One Week is All We Ask

Seasons Greetings from all of us here at FCN. We're taking the week off for The Holidays to sit back with friends and family, sip egg nog, and remember what this season is really all about: Frosty the Snowman.

The sweating of a groom

A good friend of mine just got married. When I received an invitation to the wedding a month or so before the "big day," I looked at the elaborately laced note and charming photograph of the couple a few seconds before discarding the invite. I don't recall the exact nature of my thoughts on the issue, but they were pleasant and I know I wished the two lovers amazing success. I didn't give the issue another think until my mother asked about it at dinner.

"Do you know where your wedding invitation is?" Apparently my mother had misplaced hers and wanted to see mine to check the "registry," whatever that is. She didn't mention the names of the participants or even reference the date of the get together (I always thought "get together" would be a better name for a start of marriage celebration. "I was the best man in his get together" or "The bride's family paid a lot of money for the get together dress but the groom really shelled out for that get together ring."). She just knew that I would know who she was talking about.

"Bill and Patty's wedding?" I asked facetiously, making up two names.

"No, silly, the other one. Bill and Patty are getting married?" My mother was disappointed I'd tossed the invite. I learned that those are things you keep, stow in a box with souvenirs and trinkets, lose in a big cross-state move and cry about. So I dug through the garbage and removed the offending invitation.

No sooner had I removed the document from it's semi-retirement in the trashbin when my phone buzzed. It was the groom. He wanted groomsmen. He wanted me, a designation I later learned was a high honor. I asked him if I would have to wear a tuxedo. He said I would. I hesitated. He told me he was desperate. I understood and agreed.

After I hung up, I consulted a dictionary to find out what in David Stern's name I'd just committed to:

Groomsman: n. A male the approximate age of the groom who stands beside the groom and best man while the groom is performing the wedding vows. The male should do as little as possible to distract from the ceremony, but should look clean, well pressed and generally square. Fidgeting and snide comments should be kept to a minimum. Infractions in this area are punished by the bride and her entourage.

I'd been duped. Now my attendance was mandatory. I thought I'd be able to get away with an FB wall message or maybe an e-card. But to go to the actual event? To watch two people embraced in amorous affection in a scene that would surely remind me of my own love life's failures? To get dressed in something other than jeans and a hoodie? Ugh! Why do friends have to get married?

The rehearsal dinner was an exercise in patience. One time through the vows was not enough! No, we had to march back and forth, reenacting the get together. When I tried to walk more quickly to get the affair completed in a more "efficient" manner, I invariably received a stern look from a clipboard-toting authority figure with fashionably short hair and harsh eye liner. Groomsmen, she argued, are to act like gentlemen. I had a different interpretation, but kept it to myself.

I like my tuxedo shirts untucked. That's the way I wear all of my shirts and I don't see why tuxedos should be any different. When they're tucked in, my tops make me look too much like what I am: a poorly adjusted, out of shape nincompoop. The soft folds of my underbelly, invisible beneath the loose cloth of an untucked shirt, are painfully obvious above a constricting belt. Clipboard had a solution. She handed me a black shield which I placed over the junction of my shirt and pants which effectively blocked the view of my gut. I still don't know what the thing is called, but I owe it my dignity.

The attitude of the groom changed as the get together approached. During the rehearsal, his whole attention was occupied by his bride-to-be. He looked at her, talked with her, held her and generally spent every moment trying to be closer to her. When she left, he acted like a little baby who just lost his comfort blanket. Although he didn't throw a tantrum or react in an unseemly manner, he obviously felt her absence.

On the afternoon of the get together, the bride was kept out of the groom's site which really got to the groom. To the male contingent of the wedding party, congregated as we were in some kind of green room, the joyous occasion we were about to take part in demanded a light mood and spirits were high. The groom did not share our delectation. As the minutes wore on, beads of sweat, some tainted red, formed on his brow and began sliding down his cheeks, like tears from the wrong duct. His breathing was ragged and his hands unstable. He asked for a glass of water and ate something. And then he brushed his teeth for the umpteenth time to be "ready for the kiss."

As if to show off the groom's nerves to the world, Clipboard had him confiscated and placed in the front of the attending masses next to a too-calm pastor. Then we repeated the rehearsal, except this time it was the real thing.

When the bride appeared, all of us groomsmen, the best man and the groom let out a sort of involuntary gasp. You know the sound a carload of people make when they round a vista and see the Grand Canyon for the first time or catch their first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean? It was something like that. She was stunningly beautiful. As she walked toward the arbor, I wondered at the groom's amazing good fortune. He'd graduated from dereliction several years ago, but still had a very masculine streak in him. Sure he was more clean cut and generally better mannered, but at heart he was the sort of wild heathen who was more dedicated to fun than relationships. And he was a college student, which pretty much repels all the decent members of the opposite gender. How had he managed to get her to consent to marriage?

I wondered, as she took slow steps with her father over freshly dropped flower petals, if I might be so lucky. I looked over at the groom and noticed that his shaking had ceased. His nerves were calmed by her presence and, if I didn't know better, I might have guessed him a dead ringer for a handsome guy. I think he was relieved she didn't bolt, a possibility the other groomsmen and I had placed wagers on (I didn't lose too much money). There ceremony was as short as it was permanent and the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

What am I forgetting? Ah, yes, the kiss. Clipboard gave us groomsmen a terrible angle on the get together smooch. All we saw was the groom's back as he leaned in. I felt as if I were sitting behind the fat guy at a baseball game. "Hey, man, I'm trying to see!" The audience appreciated act because it broke out into an applause that, while only latently enthusiastic, was not altogether limp. And then the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

There were other things too. They pushed food into each other's mouths, walked around in a square to music while everyone watched and demanded they kiss, and threw articles of clothing toward single guests. It was all very romantic. If there is enough interest, I might dig through my memory and post some of the more scandalous anecdotes. Otherwise, that's the sweating of a groom.

Dearest One,

Thanks to a faithful reader for forwarding this touching and inspiring message to us at Funny Class Notes. We were not the recipients of this email and therefore did not feel empowered to respond. We do, however, want to abuse our status as the slowest growing humor blog in cyberspace to raise awareness about the plight of Janet Fernandez (Mrs.). We are currently negotiating with a local park to organize a walk for her benefit. Funny Class Notes is also taking donations in her name. The funds will not be spent on Fernandez (Mrs.), but are being collected in her name nonetheless. In fact, if we get enough donation money, I may rent my next movie in her name. Without more ado, here's the email punctuated occasionally with our thoughts.

Dearest One,

I bring you greetings in the name of our creator, it is in my search for a reliable and God fearing person and having gotten your contact through prayers and pains taking efforts via searching i made on the internet on my bed side.

That must be some bedside. Remind me to get my number listed on the bedside "do not call list." In fact, there are really only a handful of people you should call from your bedside and, unless you are different "Janet," I don't think I'm one of them.

Presently, I'm in a hospital here in Abidjan-Cote D'Ivoire where I have been undergoing therapy treatment for Oesophagi Cancer.

No! Not Oesophagi Cancer! That's awful. Where is the Oesophagi, anyway? Wait, Did you mean: Oesophageal cancer Thanks Google!

Though its a sad and long story but I will cut it short for your quick and easy understanding. I am Janet Fernandez (Mrs), widow to Late Mr. Edward A. Fernandez, former Defence attachee to Benin Embassy in Germany. My husband was murdered in 2005 by those who are envious of his position in the same office leaving me with our only son Desmond.

