Desperate Student, Episode 14: Rebel Fighter

This is the 14th episode of the Desperate Student series. Get caught up before proceeding.

There's something about looking down the barrels of dozens of automatic weapons that makes you wish you were back in America stapling pages.

I found myself stranded on an airport tarmac deep in Zimbabwe surrounded by rebels, clutching the triggers to a jeep-mounted machine gun. My comrades, Ned, Vince, and Xavier, just sat and stared.

The silence got awkward fast.

One of the rebels lowered his weapon and marched forward with his left palm facing us. He had a red scarf wrapped around his head and appeared to wield authority over the others.

"Don't shoot," It wasn't a request. The rebel's English was only slightly accented. "You get off jeep."

"What do we do?" Vince moaned.

"We do as he says," Said Ned, unbuckling. He stepped confidently out of the jeep, arms raised.

Xavier and Vince followed suit. After a moment of hesitation, I let go of the triggers and hopped down. "We come in peace," I said.

"No," Said the man. "You come for war."

"Oh no!" Vince screamed. "They're going to kill us! Oh, mama! I don't want to die out here!"

"Shut up," Said the rebel.

"Please don't shoot," Vince wailed, falling to his knees. "I'm too desperate to die."

This resonated with me, and I got down next to Vince. "He's right," I said, raising clasped hands. "Surely there's a way we can talk ourselves out of this!"

The rebel stared at us for several seconds. "You Americans?" He asked.

"Yes!" Cried Vince. "We're Americans! You can hold us for ..."

"Quiet!" Shouted Xavier.

"My name," Said the rebel, "Is Banga Banga. You cowboys help us win fight."

There were several seconds of stunned silence. Xavier was the first to realize what Banga Banga wanted. "Get off jeep, he say ..."

"We'll do it," Said Ned. "Where do we sign?"

"You have guns?"

"We have the machine gun and some explosives."

Banga Banga turned to his minions and shouted a few words in Zimbabwean. All the rebels cheered and fired shots into the air.

"You go blow up Mugabe's palace with explosives."

"We're going to die," Vince moaned.

"Keep it together," I hissed. Then, louder: "What do we get in exchange?"

"In exchange, we give you one million dollar!"

"Sweet mama," Vince whispered.

"Don't forget you have to split it four ways," Said Xavier.

"We'll do it anyway," Said Ned. "Where's Mugabe's palace?"

Banga Banga pointed at a pre-teen boy carrying an RPG. "This my son, Chipa Chipo. He show you the way."

Chipa tossed the rocket launcher casually at Xavier, who dove to catch it. "Go!" Chipa Chipo cried, hopping onto the back bumper. "Go, go!"

Ned climbed back behind the wheel and buckled up. "Okay," He said as the rest of us loaded up, "How are we going to do this?"

"We've got a box of dynamite and two grenades," I said. "Anyone know anything about demolition?"

Ned slowly pulled off the tarmac and onto the road. Chipa Chipo pointed north. "Go!" We accelerated slowly. I kept my eyes peeled for loyalist patrols.

"Seriously, you guys," Said Xavier. "You want us to ride an obviously hostile jeep straight into the capital of Zimbabwe, walk past a bunch of armed guards, and build bombs out of volatile materials we have no idea how to use?"

"Oh, mama," Moaned Vince. "We're going to die after all."

"We have no choice," Said Ned. "So let's find a way to do this."

"Why don't we just forget the rebels?" I asked. "Let's sell the jeep for tickets home."

"Tickets from where? The airport is gone," Xavier pointed out.

"And if we stay here much longer, Jane is bound to find us," Added Ned.

"I don't want to die," Vince wailed.

"Pull yourselves together, people!" I shouted. "Come on! There's a million dollars on the line. If we succeed, we can all go home on the black market and support girlfriends when we get there. If not, we die. So let's think calmly! Come on!"

"You're right," Said Ned, very sensibly I thought. "What are our options?"

"I say we divide up with specific tasks," I suggested, "Then make it up as we go along."

"Sounds fool proof," Said Ned.

"I call lookout!" Cried Vince.

