Entitlement Diva

The first day of fall semester had seventy-five students crowded into a room with only fifty chairs. Apparently the class was more popular than available and students lined the walls and even stood next to the white board facing the class, as if physical presence would get them a place on the roster. I'd arrived at the room a tad early and managed to secure a resting place for my tush while more students tried to squeeze in through the door like sardines pining after the tin. I was happy with my seat in that it wasn't so close to the front that the professor could see my notes (he might not understand the humor), but it was not so far back that I had swap spitballs with the drug dealers.

I was happy with my seat, until I discovered the place immediately in front of me. Whereas all the other desks in the classroom had hard soviet-issue metallic seats that seemed, like rabbit, to get tougher over time, this chair was nicely upholstered and actually looked plush. It wasn't elegant, but it wasn't my Kremlin model either. I looked around the room and, when the coast appeared clear, I picked up my books and backpack and jumped to the seat ahead.

No sooner had I settled in and allowed my body's weight to rest against the plush seat did I see the Entitlement Diva. She entered the room as if she owned it, elbowing aside a couple of thinner males who were plastered to the wall like a decorative molding. Her target destination was unmistakable: she was headed straight for my seat.

Entitlement Diva's walk managed to be confident, yet totally unattractive. She moved with the plodding determination of a musk ox and dressed stylishly enough, but it was her eyes that made her eerie. The Diva's eyes looked frightened. They glanced furtively around the room as if the other students were a threat. When we made eye contact, she held my gaze for a second before looking at the floor. Then, gaining resolve, she looked at me with a demand on written on her face.

"You are sitting in my chair."

I looked closely at the desk for the first time. It appeared to be a standard construction, college-issue desk. Nowhere was a name or "reserved" sticker stamped to the top and there were no books or personal belongings of the Diva under the seat. Maybe I hadn't heard her right.

"Excuse me?" I used my John Edwards smile.

"Look behind the seat, genius." I appreciated her compliment and turned to look at the back of my plush chair - or her plush chair, the pronouns get dicey. There, in bold block lettering, read: ADA Priority.

I may be a social nincompoop, but I am familiar with the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act, which required a number of access changes to public buildings, offices and schools around the country. Apparently this desk was designed for the invalid, those who would not be able to operate in the Soviet desks. I understood and was willing to give up my desk, if indeed the recipient of my charity was disabled.

"What is your disability?" My question sounded innocent, but I was pulling a little bit of a fast one on Entitlement Diva. You see, the ADA failed to what a "disability" is, leaving interpretation to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, other regulatory agencies and the courts. There were a couple of conditions that were specifically banned as "disabilities" such as transvestitism, kleptomania and pyromania but, for the most part, there was no clear guidance. While she didn't look like a transvestite, I thought she might be overpronouncing her handicap. In my experience, most of the occupants of the ADA chairs were either very obese or very pregnant. Diva was neither of these. My trap laid, I waited for the Diva's answer.

"I don't have to tell you." I hadn't read that far. Maybe, I thought, she was referencing the HIPAA privacy provisions. Oh, she was tough. If only I were better informed on health legal issues!

I nodded my assent, an expression of defeat, and wondered what manner of vile disability had struck this woman to make her look so normal but to leave her her so wanting. Fortunately, the chair behind me was still available and I returned to my previous metallic home.

The Diva was silent as she settled into her pre-warmed seat and dug through her backpack for a pen. Apparently, she had forgotten to bring a notebook, because she turned to me and said authoritatively: "I need some paper."

I had paper, but those precious few sheets were supposed to be used to record timeless notes, like this one. Maybe she figured I owed her a sheaf or two as "rent" for my use of her seat. I didn't ponder for too long, but tore a couple of pages from the back and extended them her way.

"The edges are frayed," the Entitlement Diva said pointing to where the spiral binding had torn away the paper. I creased the pages over the factory-serrated separation line and tore off a quarter inch of defaced paper. Maybe, I figured, her disability rendered this simple motor task impossible. I felt sympathy for her condition.

"Good," the Diva said by way of thanks, taking the pages from my hand and turning around to face the professor who had just entered the room. After a roster check, which took over a half hour and left me sprawled distractedly in my seat thinking about girls, the professor asked us to open our books to the first lesson. Diva didn't have her book, a fact she announced to the entire class. The professor ignored her news bulletin, but the Diva's neighbor generously offered to share her copy of the text.

Apparently the two feet of space between Entitlement Diva and her neighbor was too far to crane over. Without warning or a glance for possible obstruction, she lifted her chair several inches off the ground and helicoptered to the left, smashing the ADA priority leg into the nail of my big toe. I inhaled sharply and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yelp. I could feel the nail slide off the top of my toe and felt warm moisture collect on my sock. The pain was intense and hard to ignore.

"I'm sorry," the Diva apologized! "You shouldn't have your leg in my space," she added by way of pedagogy. As much as I appreciated her advice, I was in no mood for a lesson in spheres of sovereignty.

"I'm fine," I lied to the gentleman sitting behind me, a lie I knew I would have to repeat for several days.

During a break in lecture, I set up a study group with an old friend and a platinum blond from the back row. As soon as we had agreed on a meeting time, Diva, who had snuck up behind me during the calendar negotiations, announced that she was available during that time block and that she would be part of our study group. As if to will her away, we ignored her. Diva took our silence as assent and marched away. When I thought she was out of earshot, I set about changing the meeting time.

We were all consulting our electronic day planners, trying to find another day that would work when I felt the Diva behind me. I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Diva place her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. Her accusatory posture stood in contrast to her scared, rapidly darting eyes. She said nothing.

That's when I apologized. The words started slowly and hesitantly at first, but then became a steady stream of self-depreciation. Soon a torrent of humble begging flowed from my mouth as I did everything but cry for mercy. Then I did start crying. Tears filled by eyes and overflowed down my cheeks, making a beeline for the floor. I buckled, falling to my knees and grasping the Diva by the legs. Would she ever find it in herself to forgive me? Please?

With the entire class' attention secured, Diva looked smug. She nodded to me - the first sign of approval she had ever extended my way - and said "that's better." Then she turned around and walked out the door.

It's going to be a long semester. And I'm already dreading tomorrow's study group.

Alone on Valentine's Day

It's the 14th of February and all across the land,
Little boys and girls take each other's hand.
It's a happy sight, all sweet and pink,
But someone isn't happy, I think.

He's tried his hardest to get a girl,
But when he gets close, most just hurl.
He doesn't smell or look that bad,
He's just too desperate, which is sad.

