She has 'Crush' on you Archive

“She has a ‘crush’ on you”
Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you
Part the Third: She has a ‘crush’ on you
Part the Fourth: She has a 'crush' on you
Part the Fifth: She has a 'crush' on you
Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you
Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you

“She has a ‘crush’ on you”

I am still shaking. Inside, my guts are trying desperately to find their proper position and realign themselves to the appropriate pipes. The class I am supposed to be attentive to is nothing but a blur and the teacher’s gesticulations are foreign to my traumatized psyche.

I think this is my philosophy class, but I might not be in the right room because my normal teacher is a bearded male. The professor in front of me now is an obese female. I think nothing of the error.

Ten minutes ago, I was calmly eating my paper sack lunch in the campus Canteen. Each bite of the savory turkey sandwich was slowly erasing the memories of a difficult science lab and my hunger was being pushed away by the spicy mustard sauce my mother prepared for me before I left.

My slice of heaven was interrupted by an attractive blonde girl’s approaching my empty table. I had my mouth full.

“Do you mind if I take your picture,” she asked with a smile.

“My pficture?” I was confused and the whole grain between my front teeth and lips didn’t help my diction. I was flattered nonetheless.

Taking my response as a “yes,” the newly arrived female pulled a pink razor cellular phone from her purse and pointed the camera lens in my direction. I tried to smile without revealing my crumb covered teeth.

The young woman turned around and would have walked away, had I not forced the remainder of my mouthful down the gullet (incidentally causing a painful dough lump) and asked politely why the picture was needed, besides, of course, the obvious advantage of having a super handsome guy as your desktop pic.

“Oh, my friend has a crush on you and she wants your picture.”

The dough lump got bigger. I tried to swallow but my mouth was so dry that my effort only made a gulping sound and probably caused me to look like a fish out of water. I felt a bead of sweat welling on my forehead, just below my hairline and willed myself keep looking worthy of a crush.

Crush. I’d heard the word before, thrown around, joked about and even used by friends. But what exactly did it mean? In agriculture, crush season is when all the wine grapes are harvested, but my intuition told me her comment had nothing to do with that. In society, crush means a juvenile infatuation with a member of the opposite gender that could, if both parties were more mature, lead to a short marriage. Maybe her friend was digging for a short marriage.

But why come over to my table? Was she suffering from a sever case of post Valentine’s Day depression and trying to assuage her feelings of abandonment with male companionship? Was she hungry for some chocolate and think I was hiding some leftover kisses in my pants pockets?

Ah, the questions that haunt the mind of the modern college student!

Coming from a family of guys, some of whom imagine themselves pretty hot stuff, I’d heard quite a bit of advice on how to handle female advances. I knew how to handle this one.

Stepping out of my chair, I extended my hand and introduced myself.

“I’m Lindsey.” She smiled as a response and looked expectant.

“So is your friend here? I’d love to meet her.” Note the adjective use. He-he!

“No, she’s not here today; she just wanted your picture.” With that last comment, Lindsay turned and walked back to her table.

That’s when I started shaking. In the course of a minute, as much time than it takes a collegiate sprinter to run 400 meters, I’d been informed of a girl’s interest (a boon to my now vibrant male ego) and been told that she just wanted my picture (can you hear the air coming out?).

If she simply desired my mug, she could have just visited any of the tens of singles sites I frequent. My picture (and several descriptive paragraphs) are pasted all over the web. I even have a profile on E-Harmony, where Lindsey’s friend and I could find compatibility on all twenty-nine levels.

No longer hungry, I packed up the remainder of my sandwich and walked to my class (or Miss Calorie's Calculus class as the case turned out).

Can there be any more nerve wracking realization than to be told that a girl has a crush on you? I don’t even know who this person is. She could be Katie Holmes in all her scientological glory or even the teacher with the cocaine wrinkles currently lecturing a sleepy audience in a monotone. She could even be the lovely Lindsey who came by to take the photo, but is playing a juvenile trick to obtain a pixilated representation of the man with whose image she has fallen in love.

Or the holder of the crush could be Anna Nicole Smith. Now there’s a scary thought.

That’s what makes this situation so redoubtable. Somewhere out there, in a world of 3 billion girls, there is one eligible candidate who actually likes me. The thought is so overwhelming, so groundbreaking, that it’s got part of me frightened. I don’t want to meet this mystery girl anymore. I want to go on imagining her as a Nancy Pelosi clone and never have to worry about living up to the image she’s made in her mind.

But then again, part of me is curious. Really curious, actually. Kinda tense, a little nervous and full of anticipation.

Help: The scary girl has a crush on me!

Devoted FCN fans may remember a post from five months ago in which I bemoaned a young woman in my language class who scared me more than a passel of half-humans in a Will Smith movie. In that post I described "Annie's" neurotic "zone out" behavior and the jarring impact her intense escapism had on my psyche.

Back then, she hurt my ability to focus; now she is interfering with my love life.

With a new semester underway, the unique seating arrangement of my language class got a shuffle. It seemed none of the eleven continuing students retained their old places and familiar neighbors were replaced with new, fresher faces. Even I, a stubborn student and aspiring ornery codger, budged a couple seats.

But no one moved further than Annie. From her old place across the room from my desk, she transplanted herself to the spot immediately to the left of me. And know, faithful FCN few, that this selection was not random. Annie did not enter the room like tumbleweed in the wind and "find" herself sitting next to yours truly after a couple tours of the class. Nor did she respond to the entreaty of a friend and nab a seat to engender amitié. No. Rather she beelined to that spot with a purpose unbecoming her years.

How pretentious, the reader may opine, of FCN to conclude that a girl holds a crush simply because she wants to sit by you! Only an inflated ego "needs to be needed" and FCN is obviously suffering from a bad case of bragadocious navel staring.

Ah, but cool your jets, the evidence is just beginning to stack up. On the second day of class, Annie's new seat was already taken (Melanie be praised!). Instead of choosing a desk closer to last semester's position, she picked the place to my immediate right, thereby maintaining adjacency. This seat has she jealously guarded every class period since.

Further, Annie has sought my attentions for nearly every group exercise our professor assigns, often grabbing my hand before I even have a chance to ask another student. She finds reasons to ask my assistance on petty problems, even those that have no relevance to class material. Another classmate even asked me discretely if "knew how much Annie likes" me, as if my socially inept mind were incapable of comprehending a teenage crush.

While I may be wrong, all the available evidence, albeit circumstantial and based on conjecture, does point to a crush.

The height of irony is finding a girl you derided on FCN seeking your attention mere months after the derision. Help!

Don't misunderstand, I don't mind a crush. Knowing that someone likes you enough to redo their seating plans is an ego boost. But did it have to be the scary girl?

Here I am, one of four males in a class of sixteen. With plenty of beautiful women whose image does not immediately induce a cringe, there is enough estrogen to go around (It could go around four times, actually). But the other females could care less and are as likely to give our professor another glance as their attention starved colleague, leaving me alone with the freaky girl. Help!

Maybe she could reform and learn to stop zoning out - even Rachel Bilson once had a learning disorder - and I will one day utterly regret not responding to her overtures. Perhaps she is the proverbial diamond in the rough, the undiscovered gem that just needs a little cutting to shine. But that's a chance I am going to take.

Zucht. Soupir. Seufzer. Sospiro. Sigh.

Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you

If you haven’t read FCN’s account of the traumatizing experience I had with a young woman at the campus canteen a couple quarters of a moon ago, please take the time to read it because it is an important backdrop for today’s post.

No, I am serious about this. You can always push your browser’s back button or, if you are using Opera, Mozilla Firefox or Internet Explorer 7, create a new tab and view the page concurrently with this one. Simply push your mouse’s middle button or click normally while holding the ctrl button (Option on a Mac). Or you can right click the above link and press “Open in New Window.” Whatever your style is, get it done now because I won’t keep typing until you are caught up on my love life.

OK. Now that you are up to speed, I can tell you what happened yesterday morning. I had just finished a heady discussion of the properties of water in my science class (why do these things always follow science?) and was enjoying the light breeze in my face as I walked across the street to do a little lunch hour purchasing (note the difference between shopping and purchasing).

As I walked, minding my innocence, on a concrete sidewalk, I passed a couple of Hispanic girls, who looked completely self absorbed. As is my custom when I pass anyone, but especially young women, I smiled and nodded my head.

Instead of walking on, engrossed in their Ipod or cellular phone conversation, as most people do, these young women stopped. One of the girls, who I later found out was named Samantha, asked “you’re the guy who had his picture taken on the cell phone, right?”

So now the whole world knew about Lindsey’s pink mobile? Maybe the FCN readership is bigger than I imagined.

Did this mean my photo was circulating around? Was it the desktop image of every perverted female in town? Did the picture turn out ok? Did the crumbs on my teeth show through?

“Yes, a young woman took my picture a week or so ago. I believe her name was Lindsey,” I smiled, but couldn’t hold the curiosity out of my features.

The girls giggled and looked at one another with an expression I will never understand. “Well, our friend wants your phone number.”

Here we go again. First my picture, then my number. Those are both online, you know. Why doesn't this girl come out of the woodwork and meet me personally? Does the girl really exist or is this a vast conspiracy perpetuated by the campus females to trip me up?

Why would a collection of girls exert any effort to trip me up?

Alas, beauty is stronger then the intellect and I succumbed, entering my digits into Samantha’s mobile for, I was told, later transmission to the mystery crush.

In order to unravel as much of the mystery as possible, I decided to keep asking questions. “So,” I asked, “what’s the name of this girl, the one who has the crush on me?” Tact was never my strong point.

“Luce,” came the answer. At least I think it’s spelled that way. It could have been “Loose.”

“Okay,” I continued my inquiry, “where do you guys hang out? Maybe I could swing a visit and say hi sometime.” Maybe.

“Oh, Luce doesn’t go to school here anymore. She’s working…” Samantha’s voice trailed off, leaving an awkward silence.

To this point, I’d forgotten to stop smiling and my face was beginning to feel tight; I relaxed my features.

And so the conversation with Samantha and her unnamed friend concluded. We exchanged inconsequential pleasantries and parted ways leaving me with only a little more data about the girl with the mystery crush. I’d given out my phone number – a bargaining chip, my brother had informed me, in the relationship scene – and was still perplexed about the entire situation.

Questions, old and new, plagued the rest of my purchase-driven excursion. Was this some kind of conspiracy to get Luce and me to go out? Did Luce really exist or is there a band of young women desperate for my attention? How could a girl who doesn’t go to school know me well enough to establish a crush? Why was the text on Samantha’s cellular set to Spanish? And, perhaps most haunting, when will the crazy collegiate women attack me again?

Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you

A continuation of previous Crush episodes...

Luce and I met in front of the theater and I almost didn't recognize her. Her hair, normally a golden blonde, had been dyed bright red, like Maureen O'Hara only longer. At first I thought she was wearing a wig, but on closer inspection I saw that her hair had indeed been dyed all the way to the roots.

"You dyed your hair." I probably should have thought first and come up with a better introductory remark, but I was in a blurt mood.

"Oh, hey! Yes, do you like it?" Luce had a smile that was both pleading and brilliant. I didn't want to disappoint her and deny her earnest complexion the complement she sought, but I also wanted to be honest.

It looked ugly. The hair, that is. Her smile and complexion were awesome, but the texture of her locks was inconsistent with the dye and it came together to form a muddy consistency. From close up, you could see blonde strays that hadn't taken the color correctly. Finally, the color was wrong. It didn't fit with the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks or the hue of her lips. The whole picture was, as we guys sometimes intone, good from far but far from good.

I must have taken too long to answer because Luce's face soured and she sighed in disgust.

"Oh, whatever. Let's get our tickets."

I tried to smile and followed her to the box office.

As we entered the theater and sat down to await the previews, I tried to break the silence with conversation.

"Well, that was a pretty bad first date we had, wasn't it?" I honestly can't recall the thought process that lead me to that question.

"Uh-huh..." Dang; Luce thought I was going somewhere with this.

"Um...Well, why would a girl like you go out with a guy like me?" I asked, inadvertently deploying a line from Eric Church's Guys Like Me. I had a feeling the answer had nothing to do with "drinking too many beers on Friday after work," but I asked anyway.

"I have a crush on you, remember?" Luce had a smile on her face that invited me to laugh. I obliged, then turned away to return to my thoughtful musing; her answer was, as always, completely unsatisfying.

Just because you have a crush on someone doesn't mean you go out with them after a disastrous first date, or does it?

I thought a change in subject might be in order.

"Why did you dye your hair orange?"

"You don't like it, do you?" More earnest nonverbal pleading.

"Well..." Luce was obviously insecure about her hair. And why wouldn't she be? She had replaced her gorgeous blonde locks for a garage sink special that reeked of ammonia. My guy friends had advised me to be complementary in any comment I made about Luce's looks, so I made an attempt:

"It's not antipathetic or entirely odious. In fact it has an aura of originality that's almost congenial. Um...It's not posh, but it isn't schlocky either." I smiled while wincing. Maybe I'd thought too much about my answer. There were a lot of SAT words in my response and I did not want to splice their meaning for Luce.

I don't think Luce understood what any the adjectives meant because she had a pleased look on her face when she sat back and said "ok." I exhaled deeply with relief.

Just then the previews started, and we began almost two hours of uninterrupted screen watching. I never had to say anything to Luce; she never had to conversate with me. We sat within inches of each other, faced straight ahead and just looked. It was glorious.

Several times, after Jason Bourne made a heart stopping leap or performed another noteworthy stunt, I leaned toward Luce to whisper a comment I thought humorous, but then chickened out before I was close enough to speak. We were so tranquil, watching the movie without intervention, I didn't want to mess all that up by saying something.

Neither Luce nor I said anything for the entire movie. I don't even recall us laughing at the funny parts, although I laughed in my head.

As we were walking toward the exit, I made another attempt at conversation.

"Great movie, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen..." Luce paused as if struggling to phrase her next sentence. "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I think you are really boring. You haven't said more than fifty words all evening. When I saw you interact with people at school, you were animated and, well, interesting. Here, tonight, and the other night, you were completely deadpan. Are you high or something?"

"Well, no, not intentionally, um, well, not that I know of, I, well, I...Luce..." I was trying to be eloquent.

"No." Luce paused and looked as if she might cry. "Let's just let this die, ok? You aren't the same person as the one I have a crush on. You're boring. You used the word "schlocky;" I hate that word; what kind of guys says "schlocky?" The movie was terrible. I hated this evening. Don't even...Don't call me, ok?"

