FCN Classic: 4th of July "Tribute"

We have all heard, I am sure, some enthusiastic mantras of praise for the United States of America; expressions of affection that are normally reserved for lovers or little children are extended with unwavering confidence to a nation of 300 million and no time of year is more prone to these tributes than the 4^th of July, the day set aside to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, an act that took place a couple centuries and one day earlier.

Do you realize that was all one sentence? Yay for me.

Anyway, FCN hates to be left out of the fun, but we feel that single-minded praise of the USA is nation centric, selfish and egotistical and we therefore craft our 4^th of July Tribute with a focus on other countries. America might be the greatest nation on earth, but that doesn't mean we do everything the best. In fact, if you take apart many of the things that make America “great” we find that other nations may have a better claim to “best.” Take a look at the following examples...

Free Speech

America's founding documents say that the dark beauty of the mind of every man, woman and monkey should be pasted for all to see on every newspaper, wall and museum. The result is personal ads, graffiti and the taxpayer funded “artwork” like the unclothed mannequin squatting on the raw chicken. How much more American can you get?

Perhaps the biggest flaw in our speech laws is that websites like Funny Class Notes are allowed to continue sans sanction or punishment. Regular citizens who make fun of elected leaders and deride the policies of our government are not shut down or even punished. Complete fabrications are allowed unaltered and dry comedy that isn't funny or even inspiring is published anyway. In fact, the White House has been known to give press passes to bloggers and encourage independent journalism by issuing press releases to the pajama media.

A better approach to speech regulation is embodied in China's “One-Word” policy. If one word is out of line, there is no limit to the excruciating pain the government has license to level against you. The flag of China is as red as the blood that runs in the citizens' veins and an acknowledgment of that and subsequent regulation to preserve the serenity and tranquility of Chinese life justifies speech controls.

Quite frankly, we need to be protected from ourselves. When we talk, we use the weapon of James, a terrible tool that can cut down friends, families, and even governments, the most sacred institution of all. A standard that no law can restrict speech is wholly at odds with the realities of today.

Wake up, America; China's got it figured out!

Marriage Laws

For some biological reason, America has it in its thick scull that the only people who can marry are men and women and they can only marry people of opposite genders in units of one. While this policy isn't codified nationally, almost every state has a marriage standard that destroys any chance of turning the love of man and monkey into a legally recognized spousal relationship. Tragic.

In the Netherlands, anyone can get a “Geregistreerd Partnerschap.” Well, more specifically, any quantity of anything and/or anyone can go before the altar (or bookshelf for all the law cares) and lynch the knot. These Partnerschaps can include two or even three partners of any gender background or identity. (Due to a lobbying effort on the part of the canine community, the law currently prohibits unions of four, but the Dutch parliament is working to resolve that and full freedom of spousal interaction is on the horizon).

For a nation that promotes freedom at every turn and prides itself in being the land of opportunity, America sure does limit its citizens' ability to hook up creatively. We allow free speech to run rampant but restrict marriage to the most narrow minded definition. Maybe we can learn something from our Dutch brothers and sisters (and barnyard animals).

The Netherlands are, indeed, the land of the three, home of the brave. America needs to leave behind the antiquated views of marriage and adopt a more progressive view that includes, well, everything.

Wake up, America; the Dutch have it figured out!

Currency

Turning our attention briefly to the somewhat dry – but always crispy – topic of finances, our monetary policy is hoisted (that means it's bad). Our inflation rate is so low and uninteresting, most of you probably couldn't even cite it. In fact, the last time anyone in your family worried about inflation was when your daddy was in diapers. The dollar is just too stable.

In Zimbabwe, a country that wins the award for the best name, inflation hovers around 5,000%. That means that in Zimbabwe money is like a car: It loses most of its value the moment it leaves the mint. But there are some awesome things about having an super high inflation rate. For instance, the currency is printed with an expiration date like milk or yogurt and businesses are not legally obligated to accept old bills as legal tender. This means that immediately before money is about to expire, the economy is boosted with a huge injection of activity, helping keep one of the poorest nations in the world afloat.

If America printed bills with an expiration date, greenbacks would find their way out of mattresses and into the hands of Wal-Mart cash registers, thus helping both the American and Chinese economies. An expiration date is a brilliant way to stimulate economic growth, throw the American consumer for a loop and give Ben Bernanke something to talk about.

Wake up, America; Zimbabwe has got it figured out!

Equality

Somewhere along history's timeline, America picked up a perspective on gender relations that promises equal treatment and the same rights for men and women. That's all fine and dandy in a political sense, but in the real world, where only the strong survive and the weak must wear headscarves for protection, a different perspective is appropriate.

Iran, the land of the great Imams, which gave the world camels and burritos, takes a more Darwinian approach to gender equity. Women are given all their rights by men. As three teenage guys living in America, we think that's pretty cool. Not everything about Iran is that awesome. We can do without the noontime wailing and the bed spreads that pass as casual wear, but the idea of subservient women is attractive. Guys, imagine being able to silence any female with a snap of the fingers. Heck yeah.

Instead of enslaving our female population, America has granted the fairer sex suffrage, land ownership rights and drivers licenses. Women are put as equals to men in government and business and are given the choice to work wherever they want, as corporate executives, small business owners or even mothers.

The day of the liberated woman is over. Iran has recognized this and recaptured the women that were never set free. What a picture!

Wake up America; Iran has got it figured out!

That's our tribute. Hopefully we've provided more evidence in favor of free speech restrictions. We've looked at four countries from five continents to find just a few examples of where the greatest nation on ever is behind the curve. Sorry to rain on the “America is awesome" party. Maybe next year we can celebrate reforms that bring us closer to having an unbeatably great country. Until then, we can continue to suffer - as is FCN's habit - under mediocrity.

F is for Freedom

I had intended not to post on this blog ever again, but after that libelous post last Friday I just couldn't stay silent. I do care a tiny bit about my legacy. I had hoped I wouldn't have to say this, but my hand has been forced. It's time for the truth.

I didn't abandon FCN. I was ejected. What C, N, and Chip conveniently neglected to remember in their last post on the subject was that, in a series of staff meetings all through May, my opinions were not only ignored, but actively suppressed. Eventually I found out why: because I had the distinction of having written the longest post in FCN history, topping 2400 words (none of which were swear words). The other contributors were resentful. I even heard one of them whispering when he thought I couldn't hear about how I was a stuck-up take-over hopeful. I guess they never really got over that one incident last year, either, even though I apologized from the bottom of my heart and everything.

The atmosphere around the FCN water cooler was growing increasingly poisonous. Last week I finally decided to broach the subject, and everyone hemmed and hawed and muttered into their mountain dews. I made a speech, complete with emphatic gestures in the air and a final cry at the end in which my voice broke. My fellow contributors were unmoved.

I wrote a dozen posts and put them in the queue, but whenever I tried to post them someone would take them back offline immediately. I tried everything I could think of. I even baked chocolate-chip macadamia cookies as a peace offering. N was let out of the hospital the next morning and doctors say he'll have no permanent scarring.

Well, what's a fellow to do when faced with insidious backstabbing? I couldn't stay. I wasn't wanted.

So I'm gone, and where I am now you can't hope to find me, unless you use the tracking beacon that was implanted in my brain because of a government experiment, but that's another story - and one that will probably never be told unless rFCN recruits me or something. Or maybe I'll start my own blog. I'll call it: Mental Atrophy Farm. Or: Six Years Under the Command of Captain Spooner. Or simply: I like Zebras.

But for now, only one thing is certain. I'm leaving, never to come back again. But I'm not one to leave on a bitter note. Let me offer my final adieus and thank yous, in no particular order:

C: If it weren't for you, my posts would look significantly less brilliant. So thank you for that. Oh, and your banner art is lame - do I really have to tell you that MS Paint is an embarrassment to the United States and border countries? Please. Download GIMP or something.

