Part Two: 'Tomorrow’s Happiness Begins Today'

Since last week’s discovery that the beautiful girl in my philosophy class likes to spend time with the campus nerd, I have devoted countless mental calories to devising a way to be noticed by her in a positive way. Most of my ideas involve great heights, flame or Marxist propaganda (that was Reginald's idea, actually) and none of them are very positive. But because I haven’t risked any of them, a relationship with Carrie remains a possibility, albeit a distant one. By the same token, she still hasn’t noticed me.

During one of the breaks, I followed the nerd into the restroom and got a good look at him while at the wash stand. The nerd was looking at his own comely features in the mirror and adjusting his dry, keratinized hair with an air of vanity and self assurance. I sized him up while letting the tepid water flow easily over my outstretched palms.

He was small. Maybe 5’7” or 5’8”. His shoulders had an inward slump that spoke of more hours in a virtual world than a weight room. He did not look athletic, but had a fashionable pair of jeans that made turned his unshaped body into something mildly resembling the masculine form. He weighed between 120 and 130 pounds; a meager presence in the large restroom. His was the body type that made a small “poof” when entering the water in “cannon ball” form. His voice when we exchanged pleasantries was flat and high pitched. His diction was heavily weighed by a Castro Street lisp that severely detracted from his manliness. His shirt was nondescript, black with some artistic white designs. He was exactly the kind of guy you could look at and then forget a moment later.

But Carrie hadn’t forgotten him. After class they were walking together with a closeness that befits lifelong friends, not college freshmen two weeks into their first semester of higher education.

Maybe, I thought, my feelings were a banal jealously, a perception that this girl was somehow a prize that I could beat out the other guys to “have.”

But no, a quick examination of my priorities revealed my intentions were pure. This girl was fresh off the farm, a naive and innocent presence on a hardened academic surface. She didn’t know what she was getting into or the ideas the nerd might be getting into his nondescript head. She needed protection. My protection.

The nerd, on the other hand, was probably a battle hardened player with more love tales than Alexander the Great had war anecdotes. He probably made a lifestyle of getting women to fall for him and then crushing their uncorrupted hearts. His was a utilitarian existence and it was my lot to save one more victim from his grasp.

Then another thought hit me like the cold water of “polar bear club:” Why do women, especially those as beautiful as Carrie, get involved with the emasculated and uninteresting? Why don’t women always find the strong, handsome men’s men, the real alphas of the pack and leave the weak to their ugly counterparts?

Maybe you women in the audience can help me dissect this and provide a little light on this very complicated question: why do relationships like Robert and Stephanie happen? (Note that I did not just say that).

Anyway, at class yesterday, I was trying to think of something to say to Carrie, some way of starting a conversation. My position in class makes it awkward to lean over and make a casual remark, so I need to have something substantive in order to justify the effort of communicating. All the obvious things (weather, parking situation, cafeteria food) seemed too trite and a question about her experiences in college so far might seem contrived. I thought about asking her opinion of Fred Thompson's candidacy, but weighed the possibility that she had no idea who Thompson is and the eventual embarrassment my explaining might produce as sound arguments against such a query.

I sat at my desk, scribbling possible questions on the palm of my hand for a long stretch of our professor’s discussion of Leviathan and Thomas Hobbes. In the end, I just left without saying anything, biding my time for a future encounter.

At lunch after class, I discovered my fortune cookie was broken into small pieces. It had suffered some violent settling in transit and was now a collection of fortune crumbs. I was disturbed.

Now would be a good time to defend the use of fortune cookies as a moral and life guide. Mommy G pointed out that there are several far better ways to get life advice and cautioned me against putting my faith in a fortune cookie. The implicit message in her caution is that superstitious tools like fortune cookies can cause more harm than good. Mommy G is, of course, right - Mom's rarely aren't - but I do think there is some limited role a tiny slip of inked paper with a quaint quip can play in our lives and occasionally in our decision making.

