Thursday, December 28, 2006

Fourth Fob

On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Four times a-fobbing,
Three Moral Persons,
Two Costco cakes,
And a starling in Tehachapi.


Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Third Fob

On the third day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Three Moral Persons,
Two Costco cakes,
And a starling in Tehachapi.


Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Second Fob

On the second day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Two Costco cakes
And a starling in Tehachapi.


Monday, December 25, 2006

The First Fob

On the first day of Christmas
My true fob sent to me
A starling in Tehachapi.


A Prelude to the Twelve Fobs of Christmas

  1. It's not going to be as good as I thought it would be when first it occurred to me. Perhaps I should have heeded Tolkien Boy's warning.
  2. "My true fob" can be substituted by "Your mother" at any point.


Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Foblic Service Announcement

The Foblog has been upgraded to the new Blogger (no longer in beta). This means that those of you who post here will have to upgrade in order to post. Apologies if I've paved your paradise and put up a parking lot.

Monday, December 18, 2006

PhD ruined the surprise

Happy Christmas anyway.

Saturday, December 16, 2006



This was more work for less payout than I expected, but I though I would post what I have, four portraits as presents to four Fobs.

If I can gather myself up again, perhaps I will make more.

As it is.....

Well, Merry Christmas, anyway.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Suspense...! Intrigue...! Exclamation Points...!

You know, we here at the FOBlog often post summaries of what happened the night before, but we never catch other readers up. This is why I have taken it upon myself to provide this group with a great teaser clip to start today’s FOB:

>>NARRATOR (with deep, gruff voice. Possibly Don LaFontaine from all those movie trailers): PREVIOUSLY ON FOB!

>>MasterFob: Our mutual boss said that you left the store unlocked overnight.
>>Tolkien Boy: You take that back!
>>Sir Jupiter: Hey everyone, I brought a cheesecake!
>>Foxy J: [glares suspiciously] Strange…I was under the impression that I was supposed to make brownies.


>>Foxy J: Hey look, a plucky neighbor boy. Perhaps he will add comic relief.
>>Plucky Kid: Or perhaps I will add intrigue by somehow blackmailing you and you won’t see it coming because I’m only nine years of age.
>>Master Fob: Wow, for a child you’re rather articulate.


>>Mr. Weed: I’m so amazed at the miracle of childbirth.
>>Mrs. Weed: But are you sure the baby is even yours?
>>Mr. Weed: [raises an eyebrow]


*cue theme music*

Monday, December 11, 2006

For Master Fob, Merry Christmas

An Acrostic Poem

Master Fob is
Awfully swell, for
Sometimes he will
Teach us well, about
Each thing we
Really want to tell.

Fiercely and clearly, we sound accolade!
Always, we ask him, our stories to aid!
Be with us forever, until we get...paid!*

Merry Christmas, Master Fob!

*original wording emended. --ed.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

The Great FOB Gift Exchange

WHEREAS the Fobsters are flung wide throughout the country, following their own muses and making their own messes (which they will clean up when they're done with them, thank you very much); and

WHEREAS this holiday season is a time when people remember those whom they love, including self-described egoists, medaevalists, and hymenealists; and

WHEREAS the combined FOB love each other, up to but not including Jeph, whose appearance in the FOB Pantheon was for the sole purpose of acting as a foil, anyway;

THEREFORE, Tolkien Boy (hereafter referred to as "the party of the first part") proposes that during the Christmas Season (being technically the period between midnight on Thanksgiving Day and midnight on December twenty-fifth, but lasting "all year" according to some country-western songs) the FOB united (hereafter referred to as "the kickin' parties of the second part, who sound eerily like a aeronautics industry") focus those energies not wrapped up in buying gifts for family members and friends (hereafter referred to as "those parties which are never as fun as FOB parties, somehow") in providing gestures of goodwill to other FOBsters via the Internet. Thus,


1. All "gifts" must be able to be posted on the FOBlog. This can include accolades, reminisces, your-mom jokes, pictures, poetry, short works of fiction, and what-have-you.

