Ettiquette Monday: How to Panhandle

We've all been panhandled. Most of us have given money. Most of us have also refused to give money. The difference between a successful beggar and an unsuccessful one is a fine one, and when you're in a pinch and need dough fast you don't have time to get good. This is a critical skillset to the modern human being; so you really ought to start practicing panhandling right away, using the techniques and methods described below.

First, what is panhandling exactly? According to the interwebs, panhandling is "to request a donation in a supplicating manner. Beggars are commonly found in public places, such as street corners or public transport, where they request money such as spare change. They may use cups, boxes or hats to receive the donations."

Panhandling is about getting money from people and getting nothing in return. Pretty sweet deal, right? Right. But less than 5% of people do it properly. Learn these methods, carefully perfected over many years of incredibly tacky poverty:

The View Blocker

Get up in the prospect's business and beg loudly and insistently for money until they give it to you. Do not attempt on men with tattoos or women with large purses.

The Passive Invite

Walk up to the person and stand about ten feet away, then stare at them so sadly that they ask you how they can help you. This method is much more effective on women.

The Vietnam Vet

You don't have to have ever been in Vietnam to be a Vietnam Vet. Just pull on a dirty green jacket, boots, and don't shave for a few days. Talk about how you can't find work because of wounds you sustained serving your country.

The Gulf War II Vet

If you're panhandling someone with an Obama bumper sticker, say you were wounded in Bush's illegal attack on Iraq.

The Public Charity

If you see a young couple on a date, tell the guy that he looks like the sort of upstanding charitable person who can spare some money for the poor. Without waiting for a response, compliment the gal on how lucky she is to have such a generous guy.

The Rehab Rat

Tell the prospect you need five bucks or they'll take you back to rehab. Surprisingly few people question this logic.

The Presumptive Close

Immediately thank the person for the five bucks they are about to give you. This is most effective on people who have just been in a car accident or are having an asthma attack.

The Matter of Great Urgency

Run up the prospect frantically and say you need five bucks. Be jumping up and down. Panic. Communicate that it's a matter of life and death. Clap your hands quickly and motion at the wallet or purse. Remind the person to hurry before it's too late. Then - and this is important - run like heck.

The Soon-to-be Dad

In a popular twist on the Matter of Great Urgency, tell the prospect that your wife is having a baby and you need gas money to get her to the hospital.

The Honest Abe

Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you'll use the money to buy drugs.

The Dishonest Abe

Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you won't use the money to buy drugs.

The Spy

Hold one hand to your ear. Tell the prospect you need them for a matter of national security. Lead them around a corner. Then peak around and say: "Rats! They followed me. Okay, quick - give me five bucks." When finished, tell the person to wait there because They didn't see your face yet. Then run like heck.

The Counterfeit Checker

After watching someone exit a store, tell them that a lot of counterfeit fives circulating in the area. Offer to to check theirs to see if they're okay. Then run like heck. This tactic is ill advised for prospects who can run faster than you.

The Concert Violinist

Tell the prospect that you're a world-class violinist who hit harsh times. You had to sell your family heirloom violin and now you're on the streets, but with a few more bucks you can get your violin back.

The Faux Lottery

Print out erroneous lottery tickets and sell them for a dollar each. Remind suspicious prospects that direct selling is "the old fashioned way."

These are, of course, just a few methods to get you started. Now go out and practice! Got your own ideas and methods? Comment below and help out your fellow washed-up readers.

"I'll just work it off tonight"

I just left a particular well known sandwich franchise that serves all manner of bread and meat combinations in "submarine" style sandwiches. I am reticent to name the franchise because to do so might constitute libel and render FCN vulnerable to a lawsuit that could result in the loss of all of its meager resources to the ensuing litigation. I will, however, tell you that the restaurant has over 30,000 locations in some 87 countries and was named the #1 Franchise in 2009 by a really fat fast food connoisseur. I'll also tell you that the company has ads featuring "Jared" who dropped a bunch of weight by "eating fresh." Oh, what the heck, you have it figured out by now. It's Subway. So go ahead and sue us Fred DeLuca. I read about your innovative business strategy in my economics class, but Fortune 400 members don't scare me. Well, most of them don't. These two guys (here and here) look a tad scary. But Fred, go ahead and try to take us down!
So there I was - at Subway - about to order the least healthy thing on the menu. Subway puts unhealthy things on the menu so that we guys can go there for lunch, scarf down a thousand or so quick calories and show our moms the partially redacted receipt so they will be proud of our health-conscious decision. Meanwhile our moms don't understand when we try to make health-conscious decisions at In-N-Out.

But whatever. This post is about neither our moms nor Fred DeLuca. It's about two middle aged women who entered the subway after me looking disheveled - as if they just returned from promenade. There is no polite way of saying this. These women were overweight. They were fat. They looked like contestants in the first week of "Biggest Loser." Okay, maybe the third week. They were corpulent, fleshy, obese, overblown, procine, portly and stout. They suffered from gut overflow, they overstocked the adipose tissue, they were ready for winter, they were running a surplus, they were a nightmare in a 2-piece, they were oleaginous and unctuous in the storage area. And I do mean that with all respect, because there is no nice way of saying it. None at all.

We'll call them Rosalie and Carol, for no particular reason.

Rosalie told Carol that she had eaten a burrito and a donut (or is it a doughnut?) for breakfast and that she wasn't that hungry. Carol confied in Rosalie that she had eaten a box of oreo cookies and a whole box of taquitos for breakfast and that she didn't have a big appetite either. I had eaten a burrito, donut, and a box of taquitos that day, but I didn't say anything.

Both entered the store complaining about the walk across the parking lot, a complaint I found dumbfounding given the gorgeous day outside. In fact, I was planning on eating my sandwich outdoors in order to take advantage of the sunlight and catch some unprotected ultraviolet rays. I know, I live dangerously.

When Rosalie and Carol ordered my distracted interest turned into focused attentiveness. They both commanded footlong sandwiches with everything. And they sat down in the store to eat their caloric feast. Carol told Rosalie that she would "just work it off tonight" a promise that rang hollow.

It rang hollow because she didn't like walking across a parking lot on a gorgeous day. It rang hollow because she couldn't possibly work off all the food she'd eaten that day unless the "work" was done by a licensed plastic surgeon. It rang hollow because health is a lifestyle and habit - it isn't a twenty minute decision before dinner. Dang, that was painful to type.

Anyway, in case you think we're picking on those who lack self control just for the heck of it, know that the only thing separating us from Rosalie and Carol is a few years. We'll get there eventually...and when we do, we'll be ready to confess.

Excuse

We were going to have a post for tomorrow - we had it written, proof-read, edited and even had a really cool graphic of a hairy ape doing the Hokey Pokey picked out - but we ended up not posting anything. We want to assure you that this reality was not our fault. We fully intended to post, but the circumstances of life preempted that result and you were deprived of content as a result.

Here's our excuse:

One of our writers - the one who was "blessed with the opportunity" to write the day's post - got up and went to his computer. There, faced with a blank word processing screen, he lost his inspiration. It wasn't his fault that he lost his inspiration, it just happened. He told us later that the chirp of the birds outside, the hum of the computer tower and the wind against the window blinds combined to form a cacophony of sensations, blocking out any humorous thoughts. We think writer's block had something to do with the abysmal state of his love life.

Our writer picked himself up out of his chair and, in a way that hit me as very feminine, marched outside to gain some "new ideas." Once outside, all heck broke loose. The ground opened up and swallowed part of the backyard, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the lawn. Fire poured out of heaven, blasting the mailbox and creating a small regional disturbance. There was a natural disaster. A hurricane. An earthquake. A tornado. A giant thunderstorm with hail, sleet and so much rain that the ensuing flash flood filled up the gaping hole and drowned several domesticated animals. If only our writer had thought ahead to poor some concrete, he would now have a swimming pool.

In an attempt to mitigate the damage of the flood, our writer brought out a portable shop vacuum. Unfortunately the water had covered the electrical plug and when our writer tried to fire up the machine, a short circuit was created, cutting off power for the entire neighborhood. He wasn't trying to be malicious - in fact his goals were purely philanthropic - but he ended up doing some real damage. PG&E arrived quickly, but not before the entire street had lost power. One man, a neighbor who commuted to work in an electric car, was so irate at the delay that he smashed in our writer's front window.

