story popular ran out of the room. Immediately afterward, a random popular pirate crashed through the ceiling and landed on my head, asking me the way to the Caribbean. I pointed vaguely in the direction of Texas, and told him to have fun.

It was 12:20 by the time I was fully rigged out in my spy gear. Tux, pistol, handcuffs, and those spiffy plastic watches that contain every gadget from telescopes to decoders. I actually looked like James Bond, especially after I greased up my hair with floor wax. A few adjustments to advantageously accent my modest figure, and I was ready for some hard core spying.

First I pinged the IP address of the imposter who left the comment in my name. It turned out to be a randomly assigned portal commonly used by Soviets in Africa. ‘Course, we all know who that is (chah, rFCN).

I don’t want to bore you with stupid details. With only a few casualties, I managed to hijack a plane from the local airport, where security is less than cautious. After a short flight to the African continent, I kindly left the plane in Ouagadougou, so that the airline company could find it easily. Yaddah yaddah yaddah, you don’t wanna hear about that garbage.

So. After landing, I found a hidden cache of weapons. I stole a machine gun, a grenade or two, then blew the rest up -- I am truly a pyromaniac at heart. I regretted it immediately afterward, however, as I was chased by angry tribesmen who believed that I had set fire to their village. It wasn’t true at all, really. How was I to know that those little huts were inhabited by people?

I was chased for a couple hundred yards, until I got tired. So I let the tribesmen catch up to me, and gave them guns in exchange for the damage done to their village. They seemed pretty happy with the deal.

Blah blah blah. Let’s see… the rampaging rhinos, berserk pygmy shrews, pirate ninjas, ninja pirates… ah, yes. I ended up in Erg d'Agmer, a sandy portion of Africa where only evil spirits and Communists reside. With some high-tech equipment pillaged from Le village et les gorges de Yi Yerra, I began tracking the name usurpers. I was little surprised to discover an advanced civilization of pink-clad ninja minja midget warriors residing in underground caves in the region. If you will kindly read on, momentarily I will make the connection between the civilization, my house, migration, and the pink tights.

It was obvious that rFCN had set up base nearby. I snuck past the local Wal-Mart before I was attacked by ninja children, who were emo. I made peace by giving them a grenade, then asked them where I could find the local rFCN headquarters. They chattered excitedly in Russian, then pointed to a nearby shack with antennas and wires poking crazily from the roof.

As I walked stealthily toward the house, I heard smothered laughter and an explosion behind me. I glanced back to see Wal-Mart on fire… oh well, none of my business.

The shack turned out to be empty of life. It was well stocked with computers and scientific equipment, however. I busted a window and crept inside, stealing up to one of the computers. After a quick hack, I discovered that it was indeed these people who had stolen my identity. They were soviets from Europe, who had moved to China and from there to Africa during the war of 1812. They had picked up the ninja way in Siam, and had acquired their manner of dress from ballets in Italy. My house had once been a communications base for NaBB, Ninja and Ballerina Broadcast. It seems that it was now a popular attraction for local ninjas.

Enough said. To abbreviate things, I blew up the shack and headed home on a stolen cruise liner. As I piloted my way home, I remembered that I had destroyed the evidence by blowing up the computers. Ahh, well… FCN will believe me anyway, right?

So really, I accomplished nothing in the end. But know this, FCN, subsidiaries and affiliates: I, Trevor, believe wholeheartedly in FCN’s right to publish content sent to their e-mail address. It is stated clearly that FCN will probably post any e-mail sent to them; whether caustically, or spitefully, or in an unrighteous manner. I attest that I know this, and that I sent my e-mail with every intention of my story being treated in this way. To the imposter who still lurks out there, I say “Yah boo sucks! Hope you fall into a sewer, or get kissed by Millary Clinton. Or both, necessarily in that order.”

Good for you, Trevor. And yes, we believe every word. We ran your post through a special device in the FCN Lab that evaluates the truthfulness of statements and it didn't beep once, so we know you're in the clear.