Amid all the laughter hugs and kisses,
Stands one guy alone, no one misses.
His heart is full of love to share,
If only a girl would dare.

On Valentine's Day when all are happy,
He writes poems, and they get sappy.
His rhymes are weak, his verse uncreative,
It could even be packaged as a sedative.

Love and warmth he does not inspire
But his writing does make others tire
So I'll tell you the story of how I got this way
Alone, miserable and sad on Valentine's Day

It's an open secret that I have been as indefatigable in my search for female attention as a dog and peanut butter. In turn, females have been just as adamant about denying it. Whether it's been Luce or Carrie or, well, all the others, I've had about as much luck as Dennis Kucinich in politics (speaking of which, remind me to pass on the latest about Carrie: never talk politics on a third date). I'm batting like Jason Giambi after knocking off the steroids.

A friend kindly took me aside on Valentine's Day morning and advised that the holiday has diddly squat to do with establishing a relationship and is actually intended as a time to strengthen relationships and renew passions with existing girlfriends. V day is about servicing, that's why guys go out of their way to buy all the goofy chocolate, mawkish cards and childish teddy bears. In Aretha Franklin's terms, girls are "zoomin'" guys on Valentine's Day.

Oops, did my cynicism seep out? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date yesterday...

The morning wasn't that bad. Most students don't take their beaus to class (unless, of course, it's "take your beau to class day") and I'd almost forgotten about the Holiday when Melanie leaned over and stuck a pink heart on my to-go coffee cup. She giggled when she did so and I think, deep down in her diabolical Melanie mind, she was daring me to forget about my horrid love life. The heart starred at me for the duration of the class. I wanted terribly to rip it off and chuck the cup, remaining liquid and all, but was mesmerized by the anatomically inaccurate shape.

Work at General Mills was even better. None of my coworkers wanted to chat about relationships and the conveyor belt seemed to move more slowly. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad afterall.

Little did I know how much Saint Valentine had lured me into a false sense of emotional security.

Plans had been laid well in advance for me to get together with my hetero lifemate and watch an action flick, which I figured would be largely unattended. I've known my lifemate since before I met my father and I'd seen my mother's face and we get along really well, apparently, but he still doesn't count as female company.

Walking into the theater reminded me of a scene from Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. If you haven't seen the movie, Chuck Barris walks into the cinema feeling down on his relationship luck. As he sits down, the camera pans away to reveal everyone around him kissing. It's kinda disgusting and, if you're there without a date, it's depressing.

The movie was a gore-fest and the romance wasn't even romantic. Despite these impediments, the couple to my right couldn't get through any of the fight scenes without fooling around and a couple below me started snogging every time the screen went blank. After the film, duos held hands, giggled and skipped away, oblivious to the impact they were having on my psychie. Deflated and wishing the movie had been better, I walked alone to my car (the hetero lifemate drove separately) and meandered home.

On the way back to my house, even the streets were deserted, a reminder of the emptiness of my heart. One car did follow me for a few miles, but it was a police cruiser and I was too worried about making an infraction to enjoy the company.

Maybe I should have purchased a box of chocolates or a bouquet of long stems. Perhaps a little more effort would have had me asphyxiating in the dark corner of the theater with a beautiful girl by my side. Maybe I totally blew Valentine's Day.

Or maybe I didn't. My selfish perspective on the Holiday is as wrong as it is depressing, I just can't help myself. I feel I'm entitled to the attention of others and I have repackaged V day for that very purpose.

But something about that kind of approach never jived with a male college student, ticking away the final months of his derelict teenage years. So, I wrote a poem.

Your germs love you

(And why you should never wash your hands.)

Of all the habitats in this world, the human body is the most complex. The Amazon rain forest is enticing and the Great Coral Reef interesting, but mossy ground and shiny fishes will dull when compared to the 500 strains of bacteria roaming your mouth. But, for some odd reason, the reefs are visited en mass and the Amazon a respected vacation spot, but the germs in all of us are labeled as vile and eradicated at every opportunity. The politically correct view does not condone germ habitat and even our everyday language incorporates words like "sanitary" and "clean," such that even germ lovers are normatively forced into talking down their passion. Like drugs in America, human beings are waging a War on Germs that starts with the Surgeon General and ends with Dove bathroom soap. Join us today as we discover why we must end this poorly conceived war.

Many so called "experts" will try to convince you that germs are bad. Yet their lies are contradicted by their own evidence. Take Bifidobacteria for example, a strain of bacterium that helps provide your body with Vitamin K, a Vitamin crucial in the formation of blood clots. This loving germ gives you with everything you need to prevent "death de la blood loss," yet does anyone say “thank you?" When was the last time you saw someone buy a ice-cream Sunday for their Bifidobactria? Does anyone do anything for these germs?

Germs are regularly abused and biased against in our culture. The negative view pseudoscientists have given germs has hurt not only them, but the human race. Take the flu for example. Put yourself in the place of this friendly virus. How would you feel if you were an innocent little flu bug and people started to try to kill you? How can we expect germs to be nice to us if we aren't kind to them? Yet after we try to exterminate this loving little virus, we are surprised when it infects, and sometimes even kills people.

But hand washing is the least of a germ's worries. Of all the abusive and cruel ways to harm innocent germs, taking vitamins is the most sickening (see, that normative language strikes again!). How can we take pills knowing they will kill visiting germs before they have even attacked us? How unfair is it to assault germs on presupposition that they might damage our immune system at some future time? It is morally wrong to try to kill germs before they have attacked us. Preemptive attacks are no way to handle health. The germs say so. France says so. We think the Pope would agree, but after an interview was arranged we realized none of us spoke Italian and we gave up the slot to Barbara Walters.

The fact is, we are fighting a war we cannot win. Millions of people have already died from disease, and the forces of germhood are only becoming stronger. The time has come for us to make peace with our bacteria brothers.

The time has come to stop the War on Germs. Why should we bother fighting when we know we will not win? The only way to win the war is to stop the fight. Only then will the germs be our friends.

Share the germs, share the love. Peace and cough syrup for all.

That can't be good

My car needed an oil change. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. My car needed an oil change before I drove to San Diego and back and then took a series of jumps off a rise in the road by the railroad tracks a few miles from my house. Now it's a miracle my car even responds to the key in the ignition or my foot on the pedal. I had to do something before my only means of transportation turned into a yellow metal box with sweat-smelling upholstery and a radio.

Last Saturday, I set out to remedy the situation. I hopped into my car (using the passenger side door and sliding over to the left since the lock on the driver's door was jammed), turned on the engine and eased out onto the main road.