That's when the fire and brimstone from the already broke loose heck started to rain down.

An investigative unit was sent over from the police department to look into the origin of the crisis in our writer's neighborhood. One of the patrol men was a K-9 officer and his dog leaped out of the back seat of the squad car and, before the vehicle had made a complete stop, chewed up our author's paper draft. He didn't really eat it, but he masticated it so totally that it was no longer of use to intelligent beings. It might have had some utility as fire starter, though.

Over the next few hours, we got a series of frantic phone calls from our writer informing us of his amazing morning and advising that he wouldn't be able to do the post.

Please don't judge us based on what we cannot help. We couldn't stop the K-9 dog or hold back the lightening. We were complete and total victims of a reality that we had no part in causing.

We are, of course, terribly sorry. In a way that doesn't admit culpability or open the door to liability, we apologize. We regret any heart feelings we might have caused and are sincerely sorry you feel the way you do. We swear by all the Greek gods that it will never happen again. Ever. Cross our hearts and hope to be derelicts for the rest of our lives. It was just this once - a momentary lapse that in no way reflects our genuine attitude or devotion to you, the readers.

Columbus! Somehow the above excuse doesn't ring true. But maybe our earnest faces and moist cheeks will compensate for the fantastic nature of our justification. You tell us, was it persuasive?

Of Females and Football

We received the following in an email, accompanied by a quaint message reminding us that we have more female friends than just our moms. Thanks girls!

It was the day of the big game. Superbowl number XCBMLCZII or whatever had arrived at last. The room was divided into many factions, those rooting for the Bears, those cheering for the Colts, and those that were simply there to watch the commercials – ie, the females. Now don't think us to be utterly disinterested in the spirit of the event. We dove right in amongst our male counterparts and upped the bets about what we were about to see. Namely, which company would have the first advertisement after kick off. (I, a female, won with the bet of Budwiser against such lucrative entries as Pepsi and Miller.)

The thrills of the game had us all captivated (ok, so it was just that we had nothing better to do) as Peyton Manning lead the Colts to victory and earned the MVP award for himself. At least that's what the guys told me. I had long before escaped to the relaxing haven of my room with some softly playing music, cuddly stuffed animals, and a lovely novel. But something about that glorious day stayed with me (and I'm not talking about the smell the guys left after their own reenactment of the game.) And so today, not quite two weeks later, and right after the girliest holiday ever invented by Hallmark, I made a momentous decision.

I was tired of love, chocolates, delicate roses and mushy cards, and decided to demonstrate my inner guy. Ladies and gentlemen, today, I played football. ::cue Rocky theme::

Yes! It was glorious, it was painful, powerful, it was dirt-and-grass-stains, make-your-mother-wonder-what-in-heck-happened-to-you, overkill the use of the hyphen, downright manish. And then, when we females joined, it became a lovely time of intricate footwork as we played two-hand touch.

Soon the air was filled with the noises of groans (from the few guys who decided that tackling someone for making a touchdown was the appropriate formality to bestow), "hut-huts" and "hikes," with an occasional "blitz!," "hail-marys" and (slightly higher pitched) "what the heck is going on?"

Finally, after much patience and fortitude, we were able to understand this complex world of football. All you need to do (so the guys told us) is to catch the ball, and run either toward the trees on one side of the field, or the concrete sidewalk on the other which served as the end zones. After about 30 minutes of broken nails and sprained fingers, a talented girl was lucky enough to catch and, here's the shocker, hold onto the ball! "Pumped" (that's a manly term) by her success she bravely followed the directions to a T and sped her way to the side walk which resulted in highlighting a shortcoming of the what the males had told us. They had forgotten to mention which way to run with the ball. Thankfully, her own team was able to tackle her before she scored for the other team.

The males, being very gracious, time and time again passed the ball to us faltering females, never giving up on the hope that at least one time we would be able to dodge the opposition instead of running around in circles crying "I finally caught it!"

By the end of the game, we were tired, a little dusty, and had used up all of the memory on our digital cameras, but we had at long last learned the one essential of football – stick to the commercials.

Cowboy boots

I wear cowboy boots to class. So sue me. I am a resident of the Central Valley of California. My dad is a farmer. I voted for John McCain in the last election (the cowboy boot-toting Sarah Palin was on the ticket). I drove a tractor before I drove a car. My favorite author is Louis Lamour. I have ridden a horse. To me cowboy boots are footwear, just like sneakers, sandals or those cork soles I purchased at a flea market (great for the locker room, my swollen big toe!).

Location defines appropriate attire. I learned this at the age of five when I attended my best friend's birthday party in a onesie pajama. Did I say five? Actually I was eight, the onesie was light red (not pink, you insensitive self-esteem destroyer!) and I completed the outfit with a white sleepy cap that had closed eyelashes painted on the front.

That said, I have recovered substantially. With a few notable exceptions, I no longer wear sandals to weddings or butterfly shorts to church.

Cowboy boots are appropriate attire in many college classes. They can be worn to mathematics or advanced science courses without raising an eyebrow. I had a soil science instructor who wore nothing else (on his feet). Boots are even okay in some history and economics classes. You won't be the most popular kid, but you can get by.

Boots are, however, implicitly prohibited in my French classes where the footwear shouts "Bush-supporting-redneck-hick-whose-only-ties-to-the-ivory-tower-are-non-inherited-wealth." To me, boots are emblematic of masculinity and strength. It's what Chick Bowdrie would wear as he narrowly escapes dry gulching on the way to capturing the outlaw rustlers. It's what Batman modified for his flying getup as he rid Gotham City of human filth. But strength -- at least the strenght of the boot -- is frowned on in the enclave of French represented by the 18 females and me in my French class.

French males are to be thin, wafty human beings with the resolve of a Benjamin Kunkel novel. They are to wash down their croissants and pain au chocolat with piping expresso and an air of superior "leger." Venerable, cultured and European. Not strong, manly and booted. The French man cries, wimpers and grovels. He is a good runner and a poor fighter. And everyone knows that boots are made for walking, not running, so the French male avoids that genre of footwear.

The ironic thing is that several of the girls in class regularly wore boots. Boots are okay for them, but interdit for me. Can anyone explain that? The comment section awaits...

When I first entered French class with my boots, several of my classmates stared. They looked at me as if I were attending Red Hat Society meeting at Carrows wearing a blue hat. I was a piranha in a gold fish bowl. Soon their awkward stares turned into stifled smiles and then giggles as they realized that, of course, this was some kind of joke. I was pretending to be a red-blooded American male with two fully functioning cajones (that's Spanish). I was playing the tough-guy, non-emasculated vaquero as a jest, to poke fun at those too unsophisticated to be real French males.

They understood, so they laughed. That made me the popular, jocular character in the room. I earned my thespian chops just by selecting the right wardrobe accutrements. So I kept on wearing the boots. Afterall, they are a heck of a lot more comfortable than those cork sandals.

Khong hieu! (I don't understand!)

Last Friday, my world turned upside down.

My hair grows very slowly. When I decided to start growing it out last June, I knew I would need to take it seriously if I was to have any hope of getting it long enough to tie behind the neck. So I used fertilizers, implants, potions, and a healthy dose of Rogaine on a daily basis. I washed eggs through my hair. I cut the nibs during full moons. I sat in class meditating, mentally pushing the hair out of my head. I did therapies. I even used shampoo. For all my efforts, my hair grew at the rate of about two-and-a-half eighths of a centimeter per month.

Last Friday, I was mere weeks from a turning point in my do.

My hair growth was arduously slow, but nonetheless steady. I had two major styles. The most common was to pop a beanie onto my head while climbing out of the shower, then peel it off and wring it out when I clambered into bed that night. That strategy worked great, though of course it was always embarrassing when some smartypants yanked my covering off to reveal an epic mound of beanie hair. My second method - for when I was really going all out - was to stand on my head and lower my hair into a vat of gel. I would then shake my head once or twice, wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, and go on with my daily business.