N: Well, the slow-release album ended before we could get your picture up. That makes me happy. Because you get less fame and glory. See what I'm saying? The things that make you sad make me happy. We're opposites. It's because I don't like you anymore.

Chip: I think you had this planned from the start, you dirty scum. You replaced me. I hope you get sucked into an escalator. I hope the chef puts a rock in your crouton salad. I hope you slip on a wet floor in front of your girlfriend and then you see a wet floor sign right next to you and you're all embarrassed.

Yeah. I just went there.

Mommy G: You always gave me a shoulder to cry on, a brownie to munch on, and a spatula for the other contributors. I'll miss you. Good luck with those wolves.

Uncle Wally: Maybe you should look into the fast food industry or something. They're always hiring. You know? Just a thought.

Em: I know you're embarrassed whenever I mention you. But I don't feel bad about that anymore. This post is for telling it like it is, and no goodbye would be complete without a shout out to you. Goodbye forever, Em.

Loyal Readers: You may be few, but you are strong. You'd have to be to read the sort of things we post here. I'll be sure to let you know if I join some other blog (like the Daily Kos - oooh - nice). So when I do, you can all drop everything and go over there. And FCN will flounder.

That's right, you backstabbing contributors. Flounder.

Flounder.

Flounder.

Storm's coming.

Wanna catch a movie?

This story begins long before the trailers started rolling their shameless advertisements across the big screen at the local theater complex. It begins before the ten mile run that jarred my bones for a little over ninety minutes and the six hours of studying that fried my brain until I was dumber than the GED-toting model I will end up marrying. It even starts before my shift at General Mills, where I logged my contribution to our stagnating economy under the watchful eye of an unforgiving supervisor.

This story begins at 5:30 in the morning when my Radio Shack issue alarm decided my sleepy time was over and the awake hours should begin. Actually it was me who made that decision, but I'd set my alarm in a moment of weakness the night before, not realizing how early 5:30 really is. I had chores, a homework assignment and some personal hygiene problems to resolve before leaving for work. After my travails at the Cheerio factory and a quick rinse in the "Milk Shower," our loving moniker for the sprayer that helps remove the scent of heavily refined, super white flour before we leave for home, I logged some time at my school's library, reviewing the ravings of the lunatic Fourier (the socialist economist, not the physicist) among others and generally preparing for the irritable activity we call "Final Examinations."

When my eye balls were struggling to stay in their sockets, I replaced my books in my backpack, switched the music on my mp3 player from Brooks and Dunn to Blink 182 and went for a run. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how a derelict celebrates a sixteen hour day.

Only the day wasn't over. I ran into a friend on the way to my car who looked at me with a concerned eye [CAUTION VERY WEIRD] and told me to drink some juice, a comment I interpreted as a date invitation. But I'll share the rest of that conversation in another post. It suffices to say that I was looking a mite tuckered.

I was crossing the last street to where my car was parked when my phone buzzed. It was F.

"Hey C, wanna catch a movie?" The request was as enticing as it was impossible.

"I can't, F. I've been running around like a soccer mom all day and I just need to go home and relax. I think I'll just curl up with some Akerlof tonight." I think F figured "Akerlof" to be an adult beverage, but he didn't cop to it when I pressed him about it later.

"C'mon, C! It'll be fun. Everyone is going. And we're catching some dinner at In N' Out beforehand." It was as if F had pushed my "Easy Button." I went from ambivalent to persuaded faster than you can say "Flying Dutchman."

I arrived at the local In N' Out before F and his entourage, so I grabbed a seat at one of the outdoor tables and enjoyed a few slow minutes. Ten feet away from me two teenybopper females gossiped emphatically, never hesitating at the prospect that their words might be picked up by a guileless eavesdropper. I wasn't trying to listen in (although everyone should know that Jane broke up with Todd and it's all Todd's fault for looking sideways at Rhonda and that Jane is thinking about going out with Amanda's ex) but I got an earful nonetheless. Their conversation was like a verbal combat. One person would speak while the other tried desperately to get a word in edgewise. Then they'd reverse roles. In an odd way, their interaction held a chaotic beauty, like seeing lions eating zebras on the Discovery Channel.

Once F arrived, bringing with him the entire female population of the Central Valley, I waltzed (1-2-3, 1-2-3) into the restaurant and ordered with all the desperation of a starving distance runner. The food was delicious - I think even my cooking would have been good after a ten mile run and an overheard episode of conversational combat - but the real excitement started at the theater.

I thought my day was tough, but it was nothing compared to the hero onscreen. Robert Downey Jr. (the guy who loses most of one of his fingers in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang) played an iron-clad special effects character who has bad day after bad day. My ordeal over the last 19 hours was nothing compared to the world changing problems he had to tackle. And putting Lawrence Fishburn in at the end was a great touch. He'll make a great villain in Iron Man 2.

The movie was over and we filed out into the lobby area just as the first pangs of a headache hit. I had been at it too long and my body was finally starting to rebel. I had to surrender or pay some substantial consequences.

That's when F pulled a fast one. "Wanna catch another movie?" Another film was playing (that happens when the theater has 12 screens) and F was leading his entourage into the next flick. I shouldn't have, but I succumbed, shelling out another ten bucks and feeling sorry for myself that I had to submit to such awful bodily torture. It was inhuman what I was doing to myself; the Geneva Convention should come down harshly on my persecutor.

I remember nothing of the second film besides some bright lights and the screaming of the main character at a particularly tense moment in the film. I don't even remember the film's title, other than to say that it had all the creativity of a cardboard box.

When the film was over, I stumbled out the glass double doors and staggered to my car. I know that beer and gasoline don't mix, but nobody told me not to try sleepies and gasoline. By the time I got home, I understood why "exhausted" begins with an "e," the only letter in the English alphabet that's doubled over. I went to bed in my clothes and didn't stop to remove my contact lenses. The next morning was a story unto itself.

Fashion #2: Tigers Are Cool

Funny Class Notes has a new guest contributor! A longtime reader and member of the faithful few has been accepted into the ranks of the writers who call this site their online home. Chip has been reading since August of 2007 and here is how we introduced him back then:

Reader number ten is an exceptionally overweight individual named Chip. Chip's main reason for coming to our page was to find solidarity. That's right, our tenth reader came to FCN because he wanted to find dumb people with whom to associate. Chip has, according to his G-Talk picture, an affinity for tight white undershirts and the style he chooses does little to hide his bulky middle or hairy back. He sent us a long email full of lovingly misspelled words in which he poured out his life's wish to work as a corporate executive at a Fortune 500 company. We assured him in our reply that white collar work isn't all it's cracked up to be and that he would be much happier working graveyard at Taco Bell while supporting eight kids and his own beer belly. We also advised that one major prerequisite to the Chief Executive's chair is teeth brushing and that he might want to consider other personal hygiene innovations as well. Yeah, we really hit it off.

In order to accept Chip as a contributor, we required he wait outside the door of our house for three days without food, shelter or encouragement and endure our verbal abuse without giving up. Chip succeeded and was invited into our ranks. Below is his first post as a guest contributor.

If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring? That's right, a new spring wardrobe! And if you're looking for the hottest trends, you will find no better role model than the perennial tiger, who burns bright in his jungle home. Tigers are slim, sleek, powerful, and always ready to kill. Here are ten eleven reasons that tigers are the greatest fashion and lifestyle freaks around:

1. Tigers have stripes.
I know what you're thinking. So do wasps, zebras, and "construction zone" signs, all three of which are not likely to appear in the latest issue of... whatever you read to keep up with style. But hear me out. You are forgetting that stripes are an old staple when it comes to pajama pants, which, in a glorious merging of hip culture and pariah college derelict culture, have become quite a hit for Spring of this year. So, stripes it is!

2. Tigers work out.
Tigers don't sit around in classes doodling and writing funny class notes, although that is a pretty snazzy thing to do. Nor do tigers pant on the treadmill. No—tigers run 50 miles per hour through snow and consequently they are pretty ripped.