In case you've never driven a four-cylinder two-door before, something about the open road demands more pressure on the accelerator. Even treacherous driving environments don't take away from the car's desire to be driven - and to be driven recklessly. In retrospect, I probably should have considered the oil situation and kept my speed within the legal limit, but at that moment I didn't have any retrospect. All I had was the wind in my face (the window control was not jammed) and the wind was whispering sweet nothings of dangerous velocity. It said some other things too, that I won't share here.

The railroad tracks were a few hundred feet ahead and I sped up to take the jump. I think I actually got some air on the attempt, but the return-to-earth impact caused such a jostle that I can't be sure. I tapped the breaks for a known speed trap and kept going toward the service stop.

As I pulled into the parking lot and waived to Cindy the clipboard-clad attendant, I heard the most obnoxious noise imaginable. It was a scraping sound combined with a whirring whine that, if heard on a car lot, would just shout "discount." I stopped and looked around. Nothing unusual. Then I checked my radio. The new CD from Whiskey Falls was in the drive, but the noise was like nothing I'd ever heard from Seven Williams, even in his darker moments. As I budged forward the scraping continued. Bracing, I turned up the music, gunned the engine and let out the clutch just enough to overpower the resistance and move over the sidewalk. I couldn't hear the noise anymore, but I wasn't completely comforted either.

Cindy marched to my window and went through her scripted customer service routine. I interrupted her with a hand, walked around to the front of my car and looked underneath, half expecting to see an alien or the Loch Ness monster. What I saw was less glamorous but similarly enigmatic.

Protruding from beneath my engine, lying there in all its indignity, was a car part. I really can't describe it any more accurately than that. It had all the telltale markings: it looked greasy and dangerous and was beneath a car. It was the kind of thing Billy Bob Thornton might put on his Christmas tree as an ornament. I told Cindy to come take a look.

She was appropriately impressed but had no idea what to do with it. I told her it wasn't there this morning and that I really didn't think it liked being on the underbelly of my vehicle, given its regular complaining. Cindy concurred.

The kind folks at the oil change sent me over to a mechanics shop with the encouraging words "they might be able to help you." I repeated the cringe inducing grating noise as I entered the mechanics parking lot and, as if called by my car's underside, Jose came sprinting from the store to help.

It took Jose all of three minutes to identify the problem. If only Guinness had been there to record the attempt, I might have had my name on the record too. Apparently my fan had fallen off its hinges during some kind of "jostling" and was now hanging by its air ducts, suspended beneath the engine. I assured Jose I could think of "no single incident" in my driving that could have caused such a problem and it was true because I didn't know for sure which railroad jump had disrupted the fan. But my mouth kept talking and I added that I knew "hardly anything about cars," a mistake I paid for at the checkout. Ouch.

Cars can be really expensive. After changing the oil (ouch), I drove over to a local filling station and spent some more Christmas money (ouch), the light on my dashboard reminded me of an outstanding problem with my breaks (future ouch) and the post office box had a letter from my car insurance company and they weren't just checking in to say "hi" (big ouch). And that's just transportation; think about all the other things needed to go on a date.

In other news, I'll be asking my boss at General Mills for some more hours and I'll be eating Cup A Noodles and green beans until future notice. Not that that's much of a change, but as long as I am suffering I may as well have your pity.

On Psychopath Rights

For a long time, we here at FCN have more or less kept to personal issues and stayed out of politics. We don't like to embroil ourselves in the system when our ideas are already so well defended by people like Nancy Pelosi and Barack Obama (both of whom we are strongly considering endorsing for President).

But there is a critical issue that is going almost totally undressed unaddressed in today's political debate, and it's high time a dialog was begun. In a society that prides itself on providing equal rights to all, FCN must be the voice that defends an undefended minority: the psychopaths.

That's right, the psychopaths.

Few people don't know that psychopathy encompasses a small but growing minority, including approximately one in five federal prison inmates. And while other minorities like women, asians, homosexuals, and vegetarians are making steady inroads toward acceptance in modern society, psychopaths are still regarded with an emotional, primeval horror.

Psychopaths make most people feel very uncomfortable. Think back to the first time you saw someone with a skin color radically different from your own. Probably the only thing keeping you from hiding your discomfort was the fact that you knew (because you had been told beforehand) that race has no effect on personhood. When you meet a gay person (this assumes you are not also gay), you don't recoil with a queasy expression. This is because you know better. You know that gays are people too.

Alas, no one is speaking in defense of the American Psychopath. There are no Psychopath organizations and the few support groups all treat psychopathy like some sort of mental disease, just as the American Psychiatric Association did homosexuality until 1973. There are no Psychopath rallies, holidays, or parades. There are no cities associated with psychopathy (although I went to Nice on the French Riviera once and thought they were pretty open about it).

Here's the deal: in a society which actively seeks to embrace every sort of minority, psychopathy is inexplicably and openly condemned. It's not acceptable to be a psychopath in today's day and age. You don't see psychopaths coming out of the closet! Why? Because if the public gets wind of it, you'll find yourself behind bars or worse within a matter of months.

Oh, you think we're exaggerating. You think the criminal justice system doesn't have a bias against psychopaths. Then how do you explain the fact that fully half of all convicted serial and repeat rapists are also psychopaths? Obviously this is because psychopaths don't stand a chance before a prejudiced jury.

Someone ought to do a To Kill a Mockingbird remake involving a psychopath.

Folks, it's time to set our primitive discriminatory misgivings aside and embrace all Americans as truly equal. It's time to realize that psychopaths are people too, which of course means we need to treat them as if they were exactly the same as everyone else. It's time to let go of our fears and take the hands of the people on either side, and unite in a great big circle and sing kumbaya.

Maybe then psychopaths will have true representation, equality and opportunity in this country. If you are voting in any election tomorrow, please don't hold anyone's psychopathic tendencies or identity against them. Look beyond the brain-deep flaws and cast your vote without prejudice.

Undocumented Workers Hope to Change California's Flag

MAYBRIDGE, CA (FCN) -- Illegal immigrants in the agricultural heart of the Golden State have made a a concerted effort to change the Californian Flag. Pedro Cortes of the Sociedad por Liber California (roughly translated the Society for Free California) told FCN in a recent interview, "We really feel the current symbol of California is wrong. Just plain malo, as we would say. It's not fair to the illegals in this area, much less to the millions of undocumented workers in many of California's regions. And what's up the bear anyway? How many bears do you see roaming in a central valley vineyard?" Cortes also criticized the red star in the upper left hand corner of the flag, calling it "a symbol of communism."

