Miss-Communication

A long-running joke among men is that it is impossible to understand women. And they are correct. There are times women don’t even understand themselves. Girls over-analyze everything. And I do mean everything. What you think is a friendly wave or smile at one of your girl buddies could easily propel them into a daydream filled with you and your future children. Allow me to demonstrate how females easily misconstrue the intentions of the well-meaning gentlemen in their circle of friends. What a guy says is often not what a girl hears. Females will often read whatever meaning they want into a guy’s innocently simple phrases and gestures.

Guy says: Hey, is this seat taken?
Girl hears: You are so beautiful and mysterious. I want to keep myself in close proximity to you so I can learn more about your inner soul.

Guy says: It’s nice to meet you.
Girl hears: Where have you been all my life?

Guy says: You look nice today.
Girl hears: Hey good lookin… what’s cookin? You’d be a shoo-in for America’s Next Top Model.

Guy says: Do you want to hang out with me and my friends later?
Girl hears: I’m really attracted to you, I’d like you to meet my friends so they can give me a thumbs-up on my taste in girls. Once that’s done with, we can visit my parents next weekend and go ring shopping.

Guy says: It’s good to see you.
Girl hears: You are my heartbeat, I can’t live without you. I wither away to nothingness when we’re apart.

As if that’s not confusing enough, what girls say is often not what they truly mean.

Girl says: Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.
Girl means: I’m falling apart. Come on, you bimbo, ask me to tell the truth.

Girl says: Isn’t that such a cute baby?
Girl means: See what a wonderful mother I’d be? I already have our children named, I hope you like what I’ve picked out.

So, if a guy wants to avoid these common pitfalls, what are his options?
1. Be Spock.
2. Get a lobotomy.
3. Avoid all members of the fairer sex.

Whatever you do, don’t underestimate the female mind. It may be difficult to understand, but it is still quite dangerous. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who would know. Like your dad.

Good Idea/Bad Idea #1

Good idea: Feeding ducks in a park.

Bad idea: Feeding ducks in a park… to a bear.

I'm sure it'll be fine (part one)

When course registration opens at a large campus, students scramble from their dorm rooms like beetles away from the light and approach the registrar's office with all haste. Not getting into the right classes means not graduating on time, which threatens scholarship money and prospects with the females. As much as nobody wants to be a Van Wilder, nobody wants to date a Van Wilder.

My father tells of a time when he trudged wearily through miles of packed snow to get to the registrar's office in time to have a prayer of possibly making it into his class. He had to fight away crazed radical feminists and environmentalists and the occasional Volvo-driving professors who want to audit the class on lower mammalian art because it sounds "interesting."

Maybe that was the model a few decades ago. Today, the iPod generation has vastly improved on the nonsensical student stampede by automating the entire process and putting it online. Instead of careening down to the registrar's office like crazed soccer fans, we students have "appointment times" with the computer. We sit down at an authorized terminal and tell the silicon which classes we want to take. It's all very sophisticated.

Equipped with a series of five digit codes given me by a human being, I marched into the library at the appointed time and took a seat at my authorized terminal. The computer keys were sticky and it looked like there was a hair stuck between the "D" and the "F," so I made a mental note to wash my hands after entering my information. I checked and double checked the numbers (a plastic sign above the computer advised a "re-double check," but I thought that was overkill) and then clicked submit.

In a semester system and in order to graduate in four years, many full-time students take four 4-unit classes. This sixteen unit load is exactly one-eighth of the requirement for a four-year degree and, if completed expeditiously, will get the student through the revolving academic door in the time frame promised in the school's glossy promotional material. Ever since I'd read the school pamphlet, this had been my plan.

The screen went white for several seconds and then a faded image of our school's logo appeared in the center along with a twirling hourglass. It was working!

The hourglass twirled and twirled tirelessly, daring me to look away. My eyes were mesmerized by the movement and I thought that I could stay there forever in a sort of computer generated nirvana. I didn't feel anything anywhere, but knew that sensations were possible because I saw the movement on-screen. Then, more abruptly than it had begun, the logo disappeared and a happy looking emoticon appeared above text telling me that I was successfully registered.

That's when I did something uncharacteristically intelligent: I read through the rest of the notification. You see, I hadn't actually signed up for all the classes, as the friendly logo led me to believe. Rather, I had registered for three of my four classes. In very fine print at the bottom of the page, I was instructed to "consult [my] professor" about the last class. It said something else about a prerequisite, too, but I was already on my way out the door.

Jessica - the Full Story

My love life hasn't been working well. A quick summary of the last year:

I spent several moons mooning over a girl I almost never talked to. Then she got really friendly with my best friend. Recently, she mistakenly confused my name with a company that makes sporks.