2. Anyone who can post on the FOBlog can participate.

3. Anyone who can post on the FOBlog should participate.

4. No one should be left out.* If the moderators feel that someone is being left out, the party of the first part will write a stinging rebuttal.

5. If Theric and Tolkien Boy are the only ones who contribute, Tolkien Boy will seriously consider getting a joint blog with Theric and giving up on the FOBlog. No stress.

6. References to the word "moist," "pelvis," and "lumpenproletariat" will make the party of the first part shudder.

7. Humorous renditions of the "12 Days of Christmas" are not welcome.

*The moderators realize that some of the FOB do not read the FOBlog. It is okay to leave these B.A.'s out, as they are a disgrace to FOBdom.

Monday, December 04, 2006

The Fobriarchal Order

In the beginning, there was Master Fob.

Master Fob=Fob 1 Manifestation 1

And Master Fob said, it is not good for Fob to be alone. So he pulled a rib from his side, and from it formed Theric.


Then, from Master Fob's spleen and Theric's left big toe came Queen Zippergut, and together the Fobs said, let there be FOB.

Queen Zippergut=F3M1

Late as usual, Melyngoch finally RSVPed in December.


For a season the Fobs enjoyed peace and prosperity, but then came the Great and Terrible day of Theric's passing to another plane, also known as California. The Fobs weeped and wailed and gnashed their teeth, and then, in their ignorance, created a golden idol in Theric's image, and called him Jeph.


Jeph was a busy Fob and quickly found he had no time for fobbery. And so he too passed, and his passing gave light to Tolkien Boy.

Tolkien Boy=F1M3

Again, for a time the Fobs prospered, and in their prosperation there was much your mommery to be heard throughout the land. Then came another Great and Dreadful day in which Melyngoch and Queen Zippergut followed Theric on to the next level of existence, the former in the state known as Indiana and the latter in the state known as Marriage. Before they left, though, they each blessed the earth with their holy spit, and from that union of saliva and clay were born two new Fobs, editorgirl and the Marchioness.


In the age of the new pantheon, Fob enjoyed more multiplication and replenishment than ever before, as Happily Married Straight Friend of Gay (ex)Boyfriend Chick and Edgy Killer Bunny were called down from the cosmos, and Petra was sculpted from the collective feces of all Fobs past, present, and future.

Edgy Killer Bunny=F6M1

At the height of this bold new era of fobbiness, Master Fob looked down on his subjects and saw that they no longer needed his watchful eye, and therefore saw it fit to create a new world in the previously unorganized space known as Seattle. Though all were invited, only the most loyal Fob, Tolkien Boy, followed his master to the New World. There, Master Fob and Tolkien Boy touched their fingertips, recited the sacred mantra--"Wonder Twin powers, activate!"--and with a great thunder entered Weed and Sir Jupiter the King of Queen Anne into the world, and a new FOB was born.

Sir Jupiter=F4M3

Let it henceforth be known that the diads of Third and Fourth Fob are now triads, and offerings therefore are raised 150%. Make checks payable, as always, to Master Fob.

Sunday, December 03, 2006


The game is finished. Thanks to all of those who contributed to the FOB MAD LIBS rush--the results are both startling and hilarious. And also presented here.

The original was fairly standard Tolkien-Boy fare--rollicking prose style, little confusion as to referrents, too many speaker tags and comma splices:

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a looks snob. Most of the girls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the supermodel or even the cheerleader type. But I’ve never understood how girls can fall for guys who are so apparently--geeky. Which is what Justin Gesset was. He was the skinniest kid I think I’ve ever seen, so bone-thin his clothes looked like they were suspended from hangers. He had on a ratty T-shirt with some spiritual saying on it that I couldn’t read, baggy khaki shorts, and, to complete the ensemble, black socks shoved into his beat-up white sneakers. He walked out onto the porch with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, found the couch almost by accident, sat down and began strumming his guitar.

From such a normal piece of prose, however, came a variety of wild, wonderful, and strangely insightful stories.

