Enviga Nights

That's a strange name for a post, huh. And it's slightly disturbing to boot. And it has absolutely zero-zip-zilch to do with this post. Well, I can apologize for it but I can't change it. I lost a bet. So that's the name of the post. Actually I didn't lose a bet. But a pretty girl was involved. So was the word please.

While we're on the subject of apologizing, I ought to mention that all three of us feel pretty bad about not posting on Friday. We knew we wouldn't be able to make it and we didn't even give you loyal readers a warning. Missing a post isn't a very auspicious way to kick off the year. We should have at least given a notice of absence. Better yet, we should have posted. But we didn't, because we were on the road.

N left earlier last week for a debate competition near San Diego. Being bums, C and I stayed home and watched Bonanza reruns for a few days. When the need to wash the dishes grew too great to bear, we formed a convoy with some other homies and made an overnight drive to meet up with N. We left late Thursday evening, and that's why there wasn't a post Friday morning.

A lot of crazy things happen when you cram five young adults into a small, bright yellow sedan and go on an overnight road trip. The anecdotes that follow (which follow a Restroom theme) are not representative of the general atmosphere of the trip. Honest. No really.

So we drove to a rest stop a half-hour from the tournament grounds and parked to catch a few hours of sleep. We were pretty tired by this point. I extricated myself from the car and wandered over to the restrooms. There were two buildings. The closest one was marked women and had a bright yellow tape across the door which said: "CLOSED. PLEASE USE OTHER SIDE."

Well I obviously didn't have any interest in the women's restroom, so I went over to the other building and took care of business. As I exited, a portly woman brushed past me through the door.

F: Hey, you might not want to go in there.
PORTLY WOMAN: Why not?
F: It's a men's.
PORTLY WOMAN: No, it's not. (points at sign)
F: What ... what the ... (notices that sign does indeed say women's)
PORTLY WOMAN: It's a women's.
F: ... Oooops.
PORTLY WOMAN: That's okay. You're gay, right?
F: What? No. No, I'm straight. Honest mistake.

I ducked around the corner and met my two male travel mates coming from the other side of the building. As it turns out, both buildings had women's restrooms on the north side and men's restrooms on the south side. Who would have guessed? My male companions had a nice laugh. Hahaha. Yes indeed. Good clean fun.

We went back to the car. After a half-hour of squirming, we all found places to tuck our legs into and drifted off to sleep.

Three hours later, it was time to hit the road again. I was absolutely socked. I was sleepier than van Winkle on Nyquil. And when your brain is sleepy, it follows familiar routines. With my eyes barely open, I went off and used the restrooms again. As I was washing my hands, I realized that I was once again in the women's restroom. Without bothering to rinse, I dashed for the door.

Too late.

PORTLY WOMAN: (suspiciously) Hello again.
F: Hey.
PORTLY WOMAN: I see you found the women's restroom. Again.
F: Yeah ... nice convenient spot. Close to the ... parking lot. The cars.
PORTLY WOMAN: It's okay to admit it. I won't condemn you.
F: Thanks, but I'm good.
F: This is kind of awkward.
F: I'm going to go now.

I left again, now wide awake and desperately rationalizing my repeat slip-up. This was one of those mistakes you don't want to make twice, especially in such succession, especially in the same spot, especially getting accosted both times. It's like I was living out a Life Tip.

I went back to the car. Hahaha. Yes indeed. Good clean fun.

So we went to the tournament. It was nice.

Yesterday morning, we saddled up and headed back home. Well, I happen to be a big fan of a soda that really flushes - ahem, travels - through the system fast, especially when consumed in the prodigious quantities I consider appropriate. Around noon, nature began to call. What followed was a first-class exposition on some of the differences between myself and my dear fellow contributor C, whose turn it was to drive at the moment. Please read carefully, people. This is a glimpse of what I have to put up with in FCN staff meetings. Read and feel sorry for me.

F: Hey, you'll never guess what.
C: Boxing became a legal sport in 1901?
F: ... Yeah, and you know what else?
C: A Major League Baseball team uses ...
F: Actually, no. I need a bathroom break.
C: What! Why didn't you use it when we left?
F: I did. That was a hundred ounces ago.
C: Well, you're going to have to hold it. We're making really good time.
F: Okay, but whenever you get the urge to stretch your legs, follow it.
C: I get plenty of stretch holding the accelerator pedal down.

