FCN's Last Post Ever of All Time

Farewell according to F

It's that time of year again.

No wait! It's not that time of year. What am I saying? Fine, this isn't a good post anyway. It's a very sad one.

Fact is, our little baby blog here - FCN- it's been having some problems. It's been slowly lounging toward its own ... you know. We did everything we could to ease the burden. We reduced the frequency of posts. We even reduced the funniness of posts. Nothing seemed to work. FCN kept ... you know.

So now, we find ourselves collectively standing at FCN's bedside, listening to a gradually weakening "beep ... beep ... beep ..." I'm clenching my jaw in a manly way, secretly trying to hold back tears. C has his latest future emotional baggage weeping on his shoulder. N has his phone out. Chip couldn't make it but sends his best and promises to be at the funeral (as long as there are crab cakes). Jessica is just standing there. She's just standing there! Ana is in the hall arguing with the orderly. Mommy G is waiting in the lobby with brownies. Uncle Wally is sitting in the corner, asleep.

We've all come to a consensus.

You like that?

Consensus.

And this is what the consensus is: it's time to pull the plug. We can't stand to watch our baby be a vegetable. The doctor promised it'd be painless. Personally I think the doctor is full of it. It won't be painless. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do - well, hardest ever since I gave my first edition copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul to a homeless guy (in exchange for a back rub).

FCN has always been there for us. She's what - 3 years old now? 4!? She's seen us through some hard times, and we've seen her through some too. And now it's over. We're finally euthanizing her, for real this time.

Goodbye baby. In the immortal words of Wham!:

"Wake me up before you go-go, cause I'm not planning on going solo. Wake me up before you go-go. Take me dancing tonight."

Oh! Just one more thing I really ought to say ...

I am Iron Man.

Farewell according to C

I'm going to be more sentimental than F because I am so confident in my masculinity that a little reflection does not threaten my identity. When Funny Class Notes first started, I was a high school student who was tired of paying attention in class. I succeeded in distracting my friends and decided to go viral with my tomes, essays, satires, doodles and what not. In the last few years, FCN has become my repository. Teachers, classes, cars, relationships, favorite celebrities and, yes, teeth have come and gone but FCN remained constant. This page was a place of comfort, where I could dump my partially censored thoughts into cyber-space with pseudo-anonymity.

Of course, the few people who read these expressive and revealing posts were also the people who mattered. Friends would email me with the subject line "REALLY WORRIED ABOUT YOU" based on FCN content that was, I say with only a little shame, 85% true. Others would speculate about where the tale left the train tracks of veracity and entered the fanciful world of fiction. Still more people would refuse to talk to me again based on their portrayal in an FCN post. I'm sorry Carrie, really. As addictive as comfort food -- and almost as dangerous -- FCN was a bridge that made me almost as many friends as it lost. And it was worth it.

I'm going to reflect on my time as an author with a pleasant grin. I'll probably reread some of our posts and chuckle at their sophomoric creativity -- such is the perspective provided by time. None of this would have been possible without the amazing support of you, the faithful FCN few. I have regularly thanked you for your continued loyalty and supportive comments -- but no expression of gratitude suffices to fully articulate the high esteem in which we hold you. FCN was here because you were here. Thank you for the fun times.

[Note: Hyperlinks in this paragraph direct to a friend's blog, Vague Apprehension. It comes highly recommended without reservation.]

FCN has long been the Lady Gaga of blogs: We're popular, but no one really knows why. We produce content, the critics scratch their heads and we gain social currency. The similarities don't stop there: we also prance around in our underwear, have the musical taste of a baboon and have very public dating lives.

I hope Miss Germanotta (a.k.a. "Lady Gaga") takes the hint and follows our lead. Retirement is, I am told, very comfortable for former pop stars. Just stop releasing new songs and rest on the laurels of such magnificent pieces as "Alejandro" and "Telephone."

Like F, I will close this farewell with a pop culture reference. Mine is to Lee "Hacksaw" Hamilton, who put it best when he said: "Good night now!" Good night now, FCN!

Will the Last Person Leaving FCN -- Turn Out the Lights.

Farewell according to N

It's been a long run.

A LONG run.

Not literally of course. In fact, not figuratively either. More like a bumbling walk. But that's how we like it. Slow and stumbling wins the race. Or finishes it at post 865.

When I started writing with C in 2005, I was in 8th grade. I really didn't worry about college. In fact, now that I think of it, I wasn't particularly concerned about high school. But here I am on May 22th, 2010. Yesterday was my last day as a senior of secondary education. It's time to move on to a new part of my life.