Wouldn't that be "Edward A. Fernandez (Mr)?" Just a thought.

Before his death we were both born again christains and because of our new fond Love in Christ Jesus we both made a convenant with God to use his wealth for the down trodden,orphanages and the less privileged in the society. Having known my condition I decided to donate part of this money to an individual or better still a God fearing person who will utilize this wealth the way I am going to instruct herein. I want an individual that will adopt my only son, use part this wealth and provide succor to poor and indigent persons, orphanages, and widows and for the propagating peace.

I took this decision because I do not my child to suffere or continue to leave in this part of the world, moreover my late husband's relatives are not inclined to helping poor persons and I do not want my husband's hard earned wealth to be misused or spent in the manner in which my late husband did not specify. I do not want a situation where this wealth will be used in an ungodly manner which will be contrary to the convenant we made with God Almighty.

You know, whenever you have a major philanthropic endeavor or are going to be bequeath your life's wealth to someone to carry out your dieing wish and ensure that your progeny are well cared for, you can count on a handful of wet-behind-the-ears derelicts. You know you can. We will ensure that your son will never "leave" that part of the world and will devote the entire sum to helping indigent persons. Specifically, we will use it to help four indigent persons.

What is required of you is your honesty, trust and sincerity. Any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing for another individual for this same purpose.

So you need our honesty, trust, sincerity and our speed. Don't forget that last one. Come to think of it, the last person who asked for my speed didn't seem very nice...

Please reply in case you are interested on this alternative email: janetfernandez39@gmail.com so that i will go into details and furnish you with all further informations.

May God Almighty bless you.
Janet Fernandez (Mrs)

“You have very soft hands”

While prodding through campus, I saw a friend walking with a young woman I’d never met before, but whose acquaintance I immediately wanted to make. With a “hey, wait up,” I tightened the straps on my backpack and accelerated my pace until I was abreast of the duo.

I introduced myself to the young woman and extended my right hand, thumb up.

The practice of squeezing another’s hand as a sign of agreement or respect is really quite singular. It was probably originally intended as a defensive maneuver, but today is a common ritual exchanged between friend and foe alike.

Our hands made contact. We clasped. And just like that the squeeze was over.

“You have very soft hands,” she said as we returned our respective appendages to their comfort zones.

“Thank you,” I replied for lack of a better retort and to cover for a quick rush of adrenaline.

What did she mean by “soft hands?” Was she making reference to my obvious skill at ball sports, most of which require dexterous fingers, an eponymous attribute of “soft hands?” Did she mean that my hands lacked strength and intend her comments as not-so-subtle hint to encourage amity with the weight room? Was she implying that I moisturized frequently, a euphemism for another behavior entirely? Was she forcing me to come to grips (note the pun?) with my soft hands?

While my mind was gyrating, my mouth remained mute, leaving an awkward void in our dialog.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked, filling the silence. I wanted her to say “no” and give me a pumice stone to use on my palms or some acid for the skin around my nails. I wanted a rebuke for failing to maintain manly calluses or a lecture on the value of manual labor. At least then I would have a benchmark for improvement and a way of escape.

Instead she answered with a “sure,” followed by a shrug and a giggle that left me feeling lonelier than a broke supermodel after a failed facelift.

I was dejected, but quickly drew the conclusion that I would have to stop using soap, find a splintery wooden board to rub against or, maybe, just accept my soft hands.

Runaway Car

On my way to school the other morning, I swung by the gas station to fill up the seemingly bottomless tank on my car. If you think this post is going to about the high price of gasoline, you read way too much FCN. For once, we are deviating from this popular and very relevant theme to discuss another pressing issue at the pump.

But, as long as we are on the subject - and I am already prejudged a oil price junkie - my latest fill up was ridiculously expensive. I would write the total price down, but most of the faithful FCN few would find it too fantastic to believe. So, I scanned my receipt, blotted out a few private and unimportant details and posted it to the right for you to enjoy and be amazed at (click to enlarge).

A little topography before we continue: My filling station of choice is situated at the top of a small rise. It isn't any great hill or imposing mountain (I live in the central valley for Quetzalcoatl's sake), but it is enough of an elevation increase to deserve a mention.

So back to the story: I pulled in front of the pump (#5, as the receipt will testify) and hopped out of my car, locking the door behind me. I was careful to bring my keys with me. I waltzed (1,2,3-1,2,3) over to the pump and began fiddling with the "easy to use" pay-at-the-pump feature. The screen was asking me to enter something, but the morning sun behind me created a glare that rendered the request incomprehensible. I put my keys on top of the pump and used my hand to shield the sun. After I punched in my zip code, I selected my grade and turned around to begin pumping.

That's when I noticed that my car was nowhere to be seen. I'd heard about people stealing vehicles while their owners where purchasing gasoline, but I'd never been a victim of such a brazen crime. Still, I hadn't heard the car start and it was possible...

There, not fifteen feet from where I had parked it, my car was creeping forward and no one was sitting behind the wheel. My car was stealing itself!

Quickly, I replaced the nozzle in the guzzle and sprinted to the door. Locked! And in my haste to get over I had forgotten my keys! I ran over to the other side of the car and tried the passenger side door, to no avail. I tried the trunk, irrationally thinking that it might be unlocked. It wasn't. Had it been unlocked, I have no idea what I would have done, although the idea of me riding in the trunk of my unmanned car does have a flippant nonchalance, like something Charlie Chaplin might do (WWCCD?).

I looked up at the rest of the parking lot and mentally projected a trajectory for my uncontrolled vehicle. It was headed right for the road. While traffic was lazy, it was present and images of my car looking like bad coleslaw flashed through my mind.

Maybe, I thought, I could run to the front of the car and push it to a halt. I started moving away from the trunk when I remembered the gentleman in Tiananemen Square who held back the Chinese army by prancing in front of a column of tanks, but figured my car might not be as considerate as the red commies. Standing in front of an unmanned mobile vehicle is not my idea of a fun school commute.

The consternation and requisite sweat were building when I remembered my keys sitting atop the pump. By the time I retrieved them, my car had merged into traffic.

I wish they put as much emphasis on teaching cars to drive as they do their drivers, because my car didn't know the first thing about the rules of the road: It didn't stop at a stop sign and merged without signaling. People sometimes say I drive dangerously. I say my car drives dangerously - I just go along for the ride.

There had to have been some kind of providential intervention on the scale of Moses and the Red Sea or at least "No Country For Old Men" for my car to have escaped unscathed. My keys and I arrived before the police or a human carjacker and I was able to safely navigate back to the pump.

Of course, as crazy an adrenaline rush as I got from that experience, it didn't come close to the buzz I got when I paid for the gas.

Cow Bell 101

This site has cataloged my antics at my school's basketball games before, but this post centers on the behavior of another ardent fan, this one in the pep band. If you've ever been to a collegiate sporting event, you have undoubtedly been treated to the rousing notes of the pep band, rising up over the raucous cheers of the crowd with a volume that does little to disguise its own discord.

A friend who plays a very loud (and thus very important) instrument for the group once confided in me that the band practiced only two times outside of games all semester. For such little preparation, it is astounding that they are able to get so many people to play the right note at the same time, or at least a tone that is within a half step of the right note.

This is higher education: Who's to say what is or isn't the "right" note?

