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:

Going Bananas for the Guinness Book of World Records

Of all the things to accomplish in this time on earth (sky diving, street miming and dropping a twenty dollar bill out of a sky scraper to watch the masses scramble down below) one of my highest priorities is to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. This respected book, published in volume format every anum, lists the greatest accomplishments and other physical feats of the last 52 weeks. It tells which woman has the longest beard (an 11 inch Moses motif), how many phone books a strongman has torn apart, longest spaghetti nasal ejection (just over nine feet) and the heaviest weight pulled with the the skin of one’s back. The performances listed are so astounding, so compelling, and so just plain random that they drive even a normally derelict individual to at least make an attempt at greatness.

There is a finite number of names the record keepers can fit onto the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records. Most people who try never get into print and are relegated to the oblivion of “almosts,” those who suffer all the disadvantages of an attempt but don't get to be recorded in infamy. That makes those who are fortunate enough to be blessed with recognition that much more awesome. It is a great achievement, a high honor, a noble goal. Greatness, majesty and splendor are all words that describe what a placement in the book of records means. Readers may have to fight against disgusting natural impulses when they read and see pictures of a record, but they always turn the page and go back for more.

I am particularly impressed with the food records. Participants gulp down large quantities of food and, in order for the record to be counted, must keep the food down for twenty minutes. Trips to the bathroom are monitored by Guinness staff who ensure that all food eaten stays in the stomach. The regulations also stipulate bites per spoonful limitations and one person was disqualified mid-attempt for speaking with his mouthful. Despite these strict rules, some significant appetite erasing records have been set. Various brave souls have eaten large quantities of mashed potatoes, pork rinds, and even salted peanuts in order to get their names immortalized in the big book of records. One Atalanta resident managed to eat 27 dozen oysters in ten minutes. Given that oysters are an aphrodisiac, the night after the attempt must have been immensely frustrating.

The key to breaking a world record is to find a record that seems deflated, something you could do better on. A fingernail that is less than three or four inches long, a toy collection that is on the low side of 1,000 count and a miniature tomato larger than an ounce are all likely candidates. Once you find your target, start training and get ready to become a record holder.

My personal target, after perusing the 2008 edition for over four hours, is "most bananas eaten and pealed (not necessarily in that order) in one minute." The number for the banana record is so low that it looks like a typo. It looks like something I could do without practice, training or preparation. According to Guinness, the most bananas eaten in their natural state in one minute is two. Dos. Zwei.

Without Guinness’ unbiased witnesses and a reliable timer on hand, I will not make an attempt to beat the record (the effort would be wasted without official recognition), but I have thought about banana eating strategy, including jaw and throat elongation for maximum banana packing and, at least in my mind, I can conceive of eating at least three bananas within the alloted time. The number I could actually push down the hatch depends on their relative size. If I were allowed to by the Guinness people, I would visit the supermarket and pick out the smallest, puniest and softest bananas possible. And, as long as I am making an attempt, I may as well smash them a little.

Speaking of smashing, I think that might be a good way of getting the bananas down quickly. After peeling them open (one by one) I will mash them with my palm so that they don’t get stuck anywhere in the gastrointestinal tract and form an embarrassing cork. After that, my only strategy is just to masticate as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will leave all manners behind (except those mandated by Guinness) and get banana into stomach without a lot of formal introduction.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

If one of you wants to set a world record, find your own category to make a try. And, if you decide try to steal away my chance at glory before I make an attempt, as I suspect many of the less scrupulous among you are considering, send us a video so we can share it with the rest of FCN.

And stay clear of oysters.

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.

This Post Wis Wratten By Chance

In order to write today’s entry, we took Steve to the FCN Lab and inputted several hundred random characters. Some of the letters were capitalized, others were numerals or punctuation marks; the space bar was pressed as well. Using a computer program designed just for this purpose (a macro for Excel, in case you just have to know), we guaranteed that all the characters were truly random.

The result was a painful amalgamation of symbols, letters and, believe it or not, one legible word. Line 26 of our experiment had the following:

*SNdi sln 9eoOn*(`~ ;lHneO LOVE d9J8%,=ksnz+52*ne

Romantic, isn’t it?

Unless you are reading a lot into the page and a half of disorganized text Steve produced, it meant nothing; at least not in its first stages.

We decided that including numeric characters made generating a random post without any numbers very unlikely, so we cut all but four numerals out and reduced the chances of a punctuation mark or capital letter appearing to more accurately represent real prose.

To add meaning to the text, we “bred” different lines together, giving sentences a chance to become more refined. For instance we took the first generation line:

T tstWaPiih Bosr ntnChyW esace

and bred it with itself. Over successive generations, we were able to decipher some meaning to these seemingly random letters.

Generation 2:

Th tsch ssn nyarW etoWC aP tBiie

Generation 3:

T scenW tsiaorha hyWi Bn ttPCse

…

Generation 20:

Thos Pist Wis Wratten By Chance

Generation 21:

This Post Wis Wratten By Chance

It took until the twenty-first generation to achieve our goal phrase, and even then the dang computer substituted the “i” and “a” in “written” and “was.” No matter what we did, we couldn’t fix that.

On the way to achieving our goal phrase, we discarded twenty lines by the cyber-wayside. These wasted letters, if you will, mean nothing to anyone and were therefore be short-lived and quickly killed. The hard drive space they occupy will soon be filled with something more provocative.

The meaningful letters, however, survived to make this post. They assembled, without knowing us or one another, and formed words; those words formed sentences and those sentences paragraphs. And this crazy collection of symbols makes sense - at least as much as any other FCN post. With only a couple grammatical and style mistakes – all of which are normal for FCN’s writers, derelicts that we are – this post manages to find order out of randomness. At 2,935 characters (including spaces and punctuation and the four numerals in "2,935"), it’s a real feat of chance.

We’d keep going and explain the how amazing this is, but the more ambitious we get with this post the longer we’ll have to sit in the FCN lab.