No more Life Tips. No more hours on Wikipedia looking for applicable hyper links. No more picking up chicks by telling the ladies I was the one who actually wrote C's posts. (Sorry, F. I promised I'd tell you what my secret was when we shut FCN down.)

I will miss it. But most of all I will miss you. Yes, YOU. Not him, not her. YOU, my most favorite reader of all. Don't tell the others, but I loved you the most. I always have. Sniff.

I bid adieu with the immortal closing words from Nancy Pelosi's statement on Healthcare Reform:

"Thank you, my colleagues. Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I thank the gentleman for yielding. I thank all of you for bringing us to this moment."

Thank you for the wonderful moments you have brought us.

Farewell according to Chip

Hooey, people. Those tears are going to melt your faces. When I joined FCN I was an obese old splutterer whose only claim to fame was tenth reader status, participation in a short highjacking attempt, and a peculiar facility for producing "tawdry laughs." FCN's extraordinary longevity (both in time and in wordiness) doesn't give me fond tears or fond memories; it just reminds me that one more thing in this world isn't as short as me.

Yes, it's been a good run. Especially after the women got involved (which is exactly when I started running). But all good things must end, and when they do, they have funerals with free refreshments. It's been great to work with you, F, C, N, Jessica, and Ana. You've given me more chuckles than anyone except Marilyn Manson, and you've filled my homework hours with joyful and unproductive laughter. I don't know what I'll do without you. Good bye, dear readers. I have never seen you, but I believe you exist anyway. Farewell, FCN! May your august archives continue to pollute unsuspecting minds for years to come.

Can I have my crab cakes now?

Farewell according to Jessica

10:30pm. Began writing farewell post.

10:31pm. Turned on Pandora to the “Boys Like Girls” station. Skipped 3 songs, changed to the “Explosions in the Sky” station. Serious/solemn times call for serious/solemn music.

10:38pm. Resumed writing farewell post, now armed with copious amounts of ice cream and a box of tissues. Who knew this would be such an emotional turning point? Now I know how Kevin Jonas probably secretly felt when he got married. Happy a new chapter of life was starting, but sad to say farewell to millions of adoring female fans who would gladly date him without commitment. But, unlike C, I’m not looking to date anyone. And I’m not a dude. That analogy is starting to crash. Backpedal. It’s time to reminisce.

10:45pm. Blankly staring at computer screen. Skipped another lame song on Pandora. Finished first pint of ice cream. Logged in to Facebook. Oh, the hours I used to spend reading FCN. I guess now I'll have to turn to Facebook to fill those empty moments.

11:37pm. Still on Facebook. It’s almost like a pain-relieving narcotic. I completely forgot about FCN’s dissolution for nearly an hour.

11:52pm. Decided to face the facts and focus on the good times rather than the saddening reality of FCN’s conclusion. Skipped more songs until Pandora started cursing at me and exploded. Time for silence I guess. But that’s fitting. FCN deserves her moment of silence. Farewell, FCN. I’ve spent more time as a FCN reader than as a FCN writer. And frankly, I’m really sad to see the magic stop. Yes, it’s time. All good things must come to an end, and we just have to let them go. But did that kind of advice lessen the sting of the phase-out of eight-track tapes for Bill Lear? Doubt it.

This is it. Goodbye hijackers. Goodbye Anonymous. Goodbye faithful readers. We're sure you have more important things to do with your time online, like maintaining your farm on Farmville, or compulsively clicking the StumbleUpon button... but if you get the chance, look us up. These posts will be here as a lasting monument to the good ole days of blogging.

Like the Wicked Witch of the West after an accidental shower… I’m meltingggg…

Farewell according to Ana

I wish I could say that I'm sad to see FCN go. I wish I could cry a couple crocodile tears. I wish I could pretend to be a fragile female and fall into a faint at the thought of saying "Farewell, FCN." But I can't. Instead, all I can do is breathe a sigh of relief that this phase of my life is over. No longer do I have to dissect every aspect of my life, trying to extract something funny from every occurrence for the amusement of mere strangers somewhere in cyberspace. Instead, I can now simply go through life, laughing at the humorous moments and then promptly forgetting them. Finally, I can stop being a bum student who takes notes on strange things that go on in class, and I can instead take notes on what the professor is actually talking about (I wonder what that will do for my 2.37 GPA?). In short, I'm not really sad to see FCN depart. While it's been a big part of my life for the past 4+ years, I think the time has come to say goodbye. So goodbye, FCN. And goodbye stranger in cyberspace. It's been fun. Ish.