Xavier sighed. "You'll make me light the fuse. I just know it."

Ned took charge. "I'll take Chipa Chipo into the palace to disable the guards. Vince, you keep watch."

"I'll lay the dynamite," I offered.

"And Xavier, you'll light the fuse. It'll be fun."

For a half-hour, we rode with only the sound of the motor and Xavier's quiet muttering. Then the jungle road widened and we hit pavement, and moments later we were zipping through downtown Harare. The citizens all stopped and stared as we drove by; even the police (who rode in white and red vans) seemed too surprised by us to lift a finger. Chipa Chipo's directions were flawless. He had Ned weaving in and out of traffic, maneuvering deeper and deeper into the city, taking every shortcut ever invented (which is a lot).

After another ten minutes, we parked at the edge of a lawn. Past the lawn was a high concrete wall. There was barbed wire ringing the top, and machine gun towers watched the whole area from every corner.

"Is this it?" Ned asked.

Chipa Chipo nodded eagerly and pointed at the gate, which was watched by six armed guards. "Go!"

The guards had noticed my machine gun; two of them peeled off and marched toward us.

"Here they come!" Vince shouted. "Shoot! Shoot!"

I squeezed the triggers. Hot lead poured from the .50 cal and strafed the lawn. Clods of grassy dirt were tossed into the breeze; the air heated and grew smoky.

Over the bone-rattling din of the gun, I heard Vince cry: "Frag out!"

"No!" Cried Ned. "We need that grenade to set off the ..." His lament was drowned by a deafening boom. I was unlucky enough to be looking straight at the grenade when it went off; I saw a flash of light and got pretty dizzy. Next thing I knew I was lying on the ground behind the jeep.

Chipa Chipo mounted up; his arms were barely able to reach the triggers. "Go!" He shouted.

"Okay, but I don't like this," Said Ned. He floored the gas. I was left behind in a cloud of dust, warm bullet casings, and monkey doo-doo labels. The jeep careened past the guards, through the gate, into the compound, and out of sight.

The guards stopped to reload. I noticed that no one seemed to be hurt.

All was quiet.

Then they saw me lying on the lawn.

I've lived a life full of social faux pas. I'm not good at handling people. I often say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I tell you honestly that that was the most awkward moment of my life. For fully thirty seconds, we just stared at each other.

I was the first to break the silence. I raised my right hand and waved hesitantly. "Hey guys," I called softly. "What's up?"

As if snapping out of a daze, the guards all lifted their weapons and pointed them at me. I searched desperately for some form of cover. I was totally exposed. It seemed my desperate antics had finally gotten the best of me.

Then I heard a Vince's loud shout from inside the compound: "Oh, mama!" Then a massive boom; the sky was filled with red smoke, and pieces of jeep rained down all around. I took advantage of the distraction to turn and run for dear life.

My flight carried me into an angry mob of citizens carrying improvised explosives, old rifles, and of course, pitchforks. I struggled against the human tide, but for several seconds I found myself powerless against it. Then I heard the machine gun towers start firing, and my desperation conquered my etiquette (as usual). With a roar, I plunged into the human tide, kicking, punching, and shoving. The crowd parted like a wave before me; I sprinted down the street and turned a few corners. I didn't stop to catch my breath until the mob was just a distant roar. Then I clapped my hands on my knees and gasped for a few minutes.

When I lifted my head, Banga Banga and his rebels were standing all around.

Another awkward moment.

"I tell you blow up palace!" Banga Banga shouted.

"I know, I'm sorry. I was going to, but ..."

"You great hero in Zimbabwe nation." Banga Banga flashed a huge smile and slapped me roundly on the back. "Great hero! Very great hero. You understand?"

"I understand money," I said.

"Yes, yes. I give you one million dollar." Banga Banga reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He started pulling out bills and counting. "Two hundred, four, six hundred, eight hundred ... one million dollar." He pushed the money into my hand with another smile. "Great hero," He repeated. Then he and his men charged down the street and were gone.