3. Girls like tigers.
Don't believe me? Well, think back to the last time you saw a girl wearing a shirt that said something like "I heart Tigger." Actually, it's more likely to have mentioned Pooh, but that's a different story. Let's just say that A.A. Milne was pretty with it.

4. Tigers are tech-savvy.
Yes, I'm talking about Mac OS 10.4, "OS X Tiger." Since Apple chose a tiger as the mascot for its operating system, tigers must be cool. For one thing, Macs don't run Windows. For another, Macs are chic and youthful, just like Obama.

5. Tigers are down-to-earth.
Every lion claims to be king of the beasts, but have you ever heard of a tiger putting on airs? In fact, the tiger is so humble that it occasionally deigns to breed with a snobby lion and has a liger baby. That's a good thing, because ligers are seriously the greatest animal, and they have skills in magic.

6. Tigers are rich and famous.
At least the Asian Tigers are. Check out your T-shirt: it was probably made in Taiwan, Singapore, Hong Kong, or South Korea. Or if it wasn't, it will be as soon as McCain abolishes trade quotas.

7. Tigers are into sports.
The Detroit Tigers started their season by losing to the White Sox and beating the Red Sox, which shows that they're into clothes (i.e. socks), if not fashion. It also shows that tigers like sports, which is a plus when it comes to trendiness.

8. Tigers kill animals.
Killing animals is a valiant thing to do and, if you're of the male persuasion, you can always count on a good kill to show how macho you really are. Consider that day last Fall when you sauntered into the house of your old family friend, and found yourself staring into the glassy eyes of a giant buck, whose head had been impressively mounted on the wall. Chances are, your friend noticed your glance and offered some welcome explanation:

"Like it? Just had the thing mounted. We'd walked for ten miles, me n' Jim, and our water was running out. Then Jim put his hand on me and pointed. The wind was in our direction, so we knew it was gonna sniff us out fast. I leveled my sight on 'im and Bang! But the durn thing jumped up just then and set off running, so my shot got 'im in the left thigh, and he disappeared into the leaves, so we had to track him. We followed the trail of blood for five miles and found the thing curled up by a stream, with the buzzards circling overhead and the wolves howling in the distance. So we gutted it there and hoisted the meat up our shoulders..." Etc. Then your friend probably showed you the buck's hide, with two bullet holes in it, and told you that the taxonomist had said it was a first-rate piece of skin, et cetera.

9. Tigers kill people.
Have you noticed how popular the Bourne movies are? We're not talking about geek-popular, or even man-popular. Even your glitter-clad, texting teenage teenybopperette has seen them. What's the attraction? Having breathlessly watched all three installments, I can see only one reason for their popularity: the amount of people killed. Deadly is the new sexy. In California, they even made an "exterminator" their governor. Go figure.

10. Tigers procrastinate.
Have you ever been to the tiger cage at the zoo? Those lazy things lie around all day in the sun, their bellies full of free fresh meat and their tails too sleepy to bat a fly off their magnificent fur coats. If you're an average cubicle slave you probably grit your teeth at the sight and wish the government would support you instead of those feline dukes and duchesses. If, on the other hand, you're a college derelict, you probably don't even look twice. Those tigers know the secret of a happy life, just like you.

11. Tigers are carnivores
A tiger is one of the few fell creatures besides a human that would enjoy an animal-style feast from In-N-Out. Tigers don't eat sissy greens or wimpy fruits. If they went to Subway, they'd pass on the peppers and have a sandwich, not a salad. They gorge themselves on bleeding red flesh with the gusto of an obese American.

YOU WILL ENJOY A TRIP TO ASIA

Here's a riddle for you: I'm one in fifty-two; I am stressful but nothing new. I come around with great fanfare. When I'm passed, all will celebrate. What am I?

If you answered Finals Week, you are absolutely right. And now I am celebrating. I am making like Lindsay Lohan on a chick's night out and throwing caution to the breeze as I party like it's 1699. I'm doing the Tony Romo thing and giving it up for what I gave up.

A few days ago as I looked over my notes one last time before my first examination, it seemed like the week would never end. I was queasy like a sailor in the swells and feeling about as smart as one too. From behind, my tests looked really, well, fat. Now they look like petty undertakings that, while polemic, could have been much worse. I need a T-Shirt saying "I survived Finals Week" or some such overused slogan to help commemorate the accomplishment. I'm not done with school or anything satisfying like that, but I did complete another semester which, if you're a derelict like me, is a big deal.

When my last final was over, I shook my professor's hand, thanked him for the class and then ran for the exit. After an embarrassing and altogether gratuitous encounter with the dean of the college (sorry!), I breathed the open air of liberty. Suddenly struck by cinematic inspiration, I made like Mel Gibson and shouted "FREEEEDOM!" at the top of my lungs. I wasn't really free - summer school starts in three weeks and I'm taking more hours at General Mills in the interim - but I shouted anyway. I don't think anyone still taking a final appreciated my display, but it got a couple chuckles from some passersby.

In hindsight, I can look back and laugh about the late nights studying, the three hour examinations, the oral interviews for language class and the excruciating study groups, but the events of the week itself invited little mirth. In fact, the routine got so tiresome that I could not go the whole way through without a break.

Tangent: One summer a few years ago I was in Lake Havasu, Nevada Arizona. You know, the home of the London Bridge. I said summer, not spring, so get that idea out of your head. Anyway, the time of year didn't keep me from doing something crazy. Lake Havasu gets really hot in summertime. It gets so warm that some natives get water directly from the lake and poor in their pasta without putting it on the stove top first. I was sweating like a groom in the heat and needed some relief so I went into a local gas station and purchased a gallon of cold water. Over the next 36 minutes (two stop watches collaborated in cataloging my stupidity), I drank the entire thing. Twenty minutes later, I needed relief. Badly.

The relief I sought mid-Finals week was almost exactly like the palliation my bladder craved, only not physiological, liquid or related to meteorology. Come to think of it, my craving had very little to do with Lake Havasu.

I needed a fortune cookie. Hey, pregnant women have their socially acceptable dietary desires, can't a student in the middle of hell week? Thank you. But you can't just eat a fortune cookie, you've got consummate the exercise of reading the cookie's text by enjoying a meal first. So I zipped over to my favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered the old standby. When I finished the food, I carefully opened my cookie while wondering, as I do every time I enjoy one of these ethnic delicacies, what manner of witchcraft was used to bake the cookie without burning the paper.

My fortune read:

"YOU WILL ENJOY A TRIP TO ASIA"

If you're a fortune cookie aficionado, you'll know that most fortunes are nebulous excuses for predictions that could be just as true for me as my imaginary quadriplegic hetero-lifemate. I was used to "AN OLD MAN WILL GIVE YOU WISE WORDS" or "YOU WILL HAVE AN IMPORTANT OPPORTUNITY." This is the advice that is truly useful: so arcane that it can be applied to whatever area the reader wishes yet with a comforting facade of profundity. So deep that it's shallow.

Asia? That couldn't possibly be right! My linguistic skill set does nothing to prepare me for the Orient. I can hardly use chop sticks and my back creaks when I try to bow. Not only will I go to Asia, but I will enjoy the trip. What is the significance of that? Was Asia a metaphor for a person, object or even a location closer than the other side of the world? Part of me wanted to return the cookie as defective and demand a replacement, but I was restrained by the knowledge that fortune cookies are like puppies in that people don't pick them; the fortune cookies pick you. "Asia" had picked me and this fate was incontrovertible. I was stuck with an enjoyable trip. Dang it!

For the duration of my remaining exams, I was plagued by this Asia. When I drew Robert Solow's economic growth model for Japan during the 1990s, my mind drifted back to Panda Express. When I answered a question about the concept of Wu-Wei and related it to modern economic theory, I imagined Confucius, the Asian philosopher. Even my French final had a question about francophone countries and I thought twice about putting Vietnam on the page. These "visits" to Asia were hardly "enjoyable," though.