Master Fob demonstrated his originality and mastery of the thesarus in his submission. Not much else can be said for his work except that you should note his sensitivity to racial issues in the end of the penultimate sentence.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a mommish your mom. Most of all your moms I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the”your mom” or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never mommed how your moms can fall for your moms who are so apparently—mommish. Which is what Your Mom was. She was the mommest your mom I think I’ve ever seen, so mommish your mom looked like she was suspended from your mom. He had on your ratty mom with some mommish saying on it that I couldn’t mom, your baggy khaki mom, and, to complete your mom, your black mom shoved into your mommish white mom. He mommed out onto your mom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, mommed your mom almost by accident, mommed and began strumming your mom.

Despite his denial that he's not a talkative prostitute, Edgy nevertheless managed to couple a mildewy G-string with a pole dance--which seems right, somehow. We at FOB wonder, however, what exactly he is "masticating" after he jumps the puppy. Hmm.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a loquacious geisha. Most of the stability balls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the rotunda or even the sweater vest type. But I’ve never electrocuted while fire extinguishers fall for gemstones who are so apparently—prepubescent. Which is what the Dalai Lama was. He was the tiniest heat wave I think I’ve ever seen, so luminescent his paystubs looked like they were suspended from stun guns. He had on a ratty g-string with some lichenlike saying on it that I couldn’t pole dance to, a baggy khaki rain slicker, and, to complete the paint can, a black belt shoved into his smiley white bobbysocks. He skied out onto the New York New York casino Las Vegas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, jumped the puppy almost by accident, masticated and began strumming his battery.

Blissfully unaware that one of the FOBster's real name is Alex, editorgirl created a most unusual picture of said FOBmember. Personally, we do not find the outfit she described "cute" in any way, but we must allow for her personal taste. Or, rather, we should convince said FOBmember to come to FOB (at his convenience) wearing said outfit and then we can decide if he truly is the bestest lamp we've ever seen.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bright frog. Most of the rubies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the doll or even the duck type. But I’ve never ducked while picture frames fall for cows who are so apparently—cute. Which is what Alex was. He was the bestest lamp I think I’ve ever seen, so sexy his Q-tips looked like they were suspended from thumbs. He had on a ratty vest with some plaid saying on it that I couldn’t dance to, a baggy khaki skirt, and, to complete the phone, a black scarf shoved into his nasty white belt. He typed onto India with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, hit the computer almost by accident, jumped and began strumming his ladder.

The brilliant poetics of the writer Ginsberg, so oft-heralded in the brilliant poetics of the writer editorgirl, here show a definite pop culture influence. The words "grood," "frickin'," and "scrumtulescent" can be found definied at Urban Dictionary for those not well-versed in popular neologisms. Be warned, fair reader--Gob Bluth is superlatively claimed as sexy, and there is a description of hobbit sex.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a scrumtulescent pumpkin pie. Most of the amigos I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the hippopotamus or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never rocked while Beatles fall for cats who are so apparently—frickin’. Which is what Gob Bluth was. He was the sexiest cheerleader I think I’ve ever seen, so grood your moms looked like they were suspended from the Man. He had on a ratty bandanna with some Mormony saying on it that I couldn’t apostatize to, baggy khaki sexy Velma glasses, and, to complete the surfer girl, black fishnet stockings shoved into his nice white pencils. He slept out on Kansas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, fumbled the frozen banana almost by accident, snogged and began strumming his hobbit.

With her inclusion in the FOB MAD LIBS fun, Melyngoch has become the first person in the history of the English language to write stiltingly about an action figure of Old English antiquity. Personally, though, it seems like a khaki codpiece would chafe so...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a Lumpenproletariat hepatitis. Most of the nubs I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the grunt or even the mustard seed type. But I’ve never moaned while prepositions fall for protuberances who are so apparently—maladjusted. Which is what Beelzebub was. He was the geriatricest Venerable Bede action figure I think I’ve ever seen, so nubile his hummus looked like it was suspended from flamingos. He had on ratty leg warmers with some pygmy saying on it that I couldn’t palpitate to, a baggy khaki codpiece, and, to complete the eyebrow tweezers, a black sweater-vest shoved into his disheveled white fishnet body-suit. He gasped out onto Limbo with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, panted on the pepper grinder almost by accident, heaved and began strumming his shrunken head.