Readers, if you want more fun stuff from Trevor, check out his blog, Class C2. It's delicious.

I Am Not A Reader

We had absolutely nothing to post today. We were about to give up and run away to sea in despair (or do something more drastic like color our hair) when this friendly email from Trevor happened by. We decided to exploit an obscure clause of our privacy statement which lets us post email correspondence. We assume that, because this post involves a ninja, it will be a smashing success.

Despite my frequent visitations to your blog, and in spite of the fact that 'Coke Glorious Coke' and 'Ima Victim' repeatedly cycle around my head, I am not an addict of your site. Really. In spite of the sudden urge to write this e-mail, in spite of daily thoughts of Life Tips and that idiotic, hilarious disclaimer... I am not a regular reader.

I want to be. I truly do. But, I am sorry to report that I missed one day of reading.

As every stereotypical story begins, I was walking home from work one day. Suddenly the sky went dark, and a single black cloud floated down and hovered over my head. There were evil dancing rats inside, probably guys from rFCN. They shot me with lightning and coated me with honey and powdered sugar (which actually tastes good). I was left to die on the sidewalk.

I was picked up by a passing used car salesman who mistook me for a donut. After he very unpleasantly discovered my true identity, however, he threw me out of the window. I rolled into a pet store where I was attacked by mutant chimpanzees with rifles and slingshots. The powdered sugar softened the blows, however.

After washing myself off in the fish tank, I decided to head home. I disregarded the children who taunted me and called me names like 'Sticky', 'Stupid', and others that I shall not repeat. I had only one goal -- to go home and read Funny Class Notes, the only thing that could cheer me up.

As I walked through the door, I let out a sigh. But not of relief. For a ninja midget had invaded my home and made off with all the pretzels, and he was just making good his escape as I walked through the door. He karate chopped me, and I crumpled to the ground. He fled through the doorway, with a few kicks for good measure.

I dragged myself upstairs, bleeding, resolved to click on 'Favorites' and to open your site. I hauled myself onto the office chair, which broke. From the ground I reached for my mouse, which cracked in my hand. I used keyboard shortcuts to navigate to Favorites, then held my pointer finger up to push the Enter key...

...And the power went out.

I fainted from exhaustion and disappointment. It all went black for awhile. And when I woke up, it was 11:58 PM. The power was back on! I rebooted my computer at 11:59, opened my web browser, and clicked on Funny Class Notes!!!

But the clock changed to 12:00, and I was a loser. I had failed my aspirations to become a regular reader. I am now to remain unrecognized, my lifelong dream unfulfilled. Why me? Oh, cruel fate! You have blasted the hopes of an aspiring young man!

WHAT WILL I DO!?!?!?!?!?

Sincerely,

-Trevor

Sorry, Trevor. We can't help you. You failed, man. You. Failed.

Losing The 'F' In 'FCN'

As some of you may have surmised from the not-so-subtle reference in the latest episode of Desperate Student, one of the three authors of Funny Class Notes is leaving for a period of weeks to partake in a summer project. The departing author has requested that the exact nature of his behavior be kept in the dark from you, the faithful few. I know, have a Kleenex. We can, however, tell you that he will be in no way productive. That much is assured de facto.

With the temporary loss of one of our three authors, FCN is now a triangle with two sides; a tri-union without one of the parties. We have gone from Lithium to Helium. Boy that was nerdy. We're the two stooges, Peter, Paul and nobody, or Nickelback without the bass player.

As long as it's just the two of us, we don't see a need to have a three letter acronym to describe this blog. “FCN” implies three people, and corresponds to the letters we have tattooed on our rear ends. The author who is leaving is taking with him the “F” on his rump with him (he couldn't very well leave it behind), leaving the C (my tush) and N here for your entertainment. So from now until he returns (the other writer not, you know, Him), this blog will be known simply by the acronym “CN.”