When the suppliers of fortune cookies for the Chinese restaurant sit down to start chopping out their advice, they look inward to some discrete location around the belly button, in search of enlightened humor. When they don't find lint, the nuggets of truth they pull from their hidden troves are wrapped in a slightly sweet sugar and wheat based product and baked. Fully baked; through and through. Anyone who puts that much effort into getting a secret message into a diner's greasy fingers deserves an ear. In some small way, fortune cookies are, then, a message from God himself; a sovereign protected correspondence with the Almighty. Our Maker guides these bits of molded dough into our hands and, after a salty meal with plenty of soy sauce and conversation, communicates through the fortune.

I mean, if Leonidas listened to the dieing messenger at Marathon, I'll read my fortune cookie.

Fortune cookies are life's way of laughing at itself; what they lack in verisimilitude they make up in jest.

OK, enough verbose summations; my fortune cookie read:

TOMORROW’S HAPPINESS BEGINS TODAY

Goodness! My meteorologist could have told me that. All those tiny China-men were waisting their time. Still, perhaps I could have been more assertive in the Carrie situation. Then again, maybe these dough wrapped messages are full of it, clichéd verbal sophistication notwithstanding. Yes, that was a drug reference.

Part One: 'Never Let An Opportunity Pass You By'

There is a girl I like at school. Not “like” like or anything terribly mushy, but I really enjoy talking with her and she is amazingly pretty. She’s inhale sharply and clear your calendar kind of pretty. She is “how in the world did God make something this pretty” kind of pretty. She is ... okay, she's a terribly mushy sort of pretty. That didn't sound right, so I'll abandon the visual descriptions and move on.

We’ll call her Carrie, since that’s a close approximation of the name she gave me when we met a week ago in line to take collegiate placement tests. She speaks Spanish and was bemoaning the inconvenience of sitting through a language exam when she already knew her skill level. My agreement started a conversation which covered everything from heritage to plans for school (she’s half Italian and is majoring in International Studies). We didn’t get a chance to exchange contact information, but she assured me that we would “probably run into one another in class.”

Carrie was right. Not a week after our first meeting, I found myself on the other side of a small classroom from her, listening to a lecture on Plato’s critique of democracy. I’ve read the Republic and consider myself a regular advocate of the philosopher king concept, so the lecture had little new to offer. I spent most of the hour, conjuring up various ways to look at Carrie. I caught her eye once and drew out a gorgeous smile of recognition. I considered that delightful grin just reward for the effort I'd exerted.

During a break, I maneuvered across the room and said hi. Carrie told me she’d passed her exams easily and we shared a laugh over the easy language questions which helped to “place” us. Then – foolish, foolish me – I asked about her class schedule. Nobody wants to talk about how they have mister or misses so-and-so for Econ and the tall guy without any fingers for political science. I tried to cover my mistake by asking questions about her teachers, but she remembered hardly any of them and I could tell she was growing bored of the conversation. I concluded it and went back to my seat, mentally kicking myself because I hadn’t asked her out.

Class ended after one of the longest forty-five minutes I had ever experienced; how many times did we have to hear a definition of “philosophy?” But the excruciation finally ground to a halt and I headed for the front of class to sign up for an assignment. I figured I would see Carrie at the front, ask if she had an opening for lunch sometime and exchange contact information. But reality hardly mirrored my plans.

Carrie had already signed up for the assignment and was out the door before I could write "Nigeria," which is, by the way, what I wrote. I charged after her, but when I got to the door, I saw something that was as deflating as it was familiar: Carrie was walking along with another guy. And, to make matters worse, her escort was the class nerd, a low expression introvert with a sandpaper voice. I’d never caught his name, but he had apparently caught Carrie’s.

For a split second, I thought about running after the pair and inviting Carrie out anyway, but that would have been a blatant violation of the masculine code of conduct. Instead I just stood dejected as they marched into the warm early afternoon.

As I watched, I noticed something about Carrie. She looked genuinely happy. She was making emphatic gestures and laughed a couple of times at something the nerd said. She seemed to be enjoying herself with this guy. Maybe, I thought, it was meant to be; maybe I was trying to butt into a situation that demanded my respect and distance.

