Elegy for Edgy

Now as the month of May her long and languid novel ends
we celebrate the passing of one of our dearest friends.
For Edgy, mighty Edgy, hero of the modern age
has been full far too absent from IM or blogging page.

Who thought the month of May would be the month of his demise?
'Twas a tragedy the most prophetic never could surmise.
Not even Mr. Brown, with all his knowledge of the past,
could guess this devastation that has left us all aghast.

O, Edgy! With your editing, you kept the Fobsters sane,
and steered us from the tangents to discussions more germane.
Your comments were regarded with the greatest awe and joy,
especially when you disagreed with stupid Tolkien Boy.

The things we could have shared with you! The things we could have done!
Your "your mom" jokes were getting good, you made many a pun.
We could have fed you veggie dishes in all sorts of disguise,
and finished it with slices of vinagary pies.

Alas, no more! Your month's deceased!
We laud the summer goddess now with every picnic feast!
The lusty month of May is passed, and with it goes your fame
no longer will we spend each morning chanting out your name!

O, Edgy, come, return to us, and grace us with your wit!
We've gone so long without you, and we're not liking it.
We long to know just how the pumpernickel is our bane
and what editorgirl did for us against looming domain.

O, Edgy, Edgy, Edgy! The tears pour down our cheeks,
We've spent the last week missing you, and missing really reeks.
If you're alive, please let us know, for we hope that it's true -
besides, we've already buried Jeph; let's not inter you, too.

Paid for by the Friends O'Edgy campaign.

Who's Who in the Justice League of Fob

Left to Right:

The Atom = Jeph
Like the Atom, who is so small that sometimes you forget he's there, Jeph's time as a Fob was so short that sometimes we forget he's there. But we still love him.

Hawkman = Editorgirl
If you aren't sure why editorgirl is the superhero with wings growing out of his shoulder blades, you need to read more of her poetry.

Aquaman = Marchioness
Like the King of the Seven Seas, the Marchioness of Steventon is noble, strong, and likes to change her look frequently to spice things up. See here, here, and here.

Flash = Edgy Killer Bunny
Not because he's flashy, but because he runs.

Wonder Woman = Queen Zippergut
Amazon Princess meets British Monarch. And I've heard about QZ's star-spangled panties.

Superman = Theric
I know, I know, Aquaman's orange shirt was a natural fit for the Thmazingest Fob of all, but Theric was a reporter. And have you ever seen him without his glasses on?

Batman = Master Fob
Just because.

Martian Manhunter = Petra
Like the Justice League of America's mascot, the JLF's mascot is super-intelligent and just might come from another planet.

Green Lantern = Tolkien Boy
He's green, he has a magical ring that does whatever he wants it to, and his costume accentuates his buffness.

Green Arrow = Fob #5 (as yet without a blogonym)
If you are not a comic-book geek, you may not know that Green Arrow is the loud-mouthed liberal of the JLA. I wouldn't call #5 loud-mouthed, but he does have a strong voice at Fob meetings and he was introduced to me as Gay Boyfriend Chick's Straight Happily-Married Liberal Friend. And he's probably the Fob most likely to grow a goatee. (Not counting Edgy's soul patch or Theric's attempts, no more successful than Master Fob's attempts at facial hair.)

Black Canary = Melyngoch
Fishnet stockings. Any questions?

In Tolkien Boy's Absence...

Since Fob's self-appointed secretary wasn't present to take minutes at last night's Fob, and since we are still waiting for Edgy's chapter, I will present you, faithful reader, with a recap:

• Marchioness arrived early so that she could order pizza from Papa John's, which is not Papa Murphy's, and so that she and I could discuss things that I will not blog about, lest I be Dooced.
• Melyngoch arrived next, five minutes early though she thought she was twenty-five minutes late. She proceeded to the inner sanctum of the Fobcave, where she used the Fobcomputer to print something, and possibly to take over the world. She left her jump drive on the Fobdesk, but I can't figure out how to open it, or I'd discover her secret world domination plans.
• The pizza man arrived next, while Edgy chatted on his cell phone outside. He overcharged us. The pizza man, that is, not Edgy, who clued me in on the latest from his espionage mission to discover the true fate of Don Quimby. And by "us" I mean Marchioness, who paid for the pizza.
• Having been informed that editorgirl would arrive late, we started. The ancient and dark ritual of Rock, Paper, and Scissors determined that Melyngoch would be fobbed first. She presented a story about a character of dubious gender who wants to make out with a hobby named Aster. We proceeded to fob it. We spoke briefly of The Fob Who Loves Karen Carpenter.
  
