Christmas can be a finicky thing. Here, we detail 25 ways to get through it. Because no one wants a horrible Christmas.
1) Respect the expiration date on the egg nog.
2) One Christmas play is enough.
3) Never leave figgy pudding unattended.
4) Your car should be bigger than your Christmas tree.
5) Make sure the turkey is dead before you cook it.
6) Do not use ornaments that require the use of actual fire.
7) Carol at hospitals, not dark alleys.
8) Shopping should be done in November.
9) Always keep a fire extinguisher handy.
10) Never spend more than $20 on someone not immediately related to you.
11) Not all shopping mall Santas are created equal.
12) The presents will still be there when you're done sleeping in.
13) If you blow a fuse when you click on your lights, change something before turning them on again.
14) Comments about use of the word "gay" in old Christmas songs stopped being funny long ago.
15) Actually make a physical list of names, and check them off when you've sent a gift.
16) Have Christmas dinner at someone else's house and leave ("to feed the homeless") when it's time to clean up.
17) No matter how much you love a certain Christmas song, at some point, enough is enough.
18) Shop for extended family at Wal-Mart.
19) If you must neglect someone, don't let it be your girl or her mother.
20) Remember kids: Christmas is fun, but safety is funner.
21) Grab some Taco Bell just before eating so you're not hungry enough to make some terrible mistakes.
22) Save the important announcements (like "We're engaged!" and "I'm pregnant!") for next week.
23) Double check that you don't mix up who's gift is who's.
24) Pets and Christmas do not mix.
25) Nobody likes your rendition of "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire."
Sunday, December 20, 2009
25 Ways Not to Ruin Christmas
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Attitude. Sold Separately.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Life With Brothers
White-Out is, in fact, quite permanent, but can be removed from skin with a generous amount of gasoline.
When inserted into a light switch, bobby pins can cause large sparks to appear, but will cause a minimal amount of damage to your person.
Sleeping bags can create large amounts of static electricity when they are ridden down a flight of stairs.
When children are given handcuffs, even play ones, it is wise to keep one of the keys in a safe place. Chances are, you'll need them later, and you'll be glad you kept them.
Do not tie a rope around your waist when jumping off a roof. Your mom will freak out about possible strangulation hazards.
"Magic Erasers" (Thank you Mr. Clean!) can usually remove permanent marker artwork from glass and antique wood. However, walls and carpet are a completely different story.
Even washable markers love flat paint.
Moms don't like silly putty. Carpet does.
Never forget to put flour in your cookie dough. Ever.
Regular table salt will stay in your hair for a while, it sticks to your scalp and can get a little itchy.
When launching water balloons out a second story window using a heavy-duty two-person slingshot, (boy is this fun!) make sure you clear the house of the across-the-street neighbor. That way, even though your mom will be mad, your dad will be so impressed that you'll get off pretty easily.
Stuffed animals placed on the blades of a ceiling fan can fly for long distances. It really is fun, just make sure you secure any breakables within a 30 ft. radius.
If all the kids in your family change places at a restaurant, the waitress really won't appreciate it.
Especially if you repeat the process every 5 minutes.
Don't keep a journal. No matter how often you change the hiding spot, it WILL be found.
If you try hard enough, it is possible to convince certain siblings that a major holiday has been cancelled for the year. Don't do this in front of your parents.
Large stereo systems and cranky neighbors do not mix.
Do not use anything living as a football. Especially a sibling.
"Lifetime" plastic folding tables make great slides, and also make you a walking talking shocking machine. Beware of touching any metal objects for at least 15 minutes.
When using Nerf guns:
Do not shoot your mom while she's talking on the phone. Especially when she's on the phone with your dad.
If you decide to shoot chandeliers, and the bullet sticks, don't worry. It will come down in a few days. Don't bother shooting other bullets at it to knock it off. And don't make a smiley face with the bullets either.
If you lick the bullets to make them stick better, they will leave a smudge mark on glass.
War movies are 10 times better when you can use a Nerf gun to shoot the enemy on the screen.
When having a Nerf gun war, ask younger siblings (the ones that aren't allowed to participate) to spy for you. This will make your enemies mad, so only do it when you have little risk of getting caught.
The bullets that come with the "Sniper" Nerf guns leave a mark on skin even when used from a distance, and at close range, it can be quite painful.
Never aim a Nerf gun at your own face. I have seen many people make this mistake. You never know when it is loaded, and apparently it really hurts when you get shot from 6 inches away. Not only does your face hurt, your pride is severely damaged.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
New Year's Resolutions
We've done this before, so I guess it's a tradition. For 2009, a few New Year's Resolutions we promise to keep.
We promise to get our comma problems under, control.
We promise not to look down on or denigrate our college-age friends who play in sandboxes.
We promise to pick up a plastic shovel and quart-sized bucket and play with our college-age friends who play in sandboxes.
We promise to give people at least a foot of personal space.
We promise not to drop everything when a baby in a restaurant starts crying and try to out-scream him.
We promise to stop taking unnecessary vacations from FCN just because we feel like it.
We promise to not make any jokes about Oprah's book club. Because it does have some great works of fiction.
If we do lie to our readers, we promise to lie about something small; not anything as big as a Holocaust romance.
We promise to notice when people don't want to talk about it.
We promise to make a better attempt at keeping our New Year's resolutions.
We porimse to porof raed all cntoent befroe pbilushing.
We promise to be less pathetic more often.
We promise to stop singing in the shower.
We promise to stop making special trips to the shower in order to sing.
We promise not to hide lollipops in dieter's purses.
We promise to stop refreshing the FCN page every half hour in hopes of new comments.
We promise to clean our rooms.
We promise to stop poking fun at Mr. O and to start calling him by his proper name, Mr. O'Bama.
We promise to stop wearing pajamas to our afternoon classes.
We promise to call our grandparents sometimes.
We promise to never take your mother out for a steak dinner and not call her back. Ever.
We promise not to get too obsessed with the christmas tree decorations this year.
We promise to stop toying with the wait staff at fast food restaurants.
We promise to stop giving bad advice to kids who should know better.
We promise to apologize to parents to whose children we have given bad advice.
We promise not to give parenting advice to parents of misbehaving kids.
We promise to ask at least one question in class next year.
We promise to feel a pang of regret when we get our grades back.