I looked down at the massive sum of money in my hand. I had thought it would be bigger. It was just twenty little pieces of paper. Well, I wasn't about to go looking for my comrades to split up the loot. Nor did I have any intention of sticking around waiting for the rebels, the loyalists, or worse, Jane, to figure me out and invite me to a party. I could use this money to go home, set myself up nicely, and sweep Suzy off her feet once and for all. Life was finally going to be okay.

I made my way to the nearest bank and converted the money into US currency. It was the first paycheck I had received in Africa. The grand total: seven American dollars and eighty-one cents.

Screaming in the loot

The other day I attended the season home opener for my school's acclaimed Division I men's basketball team. If you've followed FCN for a while, you may recall that I am one of the most vocal and aggressive fans a team could ever dream of. For me, a team's success is personal; a victory for the boys on the court is an inspiration for the rest of week, a boost better than caffeine and taurine and a loss is an equally effective depressant. In fact, I've been able correlate bad moods to my team's poor performances and some people may even be able to use competitive performance as a predictive barometer of humor.

For all the readers that I didn't lose with two dollar phrases like "competitive performance" and "predictive barometer," the implication of my approach to watching sports is that I do everything in my power to see the team I'm rooting for win. Everything, that is, short of donating money to BALCO laboratories.

It's often said that the "sixth man" in sports is the home crowd. We may look weekend warriors, sitting in the stands like so many Monday morning quarterbacks, chugging down calorie laden drinks and life shortening snacks, but actually lusty cheers are a motivating force for the team. At least that's what we'd like to think. It's also what the media, sports leagues and colleges want us to think, but that's beside the point.

In an effort to encourage louder cheering, many organizations will throw "goodies" like shirts, commemorative balls and coupons into the stands, creating an entertaining frenzy among the audience as we struggle amongst ourselves like poorly raised children for possession. Generally, the louder you cheer, the more goodies get thrown your way, meaning that those who have been naturally blessed with loud voices run away with the most loot.

I scream loudly. That is, I do my vocal best to see my team to victory. I shout so loudly, in fact, that a friend who was listening to one of my team's games on the radio heard my voice and recognized it as mine. I use a handful of prepared taunts, print out the visiting team's roster so I can shout player's first names and join in with the cheerleaders on all their routines.

And my efforts are normally generously rewarded. For instance, I caught a couple of shirts, a few coupons and trinkets and an occasional free hot dog last season. I never got a chance to really dominate with my catches because of the enthusiastic gyrations of my good friend Nick, who always sat next to me and made like Champ Bailey or Asante Samuel as he did his best to disrupt my flow. That's right, Nick was throwing off my groove.

Well, now Nick is in Virginia studying his happy hands off and I got my first chance to make a grab at goody history at the season opener.

I was terribly disappointed when I heard from my inside man (a friend who is employed by the team's "Loud Squad") that no T-shirts would be handed out because of a miscommunication with the textile supplier. Despite the lack of supply, I managed to pull down the following (itemized with estimated resale value):

In N' Out Burger coupons ($2 value) x3 = $6.

PomPom ($3 value) x 1 = $3.

Balloons imprinted with the team logo ($.50 value) x 2 = $1.

Team bumpersticker ($.50 value) x 1 = $.50

Media guide to the conference's athletics ($5 value) x 1 = $5

That's eight items worth an estimated $15.50. And, as a student, game admission was free. Over the course of a two hour game, I got paid better than minimum wage to watch my favorite team sport.

And that's not counting the hot dog that my friend Ally swiped away from me at the last second (sitting where Nick normally would) and the Frisbee that buzzed just over my outstretched arm in the middle of a full leap (it landed three rows above me).

But I'm not writing this post just to brag; of course, that's a solid justification, but I have other, more altruistic reasons, too. I am writing to share a few of my hoarse secrets to other fans. Follow my directions and you may find yourself rolling in the the loot:

1) Sit 5-15 rows from the court. Positioning is key. Objects are generally thrown with little more than arm technology. Sure, air compressors are sometimes used to allow the compliments to reach the rafters, but a good 80-90% of all tosses are made from the court to the rows indicated above. Don't sit too close to the court or you'll be overthrown.