Both these methods were about to be rendered obsolete, giving way to a dashing tied-back style reminiscent of, well, Richelieu. I was ready for a bit of a trim on the sides and back just to make sure everything was staying neat. So I wended my way to the salon of a very friendly but poorly incorporated Vietnamese family that cut hair for college student rates.

"I'm growing it out," I said, making emphatic gestures. "I want it layered. I want you to trim the sides and back a bit so the top can hang straight down rather than poofing out sideways." My stylist nodded and smiled, and began her work.

Apparently "I want it layered," sounds just like the Vietnamese for "I want it to look just like Sam H." My stylist moved with confidence and skill. She buzzed. She snipped. She measured. She trimmed. But mostly, she just buzzed.

"Dis goo?" She asked with a beaming smile.

"No," I said. "You're cutting it too short."

Her eyes got really big and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oooooh, too sho! Okay!"

The next thing I knew, my gorgeous head of hair - my pride and joy - had been knocked back to an unhealthy inch-and-a-half curly mess on the top of my head.

Still wearing that enthusiastic smile, she asked if that was what I wanted (or maybe she asked me to please pass the noodles and soy sauce).

"You can stop now," I said, biting back tears. "We're done." I paid her the two bits and wandered, distraught, into the parking lot. Then I leaned over and shook my head violently. My hair remained completely motionless. An hour ago it would have been streaming about in all directions in a fashion reminiscent of the entrance of the much-maligned Prince Charming from Shrek 2, who has very cool hair.

I was devastated. An hour later, I appeared at what amounted to a minor social function, and about forty people who had always pretended to be my friends stabbed me in the soft spot between my shoulder blades with insulting comments against my taste like: "It actually looks pretty good." It actually looked good when my hair was accidentally ruined!? How did my hair look when I was happy with it? Like Donald Trump, I suppose? Maybe these "friends" would prefer a crew cut! A buzz! Heck, why not shave it all off and get a dragon tattoo? Some consolation they turned out to be. Only one person really seemed to sympathize. I believe "Wow, your hair looks really bad," were her exact words.

My girlfriend dumped me the next day. She said it wasn't working. She said the chemistry was gone. She said she was in love with someone else. There were tears shed. She was pretty bummed about it, too.

Last Saturday, Mrs H came up to me and started talking to me about things I'd never heard of. After a few minutes of awkwardness, I interrupted: "Um ... I'm not Sam. That's your son way over there." It was at the moment that I resolved not to hold back. I would never go back for a haircut - never. I would grow my hair as long as it would get and let it fall out when it was done. I wouldn't comb it, clean it, or style it. This was to be a return to nature in a fashion that my next door neighbor, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, would be proud of.

I'm now on day 3, and there are no women in sight.

The FCN Honesty Policy

You can't believe everything you read.

Especially if you read it on FCN.

It's a fact. We're dishonest. We'll say anything to attract readers, and that means some (meaning all) of our posts are riddled with deliberate inaccuracies (meaning lies). Apparently it works. The past few months have seen steady growth.

However, some of our more seasoned readers can get tired of the drivel-du-jour. It's one thing to be lied to and laugh it off. It's another to be fed hogwash on a daily basis. We at FCN can't change our ways. Heck (pardon our language), we're nearly a year old, and that's only counting our time on BlogSpot. We're ancient by blog standards. We're set in our ways. We're incurable liars. Seriously. So, while we can't change our formula for growth, we can give you a guideline by which to read our posts. A weighing mechanism, if you will.

We realize that we can't persuade you FCN veterans - you Desperate Students - that we're being honest simply by saying so. We could tell you we're giving out an iron-clad, to-the-death, cross-our-hearts money-back guarantee with a vengeance and you wouldn't buy it. It wouldn't matter how serious we came across. Nobody takes us seriously anymore. We have that track record. Not seriously seriously. Not anymore.

But we think we have something even more credible than our die-hard words as gentlemen (don't say it) to vouch for us. What we have to tell you is downright unflattering. But, by setting our standards low, we hope to ensure a level of credibility that is completely without precedent in the annals of FCN history (don't say it).

We present to you the Official FCN Honesty Policy:

At least 20% of each post must be true.

There's still some disagreement on enforcement. We spent two hours today in bitter argument over what should be done to the FCN contributor who lies more than 80% of the time. Dan thinks we should drag the offender through a recently-harvested hayfield tied to a golf cart wearing nothing but jeans and a rubber duckie. Cody thinks we should force-feed the offender twenty blueberry scones with nothing to wash it down. I think we should shave the offender and put eagle tattoos all over him, then send him to a homeschool rally. Whatever we agree to, it'll be good, because nothing is ... good ... enough for a cad who lies more than 80% of the time.

The honesty policy enters force at noon today.

Facebook Research: News Feed

Facebook.com. Enter. Click. ihatemyspace[at]somespace[dot]com. Tab. *******. Enter.

Hmmm… let’s see here. Jessica and Bryan just ended their relationship… bummer, I expected that to last longer.

Susan Jefferson is omigosh, I just like totally stubbed my toe! ouch lolz!!!!!!! Does she just keep getting blonder, or is it just me?

Collin Michaels wrote a new note. “16 random things (lol).” That’s only like the 12th one of those I’ve seen this week.

Dave Stewart just changed his about me to “I am a womanizer, and I’m not ashamed. I have a corvette and I…” I really don’t feel compelled to read the whole thing. There was more than enough information in that lovely preview.

Amelia Flannagan joined the cause “Save the rocks, don’t use pencils” Wow, that's so random. I think I’ll join just for the heck of it. Where would donations go? School of Rock? Maybe I'll write that on her wall...

Laura Warren commented on Ashley Weber’s photo. “Lololol idk y u taged me in this I look like a giraffe lol” Holy smokes, she does look like a giraffe in that picture… now that I think about it, she looks like a giraffe in real life too. Woah, bad mental image there.

Julia Nelson wrote on your wall. “you are so hott. we should hang out sometime! call me.” She’s desperate. But wait… I’m desperate too. Nevermind. Delete. It's nice to know I'm somewhat attractive, though.

Susan Jefferson became a fan of Charlie the Unicorn. So, that’s why she keeps saying “Shun the non-believers!”

Nate Harmon and Chris Gordon are attending “Hug a cheerleader day.” Slightly disturbing, but an intriguing concept. I bet a cheerleader with low self-esteem created that event.

837 of your friends changed their profile pictures... I have way too many Facebook friends.

Time for a new status change. Hmmm… “(my name deleted) is realizing how much time he wastes reading his news feed. I am such a creeper.”

Dems Debate; Few Notice

WASHINGTON DC (FCN) – In a move that failed to garner the notoriety of any respected news organization, several candidates for the Democratic Presidential Nomination squared off in an issues debate held three-quarters of a year before the first voting begins in the Iowa Caucuses. At least eight candidates (eye witness accounts varied as to the exact number of speakers) conducted an amicable debate about such momentous issues as the war, health care and guns.

Despite the gravity of the topics, the biggest news coming from DC Thursday seems to be that few cared or even paid attention to the debate.

“I was actually pretty well blind-sided by the whole thing,” said Democrat National Committee Chair Howard Dean after the debate. “The candidates normally consult the political nucleus before debating and the interactions are generally carefully choreographed; we don't like surprises. To see these guys go off half cocked without much direction was disappointing, to say the least.”

Some six hundred reporters were credentialed to cover the event, but only a handful showed up; and those that did have wide variance in their accounts.

“The Obama [D-IL] guy says Obama won; the Clinton [D-NY] guy says Clinton won. About the only person who everyone can agree actually lost is MSNBC, the network that aired the debate.” explained media analyst Jakob Tecknorati in an online interview. “The fact of the matter is nobody knows who the heck won or lost anything because nobody watched.”

One fact that we can be fairly sure about the debate is that President Bush was bashed by all.

“It was more like Conan O’Brien than a Presidential debate; every other line was derogatory,” said former Chief of Staff Andrew Card who saw cell phone clips of the debate on YouTube and spoke publicly about his disgust with Tim Russert on Meet the Press. “If I wanted ‘Bush Bashing,’ I’d have gone to college.”

