FCN's Godchild needs your help

You read it right: FCN is asking you, the faithful few, to get off your collective duffs and do something for an unprecedented second consecutive day. Consider it a Valentine's day gift for three guys, who tried hard but weren't able to scare up a Valentine. Consider it an expression of goodwill and self effacement; a declaration that the self is less than the whole.

But enough with the altruistic promulgations.

Last Summer, FCN celebrated the arrival of rFCN, a website established in the vein of Funny Class Notes but with much funnier jokes (hence the name, Really Funny Class Notes). This blog was, for all intents and purposes, the Godchild of FCN: It was birthed of our seed, in its infancy it created little messes for us to clean up, later it started maturing and finally rebelled against FCN wholeheartedly during its "teenage" period.

We even share a name. Yes, "rFCN, I am your father."

Now the site is going through its midlife crisis. After a period of almost two and a half months with only one post of new content, even the most loyal rFCN fans were beginning to think FCN's spinoff blog had gone the way of Shinzo Abe. What are readers to think when an unannounced break continues into seeming perpetuity? That you've taken a extended bathroom break?

rFCN has returned from its hiatus with an ultimatum: 15 unique comments or the plug is pulled, the water will drain out and rFCN will be placed on permanent suspension. No more inspiration for us derelicts or regular, throat-clearing guffaws. Our abs will no longer be worked by uncontrollable laughter and happy tears will have to be simulated with Visine.

Yes, rFCN's position is as dire as it sounds. Unlike its Godparent, rFCN does not have Mommy G making brownies or offering an unconditional stream of motivating comments. Without such support, I might consider leaving the blog world behind as well. Heck, I've done it. Twice.

As we intoned when rFCN first broke the plane of blogosphere mediocrity last July, having a spinoff blog is the highest form of praise. It shows a level of support and adoration that cannot be duplicated by boxes of chocolates and flowers. Imitation is the highest form of praise and we here at FCN figured we'd about made the pinnacle of blog success.

For a blog that can't even muster a dozen readers, having an imitator is high encouragement. But if rFCN goes the way of the Brontosaurus, we will no longer have that acclaim. Our regular ego boost will be deflated and FCN will be back to generating its own motivation (which often means burning Supreme Court justices in effigy).

For you, the faithful FCN few, losing rFCN might mean a reduction in the quality of FCN posts, which isn't saying much, I know, but it is still something.

If this post warmed your heart at all. If it increased your blood pressure or drew one iota more color to your face, please consider visiting rFCN and commenting on their desperation post. The link, for those of you who don't click on things is:

http://reallyfunnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/2008/02/did-you-ever-get-feeling-you-were-being.html

And if that impassioned plea doesn't do the trick, maybe this will:

Desperate Student, Episode 15: Schmoozer

This continues the tragic tale of the Desperate Student. If you're not up to date, read up. Matthew, this is your chance. Start at Episode 1. Heh.

The problem with being stranded in Zimbabwe is that it's a lot like being stranded in Zimbabwe.

It doesn't get much worse than getting lost in a war-torn African country with a flimsy one million Zimbabwean currency (read: 7.81 USD), an angry world explorer on the loose, and the national police hunting for your rebel face.

Of course, I am a Desperate Student. I was undaunted by these apparent challenges. Other, less motivated people might have turned themselves in to the authorities or gone running to Jane Goodall for forgiveness. But not I. I was determined to see this through. Somehow, someway, I would get back to the states, and when I arrived I'd have enough money to treat Suzy the way she deserved to be treated.

Sticking to the shadows, I wended my way downtown in search of the American consulate. If I announced myself as a US citizen, I reasoned, they might have some sort of program to get me back to the states. It was worth a try.

I shouldn't have been surprised to find the consulate surrounded by concrete barriers, barbed wire, and machine guns. The building had a net suspended a yard from the outside wall to catch RPGs and a dozen soldiers with M16A2s were milling around outside. One of them extended his hand palm forward when I got close and I stopped instantly, overwhelmed by authority.

I felt a faint scratchiness in my throat. "I'm an American citizen," I said.