If I fail any of my classes, I have an excuse. That incessant fortune was louder than it looked in the cookie and it distracted me and drove me batty.

Then again, maybe Asia is the summer I am about to enjoy...

Desperate Student, Episode 16: Cupid Loveline

This continues the Desperate Student series. Get caught up here before proceeding. Or you can just wait for the book.

I hate medic planes.

You would too if you contracted the obscure VIRUS 200 (vernacular: Orangutan flu) during a job-related safari and woke up on your way back to the states for extensive medical testing.

I don't remember most of it. I recall waking up - always with a nurse standing next to my bed with a clipboard - and being asked all kinds of fairly intuitive questions like "Would you have a beer with a pony you'd never met?" and "What color are triangles?"

You know. The sort of questions you ask people with Orangutan flu.

When we finally landed, my arms, chest, and back were pocked with needle marks and there were about thirty little sensor things taped onto various parts of my head and torso. I had an IV running on each arm and a third, smaller one on my left thumb. There were staples holding together a fresh scar near where my appendix presumably no longer hung out. Everyone was now wearing blue face masks and the light had been dimmed.

"Wh ... whuh hathibined?" I asked. My jaw was numb.

"We ran some tests," Said the nurse with the clipboard.

"I'm guh be okay, righ?"

"You were never in any danger. Orangutan flu is like a severe head cold."

"Buh theh why dih you do all thah? I nevah gay you puhmishuh."

"Yes, you did, sir. We have a signed consent form given to us by your former employer."

Jane was more wily than even I'd given her credit for. "Cah I go now?"

The nurse shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"Wuh abow ah this stuff ah me?"

"You're welcome to take it off, sir."

"Wew ah we?"

"O'Hare International Airport. We'll disembark in a few moments."

"I wan go now."

"Suit yourself." The nurse tossed her clipboard onto the table next to my cot and walked off into another room. I noticed zebra doodles all over it.

With great effort (I was feeling pretty weak), I yanked all the probes and needles out of myself and staggered to my feet. It felt like the room was whizzing by; I fought to stay standing and took a hesitant step forward, steadying myself against the cot.

"Careful," the nurse called from the other room. "You've lost a lot of blood."

I reached the door to the plane and sagged against it. The plane was about a quarter mile from the bustling O'Hara airport B terminal. With careful deliberation, I took the first step onto the stairs down to the tarmac.

I awoke on the tarmac with pieces of asphalt embedded in my forehead. I stood slowly and staggered across a vast expanse of criss-crossing runway to a chain link fence, which was made of chain link, the bottom of which was poorly buried. I yanked up a section and wriggled under. Then I wandered for a few hours with a vague understanding I needed to get away from anything related to Jane Goodall.

I awoke at the foot of a rundown white building in an old metropolitan section of town. A burned-out sign outside read: "Chicago Herald."

Now I don't expect you to believe this. I suppose if you believe I once took a bullet for the president this might not seem like that big a jump. But to me, what happened next was the most extraordinary and absurd thing I'd ever experienced since my episodic autobiography began. There was a fifty-dollar bill slid under my left hand. No unique markings. No note. No one around. I just suddenly had fifty dollars. For a moment my mind flashed back to the tales of King Midas. But King Midas never forged Mexican citizenship papers so he could work as an agricultural laborer.

I slowly pushed myself up to my feet, weighing the bill in my hand. Besides this bill, I was at rock bottom. And even with it I couldn't go home or survive for very long. This was no time to be conservative. I studied the money for a long moment. Ulysses S. Grant stared back at me with unblinking eyes that seemed to give me quiet reserves in inner strength.

"Go ahead, son," He seemed to be saying. "I didn't split the confederacy in half by eating taco bell until my funds ran out." It wasn't so much the words so much as the fact that Grant seemed to be talking that really got me. I knew I needed help. I had to shake things up. I crumpled the bill tightly into my fist and walked deliberately into the Chicago Herald office.

There was a payphone in the corner. I checked the number, then walked to the receptionist and spoke through clenched teeth.

"I want to take out an ad - the best you can get me for tomorrow's circulation with fifty dollars."

"For 47.99 I can give you an inch-by-half-inch with simple text."

"Perfect. I want it to say: 'Don't like what you see? Stop the blind search with a personal matchmaker. Professional, discreet, guaranteed happy match within two weeks. (847) 334-6991.' Can you fit that into an ad that size?"

"That's a bit wordy."

Eventually she got me down to a more reasonable ad. It ran:

MATCHMAKER (847) 334-6991

Very economical.

Satisfied, I went back to the somewhat dilapidated couch and passed out. I was awakened at ten o'clock by a janitor. "Can I help you?" He asked.

"Hm? No. Thanks. I'm waiting for somebody."

The janitor looked dubious but nodded and moved on. I passed out again.

At around eight the next morning, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver before the first ring ended, then spoke, trying not to sound too eager:

"Hello?"

"I saw an ad in today's paper for a matchmaker?"

"You've got the right number. That is, I'm him. I am he. This is him."

"My name is Wade Roberts."

"I'm ... Cupid ... Loveline."

The man sounded confused. "What should I call you?"

"My friends call me ... Cupid."

"Can we meet?"

"How about we just discuss over the phone. It's faster."

"All right. What do you charge?"

I thought fast. "Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred!"

"Well, yes, I mean ..."

"That's a fraction the cost of the last person I called."

"Well I mean, five hundred for the basic service. It's two thousand for the premium service."

"What do I get with premium?"

"Most of it is behind the scenes. We use a complex process to bring your chance of success from ninety percent to ninety-nine percent."

"I want the premium. Sign me up right now."

"All right, Mr Roberts ..."

"Call me Wade."

"Wade. So tell me a little about yourself."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"You mean you don't know me already?"

"Should I?"

"I mean everyone knows me. Just everyone! You haven't heard my music?"

"I don't think so ..."

"Last Time I Kissed You? I Could Be The One?"

"I don't think I've heard those."

"Why, that's amazing. You're one in a million. I'm very popular. That's why I want a matchmaker. I want to use a forged name so I don't get swarmed by adoring fans."

"They won't recognize your face?"

"Uh ... well ... I mean there's always that risk. But people don't seem to recognize me generally. I mean I go out all the time and no one takes another look. It's because I'm so reclusive. It's what A-list celebrities do."

"So what are your interests? Your hobbies?"

"What, am I on a date with you now?"

"No, I just wanted to know a thing or two about you so I could match you."

"Listen Cupid. You're the professional. I don't pay you to make small talk. I pay you to find me the girl I'll be happy with until a highly publicized and messy divorce in four or five years. Make it happen!"

"All right - well what kind of a girl are you looking for?"

"You know - sweet, pretty, smart, fun, talented, a good smile, looks good in blue jeans. Also I want someone who will hang on my arm and announce all my achievements at parties so I don't look quite so boorish. And stare at me across the room with an adoring look. And call me all the time when I'm out of town. And leave me sweet little notes in random places. And she needs to be good at yoga."

"I can get you a girl like that within the week, Wade."

"Fantastic!"

"Let's talk about payment."

"Half now, half when we're engaged?"

"Fair enough. Where do you live?"

"In the ritzy section of town."

"I'm out of Chicago on a private mansion. I'll send one of my lowly servants out to meet you halfway to pick up the money."

"Where's halfway?"

"Oh, shall we say ... the Chicago Herald Office? It seems fitting somehow."

"That's not in a good section of town."

"It'll be good for you. Oh, and bring cash." I hung up hastily. My hands were cold and clammy; I rubbed them together briskly. Someone was coming with a thousand dollars to my location. Maybe life was finally starting to pick up.

I waited outside for half an hour, then a black limousine pulled up and a tall beefy man in a suit with sunglasses got out. He walked straight to me. "Cupid Loveline?"