Aside from the fact that many undocumented immigrants disprove of the "no es frio" or "uncool" look of the flag, many also feel that the current symbol of California is in conflict with the rights granted to illegal immigrants by the U.N. While these arguments are often dismissed by government officials, so-called sojourners take these claims very seriously. Cortes noted in the same interview, "the U.N. human rights charter says that is it the priority of all governments to help individuals living in its borders get jobs - and that's the opposite of what the plans of the status quo do. How in the world does the current flag help me or my buddies get jobs?"

Experts fear that the current situation will only get worse as pilgrimaging workers move to the United States. Dr. Schultz author of Illegal Migrations, explained in a recent interview, "Illegals get what they want - and by Jorge, they want California."

Many undocumented workers want the Californian flag to be changed to resemble the Mexican flag. Some hope a compromise will be made, suggesting that the California background be changed to include red, white and green stripes. While this proposed change may calm the offended immigrants temporarily, others fear that an appeasement will only escalate the controversy.

Illegally immigrating Hispanics aren't the only ones pushing for a flag change. Proclaimed free spirit Daisy Moon argued, "You know man, it's so unfair to the other dudes. Totally. And we so need to get rid of the bear. Enchilada, taco, burrito, world peace, man." Moon was last seen enjoying a lazy afternoon beneath an interstate bridge.

Regardless of what change is made to the flag, Mexican-Californian's feel that it should reflect the multicultural diversity that has marked the state's heritage for the last few decades. The new flag shouldn't be too white or brown either.

I Am Not A Reader

We had absolutely nothing to post today. We were about to give up and run away to sea in despair (or do something more drastic like color our hair) when this friendly email from Trevor happened by. We decided to exploit an obscure clause of our privacy statement which lets us post email correspondence. We assume that, because this post involves a ninja, it will be a smashing success.

Despite my frequent visitations to your blog, and in spite of the fact that 'Coke Glorious Coke' and 'Ima Victim' repeatedly cycle around my head, I am not an addict of your site. Really. In spite of the sudden urge to write this e-mail, in spite of daily thoughts of Life Tips and that idiotic, hilarious disclaimer... I am not a regular reader.

I want to be. I truly do. But, I am sorry to report that I missed one day of reading.

As every stereotypical story begins, I was walking home from work one day. Suddenly the sky went dark, and a single black cloud floated down and hovered over my head. There were evil dancing rats inside, probably guys from rFCN. They shot me with lightning and coated me with honey and powdered sugar (which actually tastes good). I was left to die on the sidewalk.

I was picked up by a passing used car salesman who mistook me for a donut. After he very unpleasantly discovered my true identity, however, he threw me out of the window. I rolled into a pet store where I was attacked by mutant chimpanzees with rifles and slingshots. The powdered sugar softened the blows, however.

After washing myself off in the fish tank, I decided to head home. I disregarded the children who taunted me and called me names like 'Sticky', 'Stupid', and others that I shall not repeat. I had only one goal -- to go home and read Funny Class Notes, the only thing that could cheer me up.

As I walked through the door, I let out a sigh. But not of relief. For a ninja midget had invaded my home and made off with all the pretzels, and he was just making good his escape as I walked through the door. He karate chopped me, and I crumpled to the ground. He fled through the doorway, with a few kicks for good measure.

I dragged myself upstairs, bleeding, resolved to click on 'Favorites' and to open your site. I hauled myself onto the office chair, which broke. From the ground I reached for my mouse, which cracked in my hand. I used keyboard shortcuts to navigate to Favorites, then held my pointer finger up to push the Enter key...

...And the power went out.

I fainted from exhaustion and disappointment. It all went black for awhile. And when I woke up, it was 11:58 PM. The power was back on! I rebooted my computer at 11:59, opened my web browser, and clicked on Funny Class Notes!!!

But the clock changed to 12:00, and I was a loser. I had failed my aspirations to become a regular reader. I am now to remain unrecognized, my lifelong dream unfulfilled. Why me? Oh, cruel fate! You have blasted the hopes of an aspiring young man!

WHAT WILL I DO!?!?!?!?!?

Sincerely,

-Trevor

Sorry, Trevor. We can't help you. You failed, man. You. Failed.

Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you

A continuation of previous Crush episodes...

Luce and I met in front of the theater and I almost didn't recognize her. Her hair, normally a golden blonde, had been dyed bright red, like Maureen O'Hara only longer. At first I thought she was wearing a wig, but on closer inspection I saw that her hair had indeed been dyed all the way to the roots.

"You dyed your hair." I probably should have thought first and come up with a better introductory remark, but I was in a blurt mood.

"Oh, hey! Yes, do you like it?" Luce had a smile that was both pleading and brilliant. I didn't want to disappoint her and deny her earnest complexion the complement she sought, but I also wanted to be honest.

It looked ugly. The hair, that is. Her smile and complexion were awesome, but the texture of her locks was inconsistent with the dye and it came together to form a muddy consistency. From close up, you could see blonde strays that hadn't taken the color correctly. Finally, the color was wrong. It didn't fit with the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks or the hue of her lips. The whole picture was, as we guys sometimes intone, good from far but far from good.

I must have taken too long to answer because Luce's face soured and she sighed in disgust.

"Oh, whatever. Let's get our tickets."

I tried to smile and followed her to the box office.

As we entered the theater and sat down to await the previews, I tried to break the silence with conversation.

"Well, that was a pretty bad first date we had, wasn't it?" I honestly can't recall the thought process that lead me to that question.

"Uh-huh..." Dang; Luce thought I was going somewhere with this.

"Um...Well, why would a girl like you go out with a guy like me?" I asked, inadvertently deploying a line from Eric Church's Guys Like Me. I had a feeling the answer had nothing to do with "drinking too many beers on Friday after work," but I asked anyway.

"I have a crush on you, remember?" Luce had a smile on her face that invited me to laugh. I obliged, then turned away to return to my thoughtful musing; her answer was, as always, completely unsatisfying.

Just because you have a crush on someone doesn't mean you go out with them after a disastrous first date, or does it?

I thought a change in subject might be in order.

"Why did you dye your hair orange?"

"You don't like it, do you?" More earnest nonverbal pleading.