But then again, my interest wasn’t necessarily romantic. I just wanted to get to know her. She could continue whatever relationship she was developing with the nerd while doing a lunch with me.

I continued thinking about the situation while chewing on some unkosher sweet and sour pork at my favorite Chinese eatery. My thoughts were jumbled and disorganized until I opened my fortune cookie at the end of the meal. There, in bold red lettering, was the answer I was looking for:

NEVER LET AN OPPORTUNITY PASS YOU BY

I folded the message carefully and slipped it into my duct tape wallet. These were words to live by; uninspired but still profound.

Carrie and I have a whole semester of class together and our majors are similar, so we may be interacting as students for a couple of years. But Mid-Term 1 is just around the corner, and I think I know who I will be inviting to my study group.

A Short Essay In Defense of the Common Viking

Note: This post was written by the viking in the CN staff. It is his plea for respect in a world of blondes and brunettes. If you do decide to leave a comment, make sure it's respectful; the viking is looking a tad Berserkish as he sharpens his horns.

Of all the misunderstood peoples in the history of the world, the common viking falls squarely at the top of the list. No group is more maligned, more persecuted or more snowed. Why is it that the Vikings were banished to the frozen north? Why is it that both vikings and devils have horns? Why are vikings caricatured as ridiculous looking Kirk Douglas clones, while Al Sharpton and his dead beaver escape without scratch or snip? It's apparent that that our culture suffers severely from vikophobia which means, according to Blacks Law Dictionary, an "irrational fear of vikings, those with common viking-like characteristics or both."

Clearly we have a bias against vikings and people with bad hairdos. Or did I just repeat myself? Some historians have speculated that the paltry hair is due to the tight hats and salty air which combines to form a concrete gel and produces a nasty case of horn hair. Other, more snide commentators, attribute ratty tops it to genetics.

Your history teacher may have told you that Norsemen were all vicious pillagers who killed innocent people. But historically, that isn't a fair characterization. Some of the vikings had to stay home and cook.

Even more unfair is the belief that Columbus discovered the New World - a belief that grants the viking no greater achievement than his pillaging exploits. But how do you think Leif Ericsson must have felt when Columbus took credit for all of his hard work? It's not every day that people discover new continents. Even more mocking is the fact that Columbus' wikipedia article is three times times the length of Leaf's. There oughta be a scandal!

Many people view vikings as smelly, rude, uncivilized brutes. Yet another example of unjustified vikophobia. While there were many Norsemen who were smelly, rude, and possibly uncivilized, it is not nice to call them names, such as "brutes." Those who refer to the Norsemen in such a manner are clearly paranoid, and paranoid beyond reason. This brings me to my plea.

After looking at these tragic examples of biasness and injustice, it is clear that our culture needs a wake-up call. We can no longer abuse and scorn the men from the north. So what can we do to help? First, we must tell others the truth - speak to our friends, family, and as the case may be, even our enemies. Second, we must write our local politicians and ask them to stop people who propagate viking myths, like Dik Browne and Big Idea.

Vikings are people too! Only once we defend the common viking, will the Norseman be free.

Ski Stunt Extreme

After my adventures on the frozen slopes, I discovered a Javascript application that simulates the motions of a real skier called Ski Stunt Extreme. The skier can be manipulated by pushing buttons on the computer keyboard and by moving the mouse. Tricks can be performed and high speeds can be attained. The game looks like a lot of fun.

Before going further, it is imperative that the faithful FCN few understand my gaming habits. Whilst some of the FCN writers are veritable aficionados of the computer gaming industry, my needs are very well satisfied by Jetpack and Microsoft Hearts. This adherence to games that were made over a decade ago is partially due to personal preference (the dizzying colors boasted by modern games give me an equally dizzying headache) and partially due to necessity.