With that, my date left the theater in her Bronco, leaving me to rationalize the situation by tearing Luce down. The Bronco was probably her dad's. She probably never worked an honest day in her life and planned to go on milking unsuspecting males the rest of her days. Such a Daddy's Little Princess; everything must be just so. Dependant and completely selfish; a spoiled brat. Her home life was probably a total wreck and she was taking her disgruntlement out on me. I was the real victim here.

Then again, I thought, maybe I was uninteresting. It was true that I hadn't said much, but Luce didn't leave a lot of room to talk. I'd tried hard, but come up short.

But Luce hadn't liked the movie. Could we be compatible as mates if she rejected my man crush out of hand? Wasn't a relationship with me somewhat like a relationship with Damon? Does that concept make me more attractive?

I drove home that night with a heavy heart. More than once I had to fight back tears as my car stereo played the latest hit love songs. Why couldn't I be like the guys on the radio or TV? Why was I so inadequate in the female department? Why did Luce hate me so much? Why in the world did she decide to dye her hair that ridiculous orange?

I called a meeting of the guys this morning and their take was bleak. They think my chances with Luce are blown, but I'm not so sure. I've got a couple new ideas that, though disapproved by my advisors, may get me back in the game.

Part the Fifth: She has a 'crush' on you

A continuation of previous 'crush' episodes...

I accumulated the nerve. It took a long time, some serious counseling with my male friends and a little Red Bull, but I picked up my shellular phone and pressed the appropriate speed dial button to call Luce. I'd only called her a couple of times - certainly not often enough to deserve one of my nine prized speed dial buttons - but with some people you want the facility of dialing to be so pronounced that you haven't a chance to think twice.

As the phone rang, I began to think that maybe I should have thought better. I thought twice about thinking twice. My mind raced with questions as difficult to answer as they were relevant. What should I say? Why was I calling? Why should Luce care? What if she told me to go moon myself? What does it mean to moon oneself? Is that even appropriate?

I wished for a piece of paper just so I could scribble or make a snazzy notation or do something intelligent. Absent a writing utensil, my hands were left to tremble, exposed. Like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. My throat felt dry and clearing it made an unmanly gulping sound. I made a mental note not do do that while talking with Luce.

I heard a clicking sound, like someone picking up the line and then, with a background of several voices forming a cacophony like that of a party or other large gathering, I heard Luce's voice.

"Hello?" Boy, it was good to hear her voice again.

"Hey, Luce, it's me. You know, the guy, well, the guy you have a crush on." I scrunched my face in frustration. That was lame! Maybe I should start writing for the next Lindsay Lohan movie. My dialogue skills had to improve if I wanted to get anywhere. The guys around me shook their heads. Move on! "Anyway, I --"

"Wait, I can't hear you, let me move away..." Luce interrupted me, and I heard the voices in the background fade away. "You were saying?"

Grateful for the chance at redemption and eager to show Luce that I could conversate without making myself into a total beast of burden, I began again.

"Hey Luce, it's me, the guy from school. We went out and it didn't go so well, remember?" More scrunching. More shaking. Why did I have to bring that up?

"My reception here is awful. I've got, like, no bars. Say again?"

Sigh of grateful providence! Another chance.

"Luce? Luce?" I waited for an answer. After a fair pause I thought maybe the call had been dropped. Only a trace remnant of background voices kept me from hanging up and redialing. Then I heard Luce's voice again.

"You've just been punked. Leave a message at the tone."

The beep of her voicemail was like a buzzer on a bad game show. What did it mean to be punked? Was it an overt reference to "punk" rock or "punk" fashion or maybe something Ashton Kutcher would think up? I may not have known what a "punked" was, but I knew it hurt to be punked.

My fumblings continued despite the fact that the voicemail was now recording. For all of you who have never witnessed me thinking - which is probably all of the faithful few, especially those of you who know me best - when I am pensing through difficult questions, I tend to make unpremediated mumbling sounds, like a culinary connaisseur at a buffet line.

I stopped the involuntary thinking noises and left a message:

"Hey Luce, it's me, the guy you have a crush on. Well, used to have a crush on before you blew your top in the restaurant. But we're cool, right? Well maybe? Like Brad and Jen? Anyway, I'm calling to see if you want to go out again, with me. I mean, you probably want to go out again - I didn't scare you that badly, did I? - but would you deign to go with me? I promise not to lecture you or look dumb, although it will be hard, because looking dumb is what I do best: I get paid to do it at work and it's state of nature at school. Um. [EXTENDED PAUSE] Anyway, I thought we could go to the movies, just you and me. It would be a date. Not a friend date, but a romantic one. Like, a guy and a girl going to the movies together so they can sit next to each other for two and a half hours but never have to make conversation. Does that sound terribly incongruous or do you think you could swing it? You have my number, please call me."

My male advisors who were listening in as I left the message, making emphatic hand gestures I'm sure they thought were helpful, rushed to give me feedback the moment I hung up.

"OK, solid, a little sappy, but solid."

"Dude, what were you thinking with the 'Um...' routine? There's no way she'll get that!"

"Really nerdy."

"Ouch."

"Next time, just leave your number."

Luce called back a few minutes later and said she loved the message. I stuck my tongue out at the guys and figured they were just jealous because none of them have been on a date since Chuck Heston became president of the NRA.

We're on. Our date will be at the theater next week. We are catching the Bourne Ultimatum premier, and I am more than a little nervous. I'm nervous about Luce, too.

Part the Third: She has a ‘crush’ on you

We set up a date at a medium speed food establishment across the street from school. It wasn’t anything high brow, just a short meal over which we could introduce ourselves and get all the relationship pleasantries resolved. No drama, no flowers, no European greetings.

When I chatted with Luce on the phone, I heard a fairly nondescript all-American voice. She laughed a lot, but that might be more nerves than personality. Her accent was Southern Californian; more cultured than Tahoe but less snotty than San Francisco. Her “Ss” were solid, but not lisped or whistled. She didn’t have a drawl and her verbal pauses were more “like” and “you know” than “um” and “uh.” I had her pegged for blond, like Lindsay who took my picture, but wasn’t completely confident in my assessment.

As I sat parked outside the bistro (if “bistro” is a suitable name for a “sit down, but hurry up” eatery), the last few lines of Hannah Montana’s If We Were a Movie echoing in my head, I wondered once again if this might be a trap. I looked around at the restaurant’s entrances, but didn’t notice anything suspicious. I glanced in my rear view mirrors the way the Government Agents do in the movies, but was disappointed to find that no MAC-10 carrying villain was drawing a bead on me.

Sorry, this is beginning to sound more like Desperate Student than the “crush” series. But you get my point; I was still suffering from a deep seated suspicion that some of my guy friends, maybe some of the guys from the track team, were playing a mean trick on me.

Before the questions could become too nagging, I left the comfort of my car behind and went to meat Luce.

The cool restaurant air was a welcome break to the early spring warmth and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the brightness outside. A few seconds after becoming acclimated to my surroundings, I found the store's only solo female customer and she had her back turned. Her hair was blond, as I had deduced from the auditory analysis and she seemed to be waiting for someone.

That's when it hit me like a two by four at a construction site: How should I go about introducing myself? Saying "hi" on a phone is a radically different undertaking than meeting someone for the first time in person. The tête à tête is so much more personal than speedial and it was the one part of our date that I hadn't prepared through and devoted significant mental energy to analyzing. Maybe this whole thing was beyond me; the pervasive feeling that I was out of my league was coming unmuzzled.