"Well..." Luce was obviously insecure about her hair. And why wouldn't she be? She had replaced her gorgeous blonde locks for a garage sink special that reeked of ammonia. My guy friends had advised me to be complementary in any comment I made about Luce's looks, so I made an attempt:

"It's not antipathetic or entirely odious. In fact it has an aura of originality that's almost congenial. Um...It's not posh, but it isn't schlocky either." I smiled while wincing. Maybe I'd thought too much about my answer. There were a lot of SAT words in my response and I did not want to splice their meaning for Luce.

I don't think Luce understood what any the adjectives meant because she had a pleased look on her face when she sat back and said "ok." I exhaled deeply with relief.

Just then the previews started, and we began almost two hours of uninterrupted screen watching. I never had to say anything to Luce; she never had to conversate with me. We sat within inches of each other, faced straight ahead and just looked. It was glorious.

Several times, after Jason Bourne made a heart stopping leap or performed another noteworthy stunt, I leaned toward Luce to whisper a comment I thought humorous, but then chickened out before I was close enough to speak. We were so tranquil, watching the movie without intervention, I didn't want to mess all that up by saying something.

Neither Luce nor I said anything for the entire movie. I don't even recall us laughing at the funny parts, although I laughed in my head.

As we were walking toward the exit, I made another attempt at conversation.

"Great movie, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen..." Luce paused as if struggling to phrase her next sentence. "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I think you are really boring. You haven't said more than fifty words all evening. When I saw you interact with people at school, you were animated and, well, interesting. Here, tonight, and the other night, you were completely deadpan. Are you high or something?"

"Well, no, not intentionally, um, well, not that I know of, I, well, I...Luce..." I was trying to be eloquent.

"No." Luce paused and looked as if she might cry. "Let's just let this die, ok? You aren't the same person as the one I have a crush on. You're boring. You used the word "schlocky;" I hate that word; what kind of guys says "schlocky?" The movie was terrible. I hated this evening. Don't even...Don't call me, ok?"

With that, my date left the theater in her Bronco, leaving me to rationalize the situation by tearing Luce down. The Bronco was probably her dad's. She probably never worked an honest day in her life and planned to go on milking unsuspecting males the rest of her days. Such a Daddy's Little Princess; everything must be just so. Dependant and completely selfish; a spoiled brat. Her home life was probably a total wreck and she was taking her disgruntlement out on me. I was the real victim here.

Then again, I thought, maybe I was uninteresting. It was true that I hadn't said much, but Luce didn't leave a lot of room to talk. I'd tried hard, but come up short.

But Luce hadn't liked the movie. Could we be compatible as mates if she rejected my man crush out of hand? Wasn't a relationship with me somewhat like a relationship with Damon? Does that concept make me more attractive?

I drove home that night with a heavy heart. More than once I had to fight back tears as my car stereo played the latest hit love songs. Why couldn't I be like the guys on the radio or TV? Why was I so inadequate in the female department? Why did Luce hate me so much? Why in the world did she decide to dye her hair that ridiculous orange?

I called a meeting of the guys this morning and their take was bleak. They think my chances with Luce are blown, but I'm not so sure. I've got a couple new ideas that, though disapproved by my advisors, may get me back in the game.

Excuse

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

Here's our excuse:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homies, Day 5: Cleanup.

For the last full day of our housesitting, we decided to do the responsible thing: to cover up as many of our errors as possible. This is not as easy as it sounds. The house had been practically emptied of anything sellable and had sustained significant structural damage around the front door (from careless moving of large furniture), the plants we were supposed to water were dead, and all but one of the animals were missing, eaten, or wumped. The house had seen better days. We knew that our friendship with the family was pretty much terminated, but we wanted at least to keep them from hiring a hitman. So we set about patching the place up as best we could off of a very tight budget.

We started with the obvious stuff. First came a thorough mopping of the floors and walls. Then we bought three full sets of wicker furniture and spread them around the house, then blew fifty bucks at a garage sale for broken kitchen appliances and plugged them into various outlets. We pasted duct tape over the cracks in the bathroom mirror and put used gum over the holes in the pipes. We glued cardboard across the holes in the front wall, dug up the neighbor's lawn and spread it in ours (by which I mean Theirs), and "borrowed" produce from a road-side stand to stuff the "fridge." Then came the really tricky business: replacing the animals.

I had spoken via phone with one of the members of the household. She had told me what made Jake (the cat) distinctive and irreplaceable:

- 15 pounds
- Parentheses markings on side
- Responds to "Jake"
- Bites people on ankle when they don't feed him

This seemed doable. Off we went to the animal shelter to find Jake's body double. After several hours of shopping, we found the dream cat. He was eighteen pounds - a little on the heavy side - but he had those distinctive parentheses markings and bit people on the ankle all the time, including when they didn't feed him. He also bit them other places. And he scratched. And he hissed. And he hated people. And he drew plans for his doomsday machine when he thought no one was looking. His name was Osiris. We told him to answer to Jake or we'd take away his paper and crayons. He said he'd behave, then issued an evil buahahahahaha and bit my homie on the ankle.

Next came replacing Coco (the mangy mutt). We shopped for a long time, but couldn't find a dog that would really suit our needs. We decided to revisit that problem and moved on to find Snickers II. Once again, we had no luck.

In anticipation of the day's dinner, we bought a black guinea pig named Mortimer who's fur seemed a bit like Charlie's. If our benefactors didn't get within forty feet or so, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

We eventually gave up on replacing Coco and Snickers. Instead, we took a mottled brown-and-white Shetland pony named Applejacks. He looked a little scrunched when we hobbled him in the suburban backyard, but we were sure our benefactors would appreciate the gesture, so we rolled with it.

After a long day's work, we were ready for something tasty. Charlie Pot Pie seemed like just the thing. Lacking pots, utensils, and a working stovee, my homie got a fire started on the kitchen counter. I went over to Charlie's cage, opened it, and reached in to wring his neck. Something black and sharp attached itself to my beautiful face and started biting and scratching. My homie came by with a hatchet and "helped out." I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon next Wednesday.

Anyway, we gave up on the pot pie and settled for sitting on the wicket couch sucking our thumbs. We don't call him Charlie anymore. Now, we call him PKB - the Purple Killer Bunny.

Why all the bad blood against Scooter?

It is always painful, even a tad Socratic, when a decent man stands up against the mob and tries to demonstrate his innocence. That's what Scooter Libby, a formerly well respected issues advocate and Patron Saint of Politics who now does political dog duty, has done over the last few months as he arduously fought to prove his innocence to a blood-hungry, finger-pointing, culpability-seeking jury.

Yesterday, Scooter lost his battle and was convicted of four out of five felony counts. Ignored by the jury were this man's stellar record on Capital Hill, exceptional history as a career lawyer and immaculate facial features whose innocence only a blind man could doubt.