Republican strategists say they aren’t surprised by the debate’s lackluster following. Some point to apathy in the electorate while others say the Democrats didn’t bring enough big ticket names.

“If you’re not from Alaska and you’re not a nerd, you’ve never heard of Mike Gravel [D- AL] . Who wants to watch a guy named after a collection of small stones speak?” Asked Presidential advisor Karl Rove in a post-debate conference call. “Other ‘big names’ included Dennis Kucinich [D-OH], a first degree loon, and Chris Dodd [D-CT], the guy who ‘runs on hope.’ Please.”

The presence of Nancy Pelosi was postulated but never confirmed.

MSNBC, which lost four million dollars airing the program, remains optimistic about future debates. “When we get closer to the caucuses and a couple of gnarly scandals break, I guarantee folks will be eating our programming up like nothing else,” predicted Dan Abrams, chief legal correspondent for MSNBC. “Just wait, it’s a sleeper now, but it’ll be big soon.”

Democrats can only hope Abrams is right. If the debate viewership is reflective of a poor national following, the future looks grim for the Donkey Party.

Howard Dean sees no reason for fear: “If someone just tells me before they do these things and we get the organized right, everything will be fine. Gracious!”

A Bottled Devil

I am sleeping deeply in all the blessed oblivion I have earned by long, late hours of watching movies. My dreams are as captivating as they are surreal; they even have butterflies in them. My blankets are warm, my mattress is soft, and my pillow is just cushy enough. In a word, I am in paradise.

Suddenly, every ounce of serenity is gone. In a magnificent jolt, my toes go taut, my hair raises, and my eyes spring wide open. On the table, not a foot from my bed, is a shrieking ghoul that I am powerless to stop. Shriek! Brinnnnngggg! It’s the kind of high-pitched cross between a wildcat’s scream and the cranking of broken machinery that every diabolical two-year-old longs for. It sounds exactly like (forgive me, gentle readers) a bottled devil.

Perhaps you have heard such phones. Sometimes, on more peaceful occasions, I like to daydream about maniac geniuses who sit around in antiseptic, sound-proof labs and concoct rings. I am sure there are some humane, intelligent, sensitive creatures among them. They are the ones who make sissy rings like “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” (Try saying that three times fast. Heck, try saying it one time slow!) or “Für Elise.” But there are other brawny giants who grin evil smiles through broken teeth, pull their ear-muffs tighter, and apply themselves gustily to creating instruments of torture.

“Well Todd, what do you think of this one?”

“I don’t know Bill. The little white rat in the box can still walk. Why don’t you add a few more jolts of that really dissonant tone?”

“Great idea. The fella can’t even open its eyes anymore!” Todd's evil laugh sits dead in the air like an insensitive remark.

You would think, in a day when cell phones are ubiquitous and new ring tones rarely cost more than seventy dollars or so apiece, that there would be no need to endure such aural agonies. After all, there's always a sissy tone available. But that, dear reader, would be an underestimation of human innovation. There are raving lunatics in the world who find every misery they deserve and heap it upon not only themselves, but their friends as well. They connive in back rooms and plot methods to torture the human ear. Yes, these misanthropes are a wretched lot, and you should do your best to avoid us. Yes, us.

Take, for example, me and a recent conference: I attend a conference with my parents and friends. The friends decide to do uncool things. The parents leave to watch boring workshops. I go to look at exciting vendor displays. The friends wouldn’t notice if I got eaten by a vendor monster, but the parents like to keep in touch. They call to check on me. I, having carefully set the phone’s mode to “normal,” ought to hear the ringer, but I don’t. They call again, I miss the call, and they conclude that I have been eaten by a vendor monster. Pretty soon I hear my name on the loudspeakers, on the list of casualties. Apparently, I am dead to the public address announcer.

So I do what any moron would do. I scroll through my ringtones and choose the loudest, most obnoxious ring I can find, one of those metallic nightmares that sound like a phone from the thirties. (People in the thirties must have been rather deaf, both as a cause and an effect of such ringtones.) Now when my phone rings, I feel like the frazzled executive in Spiderman 3 whose wife had a secretary vibrate his desk with a buzzer every time he got excited. A call comes in and—Brinnggg!—there is a bottled devil in my own pocket. I smile nonchalantly and check the caller ID. My friends gape wide-eyed and smooth their hair back down from its newly acquired upright posture. At this point, my friends would notice if I got eaten by a vendor monster. In fact, they would probably hold a party of celebration—provided the phone got eaten as well.

Back behind the wheel...

Boy it feels good to be back. This is my first post since the hijacker frenzied around our little baby, made child's play of our template and generally was cantankerous.

While the hijacker was in control of FCN, I got to know what it's like to be one of the faithful few. I didn't know what a post would be until it came out. When it did arrive, I'd be disappointed.

Throughout the hijacker's brief but notorious tenure, I rose early for my morning FCN fix, only to discover that our hijacker kept a different schedule than I and posted much later whilst I was in class. So my mornings, all four of them, were much more dour.

Every day held a scary moment, a few terrorizing seconds as my browser connected with the blogger servers and made its request. As the information was exchanged between my local terminal and the Big Kahuna central, I found myself holding my breath, even when my lungs had already expired their last oxygen (Big Kahuna central can take a while to respond). So any reports you hear about an FCN author fainting yesterday had nothing to do with the hijacker and everything to do with forgetting to breathe.

I know this is the second reflective post on the nefarious activity of one hijacker - and believe me, that fact weighs so heavily on my conscience that I will find a way to introduce new content into this tome - but it's worth delving into the issue once again to discourage any copycats. Acts of senseless terrorism invariably engender mindless duplication. School, Olympics and mall shootings have all been tried, but idiots keep on doing them anyway, thinking their take on mass killing is unique. So taking over a FCN, a crime so similar in magnitude to senseless murder that we dare not dwell for too long on the link (we've young readers, folks), is likely to encourage further attempts.

Like our elected leaders, FCN had to change its policy to reflect the open animosity and, let's be frank, actionable hostility toward friendly humor blogging. That's right, ladies and gentleman (not a typo), from this day forward FCN will make like a Danish newspaper and negotiate with terrorists. The next time someone offers to guest blog (with an implied "or else), we will be much more inclined to say yes. When an anonymous heckler sends us a letter with a copy of a picture we would rather you all not see, we will write a check before calling the authorities.

Heck, if you get me in an armbar I'll do pretty much anything. But I'd like to see you try.

OK, so that new content I promised earlier. Touching fingers to keyboard again reminded me of my first experience driving a tractor on an April morning some years ago. I couldn't have been much older than Dakota Fanning when I slid behind the wheel of our family's powerful Kubota and listened attentively as my father taught me the basics of driving. That's right: I learned to drive a tractor before I learned to drive a car. Maybe that's why I drive at such safe speeds.

The rumble of the diesel engine erased all my father's warnings about maneuverability and safety, but didn't keep me from having a riot on my first tour of agrarian authority. At least for the first twenty minutes. See, the thrill of controlling a cumbersome and slow craft over rough terrain turns from exciting to dull faster than molten iron in a bucket of cold water. What started as a novelty soon became a chore.

The great thing about working on a small farm is that the boring work comes by rarely and passes quickly and a simple mind like mine can easily forget the monotony of driving given a few months of memory fermentation.

To tie the analogy back to FCN, in a couple weeks I forgot what it is like to be up at 5:30 AM sitting in front of a blank post, knowing that work and school will soon call and not having anything to write about. I am back behind the wheel and feeling as energetic about today's post as I am about the breakfast I am about to eat (you would be too if you saw these peanut butter coated waffles in which I am about to indulge).

Oh, yeah, and I'll be on the tractor again this month; I'm looking forward to it.

Welcome to my World.

It's not FCN anymore. And it's not CN. Now, it's F, which stands for Totally Awesome.

My fellow contributors are both out of state. They left me trusting messages like "our baby is in your hands," and "We have some unfinished posts you can touch up and use."