Our pep band has one clear standout. He is the Kobe Bryant of the court, the Bill Gates of the computer world and the Tim Berners-Lee (the guy who invented the internet) of packet sharing. No, I am not talking about any trumpet, trombone, tuba or timpani player, although, for what it's worth, all of those instruments do start with the letter "t." Rather the clear standout is the band's cow bell player.

Yes, the cow bell. You might have heard it on an Amish farm in Lancaster County or in the background at a Nordic skiing event. In these venues, the bell is wrung randomly and with no thought to intensity, rhythm or tonality, all very important qualities for the cow bell instrumentaliste.

When our cow bell player strikes stick to bell, the retort can be heard throughout the 6,000 seat stadium and the winces of the other band members are visible from across the court. You see, our cow bell player is very skilled.

But not only does he keep rhythm, he dances like the white guy he is.

As he strikes, the cow bell player moves his feet back and forth, bobbing his head to the beat he creates. He sways, bobs and weaves like Kevin James in Hitch, Dane Cook after a bad joke or our President in Africa. It's as if he has seen too many showings of Step Up or that Cowbell skit on SNL. During the timeouts, he skedaddles out to center court and continues his gyrations in full view of all.

In the middle of one of these impromptu performances, a friend of mine asked how a cow bell specialist got to study at our school's highly ranked music department. Were there even enough classes, my friend wondered, to allow a major in Cowbell Studies or Fine Cowbell Arts?

After a brief visit with our school's catalog confirmed that, yes, cowbell was an offered degree. We have classes in Beginning, Intermediate and Advanced Cowbell Strikeage, Cowbell theory (including a upper division course in where best to strike a cowbell), History of Cowbell (divided up into pre and post modern Olympic games and a specialty class in cowbells of the Western United States), Cowbell Form and Motion, a cowbell capstone class and even a course in how to dance while playing the cowbell.

Too ensure a well-rounded graduate, majors have to take at least three electives from another percussion instrument including pots and pans, the serrated stick and car dashboards.

I am going tonight to watch my school's last home game of the season and a I guarantee that during the timeouts, I will be watching the cowbell player - the cowbell artist, excuse me - very closely.

Answering a Challenge to an FCN hypothesis

Last week, we published a post hypothesizing that women tend to use treadmills more than guys and that at any given gym, the males will congregate around the weights. Our hypothesis was based on extensive study in the FCN lab, anecdotal observation and results from that odd-shaped beep-beep machine homeless people use on the beach (yes, I do own a Zircon MT6 Electronic Metal Finder. Deal with it).

Despite the overwhelming evidence supporting our conclusion, one conscientious reader referenced anecdotal information that, at first very red blush, seemed contradictory. She argued that women tend to use the ellipticals more and that guys ride the treadmills.

Watch and learn, boys, girls and Roger Clemens, as FCN answers this challenge:

1) Deny, Deny, Deny

FCN categorically, absolutely and without exception, qualification or reserve denies the allegation. We declare untrue, universally contradict and reject any statement or opinion that stands in contradistinction to our earlier position. We do not retract, amend, change or shift our stance, but stand firmly resolute behind our primary findings. We issue no retreat, raise no white flag, surrender no credibility and admit no error. We disclaim, repudiate, contravene, negate, renounce and disavow all objections, stated or otherwise and continue to stand as stalwart and unmovable advocates of our original position.

2) Attack mode

The commenter who raised this allegation identified him/herself as "Kirk," which is a male name of Norse origin meaning "church" which was given to some 975 boys in the year 2002. On closer inspection, however, we realize that the actual commenter's name is Kirsten, which is a female name of Latin origin meaning "follower of Christ" which was given to some 407 girls in the year 2006. Ah hah!

We don't have any more dirt on Kirk/Kirsten, but we will give you the address of his/her blogs so you can criticize everything s/he hypothesizes. She runs The Young Thinker, The Two Sisters and Corantolavolta, which is a male name of indeterminate origin which was given to nobody ever.

If all eleven readers load Kirk/Kirsten's blog at once and try to leave a comment it might shut down her server and keep her from digging up dirt on FCN's hypotheses.

3) Moral Testimony

FCN has long maintained the highest standards of academic and blogging excellence. We do not lie to our readers. Ever. Not once. Not at all. We try to ensure a comforting if not succulent blogging experience, drawing the reader in and providing a cyber-foot cushion for you as you read the latest content. We put our readers first at every turn and as your constant advocate we have never failed.

Given this pristine and untarnished record, it seems foolhardy to value the input of someone who lies about his/her name over the established and reliable moral standards of Funny Class Notes.

4) Misdirection

Still, Kirk/Kirsten's objection is a valuable remonstration in that it draws attention to the dangers of scientific error. We would be remiss if content of FCN were to in any way detract from the credibility of the scientific community and therefore pledge to post a link on our sidebar to a scientific website for the duration of the week. We understand the importance of science and want to do everything in our power to promote free thought and intellectualism.

If we had money to give, we would donate it. If we had time, we would pledge it. But we have a blog, so we'll link.

5) Slyly retool hypothesis

The fact is that women do use the aerobic machines more often then their male counterparts. Whether that machine is the treadmill, the elliptical, the stair stepper or that funky gizmo that spins really fast while making people sweat, women are more likely to ride it.

From this original hypothesis, we do not back down.

Somebody beat us to it

This proves that dereliction is always the best approach. When we actually try for something - something meaningful and important - and make an attempt at history that will allow our names to live forever in the giant book of winners, someone else does it before us. Over the weekend a new world record was set with 4 1/4 bananas eaten in one minute. Now that's some news that wont make Drudge. The video above is a documentation of the effort and ensuing success.

All I have to say is that man had better not be one of the Faithful FCN Few who stole our idea and got into the record book himself. If you count yourself among one of our eleven readers Scott Whateveryourlastnameis, be sure to give us a shout out of some kind. Please? I mean, we're practically begging here.

Deep seated hatred, sour grapes and avowed vengeance aside, we extend heartfelt congratulations to the gentleman who managed to scarf down four good sized bananas in a minute. He deserves every ounce of ink the record book will devote to him next year. Great job Scott.

Why I Dropped Out of College

School officially starts today. My fellow contributors are off to classes starting this morning and tomorrow, respectively. And while they're sitting in rows of desks listening to instructors tell them not to cheat and what the late homework policy is, I'll be driving from one job interview to the next begging for gainful (or at least semi reputable) employment.

I've completed 33.5 college credits and was sitting on the honor roll until about three weeks before finals (when I abruptly stopped studying because I had an itch). If I stayed in school a few more years, I'd be walking around with a Business degree and my starting salaries would be much juicier. I might even make double digits per hour. Crazy!

But that's not going to happen. I will never get my degree. I spent more than a year of life sitting in class writing FCN posts, and all I'm getting out of it is a lot of FCN posts. And zebra doodles, which are harder to draw than you might think. I don't mind keeping our eleven readers stimulated, but you'd think I could find a way to be more productive with a year of my life. Oh well.

So I know what you're thinking: "He's not taking class notes! One less contributor! Oh noes!" Well, worry not. After a long and sweaty FCN staff meeting, I managed to convince my fellow contributors to let me stay on in the same capacity I formerly worked in. It won't just be class notes anymore - now it'll be Funny Waiting For Tech Support Phone Call Notes or Funny Pool Cleaning Notes (or whatever job I end up getting). But since

FWFTSPCNoFPCN(oWJIEUG)aFCN

is not a catchy acronym, my fellow contributors were insistent on leaving the name as is. On the plus side, since we're not changing our name, your bookmarks will stay up to date. You do have FCN bookmarked, right? Right?