• Editorgirl arrived, bearing (or baring) lime Coke (not coke), cream puffs, and chocolate satin pie, minus the vinegar. Sadly, she bore no poetry.
• Marchioness read the first three pages of a story about a girl whose best friend, a male medical student who loves Karen Carpenter, touches her thigh.
  
• Master Fob read the latest chapter in his saga about the friends of Dorothy. Edgy compared Fobby to Dan Brown and Lynne Gardner, but in a good way (supposedly).
  
• Foxy J joined us in the outer sanctum to discuss Harry Potter, childrearing, and underwear. After the Official Fobs left, we, the Blood and Marriage Fobs, watched the last half-hour of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, graciously provided by Edgy after the library copy magically lost its last half-hour.

Now, don't you feel as if you were there? Tune in next week, same fobtime, same fobchannel.

Counter

I want one on my blog. Make it happen for me. Someone. Otherwise, why the heck do I belong to this club?? HMMM??

Ooo! Looky here! She's Foblogging!

I think whoever likes Skinny Dead Karen is A-Okay. "If I Were A Carpenter" (I think that's what it's called) is the name of an album where lots of modern, cool-ish people sing covers of Carpenters songs. It's worth a look-see. Er...um...a look-hear.

Oh, and this is to let you know that I finally figured out how to officially join the FOBLOG. Though right now I feel very far away from you and a little pouty about it. Meetings without me. And with pie. Telling your mom jokes. Reading all your fancy-shmancy "literature" stuff to each other. And you call yourselves my friends??

I think there must be a way for me to get to read your stuff, but I don't know how. I think it involves some form of Harry Potter-ish seeing eye thing that may not exist in the real world, but I'll figure it out. With help. Lots of it. Master Fob??

And I don't have 70 children, though it feels that way at times. I am SO loving the story and so very awed by the creativity contained in the FOB world herein.

(Does anyone else use herein?)

And, I want to get comments in my email, if that's possible. Even if I don't know you, Edgy, I feel close to you, especially if you can perform acts of technology that benefit me.

I'm just getting caught up, so I may have a haiku to add. I don't think I've ever told you that I am an accredited Haiku master, or, as those of us in the higher levels of Haiku conciousness call it, Haikuticai.

Hai!

Ottoro Haiku

Well, it was only a matter of time...

Ottoro, the Haiku

A city in Maine.
Stuffed with bored housewives.
Really, just a hoax.

Ottoro Acrostic

.

O is for your ogling eyes
T is for your tush
T can also be your tears when ogling much too much
O is for your oblong soul
R is 'cause you're rad, but
O is 'cause you're here again to read and sigh so glad

We love you.

Limerick of Ottoro

Ottoro's charms multifarious
are erudite, novel, and various.
But the housewives who log
every day on this blog
have sanity somewhat precarious.

*thanks to Optimistic for providing the adjective "novel."

Ode to Ottoro, Maine (Part II)

Ottoro, Shmottoro
I ottored your mom's O
Last night.

Ode to Ottoro, Maine

.

O, Ottoro!
Ottoro Ottoro Ottoro!
We all to Ottoro go!
Ottoro! Ottoro! Ho!

someone take a stanza

FOB, May 18th

While we wait with bated breath (which means, coincidentally, not laced with something tempting but rather held back, as in abated) for the world's most deadly rabbit (read: unspeakably fatal) to write the precedent proceedings of this puzzling plot, I thought our loyal readers (two housewives in Ottoro, Maine) might be interested to experience the minutes of our last FOB meeting (sans the bloody chicken sacrifices, which we don't tell anyone about).

Tolkien Boy and editorgirl arrived somewhat late, because Tolkien Boy was busy dancing to Michael Buble and couldn't be bothered to check the time (sing it with me: Save the last dance, the last dance, for me...). After a couple of short detours (where they discovered a pool so enslimed that it could be walked on), they arrived at the manse of the Marchioness, where the collected FOB were, ah, collected.