According to Acronym Finder, an excellent webpage that helped us determine that FCN actually stands for Funny Class Notes, “CN” means The People's Republic of China, Connecticut, Consultant, Cyanide, Communications Network, Cranial Nerve, Chloroacetophenone, Congenital Nystagmus, Common Name, Corporate Network, Canadian National, Cellular Number, Cherokee Nation and, our personal favorite, Chuck Norris. What the Acronym Finder hasn't found, however, is that CN really stands for Class Notes, which is what we will continue to write no matter what (with a few obvious exceptions like acid rain and a sticky female incident, but you get the picture).

What this means to you, or at least those who are spending their summers at more pedestrian pursuits, is that you need to take some counter measures to ensure that CN doesn't lose one third of its brilliance. In order to stay on the cutting corner of cultural commentary and comedy, we need you guys to send in any Class Notes you've been holding back. If you had a weird incident at the dentist's office a few weeks back and want to vent a little toothy frustration, send us your tome. If you twisted your littlest toe in a way that was so painful that you actually started laughing while the nurse fidgeted with it, write it down and tell us about it, as Chris says. If you were in Zimbabwe recently and had a noteworthy adventure there, you know what to do. Just email your material to us at FunnyClassNotes@gmail.com.

As for us, we'll put together a week of classics starting maybe next week or the week after that, or the week after that one, using the suggestions you came up with while we were all on vacation. We'll also be adding a little water to the soup, cutting posts shorter, making the graphics grainier and the page load more slowly so that we can make what content we do have go further.

Further, we aren't telling you which one of us is leaving. Our posts will retain their anonymous quality that destroys your ability to specify names in your hatemail or otherwise target a specific CN author. I know, we can be pretty devious.

So that's the plan for the next few weeks. If you have a problem with it, leave a nasty comment that the departing author will read when he returns or email us and we'll give you his personal email address so you can spam him to pieces.

Have a great get away, bro!

Envoy Mission, and other stories ...

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

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

http://oyiandclari.blogspot.com/

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

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

ENVOY MEETING, by Randy Hawthorn

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

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

If I Were A Fat Man

An FCN reader sent us the following rendition of the lyrics to Harnick and Bock's If I Were A Rich Man. If you are unfamiliar with the classic from Fiddler on the Roof, please listen to this audio clip before continuing.

Dear God, you made many, many slim people.
I realize, of course, that it's no shame to be slim.
But it's no great honor either!
So, what would have been so terrible if I had a small gut eh?"

If I were a fat man,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd eat and eat and eat.
If I were a fatter man.
I'd look like a mountain.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy fat,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle man.

I'd build a big tall house to room my circumfrance,
Right in the middle of the town.
A fine tin roof with thick wooden floors below.
There would be one strong staircase just going up,
And one even stronger coming down,
And one great kitchen set up for my food.

I'd fill my yard with chicks and turkeys and geese and ducks
For me to roast and eat
And each loud "cheep" and "swaqwk" and "honk" and "quack"
Would land like a trumpet on the ear,
As if to say "Here lives a fatty man."

If I were a fat man,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd eat and eat and eat.
If I were a fatter man.
I'd look like a mountain.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy fat,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle man.

I see my wife, my Golde, looking like a fat man's wife
With a proper double-chin.
Supervising meals to her heart's delight.
I see her putting on airs and strutting like a peacock.
Oy, what a happy mood she's in.
Screaming at the servants, day and night.

The most important men in town would come to help feed me!
They would ask me to advise them,
Like Ted Kennedy the Fat.
"If you please, Reb Tevye..."
"Which food, Reb Tevye..."
Posing problems that would cross a cook's eyes!
And it won't make one bit of difference if i answer right or wrong.
When you're fat, they think you really know!

If I were fat, I'd have the gut that I lack
To sit in the fast food place and eat.
And maybe have a booth in an In-N-Out.
And I'd discuss the cooking books with the learned men, several hours every day.
That would be the sweetest thing of all.