Welcome to the all-new FCN

It's bigger, it's badder, it's ...

Okay, it's not. Unless badder counts for being worse. Like ... 80% worse.

Here at FCN, we've always taken a sort of pride in our mediocrity. We're a vastly inferior blog with bad layout, poor taste, and tacky ideas. Basically the only thing we ever had going for us was post frequency. We've given you about 800 posts in the last few years: enough humorous content with which - by means of fire - to roast more than a few marshmallows.

In a recent FCN team meeting which we did not tape or video, we came to an important decision. Here are the notes, which were kept by the copiously attentive F:

FCN TEAM MEETING LATE OCTOBER TOO LAZY TO CHECK EXACT DATE Role call. Everyone present. Mommy G does not approve of N's dating behaviors. N is a very sorry little boy. Haha to you, N. Whats her face wants to post less often. Sounds cool to me. Instead of voting, let's play Halo.

What that means, for those of you who are unaccustomed to the complex formatting and lingo of meeting minutes, is this: we can't keep posting 5 times a week. It's burning us out. We need oue beauty sleep, and we need to wake up in time to get our nails done and our cereal poured. Time is of the essence, and it today's fast-moving world no one has enough.

We don't have time to write a bunch of posts each week, and you don't have time to read them. So let's simplify.

Starting immediately, we hereby reneg on all previous promises of constant content. You may no longer depend on us for a post EXCEPT on one day: Saturday. Saturday is a very special day. On it, we will - you know - post something. So come back then. And if you wanna come back between, you have 800 posts to catch up on. We're sure you missed a few here and there.

We love you, our faithful FCN reader(s). Lots and lots. Hearts! Please don't leave us. Just come to terms with the new distance in the relationship. Okay? Okay.

PS. Welcome back!

The Etymology of a post

Special thanks for the aged wisdom, useless flaunt and inane facts provided by Mr. L in preparing this post.

In typical FCN fashion, I will now presume to know how the faithful FCN think. There. I admitted it. You can now burn me in effigy and sacrifice me to the media gods for public ridicule. I submit freely and willingly to your abuse and reserve no right against slander with regard to my admission of presumption. Happy now? Then read the post.

It's very easy to visit a regularly updated humor blog like Funny Class Notes and assume the posts spontaneously generate themselves or that they come to be out of nothing. Some will even argue that our posts are in fact nothing, but that they are carefully packaged and positioned to look like something, but these people don't know the world of hurt they create with their cutting reviews.

Hang on a second while I collect myself.

I am here to dispel that presumed (by me for you) myth (the one about spontaneously generating posts; the question of whether or not FCN is "nothing" is still open, sniff) and give you an inside look into the etymology of FCN's content - or lack thereof.

Posts begin as little light bulbs that go off inside a contributor's head. This is the equivalent of the twinkle in your grandfather's eye idiom. The light bulb is completely unpredictable, although it usually goes off in times of complete and utter boredom like during class (as opposed to while lying in bed or in the shower). The average FCN contributor has a light bulb go off anywhere from seven to eight hundred times per day, but we are so lazy that we rarely write more than one post per day. All the other light bulbs dissolve in our heads, turn to gray mush and join the rest of the junk in our brains.

You are what you eat, my eight hundred dissolved light bulbs!

If the illuminated light bulb is strong enough to compel a post to be written, the writing invariably occurs clandestinely during class. Instead of texting our friends we write humor, but the result is the same. The scribbled note is usually nicely adorned with doodles that don't translate well to the blog format. We would scan more of our doodles for you to see, but, quite frankly, if you think we don't make good humorists, you should see our drawing.

In the case of F, who does not sit in class, he writes posts at work while his supervisor has his back turned.

When a paper version of a post has been prepared in huggermugger fashion, it still needs to be typed up. N once tried putting his note between the lid and the keyboard on his computer overnight in the hope that the CPU would incorporate the content by osmosis. Not only did it not work, the post actually broke his laptop!

Since N's experience, we have been typing up posts by hand, a practice that is as tedious as it sounds.

Once a post is typed, it needs to be scanned for the blog, an electronic process controlled entirely by Uncle Wally. History will never know what devious methods Wally uses to format posts for publication, but we are sure that if his deeds were public knowledge he would either be given the Noble Prize or incarcerated for insanity. We retain hope for the prize.