Being as it were the month o' Edgy, there was much yodelling and cheering and embrassos when it was apparent that Edgy was amongst the FOB (homework assignment: does anyone outside of the Church say the word amongst? Due by next FOB). This was also a FOB to celebrate the return of Melyngoch from the flat fields of Fobindiana, and there was many a 'your mom' joke to celebrate her return (additionally, we celebrated Melyngoch's mom's return last night). We felt quite sated to be so surfiet of supporters in our scribbling spectation, but unfortunately there were too few couches and Edgy and the Marchioness ended up on the floor, where they contributed to the conviviality by criticising everyone's comma use. To top the celebration (a phrase that would not have gone unpunned on in last week's FOB), editorgirl gave Edgy a collection of three pins featuring his trademark bunny, after which there were many an exclamation of appropriateness, viz. the bunny-to-Edgy thing.

As for the meat of FOB, we read first a first chapter of the Marchioness's new novel, which was greeted with loud acclaim by all the FOB save Tolkien Boy, who had decided to be quiet after the third time editorgirl reminded him that it was not all about him (he had been confusing himself with Edgy), and therefore was forced to limit his remarks to written words and doodled dinosaurs. We then were graced with a second chapter from Master Fob's new novel, which caused us to spontaneously skip around the room singing as well as discuss the logisitics of accidents involving Hummers, as well as the proper spelling of the word uh.

We had a short break for pie, which Edgy sliced up and served to us. The benefactoress of the pie was editorgirl via the Provo Bakery. Upon taste, it was apparent that the chocolate cream pie had been dipped in vinegar, so the FOB focused on the berry pie and made various pie-related jokes (the funniest one was based on a comment made by Tolkien Boy that was so old only Master Fob and Tolkien Boy himself had read it, but they enjoyed themselves anyway. And yes, that phrasing is ironic). The berry pie disappeared quickly, but the chocolate cream pie was summarily dismissed as being unFOBworthy.

Afterwards, we read editorgirl's publishworthy poetry and partook in elite exegesis of it. We then discussed how erudite editorgirl is, really, and praised her ability to phrase a turn. Er, turn a phrase.

A few hundred sex jokes later, and it was time to depart, save for the final word, which was of course had by Melyngoch, who revealed that one of the FOB members was, in fact, fond of Karen Carpenter. Much blushing ensued, and much laughter and apologies culminated in the parking lot afterward as everyone tried to figure out if someone with so poor music taste should be allowed to continue in FOBly communion (the decision was left with Master Fob, and is pending. In this nameless person's defense, I'm almost certain that some hip-hop artist has done a cover of a Carpenter song. Heaven knows they've done almost everything else!).

And then we departed, each to his or her separate home, to sleep and gather energy for the next FOB, which promised to be even more exciting, as perhaps Melygoch, Tolkien Boy, and Edgy will actually bring something to be criticised (except, of course, for Edgy, whose writing is beyond criticism).

Chapter 30: The Pulsating Purple Pumpernickel; or, How eg Saved the Fobs from Imminent Destruction and Eminent Domain

Coming soon.

Meaning, I, Edgy, hereby lay claim to and call dibs on this, the next chapter.

And there's nothing Your Mom can do about it.

Chapter 31: Where editorgirl Went

The night before Jeph's funeral, the Fobsters met at editorgirl's house to discuss their plan of action.

"Let's kill everyone who might know," said Th. lazily from the couch.

"Is that your answer to everything?" asked editorgirl. "Have another brownie."

"Pretty much," said Th. to the first, and "Thanks," to the second. He chewed noisily.

"We need to start by figuring out how we're going to handle the funeral," said the Queen. "Who was Jeph closest to?"

The Fobs, as one, pointed to Master Fob.

"What?" said Master Fob. "I barely knew him. Talk to Melyngoch, they were pretty friendly."

Melyngoch pursed her lips. "I'd rather not discuss that."