2) Befriend. I learned this tip from the New England Patriots. The best way to win is to bend the rules a little. If you see an employee marching around before the game, introduce yourself and ask to be helped out. Say you are trying to impress your girlfriend or that you'll split the pizza with him later. To the girls: A megawatt smile won't hurt your chances.

3) Scream your head off. Nobody ever caught anything by staying silent (unless of course, we're talking about Nick, but most of his catches were on throws intended for me). The louder you get, the more your inside man will feel justified in throwing your way.

4) Takeaways from kindergarteners do count. I know some people think it looks bad to steal a commemorative goodie from a six-year old attending his first college game, but when we're talking about loot, "you gotta do whatcha gotta do." That six-year old is playing a man's game. Trust me, no one will remember the teary eyed face of the whippersnapper you ripped off. Your T-shirt count will live in infamy.

5) Be ready for anything. Sometimes a ball will be thrown several rows above you and then be deflected down. You need to always have your head in the game and be ready to handle whatever the other fans throw your way. Remember that a juggled catch may mean the difference between another T-shirt and, well, not another T-shirt.

That about covers it. Try it yourself at the next sporting event you attend. If you break my record, write us an email and tell us about your exploits. Be sure to include a picture of the loot and a medical report detailing the damage to your vocal cords. Extra points will be awarded for crying six-year olds.

The Rise and Fall of the American Automaker

Try something for me, will you? Ask a handful of friends what kind of car they drive. You don't have to quit your day job or go all Zogby on us to get a representative sample - that kind of work has already been done - just ask around. If your circle of friends is like the students who take economics with me (poor and too hungry to care) you will hear a lot of Toyota, Honda and, Nissan; a lot of Japanese-made cars.

In fact six of the top ten most commonly stolen cars are Acuras, made by a division of Honda. The most commonly stolen Acura is the Integra. While some feel this is a reflection on the relative ease with which a delinquent can steal these vehicles, others note that common cars are the "safe" cars to steal. The authorities will notice the Mustang GT they see on the freeway and may let a Honda Civic roll on by because of how easily it can be confused with the umpteen others just like it on the road.

As an aside, the most commonly stolen car in 2005 was the BMW Roadster. Now that's just cruel. No good, very bad, awful, pathetic, nasty and sordid. Somebody gets a souped up vehicular, a really nice whip and a neglected youth wearing pants that were designed for Rosie O'Donnell and a jacket from Jay-Z's line has to go snitch it. Seriously, if you're going to rip someone off, take the clunker. Do the owner a favor. At least with the lemon, the insurance has a chance of overvaluing the car.

In my class, seven of ten students drove a foreign car and over half of the students drove a Japanese car. I was in the minority - GO USA - with a Michigan manufactured Ford.

Apparently, my minority status extends beyond the walls of my classroom because Americans are buying foreign cars like they're shares of Google. Bloomberg, a business news organization that tried to make an optimistic sounding name but instead ended up confusing everyone, reports that Toyota is actually increasing market share in the United States.

I'm going to write that again so everyone who was browsing the other tab and waiting for me to stop presenting facts can catch up. Toyota, a car company whose first three letters spell "toy," is selling more cars to people in the US. Can you get your mind around this? While you and I, the American taxpayer, are pumping billions of dollars into these domestic companies to get support their ridiculously extravagant employee pension programs, we turn around and buy a car designed in Bunkyo Tokyo. Sure, lots of Japanese cars are made in North America, but the feds don't pump $51,000 per year per employee into bailing out Kiichiro Toyoda's brainchild.

Instead of letting you and I pick which cars we like, our elected reps choose for us. And, like most political decision makers, the suits in DC are terribly inconsistent with their vehicle selection policy. While they pump your piggy bank savings into the coffers of bankrupt domestic car companies, foreign-made hybrids like the Prius and Camry are given differential treatment on our highways. Ever seen a fuel efficient car glide down the carpool lane in rush hour traffic with only one occupant? Well I have. And they never get pulled over by the traffic pigs. That's because our beloved government grants hybrids an eco-pass.