Heartbroken, I went to a compassionate female friend for consolation. She was there to pick up the pieces and we ended up getting a little too close. Her brother, who works for Blackwater, shot at me with an assault rifle that had been modified up the wazoo. Her best friend's cousin, who uses the same stylist as me, seems to think she recently moved to Canada.

As I was walking home one night, a woman walked up to me and kissed me passionately. Then she said: "Oh, you're not Roger!" and walked away.

I made a public oath that I was done with women. One of my acquaintances made a personal goal to break my resolve; two months later I swore my undying love and she said: "See? Girls aren't that bad!" Then she broke up with me. She still pokes me on Facebook sometimes.

I went to e-harmony and it matched me with myself.

A friend hooked me up with "the perfect girl for you!". We dated casually for two weeks. Then I found out it wasn't a girl. I am no longer on speaking terms with my ... date ... or the "friend" who hooked us up (note the quotation marks around the word "friend"; this indicates sarcasm; that is, he wasn't really my friend but I say that sarcastically to indicate he wasn't).

I asked a coworker out and she quit.

A good female friend of mine announced she had fallen in love with me. I couldn't bring myself to return the feeling; she went emo for a few months then pulled out of it and hired our "friend" Mr Blackwater (note the sarcastic quotes again. This is because he used a flamethrower on me).

I met a girl at a gas station and we hung out a lot; I started to think things might go to the next level when she called me up and made it clear we were just friends. I returned the ring for a full refund.

Then I met Jessica. I wasn't blazingly optimistic but at this point I was just going through the motions. Over a reasonably nice first date dinner, I let slip the fact that I was the F of FCN. "Really? That's awesome!" She said, setting herself apart from all my previous dates by being interested in what I had just said. "I'm a writer too!" To be nice, I told her to send me some of her stuff. She took that as an offer to audition for FCN. Her dad took it as a proposal of marriage. We found common ground one very awkward week later.

Welcome to FCN, Jessica.

And...we're back

It's hard to believe we haven't published on this auspicious site in almost two months. I can't remember the last time I was this far away from FCN - maybe when the site was hijacked or perhaps when I got that nasty bubbly thing on my index finger that oozed puss and was generally unfriendly to my friends. It was actually right by the webbing on my right hand such that when I reached for the "H" from the "J" key, I felt a slashing pain - like a paper cut with lemon juice in it. Only when I...what is that? I am getting the TMI signal from the booth. I'll reign it in.

So we're back. The beach was good, the tan is dark and we're ready to switch out of these aloha shirts into our Belichick hoodies. But the FCN you see before you now is not the same FCN that left you suddenly and inauspicously a few weeks ago. Yes, faithful few, we have changed. Two writers of fancy prose have been added to our ranks. I like that word, fancy; it's the kind of thing a redneck might say about his foodservice. The word fancy is also apropos because our two new writers are...wait for it...female.

A sudden wave of energy washed over the FCN reader like the heated recoil of a beretta. The reader shook his head, denying what he had just read and willing the words on the page to change. "May it not be so!" he muttered out loud, gripping his mouse with a ferocity usually reserved to the physically fit. The mouse strained against the filthy mousepad, making a creaking sound like the floor in front of the bathroom. "May it not be so! FCN is a male haven, a glimpse into a man's psyche and a college student's thoughts. Wait...is this what mysogyny feels like?" the reader thought.

To break into your reverie of self doubt and shock and maybe ease the pain of knowing that there are more X chromosomes than Y chromosomes on the writing staff and this haven of masculine dominance has been invaded by those who may actually suffer from misandry, you need to understand the tale behind the predicament.

You see, FCN did not set out to get a girl on its writing squad. We meet enough women as it is and, believe me, don't need to test our luck within our ranks. Rather, it's F's fault. He was on a date with Jessica, a pretty girl with an NRA dad. F ran out of things to talk about so he mentioned that FCN was looking for humor writers. Jessica said she could write. She showed us some writing samples but we didn't like them and told her thanks but no thanks. After a visit from the NRA dad, Jessica had a position. Welcome Jessica to the writing staff at FCN! Yay!

Ana is our other contributor. We've known Ana for a long time. She's like our older sister in that she is older, she's a girl and she bosses us around. Ana emailed a few weeks ago demanding a position. She said she would box our ears and tell our moms all sorts of nasty things if we didn't oblige. So we obliged. Welcome Ana to the writing staff at FCN! Yay!

Man, my index finger is hurting again. I feel like the groom in a shotgun wedding. But we should welcome these newcomers. They probably feel like John McCain at a computer terminal or Barack Obama in the Oval Office: out of place. They are brown shoes in a tuxedo world. Say hi; let them know you aren't a hater. Don't be a misanthrope. Welcome these talented and pretty people who have agreed to assist us in our pursuit of dereliction.