Before my thoughts could become paralyzing, I tapped the solo customer on her shoulder and introduced myself.

She turned around and smiled. Her eyes were bright and young and her teeth had the Colgate glint.

"Yes?" She looked expectant.

No immediate recognition? No "it's so good to finally meet you?" No "have a seat?" Just a simple "yes?" I was more than a little flummoxed.

That's when it hit me. Maybe she was trying to play hard to get. Maybe she felt her seeking me out had given her a vulnerable position in our relationship and wanted to remedy that by making me uncomfortable on our first date.

You see folks? I was foolish to think that I understood women.

"Do you mind if I join you?" I kept my face confident and did not let my features betray my earlier deliberations.

"Actually I am waiting for someone..." Her voice trailed off as she shrugged toward the door.

After a couple more awkward exchanges I found out her name was Ashley and she wasn't waiting for me. Actually her boyfriend would be getting off work any minute now and she "kinda wanted to be seated alone" when he entered the restaurant. I walked away from the table and returned to my car flushed with embarrassment.

Did Luce and I mix up the restaurants or lose track of times?

I opened my cellular and dialed Luce's number. I got her voicemail and left a message explaining what I could of the mix up, although I left out the part about Ashley having young eyes. By the time I hung up, a seeping suspicion had tickled its way up my spine and I once again wondered whether Luce was real or an invention fabricated by my male friends to have some chuckles. The fact that she didn't show up was certainly evidence for that argument.

My head was tied up in a pretzel and thinking about Luce was becoming painful. I looked at the clock radio and noticed I had a few minutes to get back to class. I sped across the intersection and pushed Luce out of my mind long enough to focus on a Soil Science lecture.

Part Four: “You Will Never Learn”

For a few minutes after Carrie agreed to accompany me to one of our town’s better steakhouses for dinner, I felt strong feelings of elation and relief: Elation because Carrie had said “yes” and relief because she hadn’t said “no.” But I didn’t get much time to enjoy these emotions because my overactive mind began thinking about the ramifications of the commitment I'd made.

Yes, I’d made a date for dinner, but maybe Carrie would think of it as more than that. To me, dinner is a meal. Fifty bites, 70 swallows (if you count the beverage) and a little conversation. Sounds like a song, no? To Carrie, a nice meal with some charming company might be suggestive of something more; something more permanent and lasting. Maybe she would cling to me thereafter like cheap aftershave and never let me live my own life. Maybe I was signing a stalker request and ruining my love life ever after. I know, not really losing anything, but maybe it would tip my hand too much and give Carrie the ammunition to really hurt me.

But who was I kidding? How could I possibly be engaging enough to entertain someone through an entire meal, especially someone as engaging as Carrie? Maybe she would get more enjoyment out of looking in a mirror the whole time. Maybe she would never want to talk to me again. Or maybe she would sick her 120 pound male companion after me.

That's a lot of maybes for two paragraphs. Dang Bentham's utiles.

To help assuage my concerns, I checked the FCN comments page from Part 3 of this series and, to be perfectly honest, studied the reader comments like class notes before a mid term. Some of the advice was perfectly absurd. Go roller blading, don't schmooze her and don't do anything stupid are great rules of thumb unless you happen to be me. Rollerblading is out of the question, stupidity is inevitable and Schmooze is my middle name (it's German).

Other bits of advice were just reasonable enough to drive me to action. So much so that by the time yesterday evening rolled around, I had seen Hitch, practiced pouring coke without spilling, opened the door a million times for my mother, built a cake and, yes, checked rFCN.

I was so ready for the date, all the wild steeds in Wyoming couldn't keep me from making the evening a success. But Carrie could.

As I've mentioned before, my prior interaction with Carrie was very brief. All I really knew her by was my own hormone driven infatuation and our conversations had never lasted more than a few minutes. For all of you out there who have never been in a one-on-one dating situation, conversations need to last longer than a few minutes or things get really awkward. At least I think.

But with Carrie, things got awkward even before our conversation expired.

"Hey Carrie! So good to see you!" Our table was three paces from the door, so I rushed over to open it when I saw her coming. Apparently she neither saw me coming, nor the door opening, since it swung into her with a rapidity unbecoming hardwood and some part of her face emitted an abrupt squishy sound as flesh came in contact with machine. Not good.

"I can open the door myself, silly. Goodness. Clumsy oaf." Carrie had a way with words.

There was no blood, but her forehead had a nasty bruise that looked like it was itching to swell. The kitchen brought out some ice and I kept apologizing until the waiter came to take our order.

Only then, after I had selected my favorite item from the menu, did Carrie actually engage in serious, non accusatory conversation.

Carrie and 120 pound nerd just broke up. I would recount the long and painful circumstances that precipitated this separation, but that's neither here nor there. Suffice to say that the story is long and emotional. And that Carrie is pretty torn up about it.

Picture me, across the table from an exceedingly attractive young woman for whom I hold a skin deep interest that may very well flourish into something more genuine, listening to an episode of Days. This wasn't a chick flick, this was chick torture.

The more Carrie talked, the more she seemed to cling.

Carrie told me about her love life, her needs, her idiotic ex, her school, more about the jerk of an idiotic ex, the problems with boys in general, the problems with boys in specific, especially with regard to the jerk of an idiotic ex, etc. In return, she found out I like my steak medium rare.

I was Jimmy Stewart at a meeting of the Red Hat Society.

But other than Carrie's incessant verbal diarrhea, the evening wasn't so bad. In fact, I could see a very one sided relationship developing. On dates, one of us would talk, the other eat. Carrie could dump her emotional problems on my lap and I would do relationship dog duty.

My imaginative reverie was broken by the soft buzzing of my shell phone in my right hip pocket. At first, I thought the call was from one of my guy friends wanting to set up a run or maybe from my brother asking how the date went. Hey, man! Date is still in progress! I help up my finger to pause Carrie and glanced at the name on the screen: Luce.

Luce!

She'd said she didn't want to talk with me anymore. She'd shunned me after our disastrous encounter, and rightly so. Why in the world was she calling? Did a renewed crush for me drive her to the phone? And why call now of all times?

With an apologetic "I've gotta take this" look, I answered the phone. That was the mistake that made me lose Carrie.

Luce was sorry she had acted like a sophomoric twit (my words) and wanted to go out again. She still had a crush on me and wanted to know about the new Brad Pitt western in theaters. Was I interested?

Was I interested? Present company included, I had pretty much struck out on every date I'd tried. Luce was giving me another chance at feminine redemption.

That's when I realized that Carrie had gone from lost in her recantation of woe to completely focused on our conversation. When I hung up the phone after five minutes of talking, Carrie asked me sharply: "Who was that?"

"Well, uh, well, let's see..." The fact I had euphorically shouted Luce's name when I picked up the phone and given my verbal consent for a date next week eliminated most of the nondamaging lies. So I told the truth.

Ballistic is too contained a word to describe Carrie's reaction. Apparently going out on a date with some girl while scheduling one with another one doesn't fly in her book. So she left.

The cold outside air that was swept in by the closing hardwood door served as a rationalizing force and I didn't follow her outside. Those at the adjacent tables had already witnessed enough of a scene.

So that was Carrie. I'll see her in class on Tuesday and maybe we can patch things up. Maybe. But I doubt it. A girl like her can have her pick and there are plenty of other welterweight dweebs who will lineup for some attention.