Can you understand this? Watching this situation is a little bit like seeing Tom Brady get sacked (by a linebacker, not Gisele) - you can't comprehend it. OK, so that's two Patriots analogies in three weeks; I have nothing to say for myself.

Back to the topic, my point in addressing the vehicle market is simply to advise you, the faithful FCN few, to buy domestic. The federal government has made an important decision for us and we would be committing utter folly to not follow Uncle Sam's lead. A caring and considerate big brother is pointing us toward the appropriate vehicle choice - a choice that secures employee benefits and allows the worker ants of our economy to be confident in their retirement. Buying foreign wastes that $51,000 per employee.

In other words, when you buy foreign, you deprive America's hard working middle class of pensions, eliminate the gifts they would otherwise bless their grandchildren with, ruin the outlook and inherent happiness of the American way, destroy economic cohesiveness, anger the government and start wars. Yes, you start wars. Bleep you!

Think of it this way: If that Corolla costs you an additional $51,000 on top of the sticker price, would you still buy it? Is an economy car really worth $70,000? And do you really want you car stolen? I didn't think so.

See? DailyKos doesn't have a corner on the mindless anger market. Conservatives can be irrationally mad, too!

What the heck, just buy a Roadster.

Three on One with Barack Obama

In our continuing quest to understand the American political process and find a candidate that is both appealing and acceptable to our discerning political palate, the FCN team placed a phone call to Barack Hussein Obama's presidential campaign office and asked for a teleconference with the Illinois Senator. The campaign refused to offer us an audience unless our interview team included at least one minority. We lied about our ethnic heritage (N pretended to be a Jamaican bobsledder) and got through to Mr. Hussein Obama with relative ease.

//Begin Transcript

Barack Hussein Obama: This is Barack Hussein Obama speaking.

FCN: Mr. Hussein Obama, thank you sincerely for agreeing to this interview. We write for a humor and satire blog and are looking at various major presidential candidates in the hope of finding a suitable prospect for endorsement. If you don't mind, we have a few questions about your political stance...

BHO: That's a great idea, kids. You know, most youth in this great land fail to grasp the opportunities that are set before them; economic or political. I took those opportunities when I was young. I started out as the the ghetto black loser and through education, refinement and law school have shed that hip past and become a white person in a black man's body. I'm really glad to hear how you have done that. The Jamaican writer you have, for instance, he sounds pretty white. I like that.

FCN: And you've made that transformation very well, Mr. Obama. That transitions very well into our next question about minority rights. You are a strong advocate of equality as a Senator, how do you see that advocacy continuing as President?

BHO: I really don't. My big thing in the Oval Office is health care. Ask me about health care.

FCN: OK. What about health care?

BHO: I have a plan that would give low cost, affordable, inexpensive and cheap health care to every American and most foreigners, too. It really wouldn't matter what you want sucked out or puffed up or cleaned; my plan finds the doctor to fix it. I think it is wrong to have to pay for health services. Morally wrong. We shouldn't let people starve, nor should we let them get sick. That's why my plan includes the distribution of blankets to the homeless along with sanitary drug paraphernalia. That's a moral determination, not an economic one.

FCN: It all sounds so perfect; so grand.

BHO: It is. Under my presidency, all the oppressed, downtrodden, entitled and underprivileged would suffer no more. I like the ring of that. Go ahead and include that in your article, if you would please. Hang on a second, gentlemen. [BACKGROUND] Janice? Add that line to my Iowa stump, would you?

FCN: Who is your biggest role model?

BHO: Michael Jackson. White people in general.

FCN: Oh, MJ. Excellent. He really moves well for a 40 something.

BHO: Indeed he does. Ask me about my education policy..

FCN: OK, what about your education policy?

BHO: [Chuckles] So glad you asked. [Chuckles again, louder this time] Schooling is just way too expensive. Education is the solution to all the world's problems. AIDS, war, the Republican Party. You name the ill, education is the solution. There are brothers - wait. Do white people use the term brothers? [BACKGROUND] Janice? [A MOMENT LATER] A large portion of this great land's minority community never gets a proper education. From the time they can crawl until the moment they die, people should be learning. A lot of that learning should happen in government funded schools. And it should all be free. I'll do that under my Presidency. I guarantee it, as sure as the White Sox won the series last year.