Well, I'm not using their posts, thank you. And I'm pinching the baby. FCN is all mine until Monday, and I intend to have some fun. You've seen those hacked websites with big red letters carrying some obscene message until the admins get back into the code and fix it? Well, FCN is going to be a little like that for the next few days, only it isn't being hacked. It's going unsupervised. Stand back, Mommy G. Stand back, Em. Heck, stand back everyone. This is my time. I'm not here to serve the audience. I'm going to do whatever strikes my fancy and I'll write whatever I want whenever I want, and while I'm at it, I'm not going to work out and I'll eat whatever I want and stay up late watching violent movies and I'll get tattoos on my upper arms and torso and the back of my hamstrings and I'll snort sugar and drink too much Coke and mix mustard into everything and paint my walls pink and send Will You Marry Me emails to all my friends and kidnap my neighbor's poodle and throw cucumbers at the gal in the Post Office and wear lots of heavy chains with white leather jackets and turn my collar up and not answer my phone and never take off my sunglasses even to sleep.

I am so. Excited. No, I have not had caffeine.

Okay, yes I have.

I've arbitrarily gone through the FCN code and deleted things. I really didn't know what I was doing; Uncle Wally is the one who put it up in the first place. But hey. We need shakeup. I'm sure Uncle Wally can fix it back on Monday.

I'm going to go get another Coke, and while I'm gone, I'll post this. Then I'll go do something really devious. No, you do not want to know.

18-1

You would have to be socially illiterate to not have heard that the New York Giants upset (meaning narrowly defeated) the New England Patriots on football's grandest stage, Sunday. And you would have to be deaf to miss my screams of pained agony at the demise of my team.

The Patriots, after putting on the best 18 game streak in football history, finally fell prey to a "physical defense and its own gunslinging mentality," or so the sports "experts" tell us. The fact is that there were a lot more factors playing toward a Giants victory than Peyton Manning whispering hints to his brother from the sky box.

Here at FCN, we put together a team of crack sports scientists to investigate the real reasons behind the heartbreaking defeat of football's hottest playboy.

1) Gisele Bundchen

When Tony Romo took a vacation during his playoff bye week with celebrity girlfriend Jessica Simpson down to a hip Mexican vacation spot, Dallas Cowboys fans the nation over commented on what a disastrous move he was making. Then the innocent Jessica attended the"big" game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the NFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Three weeks later, Tom Brady took a vacation during his playoff bye week to go visit celebrity girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in New York City. Patriots fans watched in horror as the entire escapade, yellow flowers and all, was broadcast over TMZ, an acronym standing for "Time Much Zwaisted." Then the innocent Gisele attended the big game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the AFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Sound familiar?

The reality is that this isn't coincidence. The writer's guild ("striking now at a studio near you") is behind the efforts to derail high profile athletes with buxom blonde females. The guild knows that television shows are facing stiff competition for air time from sporting events and it is doing everything in its power to slow the rise of televised athletics (which many commentators view as insidious as reality TV) while the big shows are playing reruns. It's a giant (pun intended) conspiracy to indict celebrity quarterbacks and thereby reduce their star power. And the really scare thing is: It's working.

In case you are really into this sort of gossip mongering, an onling gambling site is inviting wagers on who will break up first: Romo-Simpson or Brady-Bundchen. Before the loss, I would have staked the lives of my unborn children on Romo-Simpson. Now I think it's a toss-up.

2) The Twelfth Man

NFL rules require that no team can have more than eleven players on the field at once. The Giants tried to get away with twelve during one play, but the zebras caught onto their ploy and threw a yellow flag (after Bright Red Hoodie - see below - threw a red flag). By "twelfth man," I am actually referring to the audience members who are watching the game and, presumably, rooting for the Patriots.

I say "presumably," because of the eleven people watching the game at my house (or phoning in their support before the game), five were cheering for New York and six were routing for the Patriots. You couldn't have gotten a more even distribution without a hack saw. Instead of cheering the Pats to victory, our twelfth man contributed nothing and might have even dampened the mood in Arizona for the favored squad.

3) The Ugly Bright Red Hoodie

Bill Belichick has gotten away from some frightful wardrobe decisions in the past (like stuffing his red challenge flag in his white athletic socks and wearing these obscene shorts). He reminds me of me in High School. Heck, he reminds me of me now. Gregg Easterbrook talks about the "gods of football" which determine who will win or lose big games. Well, the gods of football couldn't have shined on such television inappropriate garb as the Ugly Bright Red Hoodie.
In today's age of televised drama, colors are important. And red is out. Also, the head coach and the offensive coordinator (Josh McDaniels, to the left of Belichick in the above photo) have to match. That's a rule the NFL is considering as an addition to the uniform and wardrobe regulations for next year. And, that guy in the back biting his shirt. Not good. Not good at all.

4) The Cheating Giants

I know this is a heavy charge to levy with such little and circumstantial evidence, but, hey, that didn't stop the Patriot's critics. Why should reality stop FCN? Let facts be submitted to a candid world:

FACT: Peyton Eli Manning's miraculous completion to David Tyree was precipitated by a vanishing act in front of the Pat's offensive line. As David Blaine would say: Magic.
FACT: David Tyree caught a ball thrown 40 yards away with nothing but his helmet. Research of the taps is continuing to see whether Tyree used an adhesive or a magnet to complete this "amazing" pass. Either way, both products are banned by the NFL for in-game use.
FACT: Peyton Manning (Eli's older brother, who had never enjoyed the national spotlight before Sunday) placed his head in his hands while the ball was in the air. We don't know for sure how that impacted the ball's flight path, but we know it had something to do with the end result.

Don't think it was cheating? Check out this video documentation and tell us in the comment section how else such a feat could have been accomplished:

Impossible. I wish you could see me shaking my head right now.

5) Bad Ads

It's common knowledge in the sports world that good ads favor the team from the smaller media market. It has to do with NFL conspiracy theories and Budweiser's secret ties to Roger Goodell's sister-in-law's parents and some extortion that happened years ago but is now very well covered up. It's all very boring and nerdy.

New York is a bigger media market than Foxborough. Admit it: If it weren't for the football team, you wouldn't even know that Foxborough existed, much less where it is.

Now take a look at the ads: For a second consecutive year, Salesgenie.com embarrassed itself and its stockholders with a couple of CEO written ads that induced more cringes than chuckles, at least where I was sitting. GoDaddy.com ran another ad that tried to be raunchy, but came just shy. Even the normally reliable Budweiser disappointed.

The only good add that aired was Pepsi Max's and, consistent with FCN's conspiracy theory, the Patriot's scored a touchdown almost immediately after it was played. Here it is again in case you missed it:



6) Massachusetts was sunk before the opening kickoff

What do John Kerry, Mitt Romney and Tom Brady have in common? All three of them are from the Bay state and have failed to meet expectations. Kerry's political nosedive in the 2004 elections and Romney's inability to get traction should have been a heads up to savvy football observers. We should have seen this coming. The Red Sox notwithstanding, Massachusetts teams have been ho-hum this year. Boston College didn't make the national championship after a promising start. Kerry couldn't win against Bush after a whipping up a lot of momentum. And Tom Brady was flat when it really counted.

The jury is still out on Romney - he may yet redeem Massachusetts - but things don't look good for the rich white Mormon (If you really feel that way, go vote! Now, before the polls close).

To extend this logic a bit further, the Boston Celtics will not win an NBA championship this year. That's right folks, the big three will not perform when it really matters. You heard it here first!

Fashion #4: Yeah, I wear a speedo.

People like athletes. They are a tad like airline pilots, military personnel and Carrie Underwood in that few have anything negative to say about them and their good faith and humor is almost universally assumed. Some of my less athletically minded friends have considered introducing themselves as athletes to girls, just to get more positive attention. When asked how he would answer an inquiry about what sport he plays, one of my more innovative friends answered he would brush it off with a "you know, the one with the ball and the points that requires great feats of physical prowess." Yeah, that one.

It may be because people like to watch those who are in shape perform at their best. Or maybe it's just that people are awed and intrigued by all those impressive feats. It could also be that people like the thrill of a being in a cheering stadium, the shocked feeling of seeing someone stomped to a pulp, or the tingling butterflies they get in their tummies when a hush falls over the crowd at the climax of a game.