We promise not to take off our shoes on airplanes.
We promise not to strike up conversations with people riding first class.
We promise not to hang out in the restroom just because we want some personal space.
We promise not to make a game of how much stuff we can sneak past security.
We promise to start shaving, even on days when we don't see females.
We promise to stop using the subjunctive when we mean to use the infinitive.
When listening to our iPods in class, we promise not to play the volume so loud the teacher can hear it.
We promise never to lie to our readers ever again. Ever. And this time we mean it.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
One Week is All We Ask
Seasons Greetings from all of us here at FCN. We're taking the week off for The Holidays to sit back with friends and family, sip egg nog, and remember what this season is really all about: Frosty the Snowman.
Friday, May 16, 2008
PreFab Greeting Card 2
A little over a year ago FCN published a treatise for the stereotypical male on how to prepare a greeting card that expresses the heartfelt emotions that are generally communicated by grunts and nods among males. You can't very well growl at someone on her birthday, but most people expect some kind of affection. And since Hallmark, the standards for appropriate celebratory sentiments can be very high. Here's what we said a year ago:
Guys can't write greeting cards. Whether the occasion is Christmas, a birthday or simply a “thank you for the dried rutabaga, it really made my day,” we males are completely inept at developing any kind of decent note. Maybe it's the testosterone that destroys our cheesy receptors and makes us send schlocky cards we regret moments after dropping them into the mailbox. Or maybe its [sic] that we never put in the time to learn how to send a happy notice. Or perhaps the ability to write greeting cards is repelled by the "Y" chromosome. Whatever the reason, the end result is that we can't formulate a decent card. (Emphasis in original)Our treatise advised a generic card front with an unoffensive and universally appealing image and provided several lines for use, all of which carried a certain happy gravity and a ubiquitous quality that made them perfect for any occasion.
Some of the faithful few didn't like our PreFab card. "Lady A," a reader who has since stopped commenting (thanks for the tissue), groaned and "Anonymous," our most prolific commenter, said that "[t]he idea of a card is that it is personal it is something you took the time to write because you are thankful/happy."
I was unconvinced of the card's deficiencies last weekend when I loaded the PreFab guide to use as a template to prepare a sweet message to my mother for Mother's Day. That's when I realized, we didn't have anything for Mother's Day! None of the generic lines even mentioned the second Sunday in May. I panicked. And, though the wilderness survival people say that you never make your best decisions when you panic, I stumbled across a major breakthrough in derelict social behavior and added another chapter to the FCN Manifesto.
I sprinted down to my local card shop, intending to pick up something cheesy and cheap. When I got to the Mother's Day card rack, my heart skipped a beat. $4.49 for a folded piece of colored paper? Yikes! I could get lunch for that. I thought briefly about pilfering it, but giving your mother a purloined card on a holiday celebrating maternal virtue struck me as nothing short of dodgy. That's when it hit me like the light my roommate turns on when I'm trying to sleep. I didn't actually need to steal the card to take its sentiments.
A pen and paper were quickly produced and I reapproached the card aisle with new resolve. Starring at all those cards felt like looking at Where's Waldo puzzle. I was supposed to pick out a good card from the plethora offered, an impossible task given my genetic deficiency (the pesky Y chromosome). I could hardly tell an insult from a blessing; how could I trust my judgment in this important matter?
This is where the PreFab Greeting Card gets really ingenious. It doesn't matter which card you choose. They all work. These cards are written by women, for women. If we males try to intervene with the intra-gender communication, we could mess everything up. It's best to just leave a beautiful thing alone and let Hallmark make our moms happy.
I reached for the closest card and scribbled down the message it contained. It said something about "through thick and through thin" and "you've always been the best," but that didn't matter, I just wanted the words. When I got home, I inserted the all perfect image -
- and printed it off (color is a good idea). I stuffed the result into an envelope and gave it to her with a big grin and a long hug. The end result is a well packaged sentiment at much less caloric and financial cost than most alternatives. Derelicts the world over can exhale.
I really wish I could have had this out last week so all you guys who struggle with this could have had an easy exit, but now you'll be prepared for next time.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day!
We had all kinds of great plans about what to do for Mother's day. After an extensive staff meeting, during which we tossed around ideas like getting Mommy G a ring with three stones (one for each contributor), we finally settled on something both economical and fitting.
Expect both your leftover Chuck E Cheese's tokens in the mail any day now, Mommy G!
Monday, April 28, 2008
College Entrance Essay
After several pleading emails from the faithful few, I went to my personal files and retrieved my old college entrance essay which is now caked yellow with a dried coffee stain. My writing bears the mark of youth and literary inexperience. It also demonstrates a number of significant stylistic faux pas that defined the creativity of my adolescence. Still, it got me where I needed to go, so I guess I can't complain too strongly.
I look at this tome the same way I view the London Bridge: it is a relic of a bygone era, now dug up and placed haphazardly in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. This piece was never intended for the fun-loving FCN reader, but was written with a bearded admissions officer in mind, for the kindly octogenarian (or at least a septuagenarian) who dresses up like Santa and rings his bell outside Wal-Mart. If you find it funny, that's excellent. I, however, will always view the following as a personal testimonial, a plea for help in a dark educational world and a manifesto academia, albeit laced with white lies.
Being an underprivileged minority youth is never easy, but when it is compounded by abandonment, addiction and abuse - the three As of my childhood - it can be the death knell for academic achievement, the two As of my future.
For many, the poverty line is an unrealistic basement, a floor you read about in Dickens but never have to experience. The concepts of subsistent wages and hunger so intense that it causes physical pain are foreign to the American experience and, indeed, to most in our wealthy nation. But for my father and his father before him, it was a day-to-day reality.
My grandfather came to this country looking for opportunity. Instead he found the bottom of a bottle and alcohol consumed his marriage, his job and, eventually, his life. He died alone and forgotten somewhere in New York State, but left a male heir to carry on his name and, hopefully, improve that name's reputation.
My father tried his best with the cards he had been dealt. He stayed away from the bottle, but married a twice divorced home wrecker whose affinity for Amphetamines and cocaine was exceeded only by her penchant for wild men. Seven children were born from this crazed union; six of them had major birth defects.