"Let's see a passport."

I stopped cold. I hadn't been issued a passport in years and certainly hadn't packed one when Jeeves had come to pick me up - was it just a few days ago? I thought fast. "Our 17th president was Martin van Buren. Independence Day is ..."

"I can't let you in without ID," The guard said.

"I lost it!"

"Then I'm glad I'm not you."

"Wait. Hang on. I have a driver's license." I reached for my back pocket and found myself looking down the business end of the guard's rifle. "Just getting my wallet," I said.

"You're in no rush."

I slowly retrieved the wallet and opened it. The guard studied for a moment. "Seems valid," He conceded.

"So do I get in?"

"No. A license isn't enough to prove you're a citizen. You might be from California."

I paused for a moment, temporarily stymied. I knew I would get into the consulate. I just didn't know how yet. It was at this moment of consideration that an unwelcome face appeared at the door behind the guards. It was the one person I least wanted to see - the person with the power and the motivation to ruin my life forever - the person who could make a hardened criminal quake in fear. I had seen her throw my co-workers to piranhas and shoot at RFCN contributors without fear or remorse.

"He's one of mine," Said Jane Goodall with a slight smirk on her face. "I've been expecting him."

"You know," I said, "I actually ... you're right. I'm an illegal immigrant. I got this license in California. You're so right. Nice catch. I'll be going ..."

"Not so fast," Said Jane. "This man is a criminal. He made off with my equipment a few hours ago in the jungle with a few of his cronies. Place him under arrest immediately."

"You can't let me into the consulate," I said, digging frantically through my wallet. Then I found what I was looking for. I produced the Mexican citizenship documents I had collected from a blackmailed mayor in a previous episode. "See? I'm not a US citizen."

"We still have authority to take you into custody," Said the soldier, grabbing my arm. I struggled, so a few more men came up and smashed the butts of their rifles into my ribs a few times. That took the fight out of me a for a moment. As I was dragged through the gate into the courtyard beyond, I screamed: "I want my phone call! Call the Mexican government! When they find out I'm here, they'll ... uh ... be ... all ... sad for me!" Then I shut up.

I was taken into the building and over to an elevator. The guard punched B2 and we went down two floors. We opened into a dismal concrete corridor with steel doors marked with ominous titles like I, II, III, and even IV. I was put in IV. The room was small with a low ceiling and a single naked light bulb hanging down at head level. There was a table with two chairs. I took one. Jane took the other. The guard stood behind me, ready to strike.

"Can we talk about this?" I asked, extending my hands in a pleading gesture.

"Let's," Said Jane with her usual impeccable coolness. She slowly raised one eyebrow. "Where do we begin?"

I cleared my throat again. The scratchiness was intensifying. "How about where I beg for forgiveness and ask you to please spare my life."

Jane studied me for a long moment as if she had just noticed something new. "You should know by now that I never forget."

"I ..."

"I'm not finished, do not interrupt me."

"Sorry. I'm really sorry."

Jane waited a moment as if to make sure I was done talking. "You should know by now that I never forget and I never forgive."

"But surely there's something I could do - some way to redeem myself."

"There is not. Someday, I will destroy you. Until then, you may live in fear."

"You mean ... you're not going to throw me in jail right this instant?"

"No. Not if you agree to a little bargain I have in mind."

"I knew it! Thanks, Ms. Goodall ... you won't regret it."

"You have not yet heard my offer."

"But I have accepted it, so tell me what to do."

"If only you were so willing this morning."

"I was shoveling monkey doo this morning!"

"No, you were collecting it, which is hardly the same thing."

"You don't want me to go back, do you?"

"Not at all. I have something much more ... American for you to take care of."

"Name it then."

Jane laced her fingers and rested her chin on them. "On the roof of this building, several local dignitaries are attending a party. Two of them are of special interest to you. The first is named Jared Woone. He's an assistant to the American consul. He's smitten with an attractive young Zimbabwean named Amadika. He has tried to meet her several times but she has rejected him. In fact, she has rejected all other men who have approached her. They are both at the party. You will arrange a meeting between Woone and Amadika."