One thing we can tell you is that Uncle Wally has developed a Macro which searches the internet for a random photograph using search terms culled from the blog. The photo is automatically cropped and rehosted and is hidden from the FCN contributors until the time of publication. We therefore are unable to take responsibility for any offense taken at our graphics.

Sometimes Uncle Wally's methods cause digital disturbances in our posts. The problems can manifest themselves as anything from a spelling error to a major grammar faux pas. These "mistakes" were never present when the post was originally written by FCN, but are universally and without exception the fault of Uncle Wally.

The next step in the crawl toward publication is the mandatory censorship. Every line of every post is carefully weighed, debated and analyzed by the loving mothers of the FCN contributors and Mommy G. You can therefore blame them for anything that gets through the Mom filter.

What follows next is lovingly dubbed "fermentation" but, in other circumstances, is called bureaucratic delay. Like a starving actor waiting for his big break, posts need to sit in a hopper, patiently attending an opening in our busy posting schedule. When the time comes, the post zips out of the queue like a baby from the womb and nestles in among all the others.

FCN posts are, then, mechanized. We are a humor machine, not unlike Gene Gene. We approach comedy with the calculated air of Hal, except we are not as prone to practical jokes. You are reading a prefabricated product of the post-consumer society, a recycled and rehashed content that has more calories than nutrition. In the humor world, FCN is the freezer burn laden processed food.

But, unlike Harry Truman, the buck doesn't stop here; we always have someone to blame.

Risky blogging

This post is introspective and may come across to the uninitiated as a tad effeminate, that is, not manly. Please know that I took my testosterone pills this morning, ate my Wheaties and had a snicker's bar during class. I was also told by my mom that this post is "sensitive but still masculine." Exact words. So there. If you still believe that this post is a panziness sketch after reading it, know that my governor can pump up your governor any election.

And whatever you do, please don't faint.

Barring Baring one's life to eleven anonymous readers in a publically read and uncontrolled forum (a concept which technically includes anything said outside a shower stall) is dangerous. Even when some of the episodes are embellished slightly to impart an important moral or practical reality, the fact that the stories shared here are rooted in truth makes us vulnerable to criticism, and I am not just talking about the comment section.

The especially loyal among the Faithful FCN Few may recall a post from April of the year last in which I revealed a now obsolete practice of carpooling with my father whenever the gas tank needed refilling. I say "now obsolete" because my dad caught wind of my behavior and told me I had to pay for my own gas, further straining a budget already made tight by Uncle Sam. After a full investigation, the inquisitive half of my brain discovered that it was this very page that tipped my father off to my devious tank-filling habits.

If only that example were isolated. Time after time, in many a revealing and embarrassing post, I have risked the confidence and good humor of my friends by recounting tales of depravity and dereliction. While most of the facts contained in these posts are vague and ambiguous enough to preserve all requested anonymity, the posts themselves serve as a cutting perspective on episodes whose facts are all too familiar to the key actors. A skiing trip with friends becomes a ski trip with fiends and my vehicular abuse is broadcast to the general public ad nauseum. Who knows? People might start to get the impression that I'm a dangerous driver.

Invariably, whenever I'm hanging out with friends and something exciting happens, someone will turn to me and say "you can't write a post about this." It's as if FCN's treatment of any issue will be unflattering and we are so desperate for content that we will write on every experience we have (well, maybe that last part is true). Just a few weeks ago, in fact, I was driving next to Mommy G in the middle of town and she was doing her best to keep up with me when she got pulled over by a motorcycle cop. I skedaddled on like a tiny rodent away from the light, but got a call from Mommy G as soon as the officer had finished ticketing her. Mommy G's order was clear: None of what had just transpired was to appear on FCN. Ever.

Oops.

It's an occupational hazard. Like getting sued for doctors, losing fingers for dentists and getting shot at for a drug dealer, only bloggers aren't paid. Not the ones with eleven readers, anyway. So we push on for the art of the endeavor. Satirical commentary needs to be written, real art must be made and in-class doodles posts must be published out of principle, only there are no principles behind FCN and what we do here could hardly be called art. So we take these risks for the same reason Evil Knievel performs his stunts and my overweight uncle reached for that last Twinkie: the thrill and pure endorphin-inducing high of taking an unnecessary risk.

Think about that while I go pay for my next tank of gas.