People on the outside looking in would have said that I was the "normal" one in our family. But I wasn't normal. A learning disability landed me in a special education classes that did little to direct my focus. My father, perhaps angry with the state of his life, took out his frustrations on me and his regular abuse continues to be a dark spot in my memory.
In spite of troubles on the home front - or maybe because of them - I strove harder in school. I overcame my disability and started a charitable foundation for others in my position. I volunteered in my community and led successful campaigns for three of my siblings to have surgery for their birth defects. Two of them survived their operation and began successful academic careers.
The summer before I was to begin my freshman year of high school, a fire burned down my family's house and we were forced out onto the street. Police suspected arson and my mother made disparaging comments about an ex-lover who may have had a motive. My father died in the flames of smoke inhalation. He was too young.
At fourteen, I was the de facto man in the family. I lied about my age to get a job at McDonald's and found part time work as a ditch digger for the city sewage department. I struggled to balance the responsibilities of adulthood with those of high school, but somehow managed to cope.
When I lost my left leg to a drunk driver in a freak car accident, I knew my life would become more difficult. We did not have the resources to get a prosthetic limb, so I fashioned a support out of a piece of driftwood I found at my sewer job and used bailing wire to attach it to my stump. I lifted the spirits of my brothers and sisters by telling them I was a pirate and to this day my youngest sister Beth-Ann still believes me.
Graduation was bitter-sweet. For my mother it opened up old wounds and her wailing shrieks could be heard above the motivational message I delivered as Student-Body President. My five surviving deformed siblings sat in the front row and smiled. They were proud of their brother and his accomplishments in the face of adversity.
No one in my family has ever gone to college. My mother, like my grandmother, was forced to quit school in the tenth grade because of a pregnancy, one of many that would haunt her teenage years. My father chose factory work instead of higher education, but was forced into less lucrative labor after he lost two important fingers on his right hand.
I want to be the first one to take the leap and strive for self improvement. I am living proof that a checkered past does not spell the end of academic achievement. Intelligence is not limited by circumstances and, indeed, can be nurtured and grown through difficulty.
If accepted to this University, I will continue my work with charitable and community organizations to open doors for others like me. I will refuse to renege on the promises I made my dieing father and always strive to be the best, no matter what the challenge. I may limp onto your campus, but I bring a full compliment of mental energy that more than compensates for my physical deficiencies.
I see higher education as the proving ground for those last two As and as a preparation for life for a young man who has already seen a lot of it.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Pine Scent Cologne
Everything is going back into the box and into the attic or basement, wherever seasonal garbage calls home. The wreaths, fake holly and bulbous objects that no doubt have a name, but are so rarely mentioned that they've been left out of the dictionary are meticulously wrapped in soft tissues and lovingly stowed for next Christmas.
The tree, too, suffers the same fate. Most American Christmas celebrators wouldn’t dream of bringing a real pine tree into their homes. The hassle of the pointy needles, the sticky sap and watering a live plant every day has been alleviated by corporate America. Now instead of visiting a quaint, rural Christmas tree farm where the old man who looks like Santa Claus without trying tells the story of the blight that almost “stole this year’s Christmas,” we march to our storage locations and find our perfectly symmetrical, seven foot “Holiday Tree.”
In the old days, fake Christmas trees were almost as bad as the real ones. The plastic pine needles would come off and had to be vacuumed, the branches needed manual placement and an artistic eye to simulate realism and some cynics concluded that the only advantage was the elimination of sap.
Today’s trees are much more technologically innovative. I’ve heard a rumor about a holographical tree that changes decorative themes every ten minutes. Apparently the computerized image is suggested for civic centers where one religion is frowned upon. The technology can change from a tree, to a manger scene, to a menorah and back again.
Our tree isn't so jazzed up that we had to take out a second mortgage to cover the cost of electricity, but it is a far cry from the "natural" monstrosities of old. The branches open as one with a swift, umbrella-like motion (think Veggie Tales Christmas Special), the needles are guaranteed green and will stay on longer with a new adhesive innovation and the smell of a real pine tree is matched with a spray-on scent that gives the plastic potpourri the final touches of the season.
After Christmas, the tree was folded up and returned to the attic with all the other holiday accoutrements, but we had oodles of spray on pine scent left over. And, smart marketers that the product developers are, the artificial pine boasted an expiration date of six months; it wouldn’t last until next Christmas.
Unwilling to throw out a perfectly good bottle of Christmas smell, I decided to use it as a replacement for my current dime store (or, as Carrie Underwood would call it, bathroom) cologne. The smell was only a little stronger and, as my younger brother pointed out, seasonally accurate. My old stuff caused a minor itch and some occasional hives anyway so I figured the change might be good for my skin.
I applied liberally, putting three complete squirts under my collar and a couple sprays each for my wrists. My senses were immediately assaulted by the wonderful scent of Christmas pine and I knew instantly I had made a good decision.
Work at General Mills was interesting. My boss had a smart comment about “somebody smelling a little fresh” and my female coworker laughed and shook her head when I explained the “alpine stench,” as she characterized my new style.
At lunch, a woman three booths over started sneezing and I a few small children stared at me with expressions reminiscent of posters for third-world starvation. I ordered a burger in the hopes that the smell would overpower the pine.
When I got home that evening (leaving my dress shirt by the washing machine, under the pretense that detergent would get the smell back to normal) and met my mother, who had been out when I left in the morning, a look of utter concern crossed her normally sanguine features. Apparently, the product had created a large, nasty looking rash wherever it had touched my skin. The marks had been covered by a long sleeved shirt during the day, but were now obvious in their hideous redness. Scabby and puffy, they emitted a stench that overpowered the pine. I was happy to smell something different, even if the new odor was unpleasant.
Fortunately another modern innovation - cortisone - helped alleviate the reaction and my neck and wrists are back to their normal pale color. Thanks for your concern.
I am, however, still looking for a use for quarter of a bottle of artificial pine scent. Any ideas?
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
2008 New Year's Resolutions
Well, it's that time of year again. Let's skip the insincere pleasantries and dig right into the insincere resolutions.
We promise to stop walking on the backs of our shoes.
We promise to absolutely not forget Valentine's Day.
We promise not to use store-front ads to keep track of holidays.
We promise not to run sweaters with the rest of the laundry.
We promise not to run tuxedos with the rest of the laundry.