You see, my computer, affectionately called “Steve,” suffered a violent crash a few months ago that destroyed his drivers, which, I am given to understand, are important in the operation of a game. (Not that poor Steve could ever run a very fancy game on his economy CPU, poor thing). I could take the time to browse the Internet and locate his lost drivers (especially the video card driver which, in its absence, gives the screen a blurry quality), but I am beginning to like Steve's austerity and am falling in love with suddenness of his system noises.

(To all potential future wives in the reading audience, note that this attitude extends only to the computer world and would never be applied to a spouse. Never.)

Jetpack barely runs on my computer and Microsoft Hearts fares little better. Such advanced games as Halo for PC or Unreal Tournament are out of the question entirely. I was perfectly happy with this arrangement until I discovered the aforementioned Ski Stunt Extreme.

The game is a beauty to behold. In order to help describe it, I was able to locate a YouTube video that portrays some of its characteristics. While the visuals are decent, I am afraid I cannot endorse the music that accompanies it. Please mute your sound and watch this:

“Addictive” doesn't scratch the surface of this game's impact. It is the liaison between the gaming gods and teens with too much time on their hands. It is the ultimate representation of arcade beauty. As soon as I watched this video, I knew I could spend hours making the little character do face plants in the snow and that I would laugh for hours as he bonked his noggin against sharp boulders.

Unfortunately, as I went to download Ski Stunt Extreme (executable file here and Javascript demo here, if you are interested), Steve informed me very loudly, with a series of disruptive system sounds, that he would be unable to run the program. Errors popped up saying that my drivers (or lack thereof) were incompatible with the game and that in order to enjoy the fun I would have to leave my rigid stringency behind.

I was crushed. To think that such an amazing game, the ultimate in time wasting technology, was so close to my mouse yet so far from my motherboard.

I took the news with controlled emotion; I would not sacrifice Steve's innocence to play a game.

Today, Steve lives on without his drivers and I survive without Ski Stunt Extreme.

Skiing with Fiends

The other day, several fiends had the bright idea that a ski trip was in order. The idea was actually born a week or so ago, but the concept came to fruition Wednesday at an ungodly hour when we (the fiends and I) piled into a fifteen passenger van and rumbled toward the frozen slopes. We arrived, after a ride with thankfully little incident, to a view of a beautiful California slope and, this should have sent off the warning lights, a novice skier taking a nasty spill off the carefully manicured snow onto the cement parking lot ten feet below.

This was to be my second ski trip in five years. On my first outing, at an age much more tender than the one I now boast, I had an unfortunate accident and ended up breaking my thumb. I say unfortunate, not because of any permanent damage it caused (my finger was ugly before the incident), but because of the way it predisposed my mother against future skiing. During that period, any mention of a ski trip was met with a disgruntled look that clearly expressed “no;” I was forced to satisfy my fantasies of snow-scapes by making sand angles in our neighbor's unused sand box.

I still don't know why she approved this trip. Maybe she was distracted by my double-jointed thumb or perhaps she saw it as a punishment, a possibility that looks frighteningly real in retrospect. Whichever motive encouraged her consent, I had gotten the go-ahead and intended to ski with the best of them.

After picking out rental equipment – including a bright orange titanium helmet that emitted a strobe light and emergency beacon (my mother's idea) – I went on my first ride, the “kiddie slope.”

Before you start laughing at me, you gotta realize that these hills are poorly named. The slope looks a lot steeper from the top than it does from the bottom. And the fact that I took three nasty spills on a three percent grade in my first five minutes is perfectly natural given that I was wearing the skis backwards.

After I got my gear straightened out, I went with my fiends (who had only barely stopped laughing) up a large chairlift, toward the top of the mountain.

Getting on the chairlift was an experience in and of itself. Ours was a small “two-seater” lift and, after I was able to secure a place in line (“'scuse me!” “coming through!” “sorry about that!”), I was waved to the loading position. Two-seaters are designed with a couple of extra-small, obesity discouraging chairs attached to a cable via a sturdy bar. The unit, bar and all, came up behind me with all the speed of a raging bull and, before any of the attendants could react, spirited me away up the mountain.