Moving on.

Another thing you're thinking: "Don't drop out of college, you loser! Stay the course!" Well, I'm not staying the course, and there are a few reasons:

Personality. My personality is such that I'm not the kind of guy who finishes what he starts. So dropping out of school comes naturally. Some people are just quitters. Think of that song by Shania Twain. That's how it is. Except take the opposite of that, and that's what I am.

Mind-bending boredom. As you could probably tell by reading FCN, college classes are like lullabies or "you've been a bad boy" lectures from people who are not my mom. They put me to sleep. Maybe being a cashier will be more exciting.

College people. There are two kinds of college students: Macho Emotional Wrecks and Emo Emotional Wrecks. I'm both. Neither are any fun to hang out with. In addition, students are uber-sheltered, non-unique, not on their last boyfriend yet, think of themselves as artists, smell funny, stay up too late, eat junk (but not enough of it), are politically active but politically ignorant, poorly dressed, drunk or wish they were, too young, nerdy, fat, ugly, boorish victims who play their iPods too loud.

Money. Textbooks are expensive. Minimum wage is - like - negative expensive. Show me the moolah!

Time. Even when you're not studying, college takes time. Not going to college frees up time for all those derelict pursuits I value more than warming the seat with my student-issue tushie. Like getting level 17 Dark Elf.

Tackiness. For about two decades, every time anyone wanted money from me, I turned to the person next to me and said: "Hey, can you cover for me?" Now, I can say: "Hey, can I pay you back later?" Eventually I'll have to move to Switzerland, but in the meantime, I'll be golden. Instead of broke.

So I'll concede that my long-term future is a bit dim. But it's all good, because today, as the other contributors and many of you in the reading audience march off to class, I'll be right here laughing.

And scrubbing.

Going Bananas for the Guinness Book of World Records

Of all the things to accomplish in this time on earth (sky diving, street miming and dropping a twenty dollar bill out of a sky scraper to watch the masses scramble down below) one of my highest priorities is to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. This respected book, published in volume format every anum, lists the greatest accomplishments and other physical feats of the last 52 weeks. It tells which woman has the longest beard (an 11 inch Moses motif), how many phone books a strongman has torn apart, longest spaghetti nasal ejection (just over nine feet) and the heaviest weight pulled with the the skin of one’s back. The performances listed are so astounding, so compelling, and so just plain random that they drive even a normally derelict individual to at least make an attempt at greatness.

There is a finite number of names the record keepers can fit onto the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records. Most people who try never get into print and are relegated to the oblivion of “almosts,” those who suffer all the disadvantages of an attempt but don't get to be recorded in infamy. That makes those who are fortunate enough to be blessed with recognition that much more awesome. It is a great achievement, a high honor, a noble goal. Greatness, majesty and splendor are all words that describe what a placement in the book of records means. Readers may have to fight against disgusting natural impulses when they read and see pictures of a record, but they always turn the page and go back for more.

I am particularly impressed with the food records. Participants gulp down large quantities of food and, in order for the record to be counted, must keep the food down for twenty minutes. Trips to the bathroom are monitored by Guinness staff who ensure that all food eaten stays in the stomach. The regulations also stipulate bites per spoonful limitations and one person was disqualified mid-attempt for speaking with his mouthful. Despite these strict rules, some significant appetite erasing records have been set. Various brave souls have eaten large quantities of mashed potatoes, pork rinds, and even salted peanuts in order to get their names immortalized in the big book of records. One Atalanta resident managed to eat 27 dozen oysters in ten minutes. Given that oysters are an aphrodisiac, the night after the attempt must have been immensely frustrating.

The key to breaking a world record is to find a record that seems deflated, something you could do better on. A fingernail that is less than three or four inches long, a toy collection that is on the low side of 1,000 count and a miniature tomato larger than an ounce are all likely candidates. Once you find your target, start training and get ready to become a record holder.

My personal target, after perusing the 2008 edition for over four hours, is "most bananas eaten and pealed (not necessarily in that order) in one minute." The number for the banana record is so low that it looks like a typo. It looks like something I could do without practice, training or preparation. According to Guinness, the most bananas eaten in their natural state in one minute is two. Dos. Zwei.

Without Guinness’ unbiased witnesses and a reliable timer on hand, I will not make an attempt to beat the record (the effort would be wasted without official recognition), but I have thought about banana eating strategy, including jaw and throat elongation for maximum banana packing and, at least in my mind, I can conceive of eating at least three bananas within the alloted time. The number I could actually push down the hatch depends on their relative size. If I were allowed to by the Guinness people, I would visit the supermarket and pick out the smallest, puniest and softest bananas possible. And, as long as I am making an attempt, I may as well smash them a little.

Speaking of smashing, I think that might be a good way of getting the bananas down quickly. After peeling them open (one by one) I will mash them with my palm so that they don’t get stuck anywhere in the gastrointestinal tract and form an embarrassing cork. After that, my only strategy is just to masticate as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will leave all manners behind (except those mandated by Guinness) and get banana into stomach without a lot of formal introduction.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

If one of you wants to set a world record, find your own category to make a try. And, if you decide try to steal away my chance at glory before I make an attempt, as I suspect many of the less scrupulous among you are considering, send us a video so we can share it with the rest of FCN.

And stay clear of oysters.

The Day I Fell Asleep in a Public Sauna

It's one of those things you just don't do. Every guy knows it even though it isn't written in any book of rules. If animals watched animal planet about human beings, the narrator would say that it's a miracle that this inviolable rule is passed down through the generations. It's the unspeakable error; the unpardonable sin. We all know saunas are full of perverts, but we can handle them when awake and on the move. Alas, I let my wits get the better of me. Yesterday, I fell asleep in a public sauna.

It was a tough day. First the lead in my only pencil snapped off in the middle of a test and my very strict proctor wouldn't let me get up to sharpen it. Then someone snuck Valium into my inhaler ("as a joke, hahaha"). Then some custodian waxed the steps and I ended up tumbling down four stories. I broke the fall with my dignity. And a little old lady with a walker.

By the time I reached the wet sauna I was definitely ready for some R & R. I clambered on in, found a seat next to a fat Chinese dude, rested my head on the wall, and closed my eyes. I let my troubles fade away with every deep breath of the eucalyptus-oiled mist. The extreme heat, the long day, and the obscured, dream-like vision conspired against me. My back slid slowly across the slick tile wall and I curled up in the fetal position. The last thing I saw was four more fat naked guys coming in.

It was definitely one of the most unique wake-up experiences I've ever had. The thought process ran something like:

This is so warm.
I don't even need a blanket.
This mattress sure is hard though.
Oh, it's tile.
That explains it.
Say, I'm all wet.
That's embarrassing.
It's misty, too.
Oh, great.
What did my roomie do now?
No, I'm not in my room.
My room has a lamp next to the bed.
This is most definitely not my room.
I'm buck naked.
That's unexpected.
There's five sweaty fat naked guys sitting next to me.
Also unexpected.
Say, I just fell asleep in a public sauna.

I sat bolt upright, then overcompensated and knocked heads with a sweaty fat naked guy.