Homies Plan B: Day 3: Party's Over

Apparently Mommy G had an internet connection off where she was vacationing. She got wind of Osiris' dastardly plot and moved with decisive action, cutting short her week-long break.

We woke up just three minutes before the scheduled doomsday to the sound of screeching tires. The front door was kicked open, then the door to the laundry room. We wandered downstairs, bleary eyed, but with our photon blasters at the ready. Actually I don't know what they were. Ever since Mommy G had left the house strange SciFi-looking weapons had popped up all over the place. I mean what's up with that?

Anyway, we cautiously approached the laundry room door and put our ears to the door, as little kids do when a sibling gets in trouble for something they did and they're listening to the interrogation. We heard sounds of a scuffle. Mommy G was panting and grunting with every swing of her spatula (we recognized the sound of its use with disturbing but familiar ease). Osiris was meowing, punching buttons, and occasionally jumping up on the cabinets to make appropriate remarks like: "Fool! You can never beat me!" or "A spatula? How quaint!"

After five minutes, we heard Osiris sigh wearily and say: "Well, you've forced me to do something I really don't want to do." Then came a low hum and the ground began to shake. We had three options:

1) Burst into the room and take sides.
2) Stick around.
3) Run for dear, sweet, precious, fragile life.

We dashed barefoot across the lawn to our car, leaving the titans locked in their epic struggle. We're not really clear on who won. We haven't received any word since we tore out of that section of town, leaving the smell of scorched rubber and our toiletries. So, because we don't know who is still alive, we would like to offer three conditional messages.

IF MOMMY G IS THE VICTOR, we believed in her from square one and salute her competent and well-planned handling of the criminal mastermind. Mommy G is a great heroine. We never doubted you, Mommy G!

IF OSIRIS IS THE VICTOR, we would like to add an addendum to Osiris' demands. We want all 11 of you to go the zazzle.com/funnyclassnotes* and buy something. Or. Else. We'll sic the cat on you. So yes. That.

IF THERE IS NO VICTOR, meaning the battle is still happening or someone got away, we are unavailable for comment at this time but will release a position statement as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.

Homies Plan B: Day 1: Nine Easy Steps to Posting Late

This is the 2nd Homies series. Read the first one here. Start at the bottom and read up.

Step 1) Get re-commissioned by Mommy G. The fact that she didn't have us thrown to the lions was amazing enough. But when Mommy G recently told us she was headed out for a three-day post-thanksgiving digestion fest at her summer home and she wanted us to watch the house again, we were pretty much knocked flat. Of course we agreed without moral hesitation or compunction.

Step 2) Dress up like Indians. It's a family tradition to festoon ourselves as Cowboys and Indians every Thanksgiving. (EDIT: Actually that's Pilgrims and Indians). Every year has gotten a little more extreme; this time around the three said Indians spent more then 2 hours sequestered on their part of the house with lotions, razors, blankets, makeup sticks, loincloths, leather and rubber bands, safety pins, hair gel, and spiking glue. The result was hardcore to the hardcore. The indians walked around with straight backs, deep voices, and broken English and spoke of Indian things. The pilgrims punctuated the benevolent silence with occasional insensitive comments. Life was good.

Step 3) Spend 7 hours in a cold parking lot. My state is notoriously temperate, but when mid-November rolls around, the nights do get a little bracing. Some FCN Contributor developed a hair-brained idea about scalping Best Buy tickets again, and this time, he enticed most of the males of his family, the rest of the FCN staff, and another warm body or two to come along. We set up a circle of chairs in the quarter-mile long line and pooled iPods and Nintendo DSes, blowing on our hands to keep warm. Headphone splitters are a beautiful thing. What really made the wait from eight in the evening to three-something in the morning was our foolish choice not to switch back out of our Indian duds. Running around shirtless and tatooed with feathers hanging off you is fine in the comfort and warmth of your own home. Doing so in sub-okay-that's-cold weather with hundreds of perfect strangers are staring at you is a different story.

Step 4) Get totally busted. Just after four, our group picked up tickets offering 200 dollars off LCD TVs. We then turned, jogged down the line, and started scalping. "I've got a ticket here for a 40-inche Samsung TV here, guaranteed in stock, and I'll let it go for just 50 bucks! Who wants a TV?" I made two or three near sells (which were presumably dampened by my less-than-credible get up) when the bulky form of a security guard broke the gleam of the parking lot flood lights. "Sir, if you're selling that ticket, I'm going to have to take it from you." I handed the ticket to him wordlessly and scampered back to the van, where most of my party was already hanging out. Unfortunately, a fellow FCN Contributor wasn't so quick to give up his legal right to his ticket. He took his civil liberties all the way to the nearest police station, where he called his lawyer, who convinced him to abandon the fight. I believe the exact words were to "run away with your tail tucked between your legs like a little dog."