So when people ask me what I do, I bring up my best feature first. I confess that the first thing I tell them is that I am a swimmer. It usually works well for a few moments. The other person is impressed that I would devote so much time to swimming back and forth in a body of water with no one chasing me and they ask about how many people I've seen drown.

Then comes the test. There is no foolproof profession or extra-curricular activity. Lawyers may be wealthy, smart and well dressed, but their ethics put them in the same category as the smaller members of the Mustelidae family. Plumbers may work hard and have strong bodies, but their salaries and close proximity with "ewwey" substances makes their work imperfect. For extra-curricular activities, members of the debate team may be intelligent and have good prospects for the future, but their meager social skills and utter nerdiness balance out these qualities. Jocks may compensate for the deficiencies of debaters, but they carry their own liabilities.

Turns out, there are two types of people in the world. The ones who ask a swimmer what his favorite stroke is and the ones who ask if you wear a Speedo. Invariably, on a bad day, it will be the latter. The conversation usually goes like this:

"Do you actually wear a Speedo?"

"Well, if you mean Speedo brand, yes." [note, the question is left unanswered]

"Whew, for a second I though you were, uh, one of those kind of people..." [laughs]

"Well, I kind of am. I prefer to call it a competitive suit." [gulps]

"Wait; say what?"

But for a swimmer, wearing a suit isn't a fashion statement. It's a tool for speed. The electrician doesn't remove a pair of pliers for its aesthetic appeal; rather he worries about how well it will snip a wire. Similarly, we swimmers are not concerned about our apparel - until, of course, a friend asks the fateful question.

My new approach is to make like Billary and avoid the question entirely. I talk about how full body suits are becoming the norm for professional athletes (you know, the clothes that Jessica Alba wears to parties?) and start to talk about the greats in our activity. Heck, I'll even get into a conversation about my sister's music before I answer the speedo question straight up.

But just because we're athletes doesn't mean we never think about how we look. Just stop at a finish sometime and watch the guys and girls adjust their hair after a race and we most definitely still care about our tan lines.

Brisingr Preview

BOREDOM WARNING: The following post will hold minimal interest to those unfamiliar with Christopher Paulini's Inheritance series (including already-published Eragon and Eldest).

SPOILER WARNING: Plot and/or ending details follow.

One of the most anticipated novels of the year is Christopher Paulini's Brisinger, the 3rd installment in the Inheritance Trilogy Cycle. Folks are dying to know what happens next in the rather epic tale of Eragon and his Saphira.

We wrote Paulini a very nice letter, and he agreed to send us the unfinished Brisinger manuscript. We read it, and now offer you this plot summary for those of you who can't stand to wait for September 20th:

The story begins with Eragon abandoning his freshly-victorious army so he can help his brother Roran track down his girlfriend Katrina, who has been captured by the Ra'zac. Almost immediately after Eragon loses sight of the army, Galbatorix himself swoops down with his dragon and has a Surda sandwhich with Urgals for seasoning and the Carvahall townspeople for desert. There are only a handful of survivors, including all the major characters. Nasuada is believed dead but of course she isn't really - she just got lost in a bog.

Eragon knows that he is too weak to take on Galbatorix directly, so he flees into the Spine with Roran, where they bump into Angela and Solembum. They have a lengthy and mildly amusing conversation which has no bearing on the plot, at the end of which Solembum utters some impenetrably mysterious riddles and turns into a rutabaga.

They proceed along the Spine eating less than is humanly possible. Nights are bitterly cold, but Eragon uses the magic word Brisingr (hence the name) to surround their camps with a ring of fire every time they go to sleep. This has several effects: It keeps enemies away, keeps Eragon and Roran warm and makes it obvious to anyone a hundred miles around where exactly they are.

Eventually they randomly fall into a hole in the mountain and stumble on a city hidden by magic from the eyes of those far off. It is populated by a race more or less exactly like Hobbits. You could say that Paulini ripped this race off of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, but you would be mistaken, because these people are called Bar'u'ab'dualötís, so obviously he made it up himself. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are a peace-loving people (as you know if you're at all familiar with Lord of the Rings); they want no trouble, but Eragon's ring of fire has attracted an army of Ra'zac. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are forced to fight for their homes and turn out to be pretty good fighters for no explicable reason. Eragon's magic does plenty of damage, but the Ra'zac do something sneaky to his mind during the battle and he has strange nightmares for the rest of the book.

The good guys win of course, but they take heavy losses in the form of warm Bar'u'ab'dualötí bodies the reader barely knew the name of anyway. Of course, the heavy losses aren't actually dead - they just got lost in a bog. Eragon captures the Ra'zac leader (who's name is Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver) and finds himself in a moral quandary. He can either torture Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver to find Katrina's location or risk not saving Katrina at all. True to form, Eragon deals with this decision by hanging out and waiting for something terrible to happen.

He only has to wait two days. Arya, who found Eragon using magic instead of the rings of fire, appears that night and confides several important pieces of information. First, she explains the origin of the Bar'u'ab'dualötís. Here's a shocker: they come from Over the Sea just like everything else. Roran wonders aloud what's so special about Over the Sea that gives it such auto-generating powers. Arya curses him in the ancient language so he can never speak again. She says that these things must not be spoken of until the author figures out "where the heck this world comes from anyway."

Arya uses her magic to pry open Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver's mind and find out where Katrina is.

They continue on their journey. They are escorted by four Bar'u'ab'dualötí. These four are led by a slightly handsomer chap named Imn-ot'fro-do. They march to Gil'ead with no idea how they'll save Katrina. On the way, a handful of survivors from the Surdan and Urgal armies join them. "Anything Saphira's master's brother's girlfriend," They reason.

Upon arrival at Gil'ead, a terrible battle breaks loose. Just when all seems lost, Murtagh shows up out of nowhere and agrees to help Eragon because he feels bad about all that mean stuff he said at the end of Eldest. Together, the brothers defeat Galbatorix's million thousand soldiers and burn the dungeon (but only after extracting the prisoners). Katrina isn't there, which means they just wasted two hundred pages of effort. Eragon, Roran, Arya, and Murtagh have a meeting to decide what to do next. During this meeting, a wounded imperial soldier sneaks up and tries to shoot Eragon in the back. Elva shows up out of nowhere and jumps in front of the arrow. She is lost in a bog soon after. The enemy is captured but Arya doesn't want to torture him because he's human and not a worthless Ra'zac.

So Trianna, leader of the Du Vrangr Gata, shows up and tortures him instead. The poor man reveals that he doesn't know where Katrina is, but he does know a secret tunnel into Galbatorix's palace. As if on cue, a bunch of Varden show up who say they can lead him to the entrance to the tunnel but go no further because a strange and convenient force has been placed on the entrance so only dragon riders can pass into it.

They reveal several other juicy tidbits:

1) There are actually three more dragon eggs at least.
2) No one has any clue where they are.
3) That thing back in the chuck wagon wasn't a watermelon.
4) It was a dragon egg, and it seems to be hatching for Imn-ot'fro-do into a strong green male.
5) Nasuada isn't dead, she's just lost in a bog.
6) Katrina has been spotted in Helgrind, which Eragon should probably have known she was in all along. That dirty rbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver was a liar!

On hearing this news, Arya dies of despair. Dies. Of despair.