T+30 minutes

F: Yyyyyyo.
C: (Turns down music a notch) Hm? What?
F: Any time you're ready.
C: Oh, right. Forgot about that. Sorry.
F: It's all good.

T+60 minutes

F: So I'm told that human charity is a virtue.
C: I'm told patience is a virtue.
F: I'm told if you don't pull over and stretch your legs every now and then you'll get a blood clot.
C: This is good for you. It's developing your muscles. It's like a free workout.
F: If I explode randomly, you won't have to wonder why I didn't leave a note.

T+90 minutes

F: Look, I'm sweating. I'm actually sweating.
C: Why can't you just hold it already?
F: I am, thank goodness. (Awkward silence.) Say, do we have any painkillers in the car? Because I've got cramps. In case any of you were wondering why I'm all hunched over with my head between my knees, that's why.
FEMALE HOMIE 1: I've got Ibuprofen in the trunk.
F: Sweet. Do you mind?
FEMALE HOMIE 1: We have to stop so I can get over there.
F: You hear that? We have to stop so she can get to the trunk.
C: You already know my answer. We're not too far from the rest stop. Just relax.
MALE HOMIE: No, the last thing we want is for him to relax.
F: I concur. Maybe we can access the trunk from in here. Let me try something.
(60 seconds later)
F: Sorry about that.
EVERYONE ELSE: That's okay.
F: So I'll just sit here and hold it like before. And in the meantime, I'm going to stop drinking Coke.

T+120 Minutes

FEMALE HOMIE 2: Whoa, you're looking kind of sick.
F: Why don't we just pull over and I can get this over with?
C: On the road?
F: I'll just hop over that fence into the meadow.
C: That meadow is carpeted with cacti.
F: You're impossible.
C: You're impatient.
F: You smell funny.
C: Funnier than your FCN posts.
F: Oh, that was clever. You come up with that yourself?
C: I would retort if I weren't so busy being competitive.

T+180 Minutes

F: Aaaaaaaaaaah. Aaaaaahaaaaaa. Aaaah.
C: (turns up music)
F: I just lost muscle control below the knees.
C: When you lose muscle control of your mouth, we'll be getting somewhere.

T+214 Minutes

C: Well, the tank is empty. We're coasting.
F: What!
(Soon after)
C: We'll have to get out and push.
F: No way. I am NOT getting out of the fetal position. Not in a million years.
C: And I'm not letting the ladies push so get out of the car.
FEMALE HOMIE 2: I can push.
F: Oh look. Now I feel bad.
C: Take his legs.
MALE HOMIE: Got it.

So we pushed the car down the shoulder. There was a barbed wire, electric fence on both sides of the road. I had no alternatives. I helped push the car, but with my legs crossed at the knee. And then again at the ankle.

Four miles later, we reached a gas station. I abandoned my post and hopped into the convenience store. Gum, tylenol, and soda wizzed by on either side. I slammed into the restroom door and hit a soft body on the other side. I ducked into the restroom and stared in horror. It was the portly woman from before. She was standing in line with several other portly women who were waiting for two very occupied stalls.

F: No way! How'd you get here?
PORTLY WOMAN FROM BEFORE: I knew it all along.
F: I'm sorry. I'm just in a huge rush.
PORTLY WOMAN FROM BEFORE: You can cut in front of me if you want.
F: (Turning to go) Nono, I'll just find the men's ...
PORTLY WOMAN FROM BEFORE: (Blocking my exit) Enough of this. It's time for you to end the charade.
F: (Growing frantic) No, you don't understand. I've had a boatload of Coke and I've been holding it for hours. I really need to go.
ANOTHER WOMAN: You can go ahead of us.
YET ANOTHER WOMAN: Sure, go right ahead.
AN IRRITATING WOMAN: You're gay, right?
F: No! I am not gay! This is all just a big mistake. Can we talk about this later with me on the other side of that door?
PORTLY WOMAN FROM BEFORE: Don't listen to him, ladies. He's just not willing to come clean.
STILL ANOTHER WOMAN: It's okay. You can tell us.
F: I am seriously not gay. Seriously seriously.
WOMAN AT FRONT OF LINE: Then why are you all doubled over like that?
F: I really need to go now!
WOMAN AT FRONT OF LINE: (Stepping away from stall door as a portly woman exits it) Help yourself.

I glanced at the Portly Woman from before, who still blocked my exit with a firm glare and crossed arms. I was in pretty strong physical pain. I had to make a choice. So I made it. I hobbled down the line of women, shut the stall door, and took care of the problem.