Step 5) Sleep like an honest man. We arrived at Mommy G's place just before sunrise. I showered the glue out of my hair, tossed a sleeping bag into my adopted room, and fell asleep. The Pooh-Bears stared mournfully at me from all directions. I believe the former tenant had read Homies Day 1 and deliberately placed those Pooh-Bears for maximum spookiness. Fortunately I was too tired to care. "Drink it in," I scowled as my heavy eyes closed for good. "And don't forget it. Tomorrow it's the pool."

Step 6) Be all groggy. We woke just two hours later, ready to deal with the animals. My homie headed off to deal with the dog and I poked my head into the laundry room, which supposedly held - ahem ahem - Jake. The closet door was wide open, and Osiris had his head buried in the cat food. His head jerked up when I came in.

"It didn't work!" He hissed.

"What?" I looked where he pointed. The naughty cat had erected a trip wire tied to a pack of C4 on the dryer. My shins were just inches away from fiery extinction. I backed up prudently. "You tried to kill me?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"But I was trying to feed you!"

"Do I look like I need help? Listen bub. My masters think I'm a diet. They have no clue about my mad urban foraging skills. I'm totally self-sufficient. So just leave me alone. I've got evil plans to bring to fruition!" He followed this up with an evil cat laugh. I'll leave to your imagination exactly what that sounded.

I backed away slowly and closed the door.

Then I threw all the Winnie-the-Poohs into the pool.

Step 7) Feed the dog his pill already. Apparently Mommy G had collected a new dog; this one's name was Dignity. Dignity had a skin infection; he was being fed pills morning and evening. Mommy G showed us how to tuck these pills into hot dog meat so Dignity would gulp them down. I don't know what we were missing, but that dog just would not eat his pill. He would eat the meat and spit out the little white thing. After a half-hour of failed attempts, we have up on subtlety and took a hint from the French (who make fois gras, you illiterates). We got a blender tamper, held Dignity's mouth open, and forced that little sucker down his throat. Mission accomplished.

Step 8) See step 5.

Step 9) Go "Oh nuts!" and hastily write this post. My eyes still don't really stay open properly, but writing FCN posts has become as natural as breathing. I'm probably deep in REM even as I write this.

I better click Post before I fall off the chair.

Enforcement of the Authority of the Certificate of Authenticity

Here's the short version of a long story: Mommy G hounded us about fraudulent comments all week. At first we were able to placate her with meaningless buzz phrases like: "I appreciate your concern," and later: "We'll get right on it." But eventually she threatened to cut the flow of brownies, and we immediately held an emergency staff meeting to determine what was to be done. The decision was unanimous, thanks in large part to the silent but conspicuous presence of Mommy G and her wooden spoon in the corner of the room.

Uncle Wally has been ordered to delete all comments from fake Mommy Gs starting the moment this post goes online. In addition, all comments from fake Mommy Gs from before this post are to be deleted at Uncle Wally's leisure.

It's been a great run, you guys. We'll tell you honestly: we found the whole thing absolutely hysterical (but don't tell Mommy G we said so). But when you stand between us and the brownies, something has got to give. And while we may not be able to tell the difference, Uncle Wally and his nifty snifty formula can. So beware, fraudulent fraudsters everywhere. Your Mommy G days are over.

In other news, we were recently asked to create a way for other FCN fans, friends, and family to put their own names on the Certificate. We have provided just such a way. If you're interested (Trevor, you should be reading carefully right around here), just send an email to FunnyClassNotes@Gmail.com and explain how you meet the following criteria:

1) FCN Reader
2) Regular commenter with blogger profile (provide a link)
3) In danger of being fraudulated or fraudulized, I didn't have time to consult a dictionary.

Of course, even if you meet none of these criteria, you can still make it on. Our integrity can be bought pretty cheaply. Money talks. Also brownies.

Would the real Mommy G please take a bow?

I would first like to say that this is my first post on this blog, and I am very excited about that. My nephews have not treated me with much respect, but they are finally letting me speak for myself. I am very happy about this. Did I mention that I was very excited to be posting?