We promise to stop borrowing tuxedos in the full knowledge that they will be returned only if destroyed.
We promise to stop downloading viruses onto fellow contributor's computers as a joke.
We promise to be more creative when we reciprocate practical jokes.
We promise not to drop hints starting two months before our birthdays.
But if you must know, my birthday is in late October, so you might want to start thinking about that.
We promise not to answer the question: "So what are you up to these days?" by talking about things we've already done.
We promise not to roll up post-its and pretend to smoke them.
If we must roll up post-its and pretend to smoke them, we promise not to light said post-its on fire.
If we must roll up said post-its, light them on fire, and pretend to smoke them, we promise not to stuff them full of pesto or mint.
We promise to raise our hands in class at least once next semester.
We promise to eat in front of the mirror so we can empathize with the torture to which we subject other people.
We promise to microwave the frozen vegetables for at least a minute before eating them.
We promise not to adjust the five-second rule if we pick up dropped food a bit late.
We promise to each invest in a good comb and throw the communal one away.
We promise to actually use said comb at least three times a week.
We promise to argue like mature adults about who will get to post the next day.
If we must fight like little kids, we promise to use only our fists.
If we must fight using weapons, we promise not to aim for the head.
We promise not to have lunch from the Costco sample tables.
If we must have lunch from the Costco sample tables, we promise not to gleefully exclaim: "Kung Pao Chicken and microwave pizza! Oh, we are dining in tonight!"
We promise to not to refresh FCN every five minutes in hopes of another reader comment.
We promise not to answer our phones with "I thought I told you not to call me!"
We promise not to microwave the salad along with the meatloaf.
We promise not to hold our breaths in public restrooms.
If we must hold our breaths in public restrooms, we promise to breathe at least once a minute and/or before passing out.
If we must hold our breaths in public restrooms till we pass out, we promise not to grab someone else on the way down.
We promise to use forks.
We promise to remain fully dressed even if there is no one else in the house.
We promise not to study that little thing that hangs from the back of our throats while talking to the mirror.
We promise not to talk to the mirror.
We promise never to lie to our readers ever again. Ever.
Monday, December 03, 2007
We Wish You a Merry Christmas Without Us.
It’s December, the month of the year when school finals give way to Christmas vacation and a healthy dose of celebration. It is also a month when the average American will gain 15 pounds.
Do something for me? Run to the mirror and look at yourself. This is you at your current weight. Pretty good, no? I mean, we could all stand to fix a few aesthetic flaws, but you don’t look half bad. Now imagine what you will look like with an additional fifteen pounds hanging from the places pounds hang. Not all droopy like old people weight, but solid, firm and very there. That is what you will look like at the end of December.
A fun exercise this Christmas season is to walk down the street mentally adding weight to different people. Where would it go? How would the person try to cover it up? And know that if you are thinking it about others, others are thinking it about you.
We wouldn’t worry too much about all that weight. Come New Year, you will make a resolution to lose it all and you will have much of it worked off by the 23rd of January when you fail your resolution and go on a calorie binge that regains almost all of what you lost. Over the next few months, good lifestyle decisions bring you back to 90% of your former svelteness. That additional 10% will never be lost. Consider it a Christmas present. It will hang around and send out invitations until friends join it and an adipose party is on at your midriff. But that will take many years of Christmas seasons, so we wouldn’t worry about it too much.
Those of you who don’t plan on gaining weight should feel doubly guilty. 15 pounds is the average and if you add nothing, someone else will have to put on 30 pounds. Averages can be so brutal.
Anyway, while you all are gaining weight, we here at FCN will be...gaining weight. We will also be on vacation. That’s right, over the next four weeks, all the way until December 31st, the FCN staff will be enjoying Christmas, recharging and doing everything other than posting FCN.
Don’t get us wrong. This isn’t a soul-searching, mid-life crisis, too much wampum kind of vacation. We aren’t taking time off to work on our yoga and eat yogurt in our Volvos (or should we say Priuses?) We won’t come back with a bunch of adopted refugee kids or melanoma inducing tans. We aren’t taking an extended, Vanessa Milanoesque voyage that ends only when the next one starts.
What we will do is leave FCN undisturbed for four weeks, punctuated only by whatever happens to seep out. And since our mental filters aren't very strong, you can pretty much count on something getting posted over the next month. But we're not committing to any regular content.
The FCN that greets you on the New Year is the same one that is leaving you now, plus 27 days and approximately 45 pounds. So go, eat your food and be merry. And come back when we do. Please?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Deconstructing Black Friday
I was considering a lawsuit. I consulted my attorney and discussed the possibility with likely co-plaintiffs. I even drafted a letter of intent. But I think I have recovered sufficient sleep and wits to keep my claim out of the civil courts. At least for now.
The events of Friday, November 23rd - Black Friday in everyday parlance - will remain forever etched in my memory and in my pocketbook. It is a story I will use on many a date, a cautionary tale that will be sternly retold to my children and my grandkids will hear a heavily embellished version of it.
If only I had been forewarned.
FCN got a monitory email from You Can Call Me Batman on the 24th, just one day after my fateful encounter with the corporate world of electronics and just a few hours too late. YCCMB had this to say:
Dear FCN,If only YCCMB had contacted us with this advice a few days earlier, we might have avoided a frigid night on the hard cement and a difficult lesson on the trials of consumerism.
Memo to the file: never go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, because you WILL be eaten alive. Yes, those sales are very tempting, but unless you are willing to risk life and limb, you should stay at home cowering under your bed and not spend any money in the first place. I discovered this firsthand. It even started out painful! We (my mom, cousin, aunt and I) had to wake up at 6:45 (a completely unrighteous hour in the morning) though the stores were opening up at about 4 a.m. We started out at Walmart, and it was already a madhouse of people. Emerging from there with only a few scratches and bruises, we continued on to Joann fabrics, which was a really bad idea. We lost one of our company there due to the HOUR LONG WAIT to get our fabric cut. And that was only the beginning! By about 10:00, we ventured into Kohls, and were almost immediately suffocated by the amount of people in there. And to top it all off, the line wrapped around the store. Luckily, I was able to dust off my (horrible, but nonetheless valuable) Ninja skills, and we were out by about sundown. Most of our group was injured. We returned from our venture battered and bruised, but we had saved a lot of money, and that made us feel better. (except me, but I didn't have any money to begin with.) So, unless you are willing to die to get that one pair of jeans that's 80% off, never go shopping on Black Friday.
