FCN Sells Out

Take a look around this page. Do you see anything different? New? Anything at all? No? Look again.

Yes, that's right. Very good! Go buy yourself Snickers TM Bar, Everyone's Favorite Candy Bar TM.

FCN has become ... ahem ... *monetized.* It means we have ads. Theoretically, those ads will mean we will eventually make money (and by we, I mean the 3 founding fathers of FCN - not the newcomers, who still allow us to beat down on them).

It's illegal for us to ask you to click on them. It's pushing the envelope to even point out that they exist. But we can't resist. Because if certain things go right in our world, we'll be ro-sham-bo-ing for the happy meal toy six months from now, courtesy of you, the faithful FCN reader.

We hope you enjoy our new, intrusive, tacky ads.

Spring Break

Funny Class Notes is on Spring Break. We are lounging by the beach, drinking our drinks with umbrellas and doing all the things we always wanted to do but never did because we had other things we had to do. Check back in for more content on April 13th. Until then, happy Easter!

I only shave when I see her...

Chester only shaves when he knows he is going to see Francine. He doesn't need to look good on any other day and, though he detests the itchy spines of peach fuzz that poke a pesky reminder at his unshaved visage, Chester does not care enough to rub his face with a blade unless Francine's name dots his itinerary.

Chester hadn't shaved in over two weeks. Something had come up and he'd had to postpone a date with Francine. He had done this twice and a five o'clock shadow had grown into something resembling mildew all over Chester's face and neck. It was ugly, it was scratchy and it had a funny smell.

Chester's friends begged him to shave, even if it was for their own benefit. They called him names like Serpico, Scorsese and Chewbacca. They thought he was winning a dirty man competition. One particularly mean friend even asked Chester how it felt to change his name "from Cat Stevens to Yusef Islam." These were painful comments but Chester refused to shave. He only shaved for Francine.

One day, Chester had completed his morning routine (shower, _____ and shine) and was in his car hurrying to get to school school when his phone buzzed. It was Francine. Chester took the call. Francine talked briefly about her adventure at the hair salon the day before before getting in to the meat of her call. She wanted to know if Chester was available for lunch. Her afternoon class had been canceled and she had to go by Chester's school anyway to purchase a graphing calculator...

Chester panicked. He looked in his rear view mirror and noted the knotted troughs of hair pouring from his face like milk from a curd strainer. He whipped open the glove compartment, hoping against hope that someone had left a blade in his car -- even if it was a disposable pink razor or a Venus Embrace. He'd actually used on of those once and it wasn't too bad. The lavender scent on the comfort strip left a pleasant aftersmell, too.

Focus Chester! Chester tried to regain control of his thoughts. Maybe he could stall Francine.

"You know, I've got tons of homework to do today. I should see about getting that done..." Chester knew this was weak, but he had to try something.

"Don't be silly. I'll see you at noon at Mr. Pickles." Francine would have none of Chester's shennanigans.

Women! Chester thought.

The minute hand of the clock behind the professor moved at an excrutiatingly dilatory pace. Chester wanted to stand up and move it forward. He wanted to get the awkward introduction between beard and Francine out of the way. But the temporal will could not be swayed. The seconds passed in no great hurry and the sardonic tick of the second hand only magnified Chester's consernation.

When class ended, Chester prayed a brief prayer of deliverance and then marched across the street toward the bumpy green cucumber restaurant.

Francine was already there and her reaction was about what Chester had expected:

"Chester! My, what happened to your face?"

"It's a growth. Fungal. It's not contagious. The doctor said it should be gone in a treatment or two." Chester was so proud of himself!

"Will it come back?"

"Maybe. Probably not, though. What are you having for lunch?" 

And that was that.  Chester had survived his facial hair.

Ultimate Fighter (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1

His Toughness noticed me looking and put down his weights. Even though he was several paces away, I felt genuinely nervous as he started toward me. As a gym novice, I was unsure if I had violated some "don't look" rule of weight rooms. Men's restrooms had such prohibitions—why shouldn't another enclave of incubated testosterone?

He introduced himself with the name "Tito," and I mumbled my name. He nodded. The pause that followed was awkward—if you graphed a line showing how people handle awkward moments, I would be at the zenith of the line. So I started studying Tito's tattoos.

The tattoo on Tito's right shoulder was an intricate collection of colors and shapes that I couldn't understand. It looked as if a sixth grader had drawn a picture only to have his little sister scribble it out and do something else on the same piece of paper. Perhaps this process was repeated several times. On his left shoulder, a very bold five pointed star in solid black was pasted slightly off center. It looked like he had been inked at a very young age and the skin had floated off center over the years.

Tito must have been at the nadir of the arc, because he looked disgruntled by the pause. I, however, was very gruntled and asked an intelligent question:

"So what line of work are you in, Tito?" This was the question Tito had been waiting for. His whole demeanor changed into that of a proud school boy's and I thought for a brief instant that this might have been what he was like when he got the star tattoo.

"I am an Ultimate Fighter, kid." Tito proceeded to tell me all about ultimate fighting, the sport which had honed his body and which he proclaimed with his body art.

Take the roman gladiators, subtract the sharp objects, blunt weapons and shields, change the venue from the Amphitheater Flavium to a metal cage and add steroids. If you did the math right, you have ultimate fighting. It's a really daring activity that attracts the imaginations of teenagers and gives washed up boxers a way to get back on Pay-Per-View. I was hooked.

The more Tito talked, the more I was amazed that he still had all his teeth. Then he told me a story about how he lost the majority in a single punch and how this happened twice and that the pair he had now was actually his third set of orthodontic stand-ins. His left eye was made of glass, his right leg had so much metal it qualified under some definitions as a prosthetic limb and he was missing a finger. I hadn't noticed the finger until then.

Tito taught me how to punch. Sure, I'd seen people get hit in the Matrix Movies, but when Tito hit the punching bag the bag gave the sort of deflated sound you would expect to hear from an opponent after a knockout blow. I think now that I am an even more dangerous person than Tito, because now I know just enough to start a fight. At least Tito can end a fight.

Tito was like a sports talk radio personality without the standard English vocabulary, but with much more colorful language. He talked about the history, ethics, problems and opportunities of fighting. He billed several upcoming fights and warned me about the dangers of overtraining. And he never talked about anything else. He never asked questions and never deviated from his topic of interest. I thought Tito must be a dream date.

Tito had stopped lifting and was talking to me as I worked the leg press, the bicep curl, the assisted dip and chin up, the pecs pusher, the triceps pull, the hamstring twist and the quadriceps tear. He was even by my side as I cooled down on the treadmill. In fact, with the exception of his punching bag attack, he hadn't done anything that would qualify as an exertion in the entire hour he had followed me around.

When my workout was over, Tito left as well, presumably to go visit another gym and continue his "workout."

UPDATE: Tito was in a fight this weekend. He was knocked out in 35 seconds. His opponent pulled out a tattoo gun and added some marks to Tito's right shoulder while he was out. I understand now why it looks so ugly.

Good Idea/Bad Idea #10

Good idea: Using chopsticks to eat Chinese food.

Bad idea: Using chopsticks to eat jell-o.