"Sorry," I muttered, groping for the door.

He sniffed and snorted as if just waking up. "Hm? What, what? Who's there? Lunch time?"

We'll fast-forward the story to the part where I run, screaming, from the building. Next time I'm bringing a six-pack of Coke and a taser.

Please Do Not Feed the Genii

I'm a college student. I go to community college. I sleep in. I stay up late. I'm particular about my soda. I never run less than 5 programs at a time, at least one of which must always be a chat window. I'm through high school. I have vague plans about the future. My eating habits are disgusting. I have held down a few jobs and am currently unemployed.

Until recently, I was proud to be one of thousands of generic faces milling across the face of American academia. I had gone through the proper rites of passage - high school graduation, SAT, AP, driving, offending people. I took pride in my status as a college bum. I was part of a certain group. Until recently, I had an identity.

All this was shattered yesterday when I took a leisurely trip to the computer lab yesterday. As I strolled merrily down the metaphorically rose-strewn path besides hundreds of students just like me in all but the really important ways, I saw something that made my blood ran cold. It was a ten-year old.

That's right, a ten-year old.

Okay, I don't know how old he was.

But he was young. Short, fresh-faced, wearing a clip-on tie and a sunny disposition (among other things). His backpack was crammed so full that the Calculus II book was sticking out the side. I stopped dead in my tracks, horrified, as he walked by. Then I turned around and ran after him.

"You!" I cried, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Aren't you a little far from home? Where are your parents?"

"Excuse me," The boy said with snobby, nasal voice, brushing my hand aside like a rotten leaf. "I am on my way to class."

"Class where? Kindergarten?"

"No," He said patiently. "Here at college."

I snorted derisively. "You? You're just out of diapers."

"I did not need diapers. My parents enrolled me in an Intensive Infant Advancement program so I was potty trained by ten weeks. I skipped most elements of childhood in a two-year Accelerated Development course, and pushed through three grades a year, which gave me an extra year to ace seven AP tests and three CLEPs. And my SAT, of course."

"You've got to be joking."

"I don't joke. Who has got the time anymore?"

"But how old are you? Ten?"

"Eight and three quarters tomorrow."

"So you're a college student? A real one?"

"That questions implies a host of epistemological and normative quandaries. Overlooking those, I will tell you that I am indeed a college student as real as any of the others in this crowd. Now, please excuse me. I do not want to miss my organic chemistry class. It is my favorite field. I already have an idea for a thesis." With that, the little bugger turned and toddled away into the mob.

I watched him go, horrified. My sense of well-being hasn't improved much since. Being a college student used to mean something. But here's someone who doesn't cheat on tests - not because he doesn't know how, but because it would probably decrease his accuracy. He doesn't drink beer - not because he chooses not to, but because his liver would explode if he did. I'm sure he keeps regular hours, wears matching socks, and gets plenty of fiber in his diet. My whole frame of reference has been shattered. I no longer know who I am or where I am going. I am lost. I am a leaf on the wind.

25 Things not to say during your Driver's Test

1) Before we start, I want to say that I had a pretty crazy night so please cut me some slack.
2) LOVE that clicking sound!
3) Diesel was cheaper. Now I see why.
4) Chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga ...
5) So, you come here often?
6) Train tracks! I think we can make it.
7) Some day, they'll have movie screens that fold down all the way in front so everyone can see them.
8) Yellow light, beep-beep!
9) Sometimes I pretend I'm an allied tank driver on World War II, and all those cars in the other lane are panzers.
10) There's that trucker again!
11) So how am I doing?
12) Come on. Quit giving me these tame orders. Let's open this baby up and see what she can really do!
13) Wow. I am so relaxed right now.
14) Police car! Keep your head down!
15) Look, it's my ex-girlfriend coming out of that store. If I swerve, would you mind taking her out with the door?
16) Sure is bright out here today.
17) I've been driving this road for years now.
18) Can't wait until I get enough money to buy a real car. I mean, look at this hunk of junk. It's a death trap.
19) Can we hurry this up a bit? I'm late for my online support group.
20) You wanna swing by my place on the way back?
21) I love the effect of all those yellow dots coming at you. So mesmerizing. Gets me every time.
22) Ahhh! No brakes! No brakes! Ha! Just kidding. You should have seen the look on your face. Hahaha!
23) Vroom, vroom!
24) That's where we crashed right there on the left. Nobody was hurt though. I don't think.
25) I wish we could always be in this car, driving down the road side by side. You and me. Forever.

Close Call

The other day I was driving the roughly twelve mile stretch between school and work. It was shortly after 12:30 and the lunch hour traffic was lighter than usual. I was singing along with Jason Aldean on a freshly burned disk of assorted country music and generally trying to look cool, calm and collected as I bobbed my head to the tune and adjusted my sunglasses. The road seemed to come to me and I really didn't notice much other than the white lines to my left and the base boosted sound from the speaker on my right.

I didn't care too much about my speed, but was going about five miles per hour above the speed of traffic (roughly sixty) and, if my memory serves me correctly, the zone was listed for 45. The town where I go to school has a large police presence and the road I was traveling is such a transit artery that regular patrolling is a guarantee. Still, I thought little of the authorities when I noticed a gap in the traffic ahead of me and accelerated to pass a car and settle in.

Never glancing at my speedometer, I grinned as I heard the first notes of a new Josh Turner single and started singing along with Firecracker.

Ahead of me was an intersection that is arguably the largest and most traveled in all town. It's on a road between two large higher education institutions and the cross street is a major east west route (Pacific and March, for those of you in the know). When I was no closer than three hundred feet from the light, it switched from green to yellow.

I calculated quickly and determined I could make it. Then I down-shifted and gunned the engine, leaping forward with less caution than the yellow light demanded. To my left, I noticed a red Isuzu Rodeo, making a similar attempt.

(I've always wondered about the wisdom of naming a car "Rodeo;" it doesn't speak much to the smoothness of the ride).

Just before crossing the white line and entering the large square of the intersection, I happened to glance at my speed and noticed I was almost thirty over the limit. I'd started out a tad fast, speed up to pass a car and then severely violated the applicable traffic laws during my approach to the light.

But as fast as I was going, the Rodeo was going faster. Without a radar gun, I can't be entirely accurate as it its speed, but I would wager an honest nickel that it was going on the high side of 85. Maybe even 90.

As we breezed through the intersection, two geese on a flight south, I noticed the distinctive white and black markings of a CHP officer out of the corner of my right eye. You know the type: reinforced bumper, light rack and overweight driver. I instinctively engaged the clutch and tapped the breaks to slow down, but the officer's lights were blinking and he had pulled out of his perch before I could slow below the posted limit.

Embarrassment and disappointment are the only two emotions I remember as I carefully pulled my car to the side of the road and engaged my emergency blinkers.

My first ticket.

I had been driving - seriously driving - nine months and now I would have a point on my license, my insurance costs would skyrocket and I would have to sit through a class on traffic safety - as if I didn't know all the rules I'd violated. I sighed and leaned back, waiting for the prefect to come to my door.

But the officer never came. In fact, the cop car chased down the Rodeo and a uniformed officer was knocking at the door of the red SUV when I drove by a fraction of a minute later.