-You can call me Batman
'Twas not Walmart, Joann's or Kohls that the FCN contributors and a few friends found themselves in front of, but rather BestBuy, a major electronics store with some of the most scandalous BlackFriday deals. Despite this difference, YCCMB's advice is still pertinent.
The newspaper advertisement, lovingly clipped by so many in preparation, told of discounts of up to six and seven hundred dollars on hot ticket items like big screen TVs, laptop computers and GPS devices. Because the deals are meted out on a first come, first serve basis, it behooves the consumer to arrive early.
In past years, BestBuy has announced its price and informed prospective customers that tickets would be handed out to the first people in line a couple of hours before the store's doors open. Last year, you may recall, I gave a couple of hours of my life to BestBuy and was compensated handsomely. I didn't actually purchase any of the items I stood in line for; rather I resold the ticket (scalped it, if you prefer the vernacular) to those who had more money than time.
The way I see it, my scalping activity provides a legitimate service. Certainly, middle men are not the most respected of enterprisers, but in the big picture they act as wards of Adam Smith, pushing the financial advantage of Black Friday to those who are willing to pay for it.
BestBuy's doors were scheduled to open at 5:00 AM on the 23rd. The first faithful shoppers got in line at 4:00 PM...on the 21st. We here at FCN value our turkey and stuffing too much to give up the warmth of a Thanksgiving fire in favor of a lonely line so FCN found its place on the cold sidewalk at approximately 8:30 PM, eight and a half hours before opening and after an estimated 120 people.
There is little to do in a consumerism line other than wait. We felt like children of the Soviet Union, joining breadlines for our daily fare. We experienced first-hand the rigors of communist living and counted ourselves fortunate to have thought to bring lawn chairs.
But not everyone was so miserable. The place immediately down wind from us was occupied by a few bong-hitting hippies who let the sweet scent of their Wacky-Tobackie waft over everyone. (I am amazed to this moment that those folks were so brazenly consuming illegal narcotics. The line was heavily policed to ensure that nobody did anything untoward, but not one officer stopped to ask about the smell.) Still others watched DVDs or played cards, keeping warm with expensive looking blanket-like coverings or seeming not to care about the weather.
Eight hours in 37 degree cold. Some in Massachusetts scoff at how wimpy I sound complaining about any temperature that far above freezing, but to me, a California-raised kid who worries more about his state's radical politics than extreme weather, 37 degrees might as well have been zero degrees. I bundled up like an Eskimo papoose, with gloves, thermal undergarments (yes, long johns) and a heavy jacket. I even wore a beanie (no, this isn't F).
As cold as we were, shivering against BestBuy's stuccoed wall, a warmth surged through our very being when blue shirted employees began passing out the tickets.
By the time they reached our place in line, the most valuable tickets had already been claimed, but, remembering last year' success, I selected a 42" LCD HDTV (read: really fancy and expensive television) and headed to the back of the line to begin my sales.
That's when Black Friday took a turn for the worse. On my way to the rear, I passed two would-be scalpers as they followed BestBuy employees to the front. I recognized them as scalpers by their sheepish looks and the half-hearted attempts to plea their case. Several of my friends, including both F and N, bailed and gave me their tickets. I now had the salesperson's greatest wish: variety.
I was undaunted by the busted scalpers I had just seen. I couldn't understand what they could possibly have done wrong. Maybe, I pensed, they were liars who tried to cheat prospective customers on the value of the tickets. Or perhaps they were being detained for an unrelated offense; their past crimes were catching up to them. Certainly their fate would not befall me.
When I reached a likely group of line dwellers - they reminded me of people waiting to board lifeboats on the Titanic - I began a series of pitches:
"42-inch widescreen high definition television as advertised. $499 instant savings. I also have 32-inch, 30-inch and the 40-inch DLP. Anyone interested in purchasing the right to buy this discounted TV? Do I hear any offers?"
I was explaining how the deal worked to an elderly gentleman who looked genuinely interested in purchasing when I noticed a blue-clad female behind me and to my right. She wasn't saying anything, but listened intently as I plied every trick of Cialdini. I had nothing to be ashamed of, so I continued to plow on. It wasn't until we were just about to exchange money that she intervened and asked me if I was selling my tickets. When I answered in the affirmative and asked if she was interested in buying one, she asked to see the tickets.
Her move was quick and reminded me of something I'd seen Chuck Norris do. Before I could say "fifty bucks" the tickets were out of my hand and traveling and a brisk walk to the front of the line. I followed, protesting my view that these were my tickets, earned through hours of waiting and that the act of taking them was a blatant violation of my constitutional right to property.
Her response was to direct me to her superior, Chris, a man I victimized with my further remonstrations. I explained that if scalping were illegal or frowned upon, that fact ought to be detailed along with all the other fine print in the ad (which I had meticulously read in preparation for such an encounter). I pointed to the rapidly disappearing tickets and asked Chris where they intoned that they weren't for resale. Finally, I pled with Chris to listen to the voice of entrepreneurial reasonability and reward a derelict's money making efforts with official sanction. I pointed out that my service was legitimate and that there was a clear market for my activity. Chris never answered me, but instead asked me to leave.
I have probably felt more violated at some point in my nineteen years, but I don't care to recall when. The reality is that I was totally deflated by BestBuy's betrayal. I had promised a couple of friends that this could be a money-making opportunity, I had placed my dignity and credibility on the alter and it had combusted with a bright flash before my innocent eyes.
Over the weekend, I thought long and hard about the possibility of pursuing legal action. I may very well have a claim for false advertising, fraud or misrepresentation. The doctrine of detrimental reliance might be deployed to show how BestBuy broke an implied contract with me and I am confident I could convince a small claims court judge of the justice of my plight.
I have at least a year until the statute of limitations expires and my claim is legally preempted. And I will consider the courtroom every time I drive by that store on my way to school. But for now I am going to leave well enough alone. The civic minded side of me says that my claim isn't sever enough to drag BestBuy into court. But then again...
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
If you load the date application on your cell, double click the clock icon on your Windows, Mac or Linux computer or check the paper calendar hanging in the next room, you may notice that today is Thanksgiving.