"Look, funerals aren't that difficult to figure out," said Edgy from his perch on the couch where he sat with his arms wrapped around his long legs. "Someone dishes up a pot of funeral potatoes,
someone does decorations, someone says some nice things, someone cries."

"Or in Jeph's case, someone laughs," mused Th. musingly.

"Ooh, I call funeral potatoes," cried the Queen.

"Decorations," grunted Melyngoch femininely.

"I guess I could say some nice things," said Master Fob hesitantly. "I am a master of fiction, after all."

"Among other things," mumbled Melyngoch slyly.

"That just leaves crying, and brother, if you think I'm going to cry - " started the Marchioness.

"Is it only me, or does anyone else remember that the only reason we're staging this funeral for Jeph is because we're attempting to hide the great secret of the 'your mom' joke?" editorgirl's voice was calm and clear above the babbling.

"Oh, yeah," said Th. "We kind of got carried away, there."

The Fobs looked penitently at editorgirl. she cleared her throat. "There's still something we need to talk about that we haven't mentioned yet," she said.

"Do we have to?" asked Master Fob.

"I know it's unpleasant," said editorgirl. "But we can't shy away from it any longer. Don't you remember what the one-eyed gypsy woman said?"

"So well," sighed Edgy. "'Wal-Mart will be the harbinger of a new evolutionary age. Buy lots of stock early.'"

"Not that one." editorgirl rolled her eyes.

"'The one that suggested I start a belly-dancing emporium in Hoboken, New Jersy?" asked Th.

"Was that one technically one-eyed?" asked the Queen. "I thought she was just caught in a long wink."

"I believe that the one-eyed gypsy woman that editorgirl is referring to is the one that told us that Master Fob would become a raging, homocidal maniac should the secret ever be revealed." Petra spoke in her usual incisive way. The Fobs said, "Oh, yeah," as one.

"So, the way I see it, we have two choices," said editorgirl. "We can kill Master Fob -"

"I vote kill," said Th. helpfully.

"-or, we can bury the evidence of the secret back in the Tibetan mountains," continued editorgirl. "That way, we'll know it's safe."

"But we'll still know the secret," said the Queen.

"I won't tell," said editorgirl.

"Nor I," said Melyngoch.

"Not me," said the Marchioness.

"I was kinda planning on blogging about it," said Edgy. The Fobs stared at him, and he shrugged. "Mum's the word."

"I'll only tell the King and our seventy children," said the Queen. "But it stops there."

"There's no logical reason to tell," said Petra stoutly.

"Are you sure we can't kill Master Fob?" asked Th.

"How do you spell 'bereaved?'" asked Master Fob, his pencil poised over the notebook where he was jotting down Jeph's eulogy.

"The point is, one of us is going to have to go back to the mountains and bury all the evidence. One of us is going to have to miss Jeph's funeral tomorrow."

"Me!" All the Fob's hands shot into the air.

"Now, that's no good." editorgirl tucked her pencil behind her ear. "Let's talk this out."

"Well, it should be someone who understands poetry," said Melyngoch. "Remember how we had to answer that poetic riddle in order to make it through that snowy mountain pass? I bet there will be one just as difficult on the way back."

"So clever, to use a rhyming sestet of dactyllic stress," murmured the Marchioness. "I imagine the way back will be something hideously hard like...limericks, or...prose poetry..."

"Whoever goes should be able to stomach large quantities of rice pudding," said Petra from the corner, where she sat hunched over her laptop, the Google screen shining backwards on her face. "According to Google, there's been a rise in activity among the rice-pudding-loving people of the Alps. Our intrepid explorer could very well be forced into a tribal competition of some sort, much like we were when we travelled to Milan."

"And yet, he or she needs to be charming enough to talk to the reclusive monks in the hills," pointed out the Queen. "Remember that jolly round man who was so excited about John Cusak? We need to be able to meet these people on their own terms."

"And proficiency in making brownies is key," said Th. "Remember how we repelled those randy mountain goats with panfuls of brownies?"

Th. reached for another brownie and stopped, his hand in midair. Slowly, the other Fobs focused their gazes on editorgirl.

"Oh, very well," said editorgirl when she saw where they were looking. "I'm always cleaning up after you guys, anyway. But if Master Fob goes crazy and destroys the world, at least everyone will know it's not my fault."

