12th Do It Yourself Post

If only I knew _______________.

Life Tip #72

Don't drive with a suspended license.

If you must drive with a suspended license, don't drive on the wrong side of the road.

If you must drive with a suspended license on the wrong side of the road, do not drive on a major interstate highway.

If you must drive with a suspended license on the wrong side of a major interstate highway, don't do so the court day before your scheduled DUI hearing.

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.

An open letter to Hillary Clinton

Friday of last week introduced the kind of unsettling news that has good people like Tatum O'Neal turning to cocaine. Hillary Clinton's cold turkey withdrawal from the race for the Democratic Nomination for the Presidency of the United States has pundits scratching their heads and us here at FCN asking that deceptively simple three letter word: Why? After much soul searching and a trip to the FCN lab, we were still unable to come up with any believable reason for her early exit. But, like the academics we are, we can trump up a simple "I don't know" to make it sound sophisticated. We put our ideas down in an open letter, a draft of which is reproduced below.

Mrs. William Jefferson Clinton
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Ooops, how embarrassing. That's the old address. Here's the correct one:

Ms. Billary Clinton
780 Third Ave, Suite 2601
New York, NY 10017

Mrs. Clinton,

My name is C. I am a writer with Funny Class Notes ("FCN"), the slowest growing humor and satire blog on Al Gore's internet. FCN has a dozen very loyal readers who join me in mourning the loss of your candidacy. I write this note on behalf of our readership, N, Chip and the prodigal contributor, F, who gets listed last because he has the staying power of kindergarten adhesive. Please let these words warm your cold heart. Frame this letter, if that will improve its radiance. Just let my thoughts shine into the darker recesses of your life. I'm not talking about the Vince Foster, Paula Jones, Susan McDougal, Waco Texas or Kenneth Star corners; let's go ahead and leave those dark. Rather, let my words shine into the dim recesses of your life. Let them alleviate the gloom and bring a grin to your eyes, which is the one place I've never seen you smile.

You will be sorely missed. The regular contribution of your pant-suited figure to the headlines of reputable newspapers across the fruited plain was an integral part of my daily routine. You were my motivation to get up every morning and run out to the sidewalk to grab the morning Herald. In my excitement to read the Associated Press' take on your latest verbal gaff or sleep-deprived quotation, I would sometimes scamper outdoors without a bathrobe à la Matthew McConaughey in, well, in any of his movies. Some things were more important than basic decency, like getting a refreshing glimpse of your visage.

Don't misunderstand. You are no messianic figure. People don't worship you or faint at your rallies. The Obamination has a corner on that quality. I am not denying that you do have a certain shrewd mien, but your essence seems more at home in Salem than New York. You were never going to win the Teenybopperette vote. You were never going to win the straight guy vote. You were never going to win the black vote. In fact, your entire constituency is made up of those who have seen Sex and the City which, while substantial, is but a dent in the voting population. Give yourself some credit: with no marketable attributes and a collection of negatives so large, you could give one to each illegal immigrant in the United States and still have some left over for the AIDS victims, you managed to be a burr under the Obamination's saddle for several months. For that we applaud you with a lusty golf clap.

Your performance was nothing short of miraculous. Only you wouldn't use the word "miracle," because your sustained period of non-defeat can be explained by naturally occurring circumstances. Circumstances like Jeremiah Wright, Michelle Obama and Michael Pfleger. You never had to throw your grandmother under the racism bus or distance yourself from your spouse after he embarrassed you publicly. And if you did do that second thing, it was so long ago that everyone has forgotten about it by now, I'm sure. Monika who? Gennifer who? And Gina Gershon?

Billary, you are an inspiration. Like the rodeo cowboy who rides the bull and doesn't let go of his wrist strap even after it gets stuck in the pommel and he's been thrown out of the saddle and his arm is dislocated and he breaks both legs against the side rails. Like the skydiver who, out of principle, refuses to pull the ripcord. Like the coal miner who doesn't cease his labor and continues digging faithfully despite the tunnel's collapse. You found encouragement in small victories and never gave up on the goal. Until now, of course, but you deployed at a low altitude.