"... Why?"

"For reasons known only to me. Convince Amadika to have a drink with Woone, and I will refrain from jailing you."

"But you'll still ruin my life."

"Eventually."

"Consider it done. Show me the way."

Jane led me back into the elevator and punched a button marked R. We went up six floors and got out on a roof-top pool party. The population consisted of fat people in suits and party dresses and skinny people swimming. Jane quietly pointed to a white guy in an expensive blue pinstripe suit standing in the corner nursing a whiskey and scowling.

Then she pointed to a gorgeous African girl sitting at the bar looking bored. I mean, we're talking Beyonce meets Ashanti. I was really intimidated. I'm not good with women, in case you hadn't noticed. But they don't call me Desperate Student because I only do what I'm good at!

After a moment of deliberation, I walked confidently up to the bar and plopped myself into the seat to Amadika's left. I cleared my throat once. The scratchiness in my throat hadn't gone away. "Well," I said, "Here comes the next contestant."

Amadika turned slowly to face me with a bored expression. "And what's your story?" She asked with a delightful Zimbabwean accent.

"I was born in a hospital with white sheets. Then some stuff happened. Then I met you."

She waited for a second, then smiled slightly. "That's actually kind of a good one."

"Good enough to let me buy you a drink?"

"All right."

"Well, I'm not going to buy you a drink."

"... Okay?"

"But I know a guy who will."

"What, did someone send you here to talk for him?"

"The man I'm about to mention, I've never even met."

"Then, what is this?"

"I saw him watching you across the room and I saw you sitting here alone."

"Jared Woone?"

"Yes."

"I won't drink with him."

"I think you could have a great conversation! Come on, Amadika. Just one drink."

"How do you know my name?"

I hesitated for a second. Then leaned forward. "Listen, I'm going to tell you something that sounds totally ridiculous, but it's true."

She crossed her arms skeptically. "Try me."

"I'm a Mexican citizen. I was taken into the consulate for committing crimes against Americans and secured a deal for my release. I have to convince you to have a drink with Jared Woone or they'll lock me up and throw away the key."

"You're right, that does sound ridiculous."

"But you believe me, don't you?"

"You seem honest." She studied my face for a moment, tapping her lips with her finger. "You're from Mexico?"

"No, I'm a Mexican citizen."

"And you were arrested for crimes against Americans?"

"Of which I am guilty."

"What crimes?"

"I stole an armed jeep and a bunch of weaponry and assisted in the attempted assassination of the President of Zimbabwe."

"Why?"

I reached into my pocket and produced a handful of loose change. "For this."

"You need money?"

"I need to get back to America."

"You mean Mexico."

"No, America."

She looked very confused. "If you were lying you would have come up with a better story than this. I believe you, Mister ..."

"Just call me Desperate Student."

"I believe you, Mister Student. I will have your drink with Mister Woone."

I clapped my hands in exultation. "Thanks, Amadika. You won't regret it!" And with that, I dashed off in Woone's direction.

"Woone!" I cried, grabbing his arm. This was a bad way to start. The man jumped backward in surprise, spilling whiskey on himself.

"What on earth?" He muttered, brushing at his tie. "Of all the nerve ..."

"Amadika wants to have a drink with you."

"You are sadly mistaken," He scowled.

"No, I'm serious. I just talked her into it."

He studied me more closely. "You? Why?"

"It's really complicated. Don't keep her waiting! Come on!"

"You listen to me," Said Woone, grabbing the front of my shirt. He paused with his finger in my face, then slowly released my shirt and wiped the hand on his pant thigh. "If you're having me on," He growled, "I will personally throw you off the building."

"It's for real. Honest."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and backed up. "How do I look?"

"Smashing," I lied. "Go to her."

He brushed his hands through his thinning hair nervously. "All right. All right I will." He waddled briskly off toward Amadika, as if to get it over with as quickly as possible. I shook my head sadly. Poor guy. He didn't stand a chance.

I turned and walked back to where Jane and the unnamed guard were watching with raised eyebrows and slight frowns.