Hahaha. Yes indeed. Good clean fun.

Note to Self #4

Let the umbrella dry out before closing it up for the summer.

Pine Scent Cologne

Everything is going back into the box and into the attic or basement, wherever seasonal garbage calls home. The wreaths, fake holly and bulbous objects that no doubt have a name, but are so rarely mentioned that they've been left out of the dictionary are meticulously wrapped in soft tissues and lovingly stowed for next Christmas.

The tree, too, suffers the same fate. Most American Christmas celebrators wouldn’t dream of bringing a real pine tree into their homes. The hassle of the pointy needles, the sticky sap and watering a live plant every day has been alleviated by corporate America. Now instead of visiting a quaint, rural Christmas tree farm where the old man who looks like Santa Claus without trying tells the story of the blight that almost “stole this year’s Christmas,” we march to our storage locations and find our perfectly symmetrical, seven foot “Holiday Tree.”

In the old days, fake Christmas trees were almost as bad as the real ones. The plastic pine needles would come off and had to be vacuumed, the branches needed manual placement and an artistic eye to simulate realism and some cynics concluded that the only advantage was the elimination of sap.

Today’s trees are much more technologically innovative. I’ve heard a rumor about a holographical tree that changes decorative themes every ten minutes. Apparently the computerized image is suggested for civic centers where one religion is frowned upon. The technology can change from a tree, to a manger scene, to a menorah and back again.

Our tree isn't so jazzed up that we had to take out a second mortgage to cover the cost of electricity, but it is a far cry from the "natural" monstrosities of old. The branches open as one with a swift, umbrella-like motion (think Veggie Tales Christmas Special), the needles are guaranteed green and will stay on longer with a new adhesive innovation and the smell of a real pine tree is matched with a spray-on scent that gives the plastic potpourri the final touches of the season.

After Christmas, the tree was folded up and returned to the attic with all the other holiday accoutrements, but we had oodles of spray on pine scent left over. And, smart marketers that the product developers are, the artificial pine boasted an expiration date of six months; it wouldn’t last until next Christmas.

Unwilling to throw out a perfectly good bottle of Christmas smell, I decided to use it as a replacement for my current dime store (or, as Carrie Underwood would call it, bathroom) cologne. The smell was only a little stronger and, as my younger brother pointed out, seasonally accurate. My old stuff caused a minor itch and some occasional hives anyway so I figured the change might be good for my skin.

I applied liberally, putting three complete squirts under my collar and a couple sprays each for my wrists. My senses were immediately assaulted by the wonderful scent of Christmas pine and I knew instantly I had made a good decision.

Work at General Mills was interesting. My boss had a smart comment about “somebody smelling a little fresh” and my female coworker laughed and shook her head when I explained the “alpine stench,” as she characterized my new style.

At lunch, a woman three booths over started sneezing and I a few small children stared at me with expressions reminiscent of posters for third-world starvation. I ordered a burger in the hopes that the smell would overpower the pine.

When I got home that evening (leaving my dress shirt by the washing machine, under the pretense that detergent would get the smell back to normal) and met my mother, who had been out when I left in the morning, a look of utter concern crossed her normally sanguine features. Apparently, the product had created a large, nasty looking rash wherever it had touched my skin. The marks had been covered by a long sleeved shirt during the day, but were now obvious in their hideous redness. Scabby and puffy, they emitted a stench that overpowered the pine. I was happy to smell something different, even if the new odor was unpleasant.

Fortunately another modern innovation - cortisone - helped alleviate the reaction and my neck and wrists are back to their normal pale color. Thanks for your concern.

I am, however, still looking for a use for quarter of a bottle of artificial pine scent. Any ideas?

On Psychopath Rights

For a long time, we here at FCN have more or less kept to personal issues and stayed out of politics. We don't like to embroil ourselves in the system when our ideas are already so well defended by people like Nancy Pelosi and Barack Obama (both of whom we are strongly considering endorsing for President).

But there is a critical issue that is going almost totally undressed unaddressed in today's political debate, and it's high time a dialog was begun. In a society that prides itself on providing equal rights to all, FCN must be the voice that defends an undefended minority: the psychopaths.

That's right, the psychopaths.

Few people don't know that psychopathy encompasses a small but growing minority, including approximately one in five federal prison inmates. And while other minorities like women, asians, homosexuals, and vegetarians are making steady inroads toward acceptance in modern society, psychopaths are still regarded with an emotional, primeval horror.