I don't know how much weight I lost in those few moments when I thought I was going to be ticketed, but it must have been measurable. My heart was beating like I'd just drunk three Red Bulls while watching Mission Impossible and my palms were sweatier than T.D. Jakes after a hard sermon. As if to reinforce my feelings, my stereo was playing Keith Urban's Stupid Boy.

The rest of my ride to General Mills was about as slow as I can remember. I don't believe I ever came within five miles of the speed limit and I spent the entire time in the slow lane.

Smile, You're On Google Earth!

The other night a couple of friends and I dragged our sleeping bags outside and, roughly a hundred feet from our comfortable beds, lay down on some uneven cement to watch the stars and sleep in the great outdoors. The material we laid our heads on was designed more for aesthetics than comfort, but our goal in spending an entire night outdoors was so pure and altruistic that we scoffed at all insinuation that a little hard ground could deter us.

When we first started making plans for this outdoor night adventure, I had expected the party to include Reginald, who often tags along in unpleasant activities if his friends are doing them. In fact, Reginald was all ready to go, extra stuffed sleeping bag and all, until we told him there would be no tent overhead. He insisted, for several argumentative quarter hours, that a tent is an absolute must for any outdoor adventure and that he wouldn't go along without it. We intoned that a tent defeated the purpose of star-gazing and invited him to stay inside while we roughed the outdoors.

Only after we implied that we would be going outdoors no matter what did Reginald get a wide-eyed look in his earnest commie eyes and beg us not to go out alone.

"It's Google; they'll see you." Reginald whispered the words as if Google had a sound detection device in the room with us. Then he ran into the room he appropriated some years ago, shut the door and, as is his custom, pulled the comforter over his head.

Are you reading this, Luce? He pulled the comforter over his head, like a small child; like a scared papoose in need of his Sacajawea. Reginald's afraid of Google! A search engine with fewer employees than that little town in Iowa that John Edwards was campaigning in yesterday, and he runs for his blankie! Poor Reggie!

Ok, back to the story.

Only slightly discombobulated by Reginald's behavior, my friends and I made our way outside and lay down on the hard cement. Small pieces of gravel had accumulated between the decorative cracks in the deck and I had to wiggle for several minutes before finding a place to rest that didn't stab me like Brutus. Then, if I could ignore the jostling of my friends, I gazed at the wonder of the star-scape in tranquility until an appendage started to fall asleep.

The first part of the night followed a seemingly endless cycle of adjust, pain and readjust, until I discovered I could live with something poking into my back or no feeling in the left part of my body. The affliction was severe, but I could cope.

At about 2:37 AM - for reasons that will soon become apparent, I checked my watch to memorialize the moment - a series of bright flashes filled the sky. I saw the first of what looked like small sulfur-fueled explosions come up from the western horizon and then ease gently overhead, creating a colorful line in the sky. One by one the tiny flash bulbs entered my vision and then slowly eased away.

"Hey, did you see that?" I shook my friends to see if they had noticed the spectacle. Their murmured replies expressed disgruntlement at the rude awakening and the fact that they had missed the lights in the western sky.

Maybe, I thought, the explosions were the result of an overactive imagination fueled to eccentric ramblings by the hard surface upon which I was laying. But I've never had these kinds of dreams before, even in past rough excursions. Maybe it was some terrible accident like a plane crash or space satellite failure. Or perhaps I had witnessed something I shouldn't have seen, like a missile test, alien invasion or the posthumous rise of Anna Nicole Smith. In fact I couldn't think of any good reasons why the explosions weren't all of those - maybe even at the same time.

Later that morning, after a pained levitation exercise and a shuffle into our house that was more fitting for Bill Walton, I sat down in front of Steve to resolve a hunch. Something Reginald had said made me wonder if those late night flashes were generated by the worlds' most fantastic search engine.

I ordered my computer browser to Google Earth and entered my address. Then I zoomed in as far as the pixels would allow and strained with bloodshot eyes to make out the image. There, clearly impregnated into my computer screen, was the image of three teenagers lounging outside a large house, at least the house looked pretty large zoomed all the way in.

I couldn't believe it! I had made the Google pictorial! Reginald was right! How in the world Reginald was able to figure out that Google was taking pictures that night is a query too distressing to even contemplate. But he had, and they did.

I wanted to scold Reginald for not telling me more sincerely, so I could have made some signs beforehand or had a Google photo party, but instead of going to see him, I printed the image and showed it to my friends, both of whom had an attack of the privacies and became hysterical.

My new picture makes me very proud. I sincerely wish I could show them to you without completely violating my personal privacy. Regardless, the pic shows that Google and I have a connection; we picked the same night to do our thing. And the photo really isn't that bad, either. If you squint just right, the pixels align to almost make it look like I'm smiling. Almost.

Welcome to the new term!

It's that time of year again. While the other two FCN writers have already started the fall term at their respective education institutions, I had one more week of responsibility-free summer to enjoy lallygagging, twiddling and generally doing nothing (except a little bit of work at General Mills). The last week was, indeed, filled with such sophomoric fun as taking IQ tests, designing snazzy Ts and going a whole day with ridiculous semantic limitations.

I also went for a slow walk in the hot dusk of fading summer by a river a few miles from my house, picking wild berries and skipping rocks, before taking a refreshing skinny dip in the muddy water and grabbing a soft serve at the local concession. The entire time I was partaking in this painfully quaint exercise, I had Mungo Jerry's "In The Summertime" stuck in my head.

OK, that was FCN's Snickers Bar moment. I'll go ahead and do something manly now.

[To simulate the time I am gone, please go grab a drink or use the facilities. This page will not automatically reload and will therefore be here when you return. Unless, of course, a sibling, parent, TA or well meaning friend gets to the terminal while you are absent. Go drink, release or do push-ups or something!]

As I return to my keyboard, after painfully tearing off a couple handfuls of chest fuzz (yes, I do have chest fuzz and, yes, I did just tear some of it off), the vapid melancholy of returning school wraps around me like a dark bearskin rug, only scratchier. In an effort to visually portray the pain of returning, I've found several cute pictures of crying school children that, in some small way, reflect my own feelings.

It isn't that school isn't or can't be fun - some of my fondest memories were created in a classroom under the "watchful" eye of a professional educator - but unstructured time is more conducive to the kind of fancy free excitement that titillates a free soul like myself. For instance:

Having to get up before nine in order to prepare a homework assignment that wasn't done the night before because you were partying is a real drain.

Having to get to lecture by a specified time in order to keep the teacher from automatically dropping you from his class and having to sit in the front next to Madame PJ and her Slobbering BF is a real drain.

Having to skip the all night pizza eating contest at Mo's in order to study for a test that I will probably fail anyway is a real drain.

But I do it anyway; we do it anyway. Starting today, I rejoin a class of citizens, so progressive and forward-thinking that we sacrifice four (or five, or six, or seven) of the best years of our life in order to make tad bit more money when we are overweight, cranky and have back trouble. I re-pledge my allegiance to a way of life that puts the dereliction of responsibility and the abrogation of duty on the front burner and manages to learn a little about something (or other) along the way.

Yes, school starts today. But my first class doesn't begin until tomorrow, so I think I may grab a handful of skipping stones and head back to that river. I may even get a chance to do some tanning, which might cover my new lack of chest fuzz.