"I work for him."

"Please deliver this briefcase on behalf of my client, Wade Roberts." He handed me a light but promising black leather briefcase. I tried to accept it as casually as possible, wondering in the back of my head if I'd ever been this close to so much money.

For several minutes after the limo drove away, I stood on the sidewalk holding the suitcase in an agony of indecision. A big part of me wanted to jump ship - to take my thousand dollars and fly away and pull the same hoax on someone else later on. But for some reason I stayed. I'm not sure if it was the chance of more money later on down the line or a vague sense of moral compulsion. But I was contracted as a matchmaker, and I was going to follow through.

Cupid Loveline was going to make Wade Roberts a happy man.

Why I Dropped Out of College

School officially starts today. My fellow contributors are off to classes starting this morning and tomorrow, respectively. And while they're sitting in rows of desks listening to instructors tell them not to cheat and what the late homework policy is, I'll be driving from one job interview to the next begging for gainful (or at least semi reputable) employment.

I've completed 33.5 college credits and was sitting on the honor roll until about three weeks before finals (when I abruptly stopped studying because I had an itch). If I stayed in school a few more years, I'd be walking around with a Business degree and my starting salaries would be much juicier. I might even make double digits per hour. Crazy!

But that's not going to happen. I will never get my degree. I spent more than a year of life sitting in class writing FCN posts, and all I'm getting out of it is a lot of FCN posts. And zebra doodles, which are harder to draw than you might think. I don't mind keeping our eleven readers stimulated, but you'd think I could find a way to be more productive with a year of my life. Oh well.

So I know what you're thinking: "He's not taking class notes! One less contributor! Oh noes!" Well, worry not. After a long and sweaty FCN staff meeting, I managed to convince my fellow contributors to let me stay on in the same capacity I formerly worked in. It won't just be class notes anymore - now it'll be Funny Waiting For Tech Support Phone Call Notes or Funny Pool Cleaning Notes (or whatever job I end up getting). But since

FWFTSPCNoFPCN(oWJIEUG)aFCN

is not a catchy acronym, my fellow contributors were insistent on leaving the name as is. On the plus side, since we're not changing our name, your bookmarks will stay up to date. You do have FCN bookmarked, right? Right?

Moving on.

Another thing you're thinking: "Don't drop out of college, you loser! Stay the course!" Well, I'm not staying the course, and there are a few reasons:

Personality. My personality is such that I'm not the kind of guy who finishes what he starts. So dropping out of school comes naturally. Some people are just quitters. Think of that song by Shania Twain. That's how it is. Except take the opposite of that, and that's what I am.

Mind-bending boredom. As you could probably tell by reading FCN, college classes are like lullabies or "you've been a bad boy" lectures from people who are not my mom. They put me to sleep. Maybe being a cashier will be more exciting.

College people. There are two kinds of college students: Macho Emotional Wrecks and Emo Emotional Wrecks. I'm both. Neither are any fun to hang out with. In addition, students are uber-sheltered, non-unique, not on their last boyfriend yet, think of themselves as artists, smell funny, stay up too late, eat junk (but not enough of it), are politically active but politically ignorant, poorly dressed, drunk or wish they were, too young, nerdy, fat, ugly, boorish victims who play their iPods too loud.

Money. Textbooks are expensive. Minimum wage is - like - negative expensive. Show me the moolah!

Time. Even when you're not studying, college takes time. Not going to college frees up time for all those derelict pursuits I value more than warming the seat with my student-issue tushie. Like getting level 17 Dark Elf.

Tackiness. For about two decades, every time anyone wanted money from me, I turned to the person next to me and said: "Hey, can you cover for me?" Now, I can say: "Hey, can I pay you back later?" Eventually I'll have to move to Switzerland, but in the meantime, I'll be golden. Instead of broke.

So I'll concede that my long-term future is a bit dim. But it's all good, because today, as the other contributors and many of you in the reading audience march off to class, I'll be right here laughing.

And scrubbing.

Why its OK to give liberals the pass

Warning: The content of this post is unintentionally mature. If you are mature, please read on. If you are unsure of your maturity, but are deathly curious, there isn't anything this paragraph can say to stop you, so read on. If you are immature, find a mature friend or parent to read the post first and, after the reader has sullied his mind or corrupted her heart with the vile contents, you may weigh the value of reading on.

And don't feel lonely, you can always check out today's Life Tip!

Those of you who have taken a break from your busy class schedule to peek at the news may have noticed a slightly alarming, politically delicious and highly concupiscent episode involving a duly elected United States Senator, an airport and a men's restroom.

If you aren't up to speed, let's just say that the honorable Senator was caught doing some perverted and illegal things in the bathroom and that the evidence against him was so strong that he plead guilty to the resulting misdemeanor charge without much of a fight. The honorable Senator than tried to remove his guilty plea and his request was denied. The honorable Senator is now trying to remove his guilty plea on appeal. The newspapers are loving it, bloggers are making hay of the story and every passing day has the image and reputation of Larry Craig dragged further through the mud.

The story of Larry Craig is one that seems more at place in a cheap paperback novel then on the front pages of such widely read publications as the New York Times. Or did I just repeat myself?

Regardless, the point is that anytime you have an elected politician soliciting anything other than votes in a public restroom, you also have a great deal of eyebrow raising.

Or do you?

I certainly raise my eyebrows when I hear these kinds of stories. I also lean forward, purse my lips and squint my eyes, all nonverbal expressions of titillation and interest. But if you are like most Americans, you only really care about sex scandals when they impugn a conservative leader.

No, it's true.

Consider Hugh Grant, an outspoken critic of former PM Tony Blair, who was caught misbehaving lewdly a few years ago. Grant took care of the "problem" by apologizing on Leno and then starring in a bunch of big budget movies. In fact, unless you have a photographic memory for news - one that can recall stories like this from thirteen years ago - you forgot all about GrantGate.

Or, more politically, openly homosexual congressman Barney Frank was at the center of a prostitution ring while serving as a Democrat representative from Massachusetts. When the scandal broke and the skeleton came waltzing out of Frank's closet, the politician did what politicians do best and easily sidestepped the problem. Only he did so by challenging his opponents to explain why his actions were wrong and defiantly defended his ties with prostitution. Frank continues to serve today.

Or consider Ang Lee and Tom Brady, a movie director and a sports star who's relationship dalliances are overshadowed by their liberal politics.

At the same time, conservative leaders like Clarence Thomas, Newt Gingrich, Mark Foley and Ted Haggard have had their voices eliminated or substantially tarnished by the allegations of sexual misconduct that have been levied against them.

Some would look at this disparity and become concerned with the apparent double standard in contemporary politics, but FCN sees this another way.

Standing for liberal ideologies is a great way to expunge crimes of indiscretion. Said differently, a host of moral sins are forgiven by support for the environment or advocating redistributing wealth to the poor. If you mess up, no matter how egregious the mistake, find a liberal cause to espouse and all will be made right.

This approach to justification gives people an out. Instead of having to suffer through the conviction of untreated iniquity, the sinner can search out some liberal pet project to support. And remember to stay consistent, because a relapse into conservativism invites criticism for your wayward behavior.

If you ever get caught in an insidious sin, deride the military or blame a conservative; you'll get out of the jam every time. Guaranteed.

So Larry Craig, burn in torment for your actions, you pervert. But rock on Barney Frank.

Todd's Eye

Todd gets up at his normal heure de reveil ("oh, way too early"), grabs his razor (the comfort of five blades, the precision of one) and heads to his bathroom. Along the way, he notices in his full length bedroom mirror that sleep has tussled his hair and puffed his face (like Jon Heder not Nick Diaz). Todd makes a mental note to spend more time in the shower with the various cremes in his possession remedying these conditions.