If November twenty-second isn't marked as Thanksgiving on your calendar - a realistic possibility given the number of calendars in circulation made before Abraham Lincoln recognized the holiday federally, just look for the date labeled Black Friday and subtract one day. That's the Day of Happy Tummies and Sad Turkeys, or at least that's what the calendar on my ice-a-boxa announces.
I joke about the euphemisms for Thanksgiving, but there is actually a serious issue at root here. Not a sinister, dark issue like Dane Cook in Mr. Brooks, but a light and fluffy concern like Dane Cook in Waiting. Thanksgiving, by that name, is being replaced by a host of alternatives, the most common of which is Turkey Day.
But is Thanksgiving really Turkey Day? Isn't that discriminating unfairly against the stuffing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie? What would the other food items say about calling out the meat dish for special recognition? What about the three football games and 3,000 calories? How about the Cowboys Spank The Jets Day? Or The Lions Are Really Out Of It Day?
I don't know anyone who called May 28th of this year Dead People or Cemetery Celebration; most folks just called it Memorial Day. And September 3rd was Labor Day, not Last Day to Wear White.
Like warm soda deliquescing ice in a Dixie cup, the meaning and title of Thanksgiving have melted away to a new reality.
The traditionalist in me says that not only should the turkey (small "t") should not be the core of the holiday, a couple of Presidential pardons and seasonal decorations notwithstanding. Maybe this day should be about giving thanks to Someone for all the stuff we've got and will get over the course of a generous Christmas season.
Giving thanks. Two words, twelve characters and a concept so profound, it takes a whole day to celebrate. In typical American fashion, it's a time to take stock and add pounds.
But giving thanks requires some deep thinking to finding someone to give thanks to. Mom? Dad? Nature? Some kind of omnipotent power or, dare I say it, God? That kind of pondering leads to stress-induced indigestion, which can ruin the feast, so we don't do it.
Who am I kidding? I should lay off the idealism pills and rejoin the 21st Century. I should leave the Wampanoag and William Bradford behind and embrace the new reality of, well, pretty much whatever you want to make it.
That's right. Go celebrate. Pork out (or is it gobble out?). Stuff your face 'till Romo throws his last touchdown. And never give a second thought to this strange custom of Thanksgiving.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Season's Greetings!
It's that time of year again.
It's a time for people across the nation to be consumed in a vague sense of excitement and cheeriness.
It's a time for Wal-Mart to make a quarter of it's annual sales.
It's a time for the streets around the malls to clog.
It's a time to have family reunions with people you pretend to like.
It's a time for cheery winter songs.
It's a time for sleigh rides.
It's a time for turkey.
It's a time to buy presents for everyone you know.
It's a time to get presents from people who don't know you well enough.
It's a time that gets pushed deeper and deeper into November every year.
FCN refuses to get left behind. Last year we did almost nothing for the holidays, and what we did was decidedly intolerant of those who don't recognize this rather narrow celebration. This year, we're doing it right. Uncle Wally repainted the site with generic holiday colors to highlight this festive attitude.
We're not celebrating any holiday per se. We're celebrating The Holidays. We're celebrating That Time of Year Again. We're happy to be happy. We're celebrating to celebrate. It is only in this broader sense that we can hope to appeal to everyone and offend no one.
And so, from all of us here at FCN, we want to wish you a holiday season as happy as this greeting is enigmatic.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Happy International Talk Like A Pirate Day!
Avast, me earties! One of these ere page's bilge rats knowed us t be right fine sell-outs t any sort o keel-hauling oliday; why, we're the greatest sluggards in all skullduggery. We be the sorts as wink off at the slightest smidgen of a chance, at's right.
So when that lubber throwed us a rope on ow this be Talk like a Pirate Day we knowed we'd ave ourselves a right fine going at it, aye! Me earties an I vowed we'd neer stop at nothing. We'd go down t Davy Jone's locker afore we let the day go by without a smart turn from us. So we weighed anchor an hoisted the mizzen, an the three Jack Tars of us (which we says acause there's three of us) set off across th bounding main in search of a merry yarn t spin back ere. Yaharr.
Jack was so good as t bring along his ornpipe an struck up a skivvy, an blow me down if it wasn't the worst piece of ear-splitting t be eard in this section o ocean since Jack learned is skipper ad spirited away with is motherload an is wench. Arrr, when Jack tracked down that mangy dog e tied is miserable salt t the yardarm an didn't bring im down till is back teeth showed. Then e made is wench walk the plank. Jack learned his tars a mighty fine lesson at day, aye! Shiver me timbers! At's a man as really know how to skuttle is skippers.
But enough on ol Jack. Me have more tales to tell o him than are lubbers to fire out to portside. It's time to uncork me bung hole an let forth on what happened on me own ship, to say so. Me an these scurvy scallywags oisted the colors an set course for the sunrise in all manner o fine trappings, when who should come along but the greatest grand beauty yer er to clap eyes on. I do mean the mother o all buxom beauties, the sleekest schooner in all seven seas. Arrrrgh! Me an me bilge rats are shocked to the very boney.
Jack's th first to come by is wits. "Thar she blows!" says e, an e strikes up a merry ello with the beauty. "Prepare to be boarded," e says.
"Yarrrrr!" We shout, "dogs ahoy!" and we oist our grog skyward for t show we're behind im. Aye, Jack is a real barnacle, Jack is.
"Avast, ye varmint," she says. "I'll be skuttled afore I haul keel with the likes o ye."
"But me's lost af me lice when me schooner went down off Tortuga! I'm a clean one, that I be."
"Well, you can swim if you can't sail, arrrr! Now avast afore I crack yer skull atwixt me knees. Savvy?"
"Yarrrgh," Says Jack, for e knows e's been beaten. He scuttles back to the rest of us an makes us a fine proposition, aye. He says as we've been doing this merry oliday for nearly alf an our now, we'd best be making back to home where be grog and salmagundi an ridding ourselves of the booty.
So we did. And we will talk normally for the rest of the day.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Losing The 'F' In 'FCN'
As some of you may have surmised from the not-so-subtle reference in the latest episode of Desperate Student, one of the three authors of Funny Class Notes is leaving for a period of weeks to partake in a summer project. The departing author has requested that the exact nature of his behavior be kept in the dark from you, the faithful few. I know, have a Kleenex. We can, however, tell you that he will be in no way productive. That much is assured de facto.