"Well done," Jane said, surprised to hear herself say it. "I will drop all charges against you."

"Sweet! So can I go?"

She found what I said amusing. For the first time, I saw Jane flash a genuine smile. White teeth flashed, which she covered with her hand. "Of course. Good bye."

The guard showed me back to the gate of the consulate. I stepped out with a feeling that, though I hadn't escaped the country, I had done a good deed. I had given Jared Woone a chance with the girl of his dreams and I had cleared my criminal past (one portion of it, anyway - I don't suppose we should count my terrorist attack against a gas station in Episode 6).

I stepped back into the road in war-torn Harare and took a deep breath. It tickled something deep in my lungs and I coughed. My throat was very scratchy. Something was wrong. A coughing spell overtook me and I fell to my hands and knees. The force of the coughing built with every moment. I smelled the jungle. I gasped for breath. Then the street faded away.

I woke in a cot with white sheets. A nurse was standing next to my bed with a clipboard. I looked around for a moment and then focused on her. She made a check mark on the page.

"I'm Nancy," She said.

"Where am I? What happened?" Speaking hurt.

"You've contracted a rare, virulent disease. It's officially called VIRUS 200, but around here we call it Orangutan Flu. We're flying you back to the states, where you will be placed under indefinite study as a specimen."

I could almost hear Jane Goodall laughing.

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.

The Truth about our Hit Counter

A recent rFCN post really got our gears turning. After our recommitment to honesty, we were really bothered by the accusation that we were actively hiding something from our readers. We were determined to get to the bottom of the hit counter scandal and expose the truth. Actually, we just wanted to find out who was guilty so we could drag his bald, tattooed self through a hay field to a Scone convention attended only by home school moms. Yeah. That would have been funny.

To that end, we stayed up late on a school night with Uncle Wally, crunching numbers and carefully examining the complex HTML code that makes FCN what it is. The code had never been pretty to start with, but after F's takeover and sabotage, it was looking worse than ever. It took us hours of careful search. But finally, we came to the bottom of it, and we announce that bottom here with shame and amazement:

There was a flaw in our hit counter!

I know. It's hard to believe. But it's true. All this time, we thought we only had ten readers. We were selling ourselves short! I guess many of you probably suspected from the number of comments that the readership must have been higher, but we placed too much trust in our code, which we only just now realized was full of bugs.

After carefully tallying up the corrected, bug-free data, we were able to come up with the correct number, which we now present to the world in general and rFCN specifically in the name of transparency, honesty, and trust. We have: 11 readers.

We apologize profusely for this embarrassing error. Countergate is an ugly mark on FCN's pristine record, and we hope you can find it in your hearts to lend us a little slack. Like Bill belichickbefore us, we offer this ambiguous apology and trust you will know what to do with it.

Before closing, we'd like to offer a solemn admonition to rFCN to be careful how it points fingers. Not every error is a lie, fellow humorists. People make mistakes. We hope you learned a valuable lesson here about jumping to conclusions. The next time you think someone has lied to you, take a second to stop and consider the possibility that they made an honest error. We're sure everyone will appreciate the gesture.

Oh, and next time, fact check.

Well, the new, accurate counter is up and running, and we can proceed into the future with confidence in our statistics.

Desperate Student, Episode 12: Mercenary

This post picks up where previous episodes left off. Make sure you're caught up before proceeding.

Well, I'm back from Africa. But this story will take at least two episodes to tell.

I awoke bright and early, ready to face the day. Then I got a wiff of room 7 in the It'll Have to Do Hotel, and life got dull and dreary right quick.

I heard a knocking outside my window and stumbled over. A black limousine was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur with a massive forehead stood by the open door, staring at his watch with impatience. I pulled on my clothes, which were starting to smell pretty bad, and stumbled out into the parking lot. The chauffeur straightened and sniffed the air.

"Do you have any baggage, sir?"

"Only the emotional kind," I said, brushing past him into the car. "You're with Jane Goodall, right?"

"Yes, sir." The man dutifully closed the door and went around to the driver's side. I stretched myself out on the luxurious leather upholstery as the car pulled out of the lot and toward the highway. The ride was surprisingly bumpy. I had expected limos to be more comfy.