Explaining our Poll

The observant among the faithful FCN few may have noticed the evolution of the FCN sidebar poll over the last month or so. The poll started out as third party HTML code that we found at a free survey manufacturing site. The site asked us to simply enter our polling information and press enter. The necessary HTML was then auto generated and we sent the code via email to Uncle Wally who then updated our page. The results are the entertaining surveys you have undoubtedly seen and maybe even participated in a few times.

We were genuinely happy with this arrangement and saw no impetus for change, until Blogger introduced its own polling widget. The HTML is always sweeter on the other side of the broadband, or something like that. The beauty of Blogger’s innovation is that the FCN reader can instantly view poll results without having to navigate to a third party webpage. Those of you who run webpages are familiar with the concept of an exit path; quotidian readers will return no matter what but the transient visitors will forget their browser’s back button.

Techno jargon notwithstanding, we all thought the new poll format was snazzier, so we made the switch after little discussion. No sooner did the new poll grace FCN’s page when it encountered some insurmountable error and was forced into an early retirement.

You may recall the question “Who would you rather see gain 400 pounds?” which graced this page for a period of some weeks with an error message beneath the caption. The normative reader would think the question excessively cruel unless she actually read the answer options, which turned the query into a comic setup. Believe us; the error deprived you of a great laugh.

We had two ways of fixing the broken poll. Both involved deleting the offending section of code and one required returning to the third party poll host to satiate our desire to find your opinion on arcane interrogatories. But instead of acting to resolve the problem, we did nothing. For over two weeks we let the error message reside high on our sidebar, occupying valuable blog space and keeping a working survey from gracing the page.

It would have been so easy to fix the problem, but none of us had the necessary gumption or resolve. In fact, the page started to look more welcoming, more familiar with the error message. We grew accustomed to seeing the weight gain question without any working answers. We got a couple emails helpfully informing us of the problem and we answered both the same “thank you” and “we will notify Uncle Wally,” but we never did notify our web geek.

We got our “F” back from his tour of the subcontinent and we still took no action to remedy our broken poll. To the contrary, we practically gloated in our laze. At first he wanted us to remove it, but after a few days of inaction he too began to see the beauty of a broken poll.

Eventually Uncle Wally logged in and removed the poll. The action was first met by shock and horror from the contributors; we felt we'd lost a part of ourselves and wanted the problem reinstated post haste. Then the new simplicity of a working blogpage, unencumbered by error messages was realized. Our love for the status quo was and is solidified; pretty much whatever the status quo is. For the time being, we will continue without a survey. Afterall, there is a certain beauty to an unadorned page. A very certain beauty.

You did what?

As most of you are probably unaware, I recently procured gainful employment. In an effort to reform my derelict self and prove to the world that I can actually perform meaningful and productive labor tasks at the directive of an employer, I joined the ranks of the California work force. A couple weeks ago, I began my position as Assistant Cereal Technician for General Mills (Or is it Assistant to the Cereal Technician? I get the two confused).

I still live with my parents, sleep in my clothes, take extended shaving, shower and general cleanliness vacations, skip class, make crank calls and generally behave like a poorly adjusted derelict, but now I have a job.

My job requires me to stare at hundreds of thousands of bite sized chunks of Wheaties cereal and watch for any irregularities like rampant mold and fungi, discolored clumps, soggy morsels or, and this is particularly disturbing, pieces of uncooked human and animal flesh. If I see anything, I write it down and make a report of my findings in the evening. If the problem is especially egregious, I have a button that sends my boss a signal asking him to come down and scoop the offending material off the conveyor belt. Most of the time, though, he just lets things go by.

My boss is a stickler about alerting the media and he does all the talking when the health inspectors arrive, which has been only once so far, but that visit was precipitated by more job training than I had had to that date. My technical job description reads "batter mixer," but really I'm the last barrier between you and the Wheaties microbes.

Breakfast of champions, my pinkie finger. Don't think about that too hard.

While this new job cuts a terrible blow to my idle time, it has some distinct advantages. First, I get free cereal. I can take home for myself anything I flag as below General Mills' impossibly ignoble quality standards. Second, the pay is really good for a job that has me doing little more than sleeping in front of a conveyor belt.

The strangest thing about working all day is coming home to discover all the things that are different about your life. It's one thing to be away at school during the winter and spring months, but family life can change radically in the weeks before school begins.

The other evening I came home after a slow day at work, pulled my wallet and keys out of my pockets and plopped down at the dinner table to wolf down a few bites of suspicious cereal. Reginald, a family friend who uses our house as shelter from the elements, wondered into the room and made an announcement:

"I spent over fifty bucks today on clothes."

"Goodness, Reginald!" I sputtered from behind a moldy chunk. "That's more money for clothes than I will probably spend the rest of my life, unless of course these jeans tear. What on earth were you getting?"

"A red scarf." My curious look prodded him to continue and he added: "For the YCL meeting on Friday."

"YCL?"

"Young Communists League." I stopped chewing, allowing an unidentified food-like object to slip through my slack jaw and into my bowl with a plop. A communist, in my own house? Was being a communist the in thing these days or was Reginald being an outlier?

"Yeah. Anyway, I'll need your car again tonight."

"Again?" I didn't recall giving permission for the first time.

"Oh, you hadn't heard? I took Luce out the other day. You know Luce, right?" Click, bang. In my mind, Reginald was pasted against the wall with a .45 slug between his eyes. Luce wouldn't go out with me but she would be seen in public with this good for nothing Commie? I would definitely be calling Luce about this. But wait, she'd prohibited that. I was stuck. Reginald and Luce would get married and have a dozen little commies. They would take over the earth and establish a new world order. I would be their Godfather and have to reign in my emotions every time I saw the two of them together.

No longer hungry, I pushed my food aside and answered, "yes, I know Luce."

Reginald forged ahead. "Sorry about your pants."

"What?"

"The grass stains should come off with the application of a little force and detergent, but those grease stains are there to last."

I looked down at my pants and noticed for the first time that my best pair of jeans had been ruined. I hadn't noticed the problem when I put the pair on in the morning but now I could clearly see streaks of green and black laced across them. I'd been at work all day and nobody had said anything.

"Reginald?" I leaped forward to seize the derelict in front of me who had abused my absence to toy with my life. He dodged deftly and ran for the door, swiping my keys with him. A few moments later, I heard the soft roar of my car and the crash of our neighbor's trash can as he sped away, probably to join Luce at the young communists meeting.

Part 3: Driver's License

The event couldn’t have been more anticipated or more dreaded. After accruing the requisite number of hours driving the car (or, at times, being driven by the car), I was invited back to the DMV office to complete my certification.

It's worth noting that DMV offices are depressing places. You get the feeling that many of the patrons come to the office to die, not renew their vehicle credential or be cleared for the road. The rules of the DMV are similar to the rules of the men's restroom: Nobody smiles, nobody looks around, nobody asks serious questions. You take care of business and leave. Don't start a conversation and do not, whatever you do, do not flirt with anyone.

It took a few minutes to process my information, during which I made a number of cutting observations like the one above, but eventually an older woman whose haggard face and cocaine wrinkles belied her pasted smile welcomed me to step into “my” vehicle and perform basic automotive functions like initiating a turn signal and pressing the brake. When she was satisfied that I understood these commands she felt safe to enter the car herself. There, strapped into the passenger side seat, her mouth inches from my ear, with both windows sealed and the car turned off she started laughing.