For now, I've got a date with Luce to look forward to and a severely battered ego to patch up. Oh yeah, my fortune cookie read "YOU WILL NEVER LEARN." Depressing, but true.

Part the Fourth: She has a 'crush' on you

This post is way, way overdue. I don't know why I delayed so long in writing it; maybe some youthful pride was welling in my bosom and I thought I could assuage it by putting off the inevitable. The faithful FCN few had to know sometime; I couldn't keep my secret forever. The moment would come, my embarrassment would be known by all and the lack of sympathy would be palpable. As part owner of this blog, I know how it works and I know I deprived you all by not being forthright about it in the first place, but, heck, better late then never, right?

My love life is your love life and, like most communal things, it is pitiful. As always, any tips or advice are appreciated. Condemning and criticizing words will be read, but are not appreciated. Please comment accordingly.

A month ago, I was “dumped” by a young woman who once told her friends she had a crush on me. Now I am trying to get her back... but I am getting way, way ahead of myself.

Luce and I met at a small place by the movie theater during finals week and I my vocal analysis was right on: Blonde through and through. Energetic is probably the best word to describe her and she was very outgoing. She had my picture on her phone and had set it as her wallpaper. She looked athletic and she told me she played tennis for our school. Luce told me she grew up in the Bay Area but went to college in the valley to get away from the city. Our conversation was comfortable and I enjoyed letting her do the talking.

Her favorite color is magenta which is a perversion of purple. She is claustrophobic and can't stand dogs. Her brother is in med school and she has a sister in the military. She misses both terribly. She has had too many sports injuries to count and likes to dye her hair different colors so she wasn't always blonde. She hates using the computer and loves the outdoors.

That's when it hit me like a frog's tongue on a fly: Was this the same “shy” girl who wouldn't approach me in person and sent her friends as emissaries instead? I must have stiffened physically because Luce stopped midway through a sentence on the merits of charging the net to ask what the matter was. I pursed my lips, glanced suspiciously from left to right, depressed my eyebrow and leaned forward. I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye for a second.

“Nothing...You were saying?”

Our conversation continued after a moments hesitation and I used the guise of interest to develop my theory. This couldn't possibly be the “real” Luce. The real Luce was quiet, sat in the back of the cafeteria and had Hispanic friends who used their mother's cell phones. The girl in front of me was a bubbly blonde who probably went to parties just to energize them. The girl in front of me was the star of the tennis team, not the outcast.

“So, what's your real name?” I bluntly changed the subject, deciding to use surprise to my advantage.

Luce smiled, obviously a lot more used to social dweebs than she let on. “Lucy, but my friends call me Luce. Why?”

Why indeed. My suspicion was beginning to look vaguely ridiculous and my hold on conversational authority was leaving me like so many lemmings. In retrospect, my curiosity was poorly conceived. Why...did I always have to make a fool of myself in two-way social interactions? Why...was I the one who got left holding the cheese? Why...was Luce looking at me like that?

Oh yes, her question. I answered with a joke that seemed to recover most of the ground my gaff had lost, but the rest of our interaction was without the comfort we shared early in the date.

Maybe that's because I spent less time listening and more time thinking about this whole sordid episode. Luce, tennis, the cafeteria, the cell phone picture, me. It didn't fit. Something was wrong. What kind of girl approaches a guy with expressions of affection before establishing any sort of relationship?

I decided the best course of action was the blunt one, so I continued bludgeoning our conversation around by asking the above to Luce.

“What kind of girl approaches a guy with expressions of affection before establishing any sort of relationship? I mean...what kind of girl...” I let my thoughts trail off like the curator in Night At The Museum and used descriptive hand motions to convey my confusion.

“You weren't going to ask, so I did.” Luce seemed so calm. How did she know I wasn't going to ask? Maybe I was thinking about it and just biding my time. And what did it matter anyhow? So this was an epistemological question, not one of romance and passion? I was a bet, a wager she placed with her friends? What about the proper role of...?

My thoughts were interrupted by Luce who stood up quickly. “You know what? You're just a pretty face. I try to get to know you and you just sit there dumbly and then try to lecture me on...” I think she “humphed” there, but the crack of her palm against my cheek made the memory fuzzy.

When I cleared my vision and mustered the courage to peek up from beneath my arms, I saw her Tundra zip out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

I got a few stares as I paid the bill and exited myself. But nobody saw as I sobbed softly in the front seat of my car. How could I have messed that up? Things were going so well! We were clicking!

That's what I get for focusing on the method, not the content. And she ordered the second most expensive item on the menu!

Maybe she was playing hard to get, as if it wasn't hard enough to get her for the first date. Or maybe I'm just an empty visage with nothing to offer the fairer gender.

I think you're supposed to call your date back the next day and follow up, say it was a great evening and lie about what an awesome time you had. Well, it's been a month and I haven't called her back. I have her number and sometimes I look at it like the man in the “maybe” lottery add.

You know what? I think I'll give her a call and see how she's doing. Maybe she has an opening this week and we can catch a tennis game or something. Now if only I can find my cell phone.

Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you

It was like connecting positive and negative energy, but Luce and I were finally able to reconnect and set up a reconciliatory date. She had scheduling conflicts for most of my available times (school, a babysitting commitment and a best friend's birthday party were all pesky obstacles) so I ended up taking a couple hours off work so we could meet for a leisurely lunch and then walk around a local park.

If you're new to this tragic but all too real tale of failed attempts at love, you can check out the sordid and choppy history of Luce and my relationship here. Or, if you're the kind of person who flips to the back of the book to read the annotated version, it suffices to say that Luce and I have never clicked. I've either been too late, too dumb, too condemning or too verbose. Luce, on the other hand, has been everything; she's a charming date and beautiful companion. I've been borderline comatose.

Before heading out for date number four (or three, depending on whether your definition of a date includes an actual meeting), I sat down with a number of guy friends to put together a strategy. In retrospect, I probably should have had a girl on the consulting team, but I preferred the brand of advice my male friends provided.

Before asking for their input, I laid out my situation clearly, saying that my sensitive ego would not take another throw-it-down rejection. I needed to go into this meeting with a crash the board's mentality and approach Luce with a full court press. I wasn't going to be on the sidelines anymore.

OK, enough with the basketball idioms. Maybe I should add a girl to my team of advisers...

The guys and I reviewed my past experience and weighed reader comments for input. We were pretty sure that Luce's sister was in the military, which ruled out jdb and Adrialien's theory of a familial stand-in (the Luce of Part the Sixth had hair that was beyond regulation length). We also rejected matchmaker's input because it involved going to see a chick flick. In the end we settled on a variant of Frederic's idea and decided to strap on some metaphorical peacock feathers.

Throughout the date, I would be a bold, courageous beast in human form. By the end of our conversation, Luce would know every exploit, achievement and success I had ever caused or been a part of. I would pin her ears back with wordy tales of mighty victories, some embellished for grandeur and all told with wide eyes and guttural voice. I would spare no exaggeration and pull no punches. I would be Leonidas against the Persians, Achilles against the Trojans and William Wallace against the English. By the time I got through detailing my credentials of valor, Luce's crush would be that much more resolved and her affection secured.

"Spartans? Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

The end of our meeting involved some manly shouting, chest thumping and an arm wrestling match and one of my friends twisted his ankle while demonstrating a Bruce Lee wall-chop, but I was in the right frame of mind for a date as I hopped into my car and drove to the sandwich shop were Luce and I were meeting.