With the temporary loss of one of our three authors, FCN is now a triangle with two sides; a tri-union without one of the parties. We have gone from Lithium to Helium. Boy that was nerdy. We're the two stooges, Peter, Paul and nobody, or Nickelback without the bass player.
As long as it's just the two of us, we don't see a need to have a three letter acronym to describe this blog. “FCN” implies three people, and corresponds to the letters we have tattooed on our rear ends. The author who is leaving is taking with him the “F” on his rump with him (he couldn't very well leave it behind), leaving the C (my tush) and N here for your entertainment. So from now until he returns (the other writer not, you know, Him), this blog will be known simply by the acronym “CN.”
According to Acronym Finder, an excellent webpage that helped us determine that FCN actually stands for Funny Class Notes, “CN” means The People's Republic of China, Connecticut, Consultant, Cyanide, Communications Network, Cranial Nerve, Chloroacetophenone, Congenital Nystagmus, Common Name, Corporate Network, Canadian National, Cellular Number, Cherokee Nation and, our personal favorite, Chuck Norris. What the Acronym Finder hasn't found, however, is that CN really stands for Class Notes, which is what we will continue to write no matter what (with a few obvious exceptions like acid rain and a sticky female incident, but you get the picture).
What this means to you, or at least those who are spending their summers at more pedestrian pursuits, is that you need to take some counter measures to ensure that CN doesn't lose one third of its brilliance. In order to stay on the cutting corner of cultural commentary and comedy, we need you guys to send in any Class Notes you've been holding back. If you had a weird incident at the dentist's office a few weeks back and want to vent a little toothy frustration, send us your tome. If you twisted your littlest toe in a way that was so painful that you actually started laughing while the nurse fidgeted with it, write it down and tell us about it, as Chris says. If you were in Zimbabwe recently and had a noteworthy adventure there, you know what to do. Just email your material to us at FunnyClassNotes@gmail.com.
As for us, we'll put together a week of classics starting maybe next week or the week after that, or the week after that one, using the suggestions you came up with while we were all on vacation. We'll also be adding a little water to the soup, cutting posts shorter, making the graphics grainier and the page load more slowly so that we can make what content we do have go further.
Further, we aren't telling you which one of us is leaving. Our posts will retain their anonymous quality that destroys your ability to specify names in your hatemail or otherwise target a specific CN author. I know, we can be pretty devious.
So that's the plan for the next few weeks. If you have a problem with it, leave a nasty comment that the departing author will read when he returns or email us and we'll give you his personal email address so you can spam him to pieces.
Have a great get away, bro!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Happy Mother's Day Mommy G
Saturday, March 10, 2007
PreFab Greeting Card
Guys can't write greeting cards. Whether the occasion is Christmas, a birthday or simply a “thank you for the dried rutabaga, it really made my day,” we males are completely inept at developing any kind of decent note. Maybe it's the testosterone that destroys our cheesy receptors and makes us send schlocky cards we regret moments after dropping them into the mailbox. Or maybe its that we never put in the time to learn how to send a happy notice. Or perhaps the ability to write greeting cards is repelled by the "Y" chromosome. Whatever the reason, the end result is that we can't formulate a decent card.
To remedy this, and meet the demand of a huge male market, Hallmark created a pre-inscribed gift card that could, for a low price, fulfill the social obligation to express gratitude or wish someone well around a holiday. All the male need do is inscribe his name below the pre-written greeting.
The problem is that the solution was too effective. Soon the market was flooded with all the cheap and canned comedy any half-decent (female) writer could dream up. Whole store shelves were devoted to the sorting out of these greeting cards and males were once again faced with the gargantuan task of picking the right pre-fab greeting card. I have heard horror stories that some males spent several hours perusing different cards looking for something suitable for the female in their lives only to give up at the last minute and spend twenty bucks on flowers.
Yes, ouch. I feel the pain, brother.
The problem has persisted for long enough. Our gender can only take so much persecution. As a collection of desperate males, we here at the FCN Lab have found a solution to the “Multitude of Greetings” dilemma.
FCN labs will create one, easy to use card that lays out all the possible greetings in one very compact message. The cover will be a gender, racially and seasonally non-specific Smiley face (not unlike the one Wal-Mart has hijacked) and will have no text:
Doesn't that just instill happy thoughts in you? A smiley face is a universal relaxant; it's almost an opiate, in fact.
Inside, preferably on some kind of scented paper, the card will list a myriad of appropriate greetings (see below). All we males need do is cross off any inapplicable message:
There is even room for the adventurous male to strike out on his own and create a personalized message if he pleases. Keep in mind that the happiness of the receiver is not guaranteed when a personalized message is deployed.Birthday
You are over the hill!
You still look as young as you did when you were __ (write in age here)
You only get better with age.
Happy Birthday, little one.
It's hard to believe you're really __ (write in age here)
Other (Not Suggested): _______________________
Holiday
Merry Christmas!
Happy New Year!
Season's Greetings!
Happy Holidays!
Happy Hanukkah
Happy Kwanza
Happy Valentine's Day!
Other (Not Suggested): ________________________
Generic
Wish you were here.
Get well soon.
Thank you.
Happy Anniversary!
I miss you.
Personalized Message (Not Suggested)
_______________________________________
If there is significant demand, we may sell our idea to Hallmark where a group of females can craft the message choices.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Happy Valentine’s Day
To me, and probably 99% of all unpolluted guys out there, Valentine’s Day is just another 24 hour period. The chocolate, cheesy poetry and “magic” of the day is repelled by our testosterone fortified carcasses and, quite frankly, we’d rather it were our birthday or Christmas than have to suffer through the drama of February the 14th.
To women, however, this Valentine’s Day is the vicious culmination of a year of frustration. It is a license for chocolate, gossip and free dinners, the three vices of the modern woman. It’s their big chance to collect paper hearts, read plagiarized poetry and listen to coached odes. As my buddy Zack F. would say, it’s the real deal; the mastodonic moment. It’s romance on crack.
The true irony is that a male developed the concept of Valentine’s Day. While the holiday makes girls go crazier than Lindsay Lohan in an alcoholic beverage establishment, it makes guys calmer than Justin Timberlake at a Super Bowl Half Time performance.