Maybe some of the jury members were blind.

Based solely on the evidence of a newspaper columnist, the testimony of his back-stabbing colleagues and a US Ambassador, a “recorded” telephone conversation and some circumstantial data, an otherwise innocent man has been convicted of obstruction of justice, perjury and making false statements.

(The distinction between “perjury” and “making false statements” is, of course, a very important one.)

It’s not just that Scooter has been convicted of some crimes; he has been emasculated and castrated, yes castrated, to the bone by those he once thought were his friends. The high ranking people who used to have offices next to his are pretending Scooter never existed that his contribution to this nation never happened. Scooter has been vaporized. His name has been dragged, like Messala, through the mud behind a chariot. He has been trampled underfoot like so many lions and cobras and left behind to rot. His political math turned negative and his “friends” gave him the boot.

The eminently qualified news media inform us that Scooter has the dubious honor of being the highest ranking government official to be convicted of a felony since the Iran-Contra days, which were, if you are a teenager, a long time ago. And the scape-goats back then weren’t as pretty as Scooter. Pity.

After some appeals and related rigmarole, most of which could bore Justice Ginsburg to tears, Scooter will scoot (get it?) down to the Big House and serve out the penalty for his “crimes.”

When he is released, some two or three years from now, he will write a book that purportedly accepts the blame for his actions but actually subtly points some fingers. The book will become a New York Times bestseller and Scooter will use the money to campaign against prison violence. Like Bill Clinton before him, Scooter will no longer have any political significance.

Scooter may feel some amount of self-centered commiseration at the predicament in which his actions have left him hanging. But he shouldn’t feel too bad about his plight: in the old days, a politically unpopular or inconvenient person was taken into the woods and shot (we still haven’t found Jimmy Hoffa’s remains).

Today we have a very organized and civil method of disposing of our unpopular personas. Its supporters call it Justice; it’s antagonists, passing the buck. This time round Scooter was left holding the cheese and he’ll be the one taking the flak and fulfilling the obligations of this modern Justice. But by the time he has served his sentence, Scooter may be wishing for the old days.

The “Handicap” Button

The community college I attend makes its devotion to and concern for the disabled well known. Everything from the video surveillance secured parking lot (“handicap” spaces) to the wheelchair friendly landscapes (rail protected ramp) is set up to ensure the physically challenged can have an equal chance at education.

Please understand that we here at FCN have nothing against the wheelchair bound. In fact we have devoted significant energy to Victim Issues; I have even recorded a song to honor the disadvantaged.

But our love for the less-blessed does have a limit.

One of the features the college employs to allow everyone equal access to campus facilities is a “‘handicap’ button” or small metallic sphere over an electronic control that uses a reasonably quiet motor to power open a door. The “handicap” buttons were originally painted with a blue handicap mark depicting a stick man sitting on an angled “C.” (below)

Despite its subtle sexism and the aesthetically unpleasing mental images conjured up by the "C," this graphic was deemed acceptable by the ACLU and PETA.

Metallic buttons adorned with this symbol, and heavily faded by years of use, litter the outside of practically every campus restroom. When pushed, they cause a gentle hum and the door they control to open painfully slowly. Sometimes the motor gets stuck; the button jams or the electricity fails altogether, making operation of the device impossible to mortal man. In such instances, the bathroom is inaccessible to anyone, especially the “handicapped,” until uniformed maintenance men arrive on the scene to repair the device, sometimes two or three days later.

Despite the fact that our campus boasts some 20,000 students, many of whom are suffering from “handicapping” ailments, I have never once seen a wheelchair bound victim use the button. I have, however, witnessed hundreds of folks who, in their hale state of health, are too lazy to use the doorknob and push the button instead.

Just the other morning, in fact, a college age youth looking very collegiate in his doorag and hoodie walked up to the restroom door and pushed the “handicap” button expectantly. Before you get the wrong idea, this man sported no cane or obscene body fat, was assisted by no walker and rode in no chair. He wasn’t a Muscle and Fitness model, but he looked healthy. He had, as far as I could ascertain, no medical reason to avoid using the door knob.

As is often the case, the “handicap” button was broken; a useless piece of painted metal attached to a busted motor. My fellow student, however, was unconvinced of this fact. He pushed the button again, harder this time, as if electricity responds to anger. He waited a few seconds starring expectantly at the door and I stopped to watch how the episode would conclude. Then he pushed the button again and again, beating it like a bongo.

Surely, I thought, reality would win out over desire and this man would stoop to enter the restroom by his own power. But no, after his repeated attempts at using the electric opener, the student walked away, leaving the button and the restroom behind. Thinking the best of the man, I thought that maybe he was a newly rehabilitated “handicap” who had lived his formative years entering the restroom by pushing metallic plates. Maybe his anger had reminded him of a scheduled appointment more important than the most pressing physiological need. Maybe he had relieved himself by pushing the button repeatedly and no longer needed the services the restroom offered.

Maybe. Or perhaps the use of finger technology, as my friend John would say, was below him. Maybe he is the kind of man who takes the elevator instead of the stairs; if the elevator is broken, it’s as if the second story doesn’t even exist.

Quite frankly, this man is the scum of the campus. His lecherous habits denigrate the noble institution of education and turn him into an open social sore. That’s right, the next time this student finds a broken button he shouldn’t move on to let an unsuspecting student solve the problem, he should pick up a free campus phone and call maintenance immediately.

That way, I can get into the restroom.

Give Nancy her airplane!

As you may have heard, Nancy Pelosi, the lovely lady liberal from SF with the big eyes, has been seeking justice in the political transportation arena. While President Bush has a sweet pair of wings, to use the vernacular, and Vice President Dick Cheney flies in similar style, the person second in line for the Oval Office has been forced to fly in the puny plane Dennis Hastert used to ride in.

Nancy's current plane is so small it has to actually refuel (putting precious Muslim oil in the tank) during the flight. It's so petite she can't fully extend her Congressional legs to stretch them after a long day of political catering. The flight is so scrunched, the good Congresswoman has to watch the in-flight movies on a twelve inch flatscreen (Bush and Cheney get theirs on a 15 incher). The craft is so tiny, she can't fit Ron Artest's dogs in the no-feeding cargo compartment. It's so little, it's a flying bantam.