Petra, in her convincing way, provides us a vision of an alternate history than we learned in grade school. Here, Napoleon, a grasping bit of keratin, wears three hats while getting up to his old Empire-building tricks--this time attacking an innocent, if quondam, avid.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a pedestrian dickishness. Most of the monster truck rallies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the lesson or even the ulcer type. But I’ve never perforated while bras fall for loves who are so apparently—squeamish. Which is what Napoleon was. He was the neediest fingernail I think I’ve ever seen, so serrated his comments looked like they were suspended from cameras. He had on a ratty fez with some sparkling saying on it that I couldn’t equivocate about, a baggy khaki derby, and, to complete the misanthrope, a black top hat shoved into his whispery white pith helmet. He entailed out into the Ritz Hotel with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, subjugated the ex-parrot almost by accident, blogged and began strumming your mother-in-law.

From the Land of Eternal Chilly Fog, Queen Zippergut favored us with a non-American alternate of the passage, giving Tolkien Boy's writing a sexy British feel. We do worry, however, what excesses of light deprivation would lead anyone to want to lick his lorry.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not squidgy rubbish. Most of the wellies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the marmite or even the squash type. But I’ve never drunk while plasters fall for Christmas stockings who are so apparently—naff. Which is what the Archbishop of Canterbury was. He was the stinkiest toast I think I’ve ever seen, so flabby his duvet looked like they were suspended from sausages. He had on ratty knickers with some rubbish saying on it that I couldn’t skip to, baggy khaki trousers, and, to complete the soap, a black jumper shoved into his red white wellies. He vomited out onto Windsor Castles with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stumbled on the thumbtack almost by accident, licked and began strumming his lorry.

Sam's contribution to the project made the most coherent sense to Tolkien Boy, for reasons which are apparent. We definitely agree with her condemnation of Hercules, for example, and we assume that most of Hercules' pants had some sort of libidinal saying on them. We should tell him, however, that it's a fashion faux pas to shove one's shirts into one's underwear--no matter how nonexistent that underwear is.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a cute trial. Most of the dreams I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the logic or even the style type. But I’ve never smiled while reeds fall for wings who are so apparently—stupid. Which is what Hercules was. He was the sleepiest tharynx I think I’ve ever seen, so fragile his bile looked like it was suspended from swords. He had on ratty pants with some libidinal saying on it that I couldn’t rile, a baggy khaki robe, and, to complete the statue, black flannel shirts shoved into his naked white loincloth. He flicked out onto the Eternal City with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, writhed on the neck almost by accident, fled and began strumming his stomach.

The many, many entendres evident in Sir Jupiter's writing (or, so we assume) are evident in his totally random MAD LIBS experiment, as well. We wonder at him resisting the charm of "drive shafts" and "baskets." We shift uncomfortably to think of bananas suspended from hookah pipes. We clear our throats to read of clambering over Space Needles. And that's not even mentioning the thrusting of produce or the worrisome horse problem...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a shining Blackberry. Most of the food stamps I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the drive shaft or even the basket type. But I’ve never sauntered while swiffers fall for revolvers who are so apparently—uncanny. Which is what Treasurer was. He was the grandest pizza pie I think I’ve ever seen, so disquieting his bananas looked like they were suspended from hookah pipes. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some dank saying on it that I couldn’t sashay to, a baggy khaki top hat, and, to complete the ensemble, a black brassiere shoved into his glistening white knee-high socks. He climbed out onto the Space Needle bathroom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, thrusted the coconut almost by accident, rode and began strumming his Clydesdale.