Luce was there when I arrived and, after we exchanged brief pleasantries, she felt a need to explain and justify her previous outburst. I put her at ease with the following reply:

"You know, Luce, a weaker man might have taken offense at your comments. A wuss or the guys who trim their eyebrows might have a hard time coping with such a letdown. I'll bet you Ewan McGregor would still be reeling. But not me. I once faced a whole room full of angry, condemning women. They were mad and I still don't know what I did. To this day, it doesn't bother me a bit. Not a bit. Your words were a drop in bucket compared to the kind of estrogen-filled hate I've been on the business end of. A drop in the bucket."

I think it worked, because she grinned while I was talking and shook her head slightly during the more fantastic portions. She even laughed when I mentioned Ewan McGregor and I made a mental note to thank Reginald for the line.

I didn't get a chance to be macho again until Luce had almost finished her sandwich. She looked down at her plate and said something about how "Mr. Pickles," makes large portions. Deep down inside, I think she was fishing for a compliment about her figure, but for me it was an opportunity to brag:

"Hah! This is nothing. How many calories do you think this sandwich has? 1,200? 1,500?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, I once ate almost 3,000 calories in ten minutes. I wasn't even hungry. I was like Takeru Kobayashi at the Thanksgiving table. Just boom; down the hatch. It was all gone before you could say "anorexia." They called me the Alimentary Vacuum and I considered a few sponsorship offers before staying an amateur. In fact, I'm going to have another sandwich. You want one?"

I don't think Luce knew who Takeru Kobayashi was and she looked more disgusted than anything at my comments.

Despite the fact that I was stuffed to the esophagus with a Mr. Pickles sandwich that was, admittedly, quite large, I walked over to the counter and ordered another. Food was never so painful.

Our walk in the park started off very well. It was a beautiful day and we made small talk for the first few minutes of our promenade. Then Luce brought up Reginald.

Luce wanted to make sure I didn't feel competition from my no-good house mate. She felt the time they were spending together might be perceived as more than friendship and she assured me the only reason she went out with him was because she felt sorry for his plight. I wanted to ask what Reginald's plight was, but my desire to appear strong lead me to feign confidence:

"You know, a lesser man might be concerned, but seriously, I've got this situation covered. Did I ever tell you the story about the guy at the place who tried to steal the girl from me? No? Well, he, you know, ended up...looking...less manly after I, uh, you know, finished with him. The girl's serving some time for an unrelated incident right now so you don't have to worry about her, you know, interfering with us. In fact, you could go out with the guy if you felt sorry for him and I wouldn't take that as a slight. I might even beat him up again although his reconstructive surgeon might not appreciate that..."

The more I spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded and I knew my face reflected my personal feelings of incredulity, so eventually I just shut up. My voice trailed off some and that's when I heard Luce's response.

"Why can't you just be the same person all the time?" She asked with a very feminine fire in here eyes. "One date you're Mr. Nice Guy and now you're trying on Macho Man...just give me the straight story. Don't be an arrogant tool. Be yourself. You don't have to try to impress me. You impress me; when you try you just look impotent and weak. And Ewan McGregor? That sounds like something from Reginald's playbook. Look, I know you're trying, but this isn't working. Call me when you are ready to be yourself."

With that, Luce marched to her car and, after a couple tries at the starter, chug-chugged her Bronco out of the parking lot.

I walked over to the playground set and began banging my head against a protruding monkey bar. How could I have been so idiotic? What could have been a great afternoon was ruined by my own meddling. What was that she'd called me? An arrogant tool? Ouch. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd been called that. And my stomach hurt like something fierce. Why did I have to eat that second sandwich? Why had I taken time off work for this torture?

Maybe Luce was right. Maybe I should try a date without any particular "strategy" and just wing it. I could try being spontaneously attractive. Or, maybe I could try coloring my hair or growing a mustache or something subtle but radical and very "me," whatever that is. How do you try to be yourself, when you've been working so hard to be something else?

I don't know. I definitely want to think about it before I call her again.

FCN Series

She has a ‘crush’ on you

FCN Takeover

Homies

Olympic Training

Mammoth Monday

You know something that's way bigger than you? A mammoth.

A what?

A mammoth, that's what. In this day and age, "mammoth" is an adjective for something really big. But thousands of years ago, "mammoth" meant a 2-story tall, 8-ton elephant covered with shag. It was basically a mammalian truck. Common knowledge understands that mammoths died out back when your grandpa was doing his thing - before that even. But did they really? No one knows for certain. And unless you want to be caught with your britches down in a mammoth invasion, you should have a Mammoth Survival Plan.

So. What are mammoths? How do you know you're looking at one? Couple of clues: mammoths are like elephants, but with smaller ears. Other differences: Their bodies are significantly larger and heavier, their tusks are longer and curvier, and they have long, shaggy fur. Though we have never encountered a live one, evidence suggests that mammoths move in herds, are very territorial, and tend to be pretty standoffish. That means they don't get along well with people, even your grandpa.

Return of the Mammoths

There are literally millions of places on the planet that mammoths could be hiding completely obscured from humanity. We haven't seen any for a few thousand years so we've concluded that they're gone. But Rome wasn't built in a day (whatever that means). Mammoths could very well have just gone into hiding up in the arctic, where they've been breeding like rodents. Let us consider:

As the population expands, the herds will need more space to grow. They will gradually take over larger and larger tracts of land, starting in Canada or Russia. Some natural barrier will be holding them back (and keeping us from finding them) until one day, without warning, the pressure of expansion becomes too much and they explode across the barrier into human territory.

Deep in a mammoth's psyche is the understanding that land, once occupied, must be fought for. This means clearing out pests and predators in the area. Mammoths will attack and destroy human settlements in their new territory; and such an invasion would be totally unprecedented and unanticipated.

Thousands of environmentalists and scientists would strongly urge against fighting the mammoths. Many would even seek to be human shields (dying in the process). Police would seek to respond but are ill-equipped for facing hundreds of crazed charging mammoths that can crush their cars with one stomp. It takes a lot to bring down a mammoth. Small arms fire is not enough; flash bangs and gas will only make it more angry.

Military Police will be dispatched onto the scene, but instead of using the most effective possible measures, they will try to subdue the animals in humane ways. Elephant tranquilizers and traps will be too few and too small; the MPs will be overwhelmed, and in the face of billions of dollars in damage and thousands of lives lost, the honest-to-goodness military will move in. Mammoths will charge at what ails them and are hard to stop when they start. This means safe ways of fighting them involve air-to-ground weapons and evasive ground maneuvers (which is a military term for driving away as fast as you can, firing your machine gun backwards and screaming like a maniac). After extensive damage and a protracted search-and-destroy campaign covering much of the continent, the mammoths will be contained.

So, mammoths don't necessarily threaten your way of life. They won't end life on the planet. But what do you do to keep from getting stepped on?

First: consider the chances of a mammoth return in your area. If you live in Baja, you have nothing to fear (of mammoths - but don't worry, there are plenty of other things to keep you awake at night). If you live in the Northwest Territories, you're definitely in danger. If you live in the Ural Mountains, you've probably already seen a mammoth and you're not telling anyone about it.

You sneaky devil.