The ride to the airport was reasonably uneventful and mindlessly boring. We parked near the entrance in a reserved parking spot, and the chauffeur opened the door.

"I am to escort you to the plane," He said stiffly. I nodded and followed him into the main building. The chauffeur, whose name I later learned to be Jeeves, produced two boarding passes at the security checkpoint.

The TSA agents made me strip down to my underwear and put everything in ziploc bags, which were put into rather less-than-sanitary gray bins. The gray bins were put onto a conveyor belt and went under some hanging rubber flaps into a machine. Then came a beep, a flash, and a puff of smoke. I never saw them again.

"Step forward, please," Said an agent, motioning to have me go through a metal detector.

"Will that do the same thing to me that you did to my clothes?"

The agent frowned. His left hand slowly moved across his belt toward his baton. "Step forward, sir."

I stepped forward. Nothing happened. The agent winced and had me step through again. This time, there was a beep. I threw my hands up to my face reflexively and felt hot air rush over my near-naked body. I pulled my hands slowly away. They were covered with hair.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Sterilized you," The agent said casually. Then he frisked me.

Forty minutes later, we ran across the tarmac to a private jet painted with two apes grooming each other. I was wearing a plain blue jumpsuit that Jeeves had ingeniously produced the moment we got through security. Jane Goodall stood at the door of the plane in regal splendor, arms folded. She looked like Hera surveying her domain.

I ran up the steps quickly with Jeeves in tow. "Hey, I'm the Desperate Student."

"And I am Miss Goodall. I look forward to working with you."

I felt like I was in the presence of one of the greatest scientific minds of our age. "Uh ... likewise. Shall we go?"

"Not just yet. We're waiting for the other team members."

I went into the plane, which was luxuriously furnished, and took a seat on one of the couches. Two hours went by. Then tires squeeled outside, doors slammed, and a flurry of shouts and pounding boots sounded up the steps.

"Come on, come on! We're gonna be late!"

"You already are," Said Jane quietly as a dozen men in blue jumpsuits bustled past her into the plane. "You will never be tardy again." Her voice was packed with authority. The men skulked toward their seats with guilty expressions.

Jane took the front. "My friends," She said, "Thank you for your interest in this expedition. The information we are about to collect on orangutans will do wonders toward filling in the gaps in our understanding of these enigmatic and rare animals, and help us build a picture of what steps need to be taken to ensure their continued survival into the next millennium. The work will be difficult, dangerous, and dirty. Your total enthusiasm in this operation is its only hope for success. I'm sure I can count on your one hundred and ten percent effort." Everyone looked around. I got the sense that my fellow team mates were as stupid and lazy as I was. Jane nodded with a slight frown. "Very well. Off we go!"

I fell asleep during the very long ride. No one talked. Nobody really moved. One of the blue jump suit boys shook me awake as we landed.

"Hey, I'm Vince."

"Nice to meet you, Vince. Where are you ..." The wheels slammed into the tarmac, and the whole plane shook and rattled violently. Vince and I were thrown up into the ceiling. Then the couch slid out from under us and down the hall, and we landed face-first on the thick carpet. Vince got up slowly, nose bleeding. The plane had stopped.

"Crash landing?" He asked.

Jane materialized in the doorway, the picture of calm. "There's been a coup," She said. "The airport is in turmoil. Collect the gear and meet me at the cargo bay door in three minutes. We'll have to disembark under fire."

That didn't sound good. I followed Jane to the hold and helped her pack supplies into two rugged jeeps. The other crewmen, led by Vince, and the two pilots appeared soon after. I heard automatic gunfire outside. It didn't sound far off.

Jane took a position in the front passenger seat and pulled a briefcase from the glove compartment, from which she produced an easy-to-assemble sniper rifle. "Who knows how to use a machine gun?" She asked. No one raised their hand. She pointed at me. "Get in the back and ready the .50 caliber." I dutifully loaded up and pulled a massive gun and tripod out of the trunk. The tripod bolted to the floor and gave me an excellent position for laying down fire anywhere the jeep was pointing. Vince hopped up next to me and loaded a belt into the side. Someone else got into the passenger seat. Two more people hopped onto the back bumper armed with sub-machine guns.