I thought for sure something had gone awfully awry; I was sitting wrong (it was really uncomfortable), I was too heavy for the seat, the chair was broken (it kept on making these clicking noises). I am, to this moment, convinced that something was amiss and that sheer providence kept me from plummeting to broken bones.

You do a lot of soul searching thirty feet above hard packed snow with no buckle and only the gentle swaying of the chair to keep you company. A lot of soul searching. Why was I even going skiing? My mother's warnings ricocheted around my head like so many racquetballs and I pictured myself strung out in a full body cast à la Mad Mad Mad Mad World. My thoughts were so real and my dreams so vivid, sitting up above the snow, that I almost did something involuntary.

Were I weaker species, I would have stayed on the lift all the way round and returned to my departure point. But no! I could do this skiing thing.

With little more than a faded sign as warning, the chair dumped me unceremoniously on the snow, where I crumpled like a folding chair. I stayed there until an alpha male employee tapped me on the shoulder and informed me I was blocking the exit. I collected my skis and went to the trail head.

As I gazed at the assorted alpine sport enthusiasts zipping their way through the ice and powder, I was once again empowered. My fiends had chosen the “trick ride” slope for my first excursion. Littering the hill were oddly shaped jumps, rails and loop-d-loops. A few skiers were trying some of the tamer tricks, but the snowboarders, oh those snowboarders, were really tearing things up. One of my fiends was completing death defying (or is it death inviting) stunts at speeds I could only dream of.

Another fiend flew several feet in the air off a natural “jump,” or pile of snow and landed hard on his tail bone. The collective grimace of our party was audible, but our enthusiasm was unaffected.

With a “well, let's go,” I pushed off the hill, pointed my skis toward the bottom and tucked into the aerodynamic position reminiscent of Olympic down-hillers. That didn't last long. Whether the obstruction was a patch of ice or a loose twig is a question history can only guess at. One fact we can be assured of is that when things stopped moving my skis were fifty feet up the mountain and I had a mouth full of snow. My fiends thought this was funny.

My first trip down the mountain was a painful retelling of the above episode.

When we reached the bottom (my fiends some fifteen minutes before me), we hopped on the lift to attack the same slope a second time. As one fiend explained it to me (the one who fell on this tail bone), “you have to do the same run a couple times to get used to it; you can expect some falls the first time through.” Right.

When we got to the top, after another chair dumping, I decided, after much prodding from my fiends, to attempt some tricks. Following the hot dogging example of the snowboarders on the slope below, I turned off my brain to see what would come out. What did was a painful finish to a brilliantly conceived trick.

I approached a deceptively easy-looking flat bar at a fairly fast quip (for me anyway) and pushed my skis onto the platform. There I slid with my hands in the air, enjoying the encouraging calls from my fiends. The landing brought me back to reality. I came off the bar with a violent jolt and the next thing I remember is that I was sitting on the bar with a searing pain in the region we just don't talk about at parties.

I could walk; but my chief concern was for the next generation.

That run was to be my last of the day. I rode gingerly down the mountain, holding my skis in a “pizza” as my fiend showed it to me to keep from moving too quickly. When I got to the “lodge,” I collapsed in a chair and waited for the stiffness to set in. That, and a cup of hot chocolate, occupied the remainder of my afternoon.

Given the opportunity, I think I will go skiing again. When the skin finishes flaking off my sunburns, my knee learns how to bend again and frostbite heals, I'll be ready. In the meantime, I think I'll stick to sand.

“What goes in, must come out.”

This note was posted from a laptop in a moving car by searching for wireless networks to hack along the freeway. The publish button was pushed during a blink of a connection. Enjoy.

There was some significant news from South Africa earlier this week, that you may have missed while watching replays of the Fiesta Bowl and studying statistics for your NFL playoff office pool (not that any of us partake of the illegal office pool joys; you know who you are). Anyway, here's the story, just in case:

An overweight woman who got stuck in a South African cave trapped 22 fellow tourists for more than 10 hours and had to be prised free with liquid paraffin.

The woman became trapped in the Tunnel of Love obstacle in the Cango Caves in Western Cape on New Year's Day.