The book ends with Eragon in a moral quandary.

hi

A couple of days ago, FCN received the following email which is reprinted below without any change to spelling or grammar:

Subject: hi

It is too difficult to say about myself in a few words!!! I am very cheerful girl, I am an optimist. I think that I am pretty. My friends say I am a good girl :):):) Also I would like to say that I am very serious and I don t like when people play games with the feelings of other people! I have a couple of best friends and I am here to find my special one. Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there...to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who these people may be...The successes and downfalls that you experience can create who you are, and the bad experiences can be learned. To meet friends is good but I have friends. Now I need my soulmate in my life. Unfortunately I couldn t find him in my city but the world is very very big!!! I can t stop hoping to find a good sincere and honest man! I woman and I am lacking the right man in my life, someone to hold on, someone to lean on, someone who could be there for me all the time, Someone to share fun with, bad times and good times, trial times, Celebration times, rainy and sunny times of life. I need an honest , trust worthy . I would like to meet a nice guy 30-45 years old, open-minded, kind and willing to have serious relationship. I want to note that he must have serious intentions and not only swap messages. Of course, he also would like to meet in person. Well, any other questions we can discuss on the phone or by mail, my adress ksendansen@gmail.com ! With the best
regards, Kseniya

My answer:

Re: hi

Oh, Kseniya! Where to begin? Let's start with that name. Is it pronounced "Sen-eeya" with a silent "K" or are there actually two hard consonant sounds right after one another at the start of your first name? That must be a great-aunt to spell out for people. If your name is Seneeya, let me be the umpteenth to say "what a pretty name" with a somewhat confused blank look on my face. How ethnic.

I googled your name just to check out your story, and found the following picture of Kseniya Zamyslova. If this is indeed you, I will renounce the rest of this post. If it isn't, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you and Zamyslova share nothing more than a first name, you deserve every word that follows.

Thank goodness that you did find a way to use "few words." To think what your pitch would have been like had you been verbose. I get all Dr. Wright just thinking about it.

Your comment that "you think you are pretty" would be much more encouraging if it didn't follow a declaration that "I am an optimist." You may be optimistically pretty (heck, Janet Reno is optimistically pretty) but realistically, shall we say, unwholesome.

My friends say I am a good boy :):):).

I didn't just drop into your life. I am not in your life. You are in my inbox. You are clogging up bandwidth on my computer. You are distracting me from writing FCN posts and eating, my two productive pastimes.

Please, if you are really interested in my attention, call my mother and tell her we're an item or issue a death threat. Either way I will fear for my life and be forced to address your demands.

Sincerely,
C*** ******

In retrospect, I might have written something about my not being in the 30-45 age range or the probability of finding an honest man through random web searches, but I need to save some ammunition for the next girl.

If any of you, the faithful FCN few, are interested in sending Kseniya a message and getting onto the warmer side of her good graces, be our guest. Her email is ksendansen - at - gmail - dot - com or, for all you web 'bots surfing the internet looking for random emails to spam, ksendansen@gmail.com. Maybe Kseniya can find a soul mate in a really intelligent computer or an equally intelligent FCN reader.

Best of luck!

Running Up A Tab (Room)

There are two kinds of FCN readers, those who have never been in a Tab room and those who don’t know what the heck a Tab room even is. If you are in the first group, take heart, the next few paragraphs may provide some of that forensics enlightenment that has thus far eluded your consciousness; if you find yourself in the second group, you’re probably going to find more humor in Larry King (although Larry King apparently had enough humor to marry six times) and should reconsider accordingly.

Tab (or Tabulation) is the nerve center of a debate tournament. It’s where all the results are recorded, pairings are determined and winners noted. It’s a completely objectified, rational bastion of patriarchal narcissism - yes, narcissism, but we’ll get into that more later.

There was one woman in Tab – a mother figure who more than once saved the tournament by saying “no” – and the tournament director (also a female) made our room of relaxation a regular respite so she could rebuke us rudely, so we couldn’t quite claim to be completely patriarchal; but that didn’t keep us males from acting like a bunch of bachelors.

As head of Tab at a small national qualifier, I had a barrel load of responsibilities. The tournament had to be run on time, the Tab staff needed their caffeine fixes, ballots had to be double checked, the donut supply had to be maintained and, well, you get the idea. We started early and worked late, which is a lot to ask of a bunch of derelicts, especially on a weekend.

Folks get this picture of Tab workers wearily sitting in front of a computer in a dark room endlessly crunching numbers and reworking statistics like so many silicon-based life forms. While I’d like this sympathetic stereotype to live on unedited, the truth is that we sit in a well-lit room surrounded by refreshments and chew the fat. Then, whenever a ballot is returned, we get all excited and two staff members (designated “Affirmative” and “Negative”) Ro-Sham-Bo to determine the victor. These results are then quickly entered into a computer and we resume our arduous task of shooting the breeze (which consists of chatting it up, ingratiating with one another, schmoozing, bragging, and, perhaps, a little gossip).

After every round we would print the tournament’s to-date results and post them on the wall for all the initiated to see. There, with results in 2-D, we would make bets on the next rounds. One of us would be Bill Bennett and the other Pete Rose and we’d lay down our pocket change and await the results of the next Ro-Sham-Bo match.

Perhaps the most exciting part of Tab work is figuring out who “breaks.” The term “break” is a semantic oxymoron because, while it sounds bad, it actually means someone can advance to the next round. At any other tournament, any team with a winning record would advance; but not in my Tab room.

To determine “breaks” we brought out a dart board, eight darts and some sticky notes. We pasted the names of all the competitors to the board and started chucking the darts from across the room. When all the sharp objects were cleaving to the wall, both undefeated (ballot-wise, not Ro-Sham-Bo) teams were off our break list.

Fortunately for the tournament participants, the female tab member intervened and created her own list of breaks, one that all of us guys regarded as a cheap fake imitation that wasn't even real.

One of the most fun parts of running Tab was reading all of the contestant’s ballots. Yes, I did just admit to an extremely freaky and somewhat perverted espionage, but that’s in the job description. Actually it was pretty fun because, after years of reading one-line disappointments on my Reasons for Decisions (RFDs) over the years, I got to see the newcomers flail in the quicksand.

Without revealing any confidence (the Judge – Tab Room – Tournament Director – Competitor chain of confidence is to be broken only by parents, coaches, siblings, friends, pastors, counselors, pen pals, hair stylists and perfume consultants), I can tell you some of the real headline grabbers from the tournament:

RFD: The Affirmative team had a better tie.

DECISION: Affirmative.

RFD: Nice Shoes.

DECISION: Double Loss.

RFD: What are you doing tonight after the tournament?

DECISION: Negative.

Doesn’t that tickle you in places you just don’t talk about at parties? It’s enough to give every debate parent a chill from nape to cape. What good, substantive, groundbreaking discussion our youth are sharing in the competitive environment of academic forensics, eh Squanto?

And the salvos just kept coming. But whenever we felt our Ro-Sham-Bo tabulation would have been more accurate and were about to break out the Liquid Paper to “fix” the judges’ mistakes, a really fine bit of judicial writing would enter the room and our feelings of superiority would be assuaged.

I don’t think I’ll ever be invited to run a Tab room again. But if I am, no women will be allowed to help out. None.

FCN's Godchild needs your help

You read it right: FCN is asking you, the faithful few, to get off your collective duffs and do something for an unprecedented second consecutive day. Consider it a Valentine's day gift for three guys, who tried hard but weren't able to scare up a Valentine. Consider it an expression of goodwill and self effacement; a declaration that the self is less than the whole.

But enough with the altruistic promulgations.

Last Summer, FCN celebrated the arrival of rFCN, a website established in the vein of Funny Class Notes but with much funnier jokes (hence the name, Really Funny Class Notes). This blog was, for all intents and purposes, the Godchild of FCN: It was birthed of our seed, in its infancy it created little messes for us to clean up, later it started maturing and finally rebelled against FCN wholeheartedly during its "teenage" period.

We even share a name. Yes, "rFCN, I am your father."

Now the site is going through its midlife crisis. After a period of almost two and a half months with only one post of new content, even the most loyal rFCN fans were beginning to think FCN's spinoff blog had gone the way of Shinzo Abe. What are readers to think when an unannounced break continues into seeming perpetuity? That you've taken a extended bathroom break?

rFCN has returned from its hiatus with an ultimatum: 15 unique comments or the plug is pulled, the water will drain out and rFCN will be placed on permanent suspension. No more inspiration for us derelicts or regular, throat-clearing guffaws. Our abs will no longer be worked by uncontrollable laughter and happy tears will have to be simulated with Visine.

Yes, rFCN's position is as dire as it sounds. Unlike its Godparent, rFCN does not have Mommy G making brownies or offering an unconditional stream of motivating comments. Without such support, I might consider leaving the blog world behind as well. Heck, I've done it. Twice.