Since 2001, the White House has fulfilled the constitutional right of all big impact politicians to have their transportation subsidized in the name of security. This is, incidentally, the only constitutional right that terrorists have forced to be recognized. But, while Hastert was able to bunny hop from Washington to Illinois, the small commuter craft the former Speaker used must refuel (a very dangerous and terror attack prone behavior) in order to get from DC to Pelosi's home district.

Pelosi wants to be allowed to fly a C-32, the luxurious and specially configured version of the Boeing 757-200 commercial intercontinental airliner that seats 45 passengers with leather seats and has mechanical backrubs for the honored guests. The plane has a crew of up to 16, including her award winning dental hygienist and plastic surgeon. She also wants her friends to be able to fly free, a perfectly reasonable request given Pelosi's social status and position in Congress.

Think about how sagacious this request is for a minute. The top two most powerful political personas in America have their own personal chartered crafts. President Bush has Air Force One. Dick Cheney gets to ride in Air Force Two. Given her importance and the impact she will undoubtedly have on this country's undertrodden, shouldn't Pelosi have Air Force Zero?

Critics point out that the cost of operating the C-32 will run into almost $22,000 an hour (or $192,720,000 a year), a figure that is seriously overplayed given the size and misuse of the federal budget. I mean, how can we spend $640 on a toilet seat for a soft tushed General but hesitate to acquiesce to the request of Madam Speaker?

Frankly, we see this hesitance by the Pentagon to provide the craft to which Pelosi is entitled as discrimination against all left coast states(wo)men who must refuel between home and work. I bet Hastert, in his wicked anti-California bias, even had the controversy in mind when he first requested the smaller plane.

One other thing, as far as accommodations go on The Hill, if Pelosi wants to move into the White House and take advantage of her political position to get some nicer digs, we see no reason why she shouldn't.

Lineage Index

As you may know the underprivileged are very important to me. Those who have a rougher lot in life or just can't make it for themselves need others to step up for them and I have devoted great swathes of satirical and song writing toward victim's advocacy. The victims of persecution need to be comforted and protected by society. The descendants of victims should receive similar compensation, to make them whole again and repay the ancestral debt their fathers incurred.

One of the policy objectives that, if enacted, might help achieve lineage equality is the Lineage Index. The Lineage Index allows society to determine the victim-hood of particular individuals (while including calculations of parental suffering) and deliver compensation in the most American way possible: hard cash.

An index should have a way to punish (or give a disincentive for particular behavior) and reward (give reparations). But more on that later...

We can divide up the world's current population and the history of human beings into four broad categories, broken down below for your convenience:

1. Those who have contributed mightily to the advancement of their species.

Examples: Thomas Edison, Gertrude Stein, Moses, John Hancock, Alfred Kinsey, Isaac Newton and Ludwig van Beethoven.

Rule of Thumb: They are “good guys” who can be described accurately with one name (Edison, Newton, Beethoven, etc).

Verdict: The descendants of these men can be proud of their heritage and may bear their name proudly.

2. Those who have proven themselves utter scoundrels, undeserving of societal recognition and praise.

Examples: Adolf Hitler, Hissène Habré, Charles Taylor, Charles Manson and Michael “Cosmo Kramer” Richards.

Rule of Thumb: They are “bad guys” who can be described accurately with one name (Hitler, Mansen, Kramer, etc).

Verdict: The descendants of these people deserve to live, but the law should recognize the total social depravity of their ancestors and make life hard for them.

3. Those who have shown their virtue in the midst of adversity and have endured persecution from some of the mightiest oppressors.

Examples: Oliver Brown, Dred Scott, Rosa Parks, Oliver Twist, Martin Luther King Jr. and Tupac Shakur.

Rule of Thumb: “Good guys” whose deeds are even more amazing in light of the circumstances in which they were performed.

Verdict: This category is highly subjective and its determination is best left to the experts.

4. Life was too easy

Examples: John D. Rockefeller, Bill Gates, George Soros, Warren Buffet and Martha Stewart.

Rule of Thumb: CEOs of the biggest companies and those who inherited their wealth.

Verdict: If they make Fortune's list of richest people, they are so filthy rich anyway that their children won't need any help from the Lineage Index.

Lineage experts will, no doubt, create many smaller, more specific, divisions that better represent the complexity of human decision making. Some probable categories include “should have known better, but didn't,” “welfare king/queen,” “tried hard,” “didn't try hard,” “rough draw,” “single mother,” and “wanted to do better, really tried to do better, but freak circumstances turned person into total victim.”

The Lineage Index will be calculated by social, economic, religious, historical and cultural experts who will be charged with evaluating the merit of individual candidates. These experts will be placed on a committee where they can work full-time conducting historical research and making value judgments of others. These factors will all contribute to a person's Legacy Rating.

Rather than making toothless decisions, the committee's index will be linked to national tax rates and those with greater redeeming social value (a higher number on the index) will be given preferential treatment. For example, a single black mother of fifteen who is a direct descendant of Rosa Parks and who watches Oprah on TV will not only not pay taxes, but will probably be eligible for an Earned Tax Credit (ETC), which will compliment her income. By the same token, a married white male with an SEB goatee and shaved head who a distant cousin of Stalin and whose grandfather is was a Klan member will not only pay the normal tax rate, but have to pay the taxes of the single mother in the first example as well.

The ETC would function as a great social equalizer, providing an incentive for appropriate behavior. Not only will an offender's descendants be taxed heavily if the patriarch misbehaves, but they will lose the opportunity to access a wealth of funding in the ETC. This system has the added benefit of promoting morality. People would need to think of the impact of their actions because their decisions will impact not only on themselves, but all of posterity. Imagine: If Adolf Hitler had had children and he knew that the invasion of Poland would have turned his offspring into social outcasts, would he have signed the secret Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact? Would Hissène Habré have committed the atrocities against the Hadjerai and the Zaghawa? I thought not.

Punishments for ancestral sins will become less severe as the generations propagate and the impact of misdeeds will be lessoned as more time goes on, if those that follow can demonstrate a change. For example, Cosmo Kramer's children will be hurt more by his racist rant than his grandchildren.

The Lineage Index would be exclusively responsible for determining tax and subsidy rates. No political tinkering or kickback allowances would be permitted and the system would be based solely on ancestral, family and personal benefits to society.

This balanced system could even be used in personal interactions between people. Boyfriend and girlfriend could analyze the socio-economic and moral implications of their union prior to marriage and thereby choose only the mate that is best for society as a whole. Business dealings could be simplified by having all parties announce their lineage rating prior to a major deal to reduce the risk of anything underhanded. Even law enforcement could be made more effective if, instead of profiling suspects based on race and economic demographics, a more holistic measure were deployed. By weighing their interactions with others by the lineage rating, true social homeostasis would be maintained.