The caves' manager said the woman had been warned she might not be suitable but she insisted on trying...

The rescue operation involved several ambulance teams and a helicopter...

The ordeal began when the woman became stuck just after noon on New Year's Day.

Mr Gerstner said the woman was “told at the ticket office that she was too big to take part in the specific section.”

He said she was again warned by the guide but that it was “very difficult to discriminate.”

Mr Gerstner said: “The obstacle has a narrow base. She lost her footing and went down in a splits position. There was no way she could get her body weight up.”

But he said she was young and remained mentally strong throughout and the other tourists took the ordeal “exceptionally well.”

The tourists, including two asthmatic children, were given blankets, water and chocolate bars as the rescue proceeded.

One rescuer was able to climb over the woman to deliver insulin to the diabetic.

No drilling equipment was needed and the woman was eventually freed with a pulley and paraffin used to grease the surface at about 2320...

Mr Gerstner said: “We believe what goes in, must come out again. People get stuck all the time - that's one of the unfortunate things that happen, it's part of the adventure.”

The article doesn't say how heavy she was.

We could be very mean right now and say some insensitive things about this woman and the way she put her adipose before the other tourists, but in light of the valiant courage she demonstrated in that cave (Who would want to do the splits for 10 straight hours? How many really heavy women would want to do the splits for 10 straight hours?) such humor seems out of place.

We would, however, like to ask a few general questions about the situation. If you, the faithful FCN few, can enlighten us in the comment section, we'd be obliged:

Can you picture a cave exit so small or a woman so large that no one can get through? Was the stoppage due to the physical impossibility of passage or the impropriety of an attempt? Why, with 10 people inside the cave, was a rescue crew required? How did the rescue crew get in? How is someone “prised free?” Will this woman ever go spelunking again? If so, who will she go with?

If you read this story and became worried about a similar situation ever happening to you, take heed; if you follow the following basic steps, you too can avoid corpulent blocks on your next outing or be so prepared as to be immune to their impact. Listen up boys and girls; this may come in handy the next time you have a fat woman corking the exit.

Whenever entering a high risk area (caves, hallways, closets, bathrooms, cars, etc) keep the following handy:

1. WD-40, to ease the fatso out.

2. A crowbar, to force the fatso out.

3. Trimspa pills, to allow the fatso to become all she ever envied and make her thin enough to get out.

4. A good book, to read while others get the fatso out.

Epilogue (a.k.a. the ending the article didn't mention): The fat tourist was an American. When she got back to the states, she called her lawyer and sued over the “physical and emotional trauma of the incident.” She named one defendant: the diabetic.

Goodbye Mr. Hussein

In the spirit of Cicero and his Latin phrase “de mortuis nil nisi bonum” (concerning the dead, nothing if not good), we here at FCN have decided that a man like Saddam Hussein, convicted mass murderer or not, deserves a kind treatment after his execution. Unlike the giddy horde of liberals who seem beside themselves in celebrating Jerry Ford's passing, we feel that gentle propriety is demanded in the analysis of anyone's death (because death isn't funny). Years from now, when Saddam's family has stopped grieving his loss and the his body finally cools down, we can say what we really feel.

Here's our tribute to the late Saddam Hussein:

Subha Tulfah al-Mussallat was a troubled woman who devoted most of her energies to shepherding and raising her children. She was also the mother of little Saddam Hussein, who grew up never knowing his father, who left the family six months before he was born in 1937.

Hussein's older brother, a 13-year old who showed moral fortitude and physical strength at a young age succumbed to cancer while Hussein was yet a babe. In the shadow of the complications from that event, little Saddam was sent to the family of his maternal uncle, Khairallah Talfah, where he stayed until he was three. Though he came and went from under his uncle's roof after that, Talfah became a father figure for little Saddam and would be integral in leading the young man into adulthood.

Little Saddam's uncle was a loyal Iraqi patriot who was willing to fight hard for the rights of his country-man and to defend his beliefs. He was a devout Muslim who instilled early in the heart of his nephew the value of Koran and Sharia.