"I still say we kill him," said Th. sulkily, picking up a brownie.

Antepentultimate Adventure

"So, I’m thinking that we were wrong from the very beginning," said Tolkien Boy to Melyngoch as they set out candles on the tables in preparation for Jeph’s funeral. "Who were we to think that we could discover the ultimate ‘your mom’ joke?"

Melyngoch sighed. "I suppose we thought, if anyone could do it, it would be us. I guess we were wrong." She lifted a crystal candle dish, looked at it critically. "Whose are these?"

"Edgy’s, I think." Tolkien Boy tried to balance a dish on his middle finger. It slipped to the floor with a loud clang.

"Don’t drop things, duckies," said Master Fob without glancing up from his place at the pulpit. He was scribbling furiously.

"How long has he been at that?" whispered Tolkien Boy to the Queen as she walked out of the kitchen, an enormous casserole dish of steaming funeral potatoes clenched in her loving oven mitts.

"Thirteen hours and counting," said the Queen. "Oh, isn’t this cultural hall divine?"

Tolkien Boy and Melyngoch drew themselves up proudly. It had been their efforts, after all, that had turned the gymnasium into a veritable mausoleum for the mourned. Their finishing touch had been an upsweep of black streamers over the coffin. The streamers were lazily moving in the wind from Master Fob’s furiously scribbling pen.

"Who paid for the coffin, anyway?" said the Queen.

"Master Fob," said Melyngoch and Tolkien Boy in unison. "He said he wanted everything to be perfect," added Tolkien Boy. "But I think that the coffin is rented."

"Do you two believe what that one-eyed gypsy woman told us?" asked the Queen nervously.

"Which one?" asked Melyngoch. "There’s been so many."

"Not the one who told us to invest in WalMart, nor the one who told us that skinny dipping with scout leaders was morally reprehensible."

"Oh, you mean the one who mentioned that, if we ever disturbed the "your mom" shrine, we’d be cursed by Master Fob becoming insane and eventually having a child that would eventually lead the world into destruction, chaos, and anarchy?"

"That’s the one," said the Queen. "Do you think that this will be enough potatoes?"

"I can’t imagine Jeph was that popular," said Tolkien Boy, staring at the enormous casserole dish. "And Master Fob isn’t insane, he’s just–composing."

"And Jeph’s decomposing," quipped the Queen. "I think I’ll make some more potatoes, just to be safe."

***

"We are gathered here today to pay tribute to a fallen Fob," Ben said, surveying the crowd at Jeph’s funeral. "A Fob graced with, as all Fobs are graced with, dignity, strength, and creativity..."

"Did he know Jeph?" hissed Th. to Tolkien Boy.

Tolkien Boy shrugged. "I never did."

"Before continuing, I should like to say a few words about Fob itself," Master Fob continued. "As many of you know, the recent quest of Fob has been to find the ultimate ‘your mom’ joke."

The room erupted in a buzz of whispering. The members of Fob looked at each other.

"He’s not going to tell the secret, is he?" said Melyngoch to Edgy.

Edgy gripped the seat of his chair, his forehead wet with sweat. "I sure hope not."

"I am here to report that the we have all been deceived regarding the ‘your mom’ joke," said Ben, blissfully ignoring the frantic hand gestures of the Fob from the back of the room.

"That’s it, we’re going to have to kill him," said Th.

"Strike hard and true," said Tolkien Boy. And then, to himself, "What movie is that on?"

"I can see this is going to get ugly," said Petra uneasily. "I think I’ll excuse myself and check out Tolkien Boy’s question on Google."

"No!" said Th. fiercely. "We vowed we’d be in this together.

"The secret to the ‘your mom’ joke, as we discovered in the secret ‘your mom’ shrine in southeastern Tibet, is–"

"Do something," said the combined Fob to Melyngoch.

"Oh, Jeph!" yodeled Melyngoch at the top of her lungs, causing Master Fob to lose his place in his eulogy and the rest of the attendees to turn around to look at her. "We hardly knew ye!" she continued.

"He was like a brother to me!" howled Tolkien Boy, cluing in.

"How often we sat and talked about sex!" cried the Queen.