Having assessed the threat level, you can determine how much time you'll have to react to a mammoth invasion. If you're in the forefront - with little or no warning - your plan should be very simple. Find a way to get out and stay out until the military gives you the go ahead to come back. Don't go back to your house for your photo album or your lucky blanket or to turn the stove off - go.

If you have a limited amount of time to prepare (less than 24 hours), go to your home or the home of a fellow survivor, form a party, build a few survival kits (you should have these lying around anyway in case of zombies, biochemical attacks, and vise versa), then boogie. Make a goal of putting as much distance as possible between you and the mammoths. Don't stop at what looks like a safe place - just go. Minimum safe distance is one hundred miles. You'll probably pass a police/military barrier or two on your way; don't allow that to increase your sense of safety. Just go already.

If you have a healthy amount of time to prepare (more than 24 hours), form a survival party and standby; keep an eye on the news and be ready to evacuate. You may not have to leave - awesome!

Of course, all the planning in the world won't guarantee that you won't be forced to fight a mammoth. If you are, your options aren't that great.

How to Kill a Mammoth

This next section may get a little unpleasant.

If you have a gun, use it. A .45 or thicker rifle round behind an ear or 4 inches above the eyeline should stop a mammoth cold, but you're safer using a bona-fide Elephant Gun. Popular with big game hunters is Nitro Express (so named because it used to be powered with nitroglycerin - cool!). Lots of great choices there; you want a gun with the maximum possible impact.

If you want to go "all the way" in preparing for the return of the mammoths you've got two solid options:

The legal one: the CZ550 from American Hunting Rifles. This beauty - sometimes referred to as the Dinosaur Rifle - puts a massive hole in anything it shoots at. Be sure you're trained to use this weapon, as discharging it incorrectly can knock you flat on your back, break a few bones, and deafen you permanently. Remember that mammoths are larger than any big game known to modern man, and this calls for extraordinary measures. Look into the .600 overkill - a cartridge that can penetrate six feet of solid oak. Downside -it feels like holding a cannon.

The illegal one: Rocket-Propelled Grenades (RPGs) are convenient, reasonably portable, highly effective, and fully biodegradable. They were originally designed for use against tanks and light vehicles but are perfectly respectable against mammoths. Attaining an RPG can be tricky, and for legal reasons, we can't really tell you how to do it.

We can tell you how to use it, however. Good news: firing an RPG is so easy, even a terrorist can do it. All you do is rest it on your dominant shoulder (if you're right handed, put it on your right shoulder) and hold the handle/trigger with the corresponding hand. Use your other hand to steady yourself. Before firing, you may want to cup your other hand over the barrel directly above your firing hand.

To aim, peer down the barrel. There should be iron sights at the very end. Line the sights up so the mammoth is between them. Then squeeze the trigger. The rocket will fire, and the rest is easy.

Safety guidelines: do not fire at a target less than 60 feet away (that's about two RV lengths). Make sure the area behind you is completely clear, as rocket exhaust will shoot back behind you about 3-5 feet. Do not fire this weapon up, as the exhaust will bounce off the ground and burn you. Do not fire with your back to a wall. Do not fire in a crowd of screaming people.

Oh, and for the record, none of that is from experience, and F definitely didn't accidentally burn down half a national forest playing with the RPG he bought on eBay. Just so we're clear on that.

Moving on.

If you don't have a gun, your options are significantly more limited. Everything you learned about killing mammoths in the 10,000 BC movie is wrong. Forget 10,000 BC. Your chances of killing a mammoth by penetrating the heart are a million to one. You could try to stab the mammoth in the eye - but not while it is charging. If you get close enough to stab a charging mammoth the purpose has been defeated.

Consider these two tactics popular with Africans, who have to deal with mammoth's smaller cousins. First, you could dig pits with sharp spikes at the bottom. Downsides: this will only stop one mammoth, at which point the rest will just charge over the corpse and keep going. Also, it's extremely time consuming and not very mobile. Another option: slash their hamstrings with machetes, then start stabbing. This method is very messy and risky.

Your best bet may be to do it with your bare hands: sneak up on the mammoth while it's sleeping and stuff its trunk down its throat, suffocating it. This really does work, folks. We are not making this up.

We think it's pretty obvious by now that even if you've got heavy weaponry, your best chance of survival is putting distance between you and the mammoth herds. This really shouldn't be that hard to do if you're alert and prepared, so be alert and prepared already. Remember: it takes 15 minutes of Mammoth Survival Planning to prevent a lifetime of heartache.

Of course, there may be other creatures hidden away in unexplored regions - zombies for instance. But if zombies break loose, well ... you know what to do.

Damon to Make Fourth Bourne Movie

HOLLYWOOD, CA (FCN) -- Action hero and reigning Sexiest Man Alive Matt Damon has agreed to make a fourth Bourne film with the not-so-sexy director Paul Greengrass. Set to be released sometime in the year 2010, the movie will bring a smile to shoot 'em up fans the world over.

"We really couldn't not make this movie," explained Greengrass, using his trademark double negative. "I mean, artistically, cinemagraphically and [most importantly] financially it makes a world of sense for Universal Pictures to try and one-up the last movie, even if it means an eight figure paycheck to me."

The story will pick up where the last film left off - with Jason Bourne floating in the East River, presumably not dead. While script writers are mum about the storyline, moviegoers are already making plot predictions.

"This answers the question that's been sticking in my craw for the last, you know, since I left the theater," began an ardent fan of the franchise who wanted his name withheld. "I mean, was Bourne still alive? You've got that smile from the cute chick with the short hair after she sees his picture on TV, but anyone can smile, you know? It's just a matter of turning the corners of your lips up and relaxing your eyes. That really doesn't tell you whether or not he's kicked the bucket. Unless they plan on bringing in a new hero in the new film - like having Jack Bauer take over for Bourne - Jason's got to still be alive."

According to the Internet Movie Database, several actors from the earlier films have attached their names to the new production, not the least of which is Matt Damon himself.

"I just had to do it," began Damon in a phone interview with FCN shortly after E! News scooped everyone by announcing the new film before Universal's Press Release confirming the story, a risky yet rewarding journalistic strategy. "After I read the petition prepared by Funny Class Notes, there was no way I could break the hearts of so many fans and step on the man crush of that one pathetic contributor you guys have. I had to make the movie."

Damon's sentiments may ring with the sound of fan friendliness, but they are most likely motivated by hefty financial incentives.

"Look: I don't want to be typecast as some kind of action hero in the mold of Arnold or Bruce," Damon intoned, referencing California's governor and the former wrestler. "I mean, look at the women those guys have ended up with. The only way I'd do this is if the money were right. A man's gotta feed his children and this sexy face ain't getting any more attractive. At some point I want to let myself go physically and just do artsy roles, like Jack Nicholson; but for now, I can't ignore the call of the dime."

For whatever the reason, Robert Ludlum's signature character will rise again on the big screen.

Free Sierra Mist

That's right. The can says exactly what you think it says:

Yet Sierra Mist "Free" (made by PepsiCo) costs 40 cents a can. Even if you twist the definition, the soda is not without cost. That's why some people say that the "free" slogan is a bunch of bull. When we first saw Sierra Mist, we got the sudden urge to give you all a slice of our thoughts. The three of us over here at FCN don't feel we have the time to be tricked and, while we don't want to bark up a storm, this is blatant false advertising. In fact, we consider the folks at PepsiCo almost as deceptive as the witch who tricked Snow White. Their mothers must be ashamed.