Another key benefit to the lineage index is the assurance that people with moral genes will have money. Rather than depending on derelicts for financial donations, charities will be ensured of financial stability as philanthropic humans who give generously will probably have a better lineage rating. The system could even be set up to encourage donations, by allowing for rating improvement through charity giving. The scale would, of course, have to be adjusted to give greater preference to minorities, but that's a problem for the lineage committee.

If effective on the national level, the index might even be implemented globally. New experts with diverse opinions could be invited to the lineage committee and the entire index could be updated to reflect world-wide standards of ethics and decency.

The Lineage Index has the potential to radically change the way governments and societies function. Rather than assuming all rich are socially destructive miscreants whose very financial existence must be punished, the Index taxes and rewards based on meaningful factors like parental morality. And, if implemented fairly, it has the potential to significantly reduce the number of victims worldwide.

Windows Vista

You would have to be blind, deaf or totally uninvolved in the daily operations of the technology world to not notice the emergence of Window’s new operating system (OS), Vista. Like a Boeing crash-landing, the new OS has torn across the tech world, tearing out telephone polls (Adobe), chopping off control towers (NVidia drivers) and polluting the airport with broken parts (viruses).

Vista is Ron Burgundy and Ugly Betty all tied together. It’s Barry Bonds and Floyd Landis off the juice. It’s Bode Miller on beer. It’s great, but it’s impaired.

Before the operating system was released, thousands of virus manufacturers were toying with beta versions, creating diseases for systems that would run it. Like so many infested ants, they crawled around spreading their cantankerous concoctions. In August of 2005, one Aussie hacker even published five “sample viruses” (not for resale) that supposedly could defeat the new OS (although I think we can safely doubt the veracity of this claim, given that it was reported by the “Mac Observer.”) Even while it was known under the euphemism “Longhorn,” the operating system took flak for being too weak against the lesser species we call hackers.

Fanfare and plane crashes aside, Vista has now made its entrance (Cue: Bridal Chorus). The shoppers, like so many Black Friday cattle, are obediently waiting in line for their chance at the diseased product. Not a pretty picture.

Bill Gates seems to have met his match with this one. Open source Operating Systems like Linux’s Ubuntu or BSD are gaining market share and Mac remains a formidable, if dark, opponent. Maybe that’s why he’s planning on doing philanthropic work full time.

What does “Vista” mean anyway? It sounds like some Mexifornian excuse for creativity. The dictionary says it’s a “distant view or prospect, especially one seen through an opening.” But not many people will be looking in the “distance” as they stare at a computer screen 18”-28” from their faces.

I know, why all the sudden grouch? I should have recovered from the Patriots loss by now, right?

Here’s my problem. My Internet pride and joy, the tool with which answer your emails, write these post and even do the occasional homework paper will never be able to run Vista. My computer has lost capabilities over time and is now little more than a workhorse. Sadly, Steve is completely cut out of the Vista fun. Completely.

Give me a minute while I pick Steve’s ego off the ground.

Steve runs XP alright (it’s a little blurry), but if any change should be made it’s a downgrade (to Windows 3.1, according to the diagnostics software) not an upgrade. I’ll only be able to enjoy the beauty of Vista vicariously, through the high end computing equipment of the other FCN writers or the guy at the soup kitchen on Pine Street.

Sure makes the sour grapes more understandable, doesn’t it?

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:

1. It's 342 days until Christmas. Which is nice.

2. It could be any number of days until your next birthday, which, depending on your age, is nice.

3. A man survived a 300 foot fall from a hotel window. He is probably going to sue. Hey, it could happen to you.

4. 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.

5. Paula Abdul is fine. Really.

6. McDonald's is going to start serving burgers on a comet! Or are we misreading this headline?

7. The new Boeing 747-8 sure looks comfy. And it's made in America!

8. Internet Explorer is being replaced by open source browsers like Firefox and Opera.

9. The year can't get any worse; all days from here on out will be better!

10. New Year's resolutions are no fun, anyway.
    

Have a great 23^rd everyone!

Two more verses for Ima Victim!

If you have ever heard my hit single, Ima Victim!, you know how I feel about all the victims in America who feel disenfranchised for some reason or another. If you haven't heard the song, know that I have a soft spot bigger than my belly for those who have been persecuted, lambasted or are just less fortunate than I am. It should, however, be noted that very few people are less fortunate than me; my life is one of constant difficulty, hardship and abuse and my level of victimization is paralleled by few.

The other day I was thinking about what a horrible mess my life was and how much others had done to cause my predicament, when I came to another conclusion: I am entitled to success. Not only have nincompoops destroyed my happiness, they have deprived me of the very things I need to live and, in some cases, forgotten what they owe me. The feeling got to be so strong that I made up a second verse to Ima Victim! While I didn't have access to the high tech recording studio like the one used to make the first version of the song, I did write out the lyrics below:

CHORUS: I'm Entitled. I'm Entitled

I'm Entitled. I'm Entitled, indeed

I'm Entitled to a good job and good salary

Indeed

I'm Entitled to a good life and no scurvy

Indeed.

CHORUS

I'm Entitled to three warm meals a day and decent shelter

Indeed

I'm Entitled to what I want helter-skelter

Indeed

CHORUS

I'm Entitled to entertainment or life's a bore

Indeed

I'm Entitled to everything and a little more

Indeed

If I ever get the microphone to which I am entitled, I'll record the song and upload it for your enjoyment.

As you may have noticed reading through the lyrics, something important is missing in my entitlement song. Victimization refers to injustices that occur during your life. Entitlement is something you are owed by virtue of you humanity. The next step is to compensate those who have been further victimized by being ignored, a process called reparations.

Here is the third verse to Ima Victim!:

CHORUS: I need Reparations, I need Reparations

I need Reparations, I need Reparations, indeed.

I need Reparations for the persecution and bad treatment

Indeed.

I need Reparations to build good will and personal betterment

Indeed

CHORUS

I need Reparations to make me smile and fatten my wallet

Indeed

I need Reparations for my good feeling and to support my bat habits

Indeed

CHORUS

I need Reparations for every forefather and every ancestor

Indeed

I need Reparations to make it all right and help my sister

Indeed

CHORUS

I need Reparations;Give me Reparations!

Indeed

I need Reparations;I am owed Reparations!

Indeed

As you can see, a truly heart-felt ode.

Remember we are all a victim of something, so find something to feel bad about and start singing Ima Victim!