If I were a fat man,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd eat and eat and eat.
If I were a fatter man.
I'd look like a mountain.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy fat,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle man.

The Unaddicted Reader

FCN received the following message yesterday:

How does one often feel after reading FCN? No offense, but words just can't just describe my feelings after reading FCN. I hope my picture will suffice.

And in the humble opinion of this non addicted FCN reader, I think this would make an excellent photo for your sidebar profile picture. Your non addicted readers would no longer have to gasp for words when confronted to explain their feelings about FCN. Imagine! We could just point at the adorable, yet frantic, cat. " I feeleth thus," we studder, as we point with shaking fingers toward the photo of the adorable, yet frantic, cat.

Yes, I love FCN. Shall I say it rocks? It is just above tolerable--so I tolerate it. =)

-the unaddicted reader, Kezzie

Thank you, Kezzie, for your eloquent input and, of course, the very expressive image that completely sums up how we feel about the honorable congresswoman from the 8th District of California and, it seems, how at least one of our readers feels about FCN.

Of Females and Football

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics is like show business

This is a class note contributed by a female fan. Obviously, we at FCN are very excited about this because it is the first conclusive proof we've encountered that females read this blog (besides our moms).

Its theatre is packed with patrons who eagerly await temporary pleasure, caring not about long-term consequences. They have riches, and will spend them indiscriminately. They have morals, but will cast them aside without discernment. Perhaps there is somewhere else they should be going, but in their ignorance, they have forgotten where.

The politician enters the stage. He is an entertainer playing to a captive audience. His face, painted brilliantly, conceals who he truly is. Through a delicate dance, he courts the majority of the crowd. He only needs the approval of half to make a buck. The rest are irrelevant to him.

This dance becomes inappropriate. For a split second, his fans wonder if something is not right. Weren’t there guidelines for behavior? A few walk out of the theatre. Others vocally protest and must be removed. Yet the entertainer’s presence is more powerful than ever- the majority cannot leave.

The guidelines don’t matter, the onlookers decide. They never did. The entertainer knows best.

In a moment, another character appears. Deliberately and slowly, he enters the stage. His face is ghastly for lack of paint. His voice is plain; his movements simple. He struggles to deliver a message, but it isn’t what the people want to hear. There was a time when entertainers were different? Ludicrous. Make the old-fashioned fellow go away. Perhaps he thinks he is an entertainer. But to the audience, he doesn’t compare.

And so the entertainer restarts his dance- hips swaying to the music, eyes full of flame. His opponent is gone; his fame is secure. Laughter and excitement resume again. He pleases the people, he notes proudly, that’s all that matters in the end.

The theatre reeks with the wine of democracy. But everyone is too drunk to care.

Are you an Athlete or a Sports Fan?

One reader sent us this insightful comparison...

Athletes study the playbook (Ps. 119:160)
Sports fans study the sports section (Prov. 14:12)

Athletes trust their coach (Ps. 32:8; II Pet. 1:3)
Sports fans trust talk radio (Micah 7:5, 6)

Athletes are recognized by performance (Dan. 11:32)
Sports fans are recognized by team garb (I Sam. 16:7)

Athletes value training (Heb. 12:11)
Sports fans value cable (Ec. 2:10)

Athletes step onto the field (I Sam. 17:40)
Sports fans stay on the couch (Prov. 24:30)

Athletes gather for a purpose (I Cor. 14:26)
Sports fans gather for a show (Is. 5:12)

Athletes experience sore muscles (Prov. 20: 30)
Sports fans experience spare tires (Prov. 26:14)

Athletes collect strength (Ps. 18:39)
Sports fans collect memorabilia (Matt. 25:24-30)

Athletes run marathons (Dan. 11:32)
Sports fans run to the bathroom (Matt. 25:1-13)

Athletes are crowned victorious (I Thess. 2:19)
Sports fans are crowned with spilled beer (Ps. 28:19)

BE AN ATHLETE