Some people say this isn't deceptive; we think that's just gay! Yoo Hoo! Any smart person can see that Sierra Mist "Free" isn't free! According to Encarta, free means, "costing nothing: requiring no money to be paid." A cow could win the argument against this one. Not only is Sierra Mist "Free" expensive, but you have to pay for gas to go to a store on top of Pepsi's list price. With fuel over three dollars a gallon, the visit to the supermarket alone is expensive.

The people at Sierra Mist's advertising department may think this is all very fine and pretty, but we don't. Mr. Pibb and Dr. Pepper noted in their scholarly paper, "Big, Bossy, Beverage Companies", that the new Sierra Mist is anything but free. Fitz, the truck driver said, "It ain't free, if it ain't free". Martha Stewart, the maid, told us she thinks it is unfair. My dad's take on all this is that if free doesn't mean free, frogs might as well be dogs. Hank the janitor doesn't like it either.

The guy who started string of lies deserves a fat lip. This deception is a spot on PepsiCo's record. We need to keep a tab on these kinds of practices, otherwise there might be a big surge in false advertising. We must have an iron fist and stop this.

Businesses that have a lot of pep, see a lot profits. But companies export their ideas to others and spread the word. We all know that companies feel obligated to "keep up with the Jones", and that once one business starts cheating, others will follow the lead. This is because most businesses don't want other companies to get ahead in sales. If this happens, they will have lost. But we will not let these monsters (wink) win.

So here's our plan to get at the core of the problem. We think the deceptive cans of Sierra Mist "Free" should all be hung by wires and packed into a vault. Next, we will shoot the cans with M5 machine guns. Then we will reload the guns, change the batteries, and shoot the cans again. After that, we will crush, hit, kick and beat the shards. Then we will put whatever is left in an incinerator and light it on fire. We will take the remains and throw them to the fish in the sea. Then everything will be ok.

We don't want to give them a bad rep, but if the soda companies are booed, so be it. Businesses like PepsiCo do not have the right to do this. They are just tangoing with trouble. If we don't stop these companies, it will just be another trouble mountain. Do you want that to happen? Our plan is no hype. We need a boost in supporters and lots of aid for our full plan to work. Fans of FCN, please join our club and our relentless fight against false advertising.

Labels

• 1337 (1)
• 2008 Election (3)
• 25 Things (2)
• Activism (3)
• Advertisement (1)
• Age (2)
• Alaska (2)
• Almost (1)
• Arizona (2)
• Artist (4)
• Barack Hussein Obama (1)
• Bashar Assad (3)
• Basketball (2)
• Beauty (1)
• Black Magic (1)
• Blogroll (2)
• Bourne (2)
• Caffeine (2)
• Campus Canteen (3)
• Canvas (1)
• Carrie (3)
• Cars (6)
• Cats (4)
• Cellular Phones (3)
• Censored (3)
• Chance (2)
• Cheap (3)
• Chelsea (1)
• China (1)
• Chocolate (1)
• Chores (3)
• Cindy Sheehan (1)
• Cliche (2)
• Coke (3)
• Cold (3)
• Communication (4)
• Competition (1)
• computers (17)
• Concept (2)
• Conspiracy Theories (6)
• Consumerism (14)
• Country Music (1)
• Crush (11)
• Curiosity (2)
• Daily Kos (8)
• Daydream (4)
• Debate (7)
• Debt (1)
• Despair (1)
• Desperate Student (15)
• Dirty (2)
• DMV (4)
• Dogs (2)
• Dreams (2)
• Driving (5)
• Drugs (4)
• Dyslexic (2)
• Election (7)
• Elvis (1)
• Em (3)
• Email (4)
• Employment (2)
• English Language (5)
• Enron (1)
• Epistemology (1)
• Etiquette (5)
• Eulogy (2)
• Facial Hair (4)
• Fairy Tales (5)
• fake thumbs (1)
• Fashion (3)
• FCN Apparel (3)
• FCN Audio (6)
• FCN Campaigns (4)
• FCN Classics (14)
• FCN Confessions (2)
• FCN History Lesson (2)
• FCN Interviews (8)
• FCN Lab (15)
• FCN News (20)
• FCN Research (1)
• FCN Security (1)
• FCN Tales (4)
• FCN Video (6)
• Food (13)
• Fortune Cookie (4)
• Free (1)
• French (5)
• Friends (1)
• Garage Sale (1)
• General Mills (2)
• Generalizations (19)
• Girls (26)
• Google (9)
• Government (1)
• Guys (30)
• Hair (3)
• Hillary Clinton (5)
• History (1)
• Hokey-Pokey (1)
• Holidays (16)
• Homeless (1)
• Homer Simpson (1)
• Homies (7)
• Housesitting (6)
• How-To (1)
• Illegal Immigrants (1)
• Image (6)
• Income (1)
• Index (35)
• Injury (2)
• Instascum (2)
• iPhone (1)
• Ipod (3)
• IQ (2)
• Jane Goodall (3)
• Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1)
• Jeremy (1)
• John Belushi (2)
• John McCain (1)
• Joke (4)
• Laura Bush (1)
• Life Tip (45)
• Lindsay Lohan (1)
• LLFCN (7)
• Locker Room (3)
• Loose (3)
• Lyrics (5)
• Madame PJ (1)
• MC Hammer (1)
• McDonald's (1)
• Microsoft (3)
• Middle East (2)
• Mirrors (1)
• Mitt Romney (1)
• Mommy G (6)
• Money (1)
• Moron (1)
• Mothers (5)
• Movies (4)
• Music (2)
• Nancy Pelosi (19)
• Nerds (1)
• New Mexico (1)
• New Year (4)
• Ninjas (2)
• Numbers (1)
• Obesity (3)
• Outdoors (1)
• Patriots (1)
• Peacock (1)
• Pearls (1)
• Philosophy (3)
• Phobias (8)
• Polar Bear Club (1)
• Policy (6)
• Politics (19)
• Pop Quiz (4)
• Pride (1)
• Printers (1)
• Pyknic (2)
• Qatar (1)
• Question and Answer (2)
• Reader Class Notes (9)
• Red Sox (1)
• Reginald (5)
• Retraction/Correction/Apology (11)
• rFCN (5)
• Richelieu (3)
• Ro-Sham-Bo (1)
• Ron Paul (1)
• Sad (2)
• Salt (1)
• Scandal (1)
• School (7)
• Science (4)
• Shirley (4)
• Short (4)
• Slow Lane (1)
• Social Critique (54)
• soda (1)
• Sound (5)
• Sports (16)
• Steroids (1)
• Stuffed Fauna (2)
• Summer (1)
• Swimming (1)
• Teachers (1)
• Tests (4)
• Texas (2)
• The Day I... (5)
• The Master (2)
• Todd (7)
• TOLF (3)
• TooTee HuWee Bollucks (1)
• Transcript (2)
• Tribute (1)
• Typo (1)
• Uncle (1)
• Uncle Wally (15)
• Underachievement (20)
• V (1)
• Vacation (4)
• Victim (13)
• Video (2)
• Vikings (1)
• War (1)
• Water (2)
• Wealth (1)
• Weekend (1)
• Wikipedia (2)
• Wind (2)
• Winnie the Pooh (1)
• Writing Contests (2)
• Xtreme (1)
• Zebras (11)
• Zimbabwe (6)