"And the blue-footed booby!" wailed Th.

"And the latest and greatest from David Sedaris!" bawled Edgy.

"Not to mention the role of Jane Austen as a feminist of her time and an example for ours!" shrieked the Marchioness, and as one the Fobs fell upon the coffin, beating it and calling out their regrets.

In the midst of their mourning, Tolkien Boy turned to the others and said, "The fact that he would share the secret, the one we all vowed to protect, shows that he has lost his already tentative grip upon reality. There can be no doubt: he has become the horror that the one-eyed gypsy said he would be."

"Which one was that?" wondered the Marchioness, but they shushed her to look at Master Fob. Their histrionics had turned Master Fob back to his original eulogy, but there was no knowing when he might slip up again.

eg says what

I refuse to participate in this story at this time. Not enough blood or shirts riding up. Come on people. (And I wanted to claim this color.)

Part Penultimate

.

Master Fob paused in his elegy, choking back an unexpected tear. The rest of Fob looked at him in horror, knowing that the prophecy was true. Tolkien Boy looked smugly at the others--they could have listened to him, but now--

Now it was over.

Master Fob rushed out a few closing words and sat down, burying his head in Foxy's lap and wept. Before he could recover, the rest of Fob moved to the potato bar and made a brief plan:

Edgy: But--

Theric: I'm sorry, Edgy, but you know I'm right. Master Fob has cried for the slain Fob! This is what that old man was blabbering about! Our best bet is to kill him now. What other choice do we have? We could have averted it--

TB(smugly): Could have. -snort-

Theric: --but we didn't. And now Master Fob will descend into that terror we know he is capable of.

Edgy nodded, slowly. editorgirl and Petra each took one of his elbows and led him to an orange chair. Melyngoch and Theric looked at each other and also nodded. They went out to their old weapon stash behind the church and selected bludgeons.

"Are you ready?"

Theric nodded.

"Harder than you expected?"

Theric nodded.

"Wuss."

Theric let Mel open the door for him and they walked back inside the church only to have the Queen grab them and pull them through the stage door.

"Now is not the time!" she hissed.

"But--" they tried.

"You can't kill someone during spring cleaning! I won't stand for it!"

"But--"

Queenie grabbed their weapons and handed them to another figure in the shadows. The voice of Tolkien Boy came to them.

"We had our chance," he said. "And we missed it. Let's not mix mourning with new sorrows. Capiche?"

"Capiche?" said Melyngoch. "You can't be seriou--"

But he was serious, and she and Theric acquiesced.

Chapter Infinity: The End

After Jeph's funeral, the Fobs all parted and promised never to speak of the horrific events of the last three weeks again. Master Fob and Foxy returned to Fob Island, where they raised up a great nation that would eventually take over the world. Theric and Lady Steed went underground, preparing a militia in northern Idaho for the day they knew would come, when Master Fob's power would get out of control. Queen Zippergut retired with her King to their palace, where they oversaw their subjects' continual spring cleaning. Meylngoch invited editorgirl and Petra to join her convent in the jungles of Venezuela; editorgirl accepted, but Petra declined, choosing instead to become a prostitute in Indonesia. Tolkien Boy went on tour with Michael Buble, singing showtunes and gospel music, after which the two settled down in Canada. The Marchioness, sadly, spent the rest of her days in a padded cell, reading and rereading a copy of Pride and Prejudice with rounded corners. Edgy Killer Bunny, on the other hand, had the happiest fate of all--he and Dec opened a bookstore-gym-wedding reception center in Seattle, allowing them to ride out the coming revolution in relative wealth and comfort.

Ryan, meanwhile, wondered why he wasn't in this story.

Something to Do

I have come up with an ingenious idea. See, we could let this blog spiral into pointless broccoli-related nonsense (not that that's a bad thing), but on the other hand we could... well... do something else. Something that is different from what we do on our own blogs, something that takes advantage of the collaborative nature of a group blog, something that shows off our incredible writing talent. On second thought, no guarantees on that last one.