Th. gave us a probing look into the modern political and literary scene with his ground-breaking accusation that Proust was, in fact, Communist. Though explication of this claim will no doubt be clamored for by the many literary and political critics who read this blog, we are more interested to know where on Earth one can find baggy khaki nipple rings. It seems the perfect stocking stuffer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not an anemic carjacker. Most of the thoughts I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the fish or even the fishsteaks type. But I’ve never eaten while divers fall for fingers who are so apparently—devious. Which is what Proust was. He was the most Kafkaesque friend I think I’ve ever seen, so red his Wisconsins looked like they were suspended from statues. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some quaint saying on it that I couldn’t ream, baggy khaki nipple-rings, and, to complete the frog, black argyle socks shoved into his blunt white fedora. He steered out onto DC with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stuck the dweller almost by accident, sought and began strumming his telephone.

Friday, December 01, 2006

More FOB Fun

For those who are still interested, there's still two days left in the FOB MAD LIBS game. Those who have participated already and want to play some more, never fear...there will be more participatory fun in the month of December!

FOB November 30

After well over a month of non-FOB-activity, the FOBs returned from their various sojourns in the challenging world of ice and snow that is Seattle, a bit less certain in their footing, perhaps, but as witty as ever in their condemnation of poor writing. Master Fob began the meeting by promptly leaving to attend to "business" in the back room--perhaps, dealing with a young, religiously maniacal Gwyneth Paltrow? (and a tip o' the hippo to you, Sir Jupiter)--and so the rest of the FOBs frittered time away on such subjects as the weather, the weather, and--um, the weather. Fortunately, after a mere forty minutes had passed, Master Fob returned and the meeting began in earnest.

Master Fob continued his foray into derivitave fiction by chronicalling the thoughts of scary Crow meandering through a landscape that most of the FOBs didn't think was in Kansas anymore, Maggie. Most of the people in the short section were angry at each other, but this problem was quickly overcome by an entire squadron of mice on motorcycles who happened to be--by choice, not nature--transvestites (take that, Beverly Cleary!). This, somehow, made everything better, though Weed pointed out that most mice don't carry two helmets in their saddlebags, if you get our drift. Fortunately, this oversight on Master Fob's part was excused--mostly because, hey, he likes Karen Carpenter, so he can't be racist.

Weed then regaled the combined citizens of FOBbery with the story of a teacher who expresses a "specific interest" in providing one of his students with a "special project." Concerns about pederasty were raised--the FOBaction paused momentarily while Tolkien Boy looked up "pederasty" in the American Collegiate Dictionary--but were swiftly resolved when Weed proposed to add as a character a cross-dressing pedophilic teacher named Ben to act as a foil. Much recitation of Tolkien Boy's brilliant poem ensued, though Master Fob claimed that he would be willing to overlook the disconcerting prose if Weed rewrote the teacher to be more excited, physically. Drawing on years of mass consumer television programming consumption, Sir Jupiter reccommended the inclusion of a plucky neighbor kid or talking animal as a panacea, which the FOBs responded to by going to Tolkien Boy's piece.

Tolkien Boy's submission to FOB was, surprisingly, in present tense--a thing which will no doubt surprise the Marchioness, given Tolkien Boy's usual vitriolic opinions on the subject. In it, two young men run into a fire hydrant with their car and a brick wall with their hearts. After the reading, much discussion about the concept of "bastard" ensued, with Master Fob leading the discussion by drawing diagrams in the air. The collected FOB claimed that there are those who do not judge parties by alcohol content, which is ambiguous in Google searches, and that the Ford Focus line of motor vehicle was native to Europe until the 2000's, which Google verifies. Those who wish to know more about these subjects are encouraged to seek out a local information professional.

Sir Jupiter then announced that his brilliant story had been left in a Taco Bell on his way to FOB. If any of our readership knows of a Taco Bell employee who is attempting to have groundbreaking work published, let us know, so we can begin the plaigarism accusations immediately, before the general rush.

Other than that, we hope that you and yours are having a very Merry December, indeed, and the new year will be a creative one for all.