Razor in hand, Todd walks into his bathroom and looks at his reflection in the mirror. You know, he thinks, sleepiness aside, I look pretty dang good. Todd turns his head slowly while maintaining eye contact with his reflection, and looks at his hair and jaw lines, admiring the solid strength and feeling more confident in his appearance. He moves his hair to the side, combing it slightly with his hands while continuing to stare at the mirror. Dang good.

Out comes shaving cream and on goes razor. Sharp blades make contact with hair just above the surface of the skin, easily cutting off twenty-four hours of keratinized growth. Todd uses short quick motions and manipulates his facial features to give the razor uninhibited access. And while he shaves, Todd looks in the mirror.

Mentally Todd compares his visage with that of famous contemporary and historical figures. He imagines what his chin would look like covered with a scruffy black Abraham Lincoln goatee or a nose like Frances I's. Maybe I would look better with Ben Stiller eyebrows. Todd visualizes the effect of a facelift and tries to pinpoint the impact his eyes have on his overall appearance.

Todd notices some hairline acne and mentally kicks himself for not being more liberal with the face wash. Fortunately the effect minimal and doesn't detract from my overall good looks.

The shower awaits, so Todd sets down his shaving system, pulls off his sleeping attire and hops beneath a flow of steaming hot water. Apply the shampoo, lather it in...

Todd is struck by an idea. What if I had a jaw more like Brad Pitt's? Todd tries hard to imagine what the overall impact such a change would have on his appearance. He can't. Todd is unable to visualize his face, much less his face with Brad Pitt's jawline.

More curious than ever, Todd exits the still running shower and walks in front of the bathroom mirror. To his surprise and disappointment, Todd discovers the bathroom mirror has been fogged over from the shower steam such that the surface is no longer reflective.

Todd leaves the bathroom and goes into his room to use the full length mirror. There Todd stands for several seconds, looking at his dripping wet features and heavily lathered hair. Todd suddenly realizes how ridiculous he looks and returns to the shower to continue washing. A moist circle remains on the carpet of his room.

On his way to work, Todd checks his car mirrors often, more to look at himself than to check traffic.

Todd goes out to lunch with an old friend. He notices his reflection in his glass and looks forward to see how the hours have treated his visage. Todd's friend pretends not to notice the show of vanity, but inwardly she is hurt by Todd's implicit message that his face is more interesting than her conversation.

If Todd were to think about his actions, he would probably feel some remorse. He doesn't want to hurt his friend's feelings. He is just really interested in his own face. I am the kind of man who can appreciate beauty and what's so wrong with admiring what God gave?

In fact, why is the girl in front of him not more engrossed in her own features? They certainly aren't comely; she should be checking herself out all the time. What gives her the right to criticize me when she probably does the same thing when she is alone? Is she insecure in her beauty?

Todd sits alone at his dinner table and feels the uncomfortable weight of solitude as a suffocating force. He needs company. A small mirror propped up by a stack of books allows Todd to look at himself while he eats. He no longer feels alone.

"When with rebukes You correct man for iniquity, You make his beauty melt away like a moth; Surely every man is vapor. Selah"
~Psalms 39:11

4th of July 'Tribute'

We have all heard, I am sure, some enthusiastic mantras of praise for the United States of America; expressions of affection that are normally reserved for lovers or little children are extended with unwavering confidence to a nation of 300 million and no time of year is more prone to these tributes than the 4^th of July, the day set aside to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, an act that took place a couple centuries and one day earlier.

Do you realize that was all one sentence? Yay for me.

Anyway, FCN hates to be left out of the fun, but we feel that single-minded praise of the USA is nation centric, selfish and egotistical and we therefore craft our 4^th of July Tribute with a focus on other countries. America might be the greatest nation on earth, but that doesn't mean we do everything the best. In fact, if you take apart many of the things that make America “great” we find that other nations may have a better claim to “best.” Take a look at the following examples...

Free Speech

America's founding documents say that the dark beauty of the mind of every man, woman and monkey should be pasted for all to see on every newspaper, wall and museum. The result is personal ads, graffiti and the taxpayer funded “artwork” like the unclothed mannequin squatting on the raw chicken. How much more American can you get?

Perhaps the biggest flaw in our speech laws is that websites like Funny Class Notes are allowed to continue sans sanction or punishment. Regular citizens who make fun of elected leaders and deride the policies of our government are not shut down or even punished. Complete fabrications are allowed unaltered and dry comedy that isn't funny or even inspiring is published anyway. In fact, the White House has been known to give press passes to bloggers and encourage independent journalism by issuing press releases to the pajama media.

A better approach to speech regulation is embodied in China's “One-Word” policy. If one word is out of line, there is no limit to the excruciating pain the government has license to level against you. The flag of China is as red as the blood that runs in the citizens' veins and an acknowledgment of that and subsequent regulation to preserve the serenity and tranquility of Chinese life justifies speech controls.

Quite frankly, we need to be protected from ourselves. When we talk, we use the weapon of James, a terrible tool that can cut down friends, families, and even governments, the most sacred institution of all. A standard that no law can restrict speech is wholly at odds with the realities of today.

Wake up, America; China's got it figured out!

Marriage Laws

For some biological reason, America has it in its thick scull that the only people who can marry are men and women and they can only marry people of opposite genders in units of one. While this policy isn't codified nationally, almost every state has a marriage standard that destroys any chance of turning the love of man and monkey into a legally recognized spousal relationship. Tragic.

In the Netherlands, anyone can get a “Geregistreerd Partnerschap.” Well, more specifically, any quantity of anything and/or anyone can go before the altar (or bookshelf for all the law cares) and lynch the knot. These Partnerschaps can include two or even three partners of any gender background or identity. (Due to a lobbying effort on the part of the canine community, the law currently prohibits unions of four, but the Dutch parliament is working to resolve that and full freedom of spousal interaction is on the horizon).

For a nation that promotes freedom at every turn and prides itself in being the land of opportunity, America sure does limit its citizens' ability to hook up creatively. We allow free speech to run rampant but restrict marriage to the most narrow minded definition. Maybe we can learn something from our Dutch brothers and sisters (and barnyard animals).

The Netherlands are, indeed, the land of the three, home of the brave. America needs to leave behind the antiquated views of marriage and adopt a more progressive view that includes, well, everything.

Wake up, America; the Dutch have it figured out!

Currency

Turning our attention briefly to the somewhat dry – but always crispy – topic of finances, our monetary policy is hoisted (that means it's bad). Our inflation rate is so low and uninteresting, most of you probably couldn't even cite it. In fact, the last time anyone in your family worried about inflation was when your daddy was in diapers. The dollar is just too stable.

In Zimbabwe, a country that wins the award for the best name, inflation hovers around 5,000%. That means that in Zimbabwe money is like a car: It loses most of its value the moment it leaves the mint. But there are some awesome things about having an super high inflation rate. For instance, the currency is printed with an expiration date like milk or yogurt and businesses are not legally obligated to accept old bills as legal tender. This means that immediately before money is about to expire, the economy is boosted with a huge injection of activity, helping keep one of the poorest nations in the world afloat.

If America printed bills with an expiration date, greenbacks would find their way out of mattresses and into the hands of Wal-Mart cash registers, thus helping both the American and Chinese economies. An expiration date is a brilliant way to stimulate economic growth, throw the American consumer for a loop and give Ben Bernanke something to talk about.

Wake up, America; Zimbabwe has got it figured out!

Equality

Somewhere along history's timeline, America picked up a perspective on gender relations that promises equal treatment and the same rights for men and women. That's all fine and dandy in a political sense, but in the real world, where only the strong survive and the weak must wear headscarves for protection, a different perspective is appropriate.

Iran, the land of the great Imams, which gave the world camels and burritos, takes a more Darwinian approach to gender equity. Women are given all their rights by men. As three teenage guys living in America, we think that's pretty cool. Not everything about Iran is that awesome. We can do without the noontime wailing and the bed spreads that pass as casual wear, but the idea of subservient women is attractive. Guys, imagine being able to silence any female with a snap of the fingers. Heck yeah.