Saddam worked hard in school to please his teachers and got good grades. He even became involved politically, joining the Ba'ath Party in 1957. In 1959, Hussein was wounded while attempting a valiant and patriotic assassination attempt whose wisdom history would never doubt.

Because of his charismatic approach and willingness to accept others beneath his tolerant wing, Hussein received the rank of four-star general. He accented this achievement by growing a gorgeous caterpillar mustache, a style that would be mimicked by all attractive Arab men and a few unattractive Arab women.

No longer a little Saddam, Hussein had decided on his life path. He became President of Iraq through a bloodless coup (Hussein himself never lost any blood). From his new position of leadership, Hussein worked tirelessly to modernize the Iraqi economy and streamline oil security. His efforts were repaid when Iraq began providing social services that were unprecedented among Middle Eastern countries; generously supporting those who couldn't support themselves.

After the Iran-Iraq war (in which Hussein did everything in his power to protect his people, including use nerve agents and mustard gas on his enemies), Saddam lead his nation through a time of peace. Little did he know that that peace would not last long; a conflict with Kuwait and two wars with the evil United States would follow.

Hussein was taken out of power when Western Imperialist armies invaded his country for the second time, put him in a foxhole and stole his oil; they arrested him and trimmed his mustache. After a Kangaroo court (wherein Hussein did most of the Kangarooing), he was sentenced to die. The penalty was carried to a defendant with “fear in his eyes,” and a Koran under his arm, the last item a gift for an unidentified pal.

Saddam Hussein is the ultimate Middle Eastern success story. He is a martyr for the cause of single motherhood and a bastion of Muslim integrity in a dark world of oppression and castration, yes castration. He stood for all that is good about Iraq and lived out his last days with the dignity befitting a tyrannical dictator. He put the “I” in Iraqi and showed his people undaunted courage through the good times and only partially daunted courage through the rough times.

Goodbye Mr. Hussein. May you enjoy forever the eternal rewards you have earned.

Saddam Hussein (1937-2006).

Printer Phobic

Everyone is afraid of something. I can't stand anything that has more than 6 legs. My grandma hates anything that has less than one. My sister is afraid of deep water. One of my buddies is achluophobic. He talked to his psychiatrist, but was told that there's not much anyone can do for someone who's 16 and still afraid of the dark. And my mom - she's printerphobic.

It all happened a few days ago. My mom had been trying to print on our Lexmark L51 Ink Jet, when she noticed the color cartridge was almost empty. She clicked the pause button and removed the ink canister. She extracted the new color cartridge of ink from its leak-proof protective covering and proceeded to click in into its place, when for no apparent reason, the machine came to life.

It is important to understand how a laser jet printer works. These printers consist of three main parts. The first is main unit or the outer-casing, which basically holds all the mechanics together. Then there are the electronics, which receive messages from the computer and tell the printer where to put the ink on the paper. Then there is the mechanics. On our printer, there are two ink canisters that slide back and forth on a track, spewing ink all over the page.

I remember little from the confusion that ensued. The two cartridges slide back into their printing positions. Because the color ink cartridge was not in place, it became stuck inside the printer. Unfortunately, the electronics was still telling the mechanics to print. Eventually, after much girly screaming on the part of my sister and mother (not mine by the way), my mom pressed the off button, shutting down the power.

After a few tests, my mother realized that the ink cartridge was stuck, and no amount of begging was going to get it to leave its hiding place. My mom took a screw driver and proceeded to tear the printer apart. The outer-casing separated pretty easily, splitting into two parts. Unfortunately, the ink cartridge had completely emptied its contents - all over the inside of the printer. My mom proceed to clean up the mess.

Almost three hours later, the printer was back and working. It makes a peculiar clicking noise whenever it prints, but my mom doesn't mind. She hasn't touched the printer since the incident. We don't know why the printer malfunctioned. I don't think we ever will. I can promise you that no one in our household is going to take apart the printer to find out why it makes that annoying clicking noise.

Everyone's afraid they'll become printerphobic too.