"Did you know we'd need all this weaponry?" I asked nervously as our comrades piled into the other jeep and got the rocket launcher ready.

"This is Africa," Said Jane. She reached out with the butt of her rifle and threw a lever on the wall. The back of the plane lowered; the driver tromped on the gas.

We drove out into an open tarmac. We had the only plane on the ground. A dozen vans with red flags were parked alongside the chain-link fence that surrounded the airport, and men with red and white bandannas were shooting in toward the terminal, taking cover from behind their vehicles and the occasional rock or bush. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a desperate handful of Zimbabwean soldiers, most of them armed with pistols, making a stand on the roof. They were being massacred.

I heard a terrific cracking noise and looked down to see Jane calmly chambering the next round into her rifle. "You may fire as soon as you find a target," She said quietly. I squeezed the triggers to the machine gun. Long yellow streamers leapt from the barrel, shredding everything they came in contact with. The whole gun shook violently and my teeth chattered against my tongue. I had a hard time focusing as the jeep careened toward the fence, gaining speed by the second. A rocket whizzed by overhead, leaving a scorching hot exhaust trail, and pounded into the nearest van, sending shrapnel in all directions. I saw white and my ears started to ring. The jeeps raced through the new hole in the fence and off into the foliage beyond. I heard the people in jeep two hosing down the rebels from behind with their SMGs. I became dimly aware that my fingers were still on the triggers. I released them sheepishly and looked over my shoulder. The hail of bullets had decimated a hundred square feet of rain forest. Jane sniffed but said nothing.

Vince slammed the next bullet belt into position and cranked the gun. "This thing is hot," He said.

I nodded. "Well, I think we're done firing it for awhile."

I saw a flash of blue to my right and pivoted the smoking barrel, ready to unleash heck at the slightest provocation. Jane raised her hand and the driver stopped.

"We're being followed," She said. We all stopped and listened to the very loud and chaotic rainforest for several seconds. I wanted to fire in all directions at once, so I didn't fire at all. Finally, Jane nodded. "Continue."

Alas, we only made it a hundred more feet before the bumper riders were forced to walk ahead, slashing the trail with machetes. The going was unspeakably slow. The day was hot and sticky. The men (including myself) removed as much as we thought Jane would allow and guzzled water from the canteens. Jane sat calmly in the passenger seat nursing her rifle. She didn't even break a sweat.

Nightfall brought little relief from the heat. We turned on the jeep headlights and kept pushing, taking thirty minute shifts with the machetes. I don't think we went more than two miles per hour.

They attacked at sunrise.

The foliage was just starting to lighten when I heard a twang behind me. A bright blue arrow thudded into Vince, who fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth. It took me just four seconds to get the machine gun turned around and working. Hundreds of bullets tore the foliage, ripping the jungle to shreds. The air heated around me. I saw distortion above the gun.

Someone fired a rocket. It detonated against the wall of trees, and the blast lifted two unlucky crewmen into the air. Their flailing arms tangled in the vines overhead and stayed there. I saw a tall, half-naked savage jump into the path we had cut into the jungle. His aspect was hideous - his body smeared with blue paint; tooth necklaces dangling from his neck; a curious horn design tattooed onto his face. He raised his bow to the canopy above and released a savage yell. I swiveled and blasted away.

For about ten seconds, no one moved. The bullets seemed to hit anything and everything but the savage. Then Jane leveled the rifle and fired. The native yelped and ducked into the trees. A few moments later, he was gone. A few moments after that, the gun jammed.

"Report!" Jane ordered. No one moved for a moment. I noticed she was looking at me.

"Uh ... we were attacked. By savages. Can't have been less than a dozen. They killed three of our men. I think we nicked one. We should probably keep moving before they tell the others."

"You are an imbecile," Jane reported. She didn't say it maliciously. She just wanted to let me know. "There were two of them. They fired a single arrow, probably as a warning. No one was seriously hurt."

