Fob Mar 1

I'd like to say, first of all, that though this is published under the name "Weed" this is a communal effort.

And I've been told that I need to provide a brief introduction of myself because there is many a Fob who doesn't know me. I teach English and history to seventh graders, and I'm here in Seattle studying to be a therapist. I go into shock at anything having to do with collision with bodies. I have a scar on my chin that I got when I fell in the bathtub as a one-year-old. My left eye is uncorrectably legally blind. And, done.

Hi! My name is Tolkien Boy. I live in a constant state of paranoia about my many obligations. For example, I often am given the obligation to record the minutes of FOB. FOB minutes, while being fun to record, are often so difficult in their scope and emotional content that it gives me ulcer pains when I think of the great responsibility laid upon me.

Speaking of "laid," Master Fob indicates that his next work will be a tour de force which exposes the worlds of superheroEs and religious zealots alike in a stunning work reminiscent of Dan Brown in his least egregious moments. He rose to brilliant heights of narrative excellence, including the unprecedented dialogue snippet: "..." Tolkien Boy was greatly impressed, as well, by his appropriation of a certain soon-to-be-divorced celebrity (Thom Cruz) into his cult, which apparently includes both gerontophilism (the love of old people) and cluckbuckcluckism (the unusual treatment of chickens, viz a viz sacrifice). Weed (aforementioned) proposed a reenactment of said rites: the motion was voted down two to three (Tolkien Boy pulled in his imaginary friends Juan and Cindy to help close the deal).

Hi, I'm Master Fob. You may remember me from such Foblog posts as "Fob June 18th" and "The Twelve Fobs of Christmas." Neither of those told you about Tolkien Boy's latest masterpiece, though, which is a gripping tale of babies left on doorsteps and Mormons with unending supplies of diapers and in which it is okay, after all, to speak of liking Karen Carpenter, but only if it is an innocent child that does so.

Nor do those posts, fabulous as they are, detail the latest installment of Weed's epic fantasy about paper-eaters, Harper Collins, and his cousin Harper Lee. But surely they are, at least the one that is Fob minutes, as obscure to anyone who wasn't actually there as this one is.

And, just so you know, I have a scar on my forehead and a birthmark on my butt that is not as aesthetically pleasing as the one on my thigh. And now I will let Weed tell you all about Sir Jupiter's contribution to Fob tonight.

In closing, Sir Jupiter is dead to us. Until he comes back. And then he'll, perhaps, favor us with a selection. But until that time, we mourn. Deeply. Because of the death. And because Tolkien Boy just talked about getting naked and smearing himself in paste.

P.S. (from Tolkien Boy) What does P.S. mean?
P.S. Bye.