Instead of enslaving our female population, America has granted the fairer sex suffrage, land ownership rights and drivers licenses. Women are put as equals to men in government and business and are given the choice to work wherever they want, as corporate executives, small business owners or even mothers.

The day of the liberated woman is over. Iran has recognized this and recaptured the women that were never set free. What a picture!

Wake up America; Iran has got it figured out!

That's our tribute. Hopefully we've provided more evidence in favor of free speech restrictions. We've looked at four countries from five continents to find just a few examples of where the greatest nation on ever is behind the curve. Sorry to rain on the “America is awesome" party. Maybe next year we can celebrate reforms that bring us closer to having an unbeatably great country. Until then, we can continue to suffer - as is FCN's habit - under mediocrity.

Our Blog? Boring? Pshaww....

Here's a response to everyone who doesn't like our blog...



























...things could be worse.

For more Pearls Before Swine, visit Comics.com

Homies, Day 4: "You can crash at their place."

Sometimes it's the little things about house sitting that get you. Eating the refrigerator empty. Breaking the foosball table. Clogging the shower. Running out of bunny food because you were fattening them up. Bursting the bean bag. Trying to get the smell of marinated bunny out of the kitchen.

Then, sometimes it's the big things.

I had just sat down in my first class of the day when one of my fellow classmates leaned over and started telling me all his problems. He said his wife had left him, he'd been evicted, and he was penniless and would probably freeze to death that evening.

"You think that's bad?" I asked. "We broke the foosball table earlier today."

Well, what could I do? We had been given specific instructions not to let anyone into the house besides immediate family members. I had only one option. I reinterpreted this rule in the broadest and most metaphorical of senses, and then rejected it because it was too nebulous. Then I inviting the homeless guy to crash at our place. Note that when I say our place, I mean their place.

I gave him the key and the address and said I'd be back later that afternoon. When my homie and I showed up, we found not only the homeless guy, but about a dozen of his buddies. They had pitched camp all over the downstairs and were now pillaging the pantry for vittles.

"Hey guys," I said. "I'm not comfortable with this."

"Coming through," Said a homeless guy, brushing past me with a chandelier under one arm and a glass rooster in the other.

"Hey, where's all this stuff going?"

"Garage sale," Said the homeless guy. I couldn't think of an easy way to get these guys out, so I wandered upstairs and watched a movie. When the credits rolled, I muted the sound and listened to the ruckus downstairs: rushing water, breaking glass, shouts.

Before proceeding, it's important to note that FCN is not against homeless people. We don't think they're any less honest than the rest of us and we generally feel charitable and generous toward those without four walls, a roof and a central heating and air. Anyway if our life trajectories reach their logical conclusion, we'll probably be homeless someday, so we wouldn't dream of knocking bums. It's just that, apparently, we got a bad batch.

The steam bath had gotten out of hand, and the downstairs living room, eating area, and laundry room, and bedroom were flooded. The homeless guys were plopped in front of the downstairs TV watching a pay-per-view. Everything besides the TV and couches that could be moved (and a few things that couldn't) had been hauled forcefully out into the front lawn, and signs had been erected all over the neighborhood advertising a garage sale the next morning.

I rolled my eyes and went back upstairs, where I was confronted with bad news and good news.

Bad: I would be sleeping on the floor because the bed was being peddled away.
Good: The Pooh-bears were also being peddled.

Sleep came slowly thanks to the partying downstairs. This morning at six, I came down and negotiated a 5% commission on the day's sales, because after all, it had been our stuff in an obscure, incoherent metaphysical sense for about four days.

The selling was brisk and lively. Goods flew off the lot: tables, chairs, pillows, china, shampoo, beds, pens, kitchen appliances, mousepads, a litterbox, you name it. An hour later, we were standing in a nearly empty front lawn. There was only one box left. It was full of Pooh-bears. I could have cried.

"So we sold away a five-person family's possessions, minus one entertainment set," I said. "What'd we make?"

The head homeless guy tallied it up. "Looks like almost four hundred and fifty dollars," He said, grinning toothlessly.

"What! Only four fifty for all that?"

There was an awkward silence. Somewhere in the distance, the long-last cat screeched. Then, as one, the homeless guys scattered in all directions, laughing like hyenas.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Come back! I want my twenty-two dollars and fifty cents!"

It was too late. They were gone. I wish I could say I was outraged by the systematic robbery, but I can only say I was mildly embarrassed. After all, it wasn't my stuff.

I went into the backyard, pulled up several handfuls of grass, and stuffed them through the wire into the cage of the last bunny, a slightly-neurotic but very cute black critter named Charlie. "There's no more food in the house," I told him. "I think you know what's coming."

The Day I Dropped a Water Balloon from the Fourth Story of Cunningham when I should have been Drawing Zebras in Econ Class

Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying that Microeconomics is boring. I'm just saying ... well, okay. It is boring. Sitting in the back of class drawing zebras and playing Midnight Pool on my cell phone gets really, really old. Eventually the zebras submitted a petition asking me to leave them alone.

Yesterday morning at 11 sharp, I placed my hand on the door of Cunningham 411, bracing myself for another fifty minutes of bone-jarring boredom. Then I stopped short and asked myself: What am I doing? It's not like I was about to learn anything. I have a perfect attendance record. I can afford to have a little Me Time.

I turned around and walked away. A delightful sense of purpose filled me. I left campus and crossed the street to the extensive shopping complex, and there, I purchased a pack of water balloons. Then I returned to Cunningham and filled one.

Before going any further, I ought to explain the layout of the Cunningham building. It was built in the seventies. That should fill in most of the blanks, but here are a few extra details: It's four stories tall, and it wraps around a central courtyard. The primary way to get into the building is by walking into the courtyard and up some sweeping stairs to the second story, all the while walking directly under three levels of balconies.

Every hour, the entrance to the Cunningham courtyard is clogged with student traffic. No one goes up to the fourth story, though, except for people who are foolish enough to take classes like Econ 1B.

In a moment of rebellious passion, I went to the balcony and looked down at the ant-like students passing below. Then I dropped a fully-loaded water balloon into the swirling masses. It dropped for several seconds and then splattered on the ground. A few students looked at it and then kept going about their business.

If there's one thing mischiefs can't stand, it's not getting in trouble when they've been bad. I should have been relieved that I didn't get busted. Instead, I was aggravated. I hastily loaded up another balloon and hefted it away. This one hit a student's backpack squarely and exploded, soaking him in water.

The student looked over his shoulder and shouted: "Cut it out you guys!" And then he went on.

This was too much. I was seriously put out. I loaded five water balloons and tossed them over the edge in quick succession, then peeked over to inspect the damage. I found myself looking into the eyes of my thoroughly soaked Ethics instructor. A sample from one of his lectures can be found here.

My prof smiled slowly. His eyes glinted in recognition. Then he leapt, catlike, up onto the second story balcony and started crawling up the side of the building toward me. Animal fear washed over me and I turned to hide. I found a classroom door to my left and ducked into it hastily, then sat in a desk just as the roll sheet was passed to me.

I inscribed my initials next to my name and sighed. It was going to be another long Econ class.

I Smoked Some of Coach’s Peyote

My track coach is a first rate beast. To hear him tell it, he’s fought grisly bear’s with his bare hands, run just shy of the world record pace in the hardest sprint distances, killed with his bare hands, been on dates with the most beautiful women, built a four story building with his bare hands, coached the state’s best track stars, and killed some of the state's best track stars with his bare hands, just to name a few of his escapades.

"If you ain't first, you're last." - Coach

He’s done it all and he’s done it well. Success just isn’t interesting for him anymore because he’s experienced so much of it. Fast speeds to us collegiate runners are slower than his middle school times and he doesn’t see much reason to praise performances that are so far “below par.”