The FCN Team asked me to get to the bottom of the Mommy G problem so our readers would know who they could trust (which apparently means beg for brownies). I have created an authentication system so everyone can know who is in and who is out. Let me explain how it works and then how to use it.

It works by first assuming that given users have characteristics T1:Tn which indicate identities. The parameter d is a dampening factor that can be set between 0 and 1. I usually set d to 0.85. I define C(A) as the number of characteristics stemming from the user. So the identity breakdown of user A is given as follows:

I(A) = (1-d) + d(I(T1)/C(T1)+...+I(Tn)/C(Tn))

Identity of I(A) can be calculated using a simple iterative algorithm which corresponds to the principal eigenvector of the normalized characteristic matrix, which can then be scaled according to the centralized networking architecture of the verification system.

Now that you know how it works, let me tell you how to use it.

If the identity of a person is called into question, click on their user name. This will take you to their profile information. At the bottom of the profile, a list of blogs will appear. One of these blogs should be the FCN Certificate of Authenticity (FCNAuthentic.BlogSpot.Com). If no such certificate appears, this person is a fraud.

I have tracked down the real Mommy G by computing alternative identity vectors and cross-referencing them with known and implicit characteristics. The closest match was given the certificate. All Mommy Gs appearing without this certificate presumably serve burnt brownies.

Now if only she would accept my blog invite. 

- Uncle Wally

I'm Sorry*

There was a bit of a ruckus here at FCN headquarters yesterday evening. Contributor C, Contributor N, Mommy G, Uncle Wally, Saint Nicholas, and Elvis (I know - crazy, huh) made a very dramatic entrance through the front door and dragged me, kicking and screaming, away from the keyboard.

We had a long talk, which was punctuated by utensils found in Mommy G's kitchen. I was determined not to cave in to my former colleague's persuasions, and my resolve held firm for about thirty seconds. When C and N broke out the corkscrew and juicer, I caved. In other news, a recent online test indicates that I am ill-suited for clandestine operations.

I told them everything, as if they didn't already know. They made me apologize, which was humiliating. Then I had to stay up very late with Uncle Wally putting FCN back the way it was, which was no easy task, let me tell you, especially when you're not allowed to seek aid from caffeine. Finally, I was made to write this post, and publicly apologize for doing what any one of you would have done under similar circumstances. So here goes.

People of the world, please forgive me for the way I somehow wronged you by foisting my own ideas on you through the perfectly legal and ethical means of writing on my own blog, as I was asked to do by the people who are now forcing me to write this. I realize now that the new FCN is vastly inferior to the old one for reasons that are completely beyond my comprehension and gladly embrace the tried-and-true formula which has proven to be such a miserable failure in the past. I am filled with remorse for the way I deceived you and the rest of the FCN team. Apparently, deceiving means pouring my soul out on a public website, and for some reason, my fellow contributors feel they have the moral authority to chastise me for lying. I am so, so sorry from the bottom of my heart and beg your forgiveness, also from the bottom of my heart, which is where I keep my most sincere sentiments.*

So that's said. As of now, all the old ways and rules of FCN are back in state and you will never hear me complain about it again. I've had my say. Now I'm going to go sit as far as possible from Mommy G and cry for a little while.

------
* not!

Homies, Day 6: The Lame Escape

After a night of drunken carousing, we hit the sack and slept in. In fact, we slept past the wakeup alarm. We slept past lunch. Some time that afternoon, we awoke to the sound of a car door slamming outside.

In a flash, we were wide awake, desperately stuffing our belongings into our bags. Our benefactors were home!

"Where'd the potted plant by the door go?" Someone wondered as we tumbled down the stairs and headed for the back door.

We bowled through the screen into the backyard and looked around frantically for an escape. Applejacks looked up playfully, chewing a mouthful of pink roses. The side alley to the front was blocked by the PKB, who was crouched on the gutter, snarling. In that instant, he reminded me of every single villain from Watership Down, not that I have read that book.

There was no time to lose. We dropped our shoulders and charged the wooden fence toward the neighbors. The boards shattered and we stumbled into the next yard impaled by hundreds of splinters. We rose, sputtering, and reached for our bags.

Too late.

"Boys?" Our benefactors were standing in a small semi-circle by the hole in the fence with quizzical expressions. "We're home!" We stood, heads bowed in shame.

Before going further, it's time to reveal an important fact that I probably should have mentioned in the first post in this series: we were housesitting for Mommy G. She had trusted us with our (her) home and we'd blown it. We'd caused all kinds of damage and defiled every corner of the house. We'd even besmirched her computer by making FCN posts from it before it was sold for two hammers and a toilet seat.