Given its meaning and the customs associated with it, you’d think Valentine’s Day would be the product of a brainstorming session with Estrogen Awareness. Instead, the day of festivities is named after Saint Valentine, a Third Century male martyr who was named for the Latin word valens, meaning “being strong.”
Unfortunately, strength is the last thing that this holiday showcases, as lines of men turn into flower toting pansies who mouth “I love you” because custom and their girlfriends require them to do so.
364 days a year, expressing heartfelt emotion is difficult and only real men share what they really feel with their girlfriends. On Valentine’s Day, when the washouts of the world are making their play, the real man stays silent.
But we men are stuck, as it were, between a rock and a hard place (in saying that, I in no way intend to call women rocks). If we recognize the holiday and join in the chocolate orgy, we sacrifice our dignity. But if we refrain and hold back until our platonic limericks are significant and our paper hearts won’t join a multitude in the scratch pile, we deprive our girlfriends of the holiday they anticipate.
And you know what they say about scorned women. Oh yeah, steer clear of that.
Then there is the trouble of picking a Valentine. If you are like me, blissfully single and perpetually wanted, you will feel an intense pressure to ask someone to be your sweetheart (in the non-platonic sense). Whether you are “looking” or not doesn’t matter. If you are a guy, you need a Valentine on 2/14. If not, the lecherous rumor mongrels who make life difficult for any guy who makes a habit of saying no will eat you for lunch (tomorrow’s lunch, that is).
If you want to escape Valentine’s Day without injury, simply find someone unimaginative to ask (i.e. really young sibling of a friend, famous celebrity, the girl you chat with online that you’ve never met or you’ve met only once but the meeting was so brief that you can’t remember her face) and roll with that.
Don’t pick your mom. It’s too clichéd and won’t stop the mongrels.
If anyone asks you about your Valentine, respond positively with the girl’s name and an innocent smile. Also remember that you are taken and any guileful “be my valentine” tricks should be avoided.
As far as gender-specific advise goes…
Guys: The number one rule of thumb about Valentine’s Day is that you just can’t forget about it! Rustication is fine, encouraged in fact, but don’t lose sight of this all important holiday. A box of chocolates (you can eat the caramel ones before you send it over) or an inexpensive Hallmark card send the message that your brain at least fired a synapse and remembered the all important “her.”
If you do forget about it and are talking with your significant other tomorrow, don’t act like an aphonic-mooncalf bumbling over excuses to re-earn her respect. Point her back to this site and explain that real men have the guts to wait. Then get down on one knee and apologize until words stop giving your penitence credence.
Girls: Please, please, please go easy on the guy in your life. We know this is a big deal for you and that you will cherish the chocolates for the entire 35 days it takes to fully digest them. We understand that without your telling it to us through tears. Really we do. So when we mess up, please give us another chance.
If everyone (guys and girls) takes a deep breath and try to avoid personal and public embarrassment, the day should go off fine. If not, Valentine’s Day will continue to rest just below Tax Day on my least favorite holiday hierarchy.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Most Depressing Day of the Year
You, the faithful FCN few who regularly visit our humble blog, probably come here to get your measured dose of satire, synicism and silliness (the three Ss of FCN writing) and maybe to chuckle off a few pounds. If that's your reason for surfing here today, you're in for a major disappointment.
Today is not a day to be funny. To attempt anything light would be sacrilegious on so momentous a jour, to use a little français. The irony of humor might even make the day harder to bear, driving us all to an early grave and weight gain. We write this, not because we're a passel of cruel savages, although that might very well be the case, but because today is:
The Most Depressing Day of the Year.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, the experts who study this sort of thing have decided that, of all the 365 days that populate our datebooks and cell phone calendars, today is the day most likely to inflict a long face (see above photo).
Here's the formula:
The equation is broken down into seven variables: (W) weather, (D) debt, (d) monthly salary, (T) time since Christmas, (Q) time since failed quit attempt, (M) motivational levels and (NA) need to take action.
Here's the logic: As the weather of winter becomes colder, wetter and generally danker, the debts and assorted costs of Christmas express their fiscal impact, and the good vibes of Christmas join our New Year's Resolutions as distant memories, we become depressed. All these factors combine with increasing intensity to tell our brains to release commensurate stress hormones and our faces slowly morph to more closely resemble John Kerry's.
Most folks quit trying to keep their New Year's Resolutions three weeks to a month after New Years. Life gets too hard, the pounds just stop falling and we begin to realize just how expensive a nicotine strip really is. It's back to the same old same old and the imminent recycling of New Year's Resolutions, which, for some reason, gets people down.
Debts also come due about this time and the wisdom of getting the multitude of yuletide gifts for all those “friends” is not as clear as it was standing next to that persuasive sales clerk at Mervyn's a month ago. Visa and Mastercard are more concerned about their bottom line than your hypertension, so when the two conflict, you pay up. Ouch.
Finally the motivation, encouragement and rejuvenation we get during the Christmas season evaporates pretty quickly when school and work recommence. Even though Grandma is back in her happy home, normal day-to-day tension is stronger than that brought about by extended family.
This year a passel of over-educated psychiatrists and assorted therapists have determined that the most dreary day falls on Canada's election day (today).
I know, cheerio. At least it's not a Monday, right?
Despite the fact that the Patriots lost the AFC championship, the Democrat Party controls Congress, American Idol's continues to dominate prime time, Prince is doing the Super Bowl halftime show and the Oscar nominated films don't beat YouTube for content, we here at FCN see several reasons to be cheerful about the day:
It's 342 days until Christmas. Which is nice.
It could be any number of days until your next birthday, which, depending on your age, is nice.
A man survived a 300 foot fall from a hotel window. He is probably going to sue. Hey, it could happen to you.
Google is still doing well and shows no signs of slowing its rabid growth. We know, you don't care and you're never going to actually follow that link, but its still there just in case.
Paula Abdul is fine. Really.
McDonald's is going to start serving burgers on a comet! Or are we misreading this headline?
The new Boeing 747-8 sure looks comfy. And it's made in America!
Internet Explorer is being replaced by open source browsers like Firefox and Opera.
The year can't get any worse; all days from here on out will be better!
New Year's resolutions are no fun, anyway.
Have a great 23rd everyone!