You didn't cry, lie or make a fool of yourself. At least you didn't do much of any of those things. Or when you did do them, you apologized for them in a way in which we can all be proud. Or at least, FCN can be proud of you. I'm proud of you, Billary.

Don't be discouraged by this setback. With new technology and aesthetic innovations, doctors should be able to keep your smile looking genuine for another twenty to thirty years. Certainly 2012 is still open for you, if not for Chelsea. And your chances this year aren't over yet. You may be able to pull a fast one on the Obamination and get back to the Vice Presidency. And, who knows, the top spot may open up again. Like you, I'm still pulling for some drama or at least a Tonya Harding-Nancy Kerrigan-type "accident."

I don't want to end a letter on such a dark note, but I haven't had a lot of sleep lately so I can't necessarily be held accountable for my words. Regardless, my affectionate sentiment is hopefully not vitiated by references to Robert Kennedy, may he rest in peace.

You have stolen my awe, amazement and imagination. I only hope you will once again challenge the minds and morals of America at some future date. Whatever obstacles are subsequent, I am sure you will meet them with all the poise behooving your name.

Sincerely,

Funny Class Notes

F abandons FCN

"Commitment" is a hard word. It's three syllables long and has a lot of repeating Ms and Ts, which renders the spelling arduous. The principle behind the term is similarly formidable. Commitment requires not backing down or giving up, even in the face of, well, artistic differences.

Here at FCN, we've never laid much of a claim to commitment. "Lackadaisical" seems like a better description of our approach to life and we've never had a hard time changing course if it meant finding an easier path. But we demand a higher level of integrity from others. Nobody kicks us to the curb, leaves us out to dry, runs out on us or abandons our ship. No siree, sir! When the wind blows against your sales, we expect you to make good use of the jib to keep your sloop on an honest bearing.

This is more than a credo. It is a mandate; a directive so puissant, no amount of badgering can get us to renege. Ever. We expect others to never give up. Not after six pieces of pizza, three coke classics and two bowls of onion rings. Never.

In fact, we expect out of you and each other the same thing the Obamination sees in Billary: the can't quit attitude.

At least that's what I thought until last week, when I got a rude awakening to the realities of today's internet world. Apparently "yes" doesn't always mean what the Greeks said it means, because F gave the world a new interpretation of the term, and entered a another chapter in the FCN Manifesto, by packing his cyber bags and walking out on FCN.

That's right. No last post; no train of long goodbyes (or even a single adios). Just a forlorn and empty user where F used to write his funny tomes, cutting social criticism and relevant satire. It's an empty locker where Mean Joe Green's jersey once hung. It's a deserted and quiet Carnival after a night's frivolity. It's Seattle after Boeing left.

And now it's just me and N and, of course, Chip, our guest contributor. We'll do our best, but things won't be the same without you, F. If you are reading this, please come back. We need you. Heck, I need you. I'm a mess without you. I miss you so dang much. I miss being with you, I miss being near you. I miss your laugh. I miss your scent; I miss your musk. When this all gets sorted out, I think you and I should get an apartment together. Maybe I should stop talking for a little while.

No! I can't be groveling. We cannot reduce ourselves to sniveling dogs, circling the table for morsels that drop from our master's table. I will command. F? You come back and make a public apology. You have lost all credibility, like the time on the local news channel when the camera panned back and revealed the anchor was barefoot. You need to earn back your respect in the humor community. You grovel; cry and fill a cereal bowl with tears. Then we'll see about letting you back into our little club.

Please, man? I mean, you'll always have a place here if you want to return.

FCN readers, your consideration and condolences are appreciated during this particularly difficult time for the FCN team. We want to be cheery and happy, light and funny, but it's hard when you lose such an integral piece. Please use the comment section to remind F about how much he means to you and maybe we can get enough of an outcry to bring him back even if it's just to say goodbye.