Her laugh was a maniacal as it was loud in the confines of the small hatchback and the closed windows trapped in the sound. Specks of spittle spattered the dashboard and my earlobe felt moistened. I desperately wanted out. Maybe I didn't need a driver's license afterall. Maybe I could just walk and take public transit the way they do in Europe. I could be environmentally and

“What’s the matter?” I asked with natural timidity. The laughing stopped.

“You wanna pass this thing?” Her voice was scratchy, acidic and thin reminding me of a female version of Marlon Brandow. I forced myself to look at my evaluator. Her eyes were dilated and her pupils enlarged, leading me to believe she had just run a line of methadone

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and drive. When I say turn, you turn. Otherwise, follow the rules of the road.”

An eerie silence permeated the car and was only pushed away when I started the engine. My older brother - the one who knew almost as much about driving as he did about women - had warned me that driving tests are like marriages in that the slightest little misstep can make for an unhappy ending. He said to move slowly, ask no questions and show some fear because evaluators like to feel empowered.

I moved through the parking lot in first gear, keeping my eyes pointed straight forward and turning my head in an exaggerated sweep of the oncoming terrain. I followed every detail of the driving manual, accenting my hand motions with finger twirls to show the woman in the passenger seat that I knew what I was doing.

The first few turns were uneventful, almost calming after my initial scare. Maybe the licensing process wasn’t so bad after all.

My brother had warned me against any attractive lull the proctor might design. It was the calm before the storm, the quiet before the smash, the last breath before the death shudder. I was to stay on the alert the whole time and never lose focus.

A bead of sweat dropped from my nose onto the steering wheel and I hoped the licenser didn't notice. Sweat could be interpreted as nervousness or discomfort with driving and nobody wants to have an uncomfortable driver certified for road driving with the full blessing of the state government. Nobody but Ron Paul and this lady wasn't Ron Paul.

“Turn left at the next stop.”

I arrived at the stop easily, and took pride in my ability to navigate the straight, unoccupied road at 35 mph. I stopped right in front of the sign and paused to recapture my focus. I looked to the left and saw no traffic. On the right side, my vision was obstructed by a protruding building, but from what I could see, there were no cars. I pulled ahead. As soon as my line of vision allowed me to see past the building on the right, it seemed a whole town's worth of cars appeared.

“Stop!” My evaluator yanked the parking brake and we screeched to a halt in the middle of the right-hand lane. Cars whizzed passed opposite us and I got a new lesson in finger obscenity from the passing traffic. Fortunately, the right lane stayed clear - or I would have been united with my instructor and a little vehicular steel in violent fashion - until I was able to squeeze into the lane and complete the turn. By the time I was safely driving along the road, my heart was beating like over a hundred and sixty beats per minute, I was sweating like Shaq at halftime and involuntary whimpers were escaping my mouth despite a good faith effort to hold them in.

My evaluator pulled out her clipboard and made some aggressive scribbling notations that were as illegible as they were large. I tried not to look at what she wrote and continued into the DMV parking lot, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. There, parked in the expansive government parking lot, she smiled at me with the same evil grin she had deployed at the beginning of the exam.

There, in the confines of the parked car, across from a heavily painted ugly woman, I thought about life and blind turns. I had a series of profound and marketable thoughts about the futility of trying, the sovereignty of God and just driving in general. Unfortunately, I forgot all of them when she opened her mouth to speak.

“Young man?”

“Yes?”

“I'm going to let you pass...”

She said a lot of other stuff. Something about inching forward to check around a building before barreling ahead and some advice about saving my clutch by not riding it, but I was too giddy to listen. I hugged the evaluator with sincere affection and then sprinted out of the car to tell my father.

I've been driving now for a period of several months and I have never gotten closer to being in an accident than when the DMV official was sitting right next to me. You can't fault my timing.

Part 2: Dangerous Driving

When I sat behind the wheel of my family's clunky van, a couple of my younger brothers strapped dutifully in the back, I understood from my father’s worried look and my mother’s perpetually expressed concerns that there was a lot more to driving than pushing the accelerator peddle. Back then I had just been granted an “Instructional Permit” (my mother always stressed Instructional) and was charged with fulfilling several hours of supervised driving (my mother always stressed the supervised).

A Permit is a not a license to drive. It is, however, a license for your parents to do some crazy and tyrannical things in the name of safety while you drive. Remember that, boys and girls.

My father started me out on his '03 Ford hatchback, a car I would eventually purchase, by taking me to a deserted parking space and handing me the keys.

The hatchback, affectionately named the Screaming Yellow Zonker, is a manual shift, meaning it is a car designed like a union: easy if you're already initiated, hard if you are just getting started. Sitting to my immediate right was a black stick shift. I'd seen my father fiddle with it, but I hadn't the foggiest idea of its utility. On the floor were three pedals, a forward or accelerator, a stop or brake and a smaller pedal whose purpose was known only to the car itself. We called this third petal the clutch, because it is to be deployed in harrowing circumstances.

Starting a manual car from a standstill is like riding a bull, only the fun doesn't stop after ten seconds. In my experience that first day, a stick shift will react in one of two ways to a stop start. The first is to die with a loud shudder. The second is to move forward with a series of motions that are eerily similar to something Jim Carrey might do.

I don't need to go into too much detail about that first afternoon of driving; the retelling is making me blush and who needs to hear about all that anyway? It'll suffice to say that my father wore a neck brace to work the next day and my backside was pretty sore too.

It was a couple weeks after my first interaction with driving that I found myself in the situation described in the first paragraph of this post. My mother was persuaded to let me drive only after several rounds of heated conversation. My father was ok with letting me drive and I wanted to prove myself. My mother was convinced I would wreck the car and slaughter all the passengers and thought it wise to wait a while. In all fairness, I probably would have killed everyone, had my parents not intervened, but let me tell the story.

My drive down our driveway went something like this:

Me: “OK, so I'm going to turn on the ignition now, OK?”

Mother: [Sitting behind me] “Honey?”

Father: “You're good.”

Me: [Starts ignition]. [Adjusts radio channel]. [Releases brake]. [Puts car in reverse].

Mother: [Very calm] “OK, so when you back up, you need to make sure you are watching where you are going, you don't want to smash anything without seeing it first.”

Brother in back: “Actually you don't want to smash anything. Period.”

Mother: [A little agitated] That's enough back there. No backseat driving.

Me: [Chuckles].

Mother: “Honey, maybe he's not ready to drive the family yet.”

Me: [Regrets chuckling]. [Pulls car out of garage and depresses close button on garage door controller]. [Puts car in drive and begins toward main road].

Father: “Blinker.”

Me: [Issues left turn signal].

Mother: “OK. Now take your time here, son. Cars move along this road at sixty miles an hour. If you don't see them coming they might smash into you smelting us all into tiny ball bearings.”

Brother in back: “They might even do that if you do see them coming.”

Everyone else: [Glares at brother in back].

Me: [While everyone is still looking back, pulls forward into traffic]

Too busy to credit: “Wait!” “Did you look both ways?” “Was that a Hummer?” “Easy on the gas!” “You need to tell me before you turn!”

I consider that first trip a major success. The van received only one additional dent, I never smashed a curb, I was actually in control of the car at a few points and, to my knowledge, I was never flipped off.

After the ride, my mother used the First Aid kit's epinephrine pen to revive herself and my father offered that he would take the wheel on the return trip.

Despite the setbacks, I had accomplished something. I had driven the family and now had the requisite number of hours to attempt the physical driving test. I was ready.