Psychopaths make most people feel very uncomfortable. Think back to the first time you saw someone with a skin color radically different from your own. Probably the only thing keeping you from hiding your discomfort was the fact that you knew (because you had been told beforehand) that race has no effect on personhood. When you meet a gay person (this assumes you are not also gay), you don't recoil with a queasy expression. This is because you know better. You know that gays are people too.

Alas, no one is speaking in defense of the American Psychopath. There are no Psychopath organizations and the few support groups all treat psychopathy like some sort of mental disease, just as the American Psychiatric Association did homosexuality until 1973. There are no Psychopath rallies, holidays, or parades. There are no cities associated with psychopathy (although I went to Nice on the French Riviera once and thought they were pretty open about it).

Here's the deal: in a society which actively seeks to embrace every sort of minority, psychopathy is inexplicably and openly condemned. It's not acceptable to be a psychopath in today's day and age. You don't see psychopaths coming out of the closet! Why? Because if the public gets wind of it, you'll find yourself behind bars or worse within a matter of months.

Oh, you think we're exaggerating. You think the criminal justice system doesn't have a bias against psychopaths. Then how do you explain the fact that fully half of all convicted serial and repeat rapists are also psychopaths? Obviously this is because psychopaths don't stand a chance before a prejudiced jury.

Someone ought to do a To Kill a Mockingbird remake involving a psychopath.

Folks, it's time to set our primitive discriminatory misgivings aside and embrace all Americans as truly equal. It's time to realize that psychopaths are people too, which of course means we need to treat them as if they were exactly the same as everyone else. It's time to let go of our fears and take the hands of the people on either side, and unite in a great big circle and sing kumbaya.

Maybe then psychopaths will have true representation, equality and opportunity in this country. If you are voting in any election tomorrow, please don't hold anyone's psychopathic tendencies or identity against them. Look beyond the brain-deep flaws and cast your vote without prejudice.

2008 New Year's Resolutions

Well, it's that time of year again. Let's skip the insincere pleasantries and dig right into the insincere resolutions.

We promise to stop walking on the backs of our shoes.

We promise to absolutely not forget Valentine's Day.

We promise not to use store-front ads to keep track of holidays.

We promise not to run sweaters with the rest of the laundry.

We promise not to run tuxedos with the rest of the laundry.

We promise to stop borrowing tuxedos in the full knowledge that they will be returned only if destroyed.

We promise to stop downloading viruses onto fellow contributor's computers as a joke.

We promise to be more creative when we reciprocate practical jokes.

We promise not to drop hints starting two months before our birthdays.

But if you must know, my birthday is in late October, so you might want to start thinking about that.

We promise not to answer the question: "So what are you up to these days?" by talking about things we've already done.

We promise not to roll up post-its and pretend to smoke them.

If we must roll up post-its and pretend to smoke them, we promise not to light said post-its on fire.

If we must roll up said post-its, light them on fire, and pretend to smoke them, we promise not to stuff them full of pesto or mint.

We promise to raise our hands in class at least once next semester.

We promise to eat in front of the mirror so we can empathize with the torture to which we subject other people.

We promise to microwave the frozen vegetables for at least a minute before eating them.

We promise not to adjust the five-second rule if we pick up dropped food a bit late.

We promise to each invest in a good comb and throw the communal one away.

We promise to actually use said comb at least three times a week.

We promise to argue like mature adults about who will get to post the next day.

If we must fight like little kids, we promise to use only our fists.

If we must fight using weapons, we promise not to aim for the head.

We promise not to have lunch from the Costco sample tables.

If we must have lunch from the Costco sample tables, we promise not to gleefully exclaim: "Kung Pao Chicken and microwave pizza! Oh, we are dining in tonight!"

We promise to not to refresh FCN every five minutes in hopes of another reader comment.

We promise not to answer our phones with "I thought I told you not to call me!"

We promise not to microwave the salad along with the meatloaf.

We promise not to hold our breaths in public restrooms.

If we must hold our breaths in public restrooms, we promise to breathe at least once a minute and/or before passing out.

If we must hold our breaths in public restrooms till we pass out, we promise not to grab someone else on the way down.

We promise to use forks.

We promise to remain fully dressed even if there is no one else in the house.

We promise not to study that little thing that hangs from the back of our throats while talking to the mirror.

We promise not to talk to the mirror.

We promise never to lie to our readers ever again. Ever.