“If you can’t run the mile under four minutes, why do you run it at all?” - Coach

Our coach has the spirit of Vince Lombardi, the reputation of Chuck Norris, the endurance of John Rambo and the heart of Rocky Balboa. He’s got the dominance of the Sixties Celtics, the touch of Jordan and the legend of Tiger; he’s a one man Hall of Fame.

That’s why a lot of eyebrows were raised when we discovered a snuff box in coach’s glove compartment that read “Coach’s Peyote – Do Not Touch.”

In case you’ve never been on an Indian Reservation, peyote is a highly hallucinogenic compound derived from the juice of a cactus that is used in religious ceremonies by our indigenous brothers. According to ancient custom, the stuff is powdered and placed in a pipe to be consumed ritually. By ritually, I mean sitting in a cave for several days until even cactus juice seems attractive. It’s also supposed to be very noxious smelling and induce feelings of nausea in the user. We never knew coach was a Native American, but that really didn’t really matter; he had a hallucinogen!

What I did after the discovery was highly experimental and is not suggested for any of the faithful FCN few to attempt on their own. In fact, peyote is designated only for use in Indian religious ceremonies according to Title 42. So unless you want to got to jail and spend a lot of long years with people like me, don’t do what I am about to describe, ok kids?

We did a little research to find the right coagulants and mixed up a batch. One of my fellow track runners was an old hand at rolling a joint (a skill he never explained) and I was soon equipped with a lit peyote “stick” and a series of chanted instructions to “puff, puff, puff!”

Native American tradition says that when you inhale the peyote fumes, an image of your “spirit animal” will fill your senses. My first whiff filled my mind with the bulging image of my track coach, whistle, stopwatch and all. Then I felt it; inhuman strength began welling up in my arms and I felt a quiet power fill my chest and loins. I had the ability to predict any outcome, win any bet, swim any ocean, jump any canyon and smash any window. I could even climb every mountain, ford every stream, and follow every rainbow until I found my dream.

I didn’t know how, but inside I knew I had a great hand with the ladies, could race a 4x4 brilliantly and how to pinch the jugular with finger and thumb for a quick, quiet kill. I could feel thick hair bursting through the skin of my chest.

That’s when a coughing spell hit. As quickly as the images appeared, I was my old lonesome self once again. Gone were the supernatural abilities and astounding skill. My coach disappeared into a cloud of vapor and I immediately doubted whether or not I had even seen him in the first place.

It took over twelve hours before my system flushed all the peyote out and I relearned my lesson about consuming exotic unknown substances. But it was all worth it to see the hollowed shell of a man who met us in coach’s place at the next practice. Gone were his pompous posture, long-winded stories and excessive gloating. No longer were his criticisms so harsh and he even lost a little weight.

While we were stretching, Coach looked us over and asked with an accusatory note, “Has anyone been in my truck?”

Lunging Toward Disability

I run track. That’s a simple way of saying I submit my body and soul to inhuman torture at the hands of a known narcissist for two and a half hours on a daily basis. It’s a summary of years spent sprinting round and round a quarter mile of rubberized asphalt trying to beat the clock and the poor souls who are cursed to join me.

But it’s also an endorphin induced activity that pushes back the barriers of reality and lends me a meta-nirvana on a daily basis. It’s Eric Liddle, Roger Bannister and Michael Johnson feeling “His” pleasure and slicing the wind on “our” own two feet.

But enough of my fecund teenybopper Hemmingway imitations.

My elevated view of track was surviving well until the glamor and excitement were rubbed off during yesterday's practice, when the macabre reality of our activity set in with the force of Marv’s fist.

In case you forgot, the weather was terrible, rainy, windy and altogether obnoxious, but our former Navy Seal head coach who claims to once have done push-ups on the ocean floor was undeterred by the meteorology.

After stretching (drenched, shivering and just starting to become sour), coach measured a distance of half a football field, 50 meters, and instructed us, his ignorant but loyal minions, to lunge the distance ten times while carrying a 35 pound weight on our shoulders.

For those of you blissfully unaware of the “lunge,” it simply a large step that pushes the knee almost to the ground before repeating the stride.

Using Al Gore’s internet, I was able to locate the following picture of a lunge which might serve to illustrate the activity:

The only difference between the young woman above and what we were doing is that we left our ballet tutus and exotic headpieces in the locker room.

By the first lap through the lunge pattern, my legs were shaking like an electronic cake batter mixer. One of the coaches, a young, sympathetic man who never served in the military, would shout encouraging slogans at us as we gyrated through the movement.

“Go! Yeah! Keep it up! Don’t stop now! Yeah! Who's the man here?” I thought I was on hands and knees doing a Dead Man’s Crawl in Facing the Giants. Maybe I was...

By the time the last step was completed, my entire body was moving involuntarily. I collapsed on the track and watched as my legs kicked to and fro periodically, seemingly without design. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so painful.

I tried to stand up, but fell hard and the texture of the track left an imprint on my nose.

Judging from the sighs and groans from my team mates, the practice ought to have been over at that moment. We could hardly crawl, much less run, and any more practice, it seemed to us, would bear little fruit toward the goal of running fast.

Our coach had a different idea. “All right! I want an 'easy' mile at 90 second lap pace. Let’s go, go, go,” he said to a chorus of groans.

90 second lap pace is a six minute mile, a feat accomplished with relative ease by us collegiate runners, but, in our current state of physical delinquency, it seemed out of the question. A mile is, by anyone's standard, a long way to go unaided by modern transit equipment. But with the rain and our terribly rended muscles, it seemed like forever.

But we moved, slowly at first and then faster, putting one foot in front of sore foot, somehow going, as a team, as we had been instructed.

As we ran, the coach shouted racing epithets at us: “You guys are running as if you just got off a horse!” “You guys are running like shot putters.” “You guys are running like Nancy Pelosi!”

We ended up going an additional three miles; each step, a nail in our collective rears which still screamed from our lunges. When we were finished, the workout was over and we left the coach and his narcissism behind for another twenty one and half hours.

The story would have been painful enough if it ended here, but there’s more. I got up this morning and tried to lift my leg, only to discover that it wouldn’t go up. It barely budged with the effort. Like so many French employees, my muscles were on strike, refusing to obey even a normal command. I had to shuffle through my morning routine (shower, shave and shine, although I think I might have skipped the shower since the step was so high) and drove to school pushing the gas and brake pedals with my hands.

Practice today was carnage. Grown men were crying like pampered babies. Conditioned athletes, some of whom are capable of running competitive times at the state level, walked on to the track rubbing their hindquarters as a child might after a spanking.

We were disabled. A bunch of invalid runners without spirit, drive or knee lift. If the college had a wheelchair service for its athletes, we would undoubtedly be rolling instead of limping. We had lost our eudaimonia and couldn't get it back until the soreness left. Worse, we were ashamed of ourselves for being unable to handle a tough workout and hid our shame with violent complaints and requests for sympathy.

On the plus side, we won't be lunging again until next week; although that's a day I think I might skip...

FCN Honesty Test

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it gives us great pleasure to unveil to public consumption for the first time the FCN Honesty Test. It is the product of extensive testing in the FCN labs in which dozens of rats were brutally murdered. I mean, they didn't just die, they died slowly and painfully, screaming for mercy as they writhed on the table. Their deaths were not in vain, however.

To find an objective evaluation of your honesty, simply answer the 20 questions at this location, which, for those of you who don't click on things, is

http://quizfarm.com/test2.php?q_id=298674

So we use QuizFarm. So we're cheap. There's no shame in that.

Two quick warnings: first, the percentages of honest and dishonest may not add up to 100. This is because honesty and dishonest are not polar opposites. It's all very complicated and has something to do with Zebras and purple rutabagas, but suffice it to say that whichever trait you have more of indicates your general disposition.

Second, if you don't answer the questions honestly, it won't do you any good. So get everyone out of the room, take a deep breath, and face your faults.

Good luck.