"... oh."

"In the future, you will emulate my accuracy in all your reports."

"Okay."

"You didn't recognize the markings?"

"Uh ... no."

"Those were contributors to the humor blog Really Funny Class Notes. I doubt they'll be back."

Vince got up, wiping his mouth, and pulled the shaft from his back. "Itches," He reported.

"Let us proceed to the campsite," Jane ordered.

We kept going until around noon. Finally, we reached a modest sort of clearing, which appeared to have been carefully situated in the exact middle of nowhere. Jane nodded approvingly and dismounted.

"Pitch camp," She ordered. "Tomorrow, the hard work begins."

CN Reaches The Pinnacle Of Blog Success

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children and codgers and Mommy G,

It has come to our attention a spin-off blog of CN has been started elsewhere in cyberspace, with a couple of the not-so-faithful FCN few hosting their version of Funny Class Notes. The website "Really Funny Class Notes" has as its mission statement that it is composed of a "group of guys who are dedicated to being funnier and more interesting than http://funnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/. Being as [sic] funny class notes only has about 8 loyal fans, most of which are friends of ours, if not, us, we see it as little challenge to become better, most [sic] popular, and all together cooler than funny class notes. In other words, we are tired of you guys getting all the attention."

rFCN lays down the glove by saying "[w]e'll see who has the girl at the end of the day eh? Not that we need anymore women." At first our sensitive male egos were bruised by this comment: It came after such a soft, gentle and inviting beginning that we had allowed ourselves to become vulnerable to rFCN's stabbing humor. They were hitting us hard while we were undermanned. Then we looked over at our mothers and smiled with assurance; we have our "girl" already, thank you.

Really Funny Class Notes has as its second post a lovely Life Tip about the dangers of motorcycle driving and swerving to avoid moose (Or is it moses? No, that's the bearded Bible character. Muses? No, smart wizkid. Moosi? No, breakfast cereal. Why isn't the singular moosum or moosium?). Anyway you can check that out for a good old fashioned belly laugh. Well, hopefully something will happen below your sternum when you read it.

While most sites would probably be terribly worried about direct competition, like what we are inevitably going to get from rFCN, we derelicts embrace the act of a few of our readers as the ultimate in achievement. We see this as a sign of ultimate success. We are not only good, we are so cyber dominant that we set trends in story telling and now blog development. Funny Class Notes has pioneered extensive ground in humor blogging. Who would have ever heard of a Life Tip or tried not calling a girl who has a crush on you for over a month before our site?

This achievement proves that we are well on our way to sinking Daily Kos. All anyone can do now is make a Desperate Student fan site. That's a serious request; anyone?

We give rFCN a major slobbering cyberhug that shows our sistersite how much we are touched by its complimentary blogging. Our expressions of affection are as effusive as they are moist and we thank you guys with tears of joy and a little unintended snot. You guys have many great years of blogging ahead of you and we thank you for joining the fight, paying less attention in class and defeating opposing (and agreeing) viewpoints with bucket loads of sarcasm.

The two of us here at CN wish to extend the peace pipe to our sister site. We are over the girl jab and want to be friends. Best friends. BFF, in fact. We can share readers (we don't bring a lot to the table in that regard but, hey, Gideon's army was small too), maybe compare notes on failed love lives and, if the going gets really choppy, cuddle for warmth.

To the boys over at rFCN, finding your site made our day. Please don't be a stranger. Feel free to email us and ask about the nuances of delinquency or the finer points of avoiding hard work. We'll be happy to give a few pointers. Also, please leave combative comments on our posts and steal as many readers as you want. You've made us feel so good about ourselves that you can have the whole lot - if you use the magic word. Or, heck, forget 'please;' just cybernap them.

Update: Another humor blog titled Unrivaled Humor got its start this week with a couple of awesome posts, one about a trip to the dentist and another about a punk rock band. Join Big-Al and JellyFish for some laughs that may not be unrivaled, but may end up being ribald. Ok, terrible pun; forgive us, please.