As we intoned when rFCN first broke the plane of blogosphere mediocrity last July, having a spinoff blog is the highest form of praise. It shows a level of support and adoration that cannot be duplicated by boxes of chocolates and flowers. Imitation is the highest form of praise and we here at FCN figured we'd about made the pinnacle of blog success.

For a blog that can't even muster a dozen readers, having an imitator is high encouragement. But if rFCN goes the way of the Brontosaurus, we will no longer have that acclaim. Our regular ego boost will be deflated and FCN will be back to generating its own motivation (which often means burning Supreme Court justices in effigy).

For you, the faithful FCN few, losing rFCN might mean a reduction in the quality of FCN posts, which isn't saying much, I know, but it is still something.

If this post warmed your heart at all. If it increased your blood pressure or drew one iota more color to your face, please consider visiting rFCN and commenting on their desperation post. The link, for those of you who don't click on things is:

http://reallyfunnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/2008/02/did-you-ever-get-feeling-you-were-being.html

And if that impassioned plea doesn't do the trick, maybe this will:

F abandons FCN

"Commitment" is a hard word. It's three syllables long and has a lot of repeating Ms and Ts, which renders the spelling arduous. The principle behind the term is similarly formidable. Commitment requires not backing down or giving up, even in the face of, well, artistic differences.

Here at FCN, we've never laid much of a claim to commitment. "Lackadaisical" seems like a better description of our approach to life and we've never had a hard time changing course if it meant finding an easier path. But we demand a higher level of integrity from others. Nobody kicks us to the curb, leaves us out to dry, runs out on us or abandons our ship. No siree, sir! When the wind blows against your sales, we expect you to make good use of the jib to keep your sloop on an honest bearing.

This is more than a credo. It is a mandate; a directive so puissant, no amount of badgering can get us to renege. Ever. We expect others to never give up. Not after six pieces of pizza, three coke classics and two bowls of onion rings. Never.

In fact, we expect out of you and each other the same thing the Obamination sees in Billary: the can't quit attitude.

At least that's what I thought until last week, when I got a rude awakening to the realities of today's internet world. Apparently "yes" doesn't always mean what the Greeks said it means, because F gave the world a new interpretation of the term, and entered a another chapter in the FCN Manifesto, by packing his cyber bags and walking out on FCN.

That's right. No last post; no train of long goodbyes (or even a single adios). Just a forlorn and empty user where F used to write his funny tomes, cutting social criticism and relevant satire. It's an empty locker where Mean Joe Green's jersey once hung. It's a deserted and quiet Carnival after a night's frivolity. It's Seattle after Boeing left.

And now it's just me and N and, of course, Chip, our guest contributor. We'll do our best, but things won't be the same without you, F. If you are reading this, please come back. We need you. Heck, I need you. I'm a mess without you. I miss you so dang much. I miss being with you, I miss being near you. I miss your laugh. I miss your scent; I miss your musk. When this all gets sorted out, I think you and I should get an apartment together. Maybe I should stop talking for a little while.

No! I can't be groveling. We cannot reduce ourselves to sniveling dogs, circling the table for morsels that drop from our master's table. I will command. F? You come back and make a public apology. You have lost all credibility, like the time on the local news channel when the camera panned back and revealed the anchor was barefoot. You need to earn back your respect in the humor community. You grovel; cry and fill a cereal bowl with tears. Then we'll see about letting you back into our little club.

Please, man? I mean, you'll always have a place here if you want to return.

FCN readers, your consideration and condolences are appreciated during this particularly difficult time for the FCN team. We want to be cheery and happy, light and funny, but it's hard when you lose such an integral piece. Please use the comment section to remind F about how much he means to you and maybe we can get enough of an outcry to bring him back even if it's just to say goodbye.

Kelsey get low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low.

I was well on my way to living an incomplete life.

There's nothing like getting elbow-deep into college and then realizing you never really went to prom. You get a sort of vague uneasy feeling like you forgot something – the kind of feeling you get just before you realize you locked your keys in the car. When I dropped out of college and got a minimum wage shift job, I more or less forgot about that nagging feeling in the back of my head.

Then one day, I overheard a friend of mine in discussion with someone else. We'll call her Kelsey, because that is her name. Kelsey was lamenting the fact that everyone had recruited prom dates months before she even thought about it. “I've asked everyone!” She said. “They're all booked.”

I unleashed my FCN wit to make a stupid smart-alecky joke. “You haven't asked me.”

She whirled to face me. “Are you serious?'

“Hm? What? Me?”

Four weeks later, I found myself rushing home from work to pull on a tux I borrowed from a friend of mine whom we will call John, because that is what everyone else calls him. Then came the florist: “Oh, you're the yellow sunflower boy! Issues. You should seriously have gotten something red or white. Yellow? Come on now. Issues.” Then pictures at Kelsey's house. Kelsey's parents were friendly but vaguely suspicious. I decided to keep my driver's license in my pocket where it belonged. They didn't need to know I was a college dropout bum who writes for FCN.

Then off to someone else's house, where flash bulbs chattered like machine gun fire. You know that last scene in The Rookie where he hits the lights and everyone is taking pictures? Yeah. It felt like that. My eyes were a bit off after the pictures – I remember a 20-passenger white hummer limo (heck yes) professional photos, and a restaurant. I also remember my trophy date, Kelsey, constantly telling me to suck it up and/or deal with it. Whatever that means.

So after about five and a half hours of hanging out, someone finally got the bright idea of actually going to the prom itself. After a short and very exciting breathaliticizer-o-matic test, we got rid of most of the accessories/jackets/etc that we'd carefully donned to go to the prom. This seemed very counterintuitive. Why bother dressing up if it's all going to go in a numbered paper sack anyway?

I learned the reasoning as soon as I hit the dance floor. See, I come from a background of what I call “morphed” dancing. That is, if you trace social dancing back a few hundred years, you find waltz, swing, line – stuff like that. You can put all these different dance styles on a timeline and see how they've morphed from one to the next. But this was not morphed dancing. This was dancing evolved.

A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING

The first prom ever was at Cambridge High in 1740. Everyone got all dressed up and got their pictures taken, then went into a big room and talked. It wasn't much of a hit, but the school staff was determined to make prom a success. So the next year, they brought in some violinists who played background music. This enhanced the atmosphere significantly. Prom started spreading to other schools. Everyone liked standing around listening to music.

Proms remained largely unchanged until 1912, when Jojo Spudwink of Miami Unified snuck a bongo drum past security (security wasn't nearly as advanced back then as it is now, in a post-9/11 world). About an hour into the violin music, Jojo whipped out the bongo drum and started pounding. The beat was so overwhelming that the party goers couldn't resist nodding their heads to the rhythm. Jojo became an instant legend. The drums continued to be popular at Miami Unified but didn't really catch until heavier rhythms because popular in music around the sixties.

Not that much has changed since the bongo drum days. The head bobbing had become marginally more complex, and the music has become marginally simpler.

/A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING

And that's about what we experienced. It doesn't take any skill or practice to Prom dance. You just walk into the crowd with your date and start feeling the beat. Of course, there are a few no-nos. The most popular is freak dancing, (also known as booty dancing – avert your eyes children!).

But perhaps the biggest no-no is not feeling the beat. About two hours into the dance, ignorant of this important convention, I launched myself off into the crowd in agonizing slow motion, gradually turning and stepping in what I wanted to think was graceful elegance. Almost thirty seconds later, a school official tapped me on the shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked. Now there are two ways you ask if someone is okay. The first is the way he didn't do it, which is to ask in a concerned way as if to offer help. The second is the way he did do it, which is the way police ask if they can help you when they really want to know if you need to be shot to improve the gene pool. I got back into the crazy bopping and the official backed up, grudgingly satisfied.

Nothing individually was particularly special about prom. It was the whole collected experience – dressing up, photos, limo, good food, a friend winning the title of Prom Queen – that really made it a night to remember. Had I not gone, my life would just not have been complete.

Now all I have to do is check out this whole Disney Land thing everyone's talking about.