"What are you two up to?"

My homie gestured lamely at the house. "See for yourself."

Mommy G turned and walked slowly through the former screen door into the kitchen area, the patrolled the house, eyes wide, occasionally making high-pitched sqeaking noises. "Oh! ... oh! ... oh! ..." When the entire thing had been reviewed, she turned to face us.

"It's still standing," She said. "I'm so proud of you two."

This was not exactly what we had been expecting. "Sure," I said. "But ... aren't you upset about ..."

"How can I be upset? You've already given me so much more than I expected."

"But we sold everything for four hundred and fifty bucks."

"A shrewd business move."

"We ate the bunny and wumped the dog. Now you've got a Shetland that eats flowers."

"Snickers was getting fat and Coco sometimes chased his tail. Good riddance. Besides, Applejacks is adorable."

"There front door is surrounded by holes!"

"It'll improve ventilation on hot summer days."

We entered Mommy and Mr. G's bedroom and inhaled sharply. The mess in front of us stretched the imagination of even the most experienced college student. My homie continued pointing out problems, saying "Your bed has been replaced by a wicker couch!"

"I was getting tired of that mattress anyway. Well, hello, Jake!" Mommy G knelt and extended a hand at Osiris, who had been drawing attack plans on the wall when we entered the room. Osiris hissed and chomped down hard on Mommy G's hand, then jumped out the second-story window, fur flying, shouting: "Viva la revolution!"

"Haha! Good old Jake." She turned to face us again. "You two went above and beyond the call. Good work."

On the drive home, we decided that Mommy G had been bitten by some sort of rare and venomous insect during her time in Zimbabwe. A few hours after arriving home, we recieved a batch of freshly-baked cookies that Mommy G had FedExed over. They were as good or better than the ones she made back when her kitchen worked.

Well, no matter what she tells us, we still feel bad for trashing her house. Oh well. Thanks for the vacation, Mommy G.

Happy Mother's Day Mommy G

Happy Mother's Day Mommy G!

I remember when we ___________________________.

I miss you.

Wish you were here.

Cordially, the FCN Team

Announcing the Official FCN Mom

We're told there's something inspiring about three lonesome, misdirected students stumbling blindly through the universe bumping their shins on things. We're also told there's something equally inspiring about having their every poorly planned misdeed shamelessly recorded for six people to read. The thing is, we at FCN can't figure out what's so inspiring about it. We find it rather demoralizing, actually. We try so hard to succeed. Perhaps what we need is a little more parental guidance.

We all have mothers of some kind or another. For some of us, our biological mother fills the maternal role (and does so quite nicely, may we add without sounding like we want more dinner tonight). For others, a caring female figure who grants motherly advice when it’s needed steps up to fill the role. Regardless, the mother is the cornerstone of a family and very important to the development of the individual.

We don’t mean to sound like Freud; we do mean to say that mothers have been prominent figures in our own lives and that we regret that FCN doesn’t have the "maternal advantage."

FCN is yet a wee weblog and is still in its developing state. With only a few faithful readers to boast of and tons of awesome content yet to be imagined, we are in dire need of a good mother to keep us on the straight and narrow. Unfortunately, FCN lacks a biological mom – the online condition of a blog renders physical parents an impossibility – and we must therefore seek out an unfortunate soul to substitute for our non-existent natural parent.

As you, the faithful FCN few, well know, the writing team here is a bunch of derelicts who defy correction and are, to wit, ungovernable. The task of mothering us is a difficult one (not unlike running an orphanage – "Oliver Twist," not "Annie") and we understand the trepidation that accompanies any attempt. We need a mom who can offer us her cyber-shoulder when our love lives go off the deep end. We need a mom who will understand when we wash down large quantities of taquitos with liquid myocardial infarction. We need a mom who can take a joke and give one at the same time.

And we've found one.

By a vote of 3-0, the FCN team has agreed to adopt Mrs G as the Official FCN Mom (she gave us permission after we promised to floss). "Mommy G" will serve as a supporting member of the FCN team, only the second person to gain this distinction since Uncle Wally started handling our technology. She will provide guidance, instruction, support, and brownies to the hard-working team in exchange for an occasional thank you and the satisfaction of a job well done.

Welcome to the team, Mommy G. We look forward to many happy years together (and when we say many, we really do mean many).