Here's Master Fob's Ingenious Proposal:

We, as a collective Fob, will co-write a story here on this blog. One of those tell-your-part-of-the-story-then-pass-the-baton things. BUT, since this is a blog and posts are shown in reverse chronological order, we'll write the story in reverse chronological order so that once it's done our loyal readers can read it in reverse-reverse chronological order, which, applying the universal law of Two Negatives Make a Positive, becomes chronological order.

Got it? Good. I'm going to write the end of the story now.

How to cook broccoli (new! improved!)

.

Bring salty water to boil.

Add broccoli.

Don't cook to long!

Eat.

Salty goodness effused throughout.

broccoli | are you trying to kill me?

Because I must lay claim to my color, I feel inclined to post about the evils of broccoli.

I didn't always think broccoli was evil; in fact, that is a relatively recent development. Broccoli has been one of the few foods that could technically be classified as a vegetable (except during Lent, wherein it is a tree or small shrubbery) that I would actually eat. Though you won't normally see me eat the broccoli on my plate at a restaurant, but that's only because the cookstaff destroys the broccoli by a) cooking it too long and b) adding nefarious spices to it. Regardless, broccoli has always been a favorite.

And with good cause. Apparently my genetic makeup is susceptible to Macular Degeneration and broccoli fights that. Go team! Rah! Rah! Rah!.

However, broccoli is now evil because it has led Tolkers to lay claim to the color green, leaving me with this color. And I must also squeeze another blog into my life. Sigh. It's tough being a Fob.

Did you know...?

The word "broccoli" comes from the Latin word "brachium," meaning "branch," via the Italian "brocco." (Also from the same word are "brachial" and "brachiosaurus." Tolkien Boy, please note the spelling. Then please note that I can't remember how I was trying to spell it, so I can't remember who was right. Drat.)

Broccoli consumption has increased 940% over the past 25 years.

Pliny the Elder wrote about a vegetable that might have been broccoli.

A broccoli/cauliflower hybrid, the broccoflower, was invented in Europe around 1988.

In the April 6th, 2006, Colbert Report, Stephen Colbert insists that broccoli is "in the mustard family, related to the cauliflower and having clusters of green flower buds. A fruit." (Good old Stephen Colbert, master of truthiness. His gut must have told him so.)

Facts > Creativity.

-Petra

Broccoli tastes good.

.

There.

I said it.

That Is Huge

All I can say is, our new logo is enormous. As well it should be.

The reason why it should be is because, large as it is, it's like me. I'm also huge. And that is one of the many, many reasons why I suck.

Feeling the onus of saying something substantive, I have to remark that I recently learned that broccoli is a fraudulent vegetable. I can accept mistruths from a number of sources, up to and including toothpaste testimonials and presidential promises, but I always assumed that broccoli, which is not only a dark leafy vegetable, an antioxidant, and an anticarcinogen, was true enough not to lie to me. I feel a bit like the dragon in Mulan: "You...lied to me? And what are you? An unholy union between cauliflower and lettuce?" (Come to think of it, I've had a few dates like that).

Speaking of unholy unions, Petra and I have been jogging in the morning, in order to reduce the bigness that is my Fob contribution. By the end of this summer, I expect to be the skinniest member (we're all laughing with you, Petra). I only tell you this so that you know what you have to contend with.

Oh, and in other news, I'm thinking of renaming the novel to "Danette, Me, and the Enormous Fradulent Fobroccoli of Love."

Publishing this, I realized suddenly that there's no way of knowing that this post should be attributed to Tolkien Boy. Therefore, I'm going to propose that we separate by color. I therefore color this whole post GREEN. I claim green to infinity.

And it claims me. Oh, how it claims me. Green = Tolkien Boy

Welcome to Foblog

I'm not quite sure what the point of this blog will be. I just know that several of us Fobs thought it would be a fun idea to have a single blog where we could all post. Maybe we'll talk about our writing here. Maybe, as Tolkien Boy suggested, we'll all post on a similar topic--i.e., I'll write a long, boring, introspective treatise on broccoli, then TB will write a hilarious story about broccoli that's a metaphor for how much he sucks, then editorgirl will write about how broccoli relates to John Cusack, then Th. will say something that no one understands but everyone agrees is clever, and so on. I'm sure that whatever this blog ends up being, it'll be fun and interesting. To those of us who write on it, at least.

Who is Olyvia Zion?