FCN: Which is, we assume, pretty well assured.

BHO: Indeed it is. Well, gentleman, I have Howard Dean waiting just outside. He wants to coordinate my rhetoric with some local politicians. Thanks for taking the interview. I trust I can rely on your vote come the primary?

FCN: We'll let you know on that, Senator. Thanks to you, too. Say hi to the former Governor for us.

//End Transcript

After we replaced the phone in its cradle, the three of us sat around the table for several solid minutes and said nothing. Barack Obama's interview was not only profound, it was a clear clincher. No other candidate had offered such a clear mandate for making life easier for derelicts like us. No other candidate had promised free education and health care without threatening to take away our cars. No other candidate had presented such a clear mandate and vision for our nation. We like this Obama fellow...

Hire FCN!

If you watch televised news, you may have seen the picket lines forming in front of the formidable buildings of Hollywood production houses as a few hundred writers went on strike this week. If you don't watch the televised news, you may have read the same in any of the plethora of news articles on the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike.

If you don't read the news (an understandable sentiment given how dark most news stories are anyway) and instead get your take on the world exclusively from FCN (equally dark, I'm afraid), here's what's happening in Tinsel Town:

500 hundred people with super cushy jobs and excellent benefits, some making as much as $5 million a year, are upset with the current state of TV and film writing. It's unclear exactly what they don't like about it, but they're really fired up. Control central for the WGA (7000 West Third Street, Los Angeles, CA 90048) printed off a bunch of snazzy signs for these disgruntled millionaires to tote around and single handedly ground the humor, film and TV writing industry to a halt.

For writers, the slogans the strikers came up with were downright pedestrian, almost like generic AFL-CIO fare; they were the kind of prefab garbage the automakers might use. One would think writers would have a message that is at least halfway creative like "WE WRITERS BE STRIKERS," but the two signs I've seen so far say nothing more than "ON STRIKE" (doh!) and "UNFAIR IS UNFUNNY." Actually, sir, we in the real world find your disappointment with a $400,000 paycheck to be the height of hilarity. It's something like the laugh we get from seeing a pie thrown in Curly's face.

Here at FCN, we think the only thing we think is atrocious is having the funny stuff pulled off the TV. As avowed derelicts, television content is very important to us and the negative impact of the WGA's decision is reverberating across the fruited plain. Jay Leno had to broadcast a rerun last night and his jokes, which were just barely funny the first time, came off even flatter. David Letterman was forced to actually think for himself and Stephen Colbert held his dumb look for much too long.

Speaking directly to the strikers, your strike has a ripple effect throughout the entire entertainment industry. We all know Jessica Alba can't say anything smart without a writer; how dare you expose her? What will Patrick Dempsey be without a script? How will Ang Lee churn out his garbage movies without a half decent writer? I'll wager George Clooney will be a shadow of his Sexiest Man Alive glory without your eloquence; do you even care about the Cloonster and his injured girlfriend? Will you force all of Hollywood into a vicious choice between Larry David style improve and reality TV? What a terrible dichotomy! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!

As usual, FCN comes to the rescue (dun dun dun!) and has a perfect solution for all involved. Why not hire the FCN staff to do the humor writing? We aren't members of any union and would happily work for half the price of the WGA folks, although the studios would have to give us some free DVDs and Mommy G would have to approve the projects. We've shown we can write great love stories, action adventure and everything in between. We've done character development, thematic work and educational. We have even dabbled in current events humor, a resume item that we would highlight when pitching our skills to the late night humorists.

Plus we're unknown. You wouldn't have to give us top billing in the credits and it will be a few years before we begin making extreme demands and start going Hollywood. Just give us a chance and we will prove to be as jocose as any WGA writer. You can take that to the bank - or at least the picket line.

So come on, WGA. We're waiting.