Raccoon Toons

The above comic strip is full of clever subtext. If you don’t get it, you probably need to go back and read the last several comic strips. You can start at the beginning of this storyline by clicking here.

I don’t go out to dinner very often. In fact, I try to avoid it most of the time. It doesn’t make any sense to me. It all just seems like a big waste of time and money. Think about it. First you have to drive aaaaaaaaaall the way to the restaurant. Then you have to WAIT to be seated. Then you have to WAIT for your order to be taken. WAIT for your food. WAIT for your bill. WAIT for the server to bring you the crayons that you requested when you first sat down. And then when it’s all said and and done you have to drive on home, and what do you have to show for it? A couple hours sucked from your life and an empty wallet. No thanks. Not for me. I’d rather have a peanut butter and honey sandwich. Those things are crazy delicious, they cost barely anything, I can prepare several in mere minutes, and I can eat them in the comfort of my own home while I turn on the baseball game and yell obscenities at Dodger players. Stupid Dodgers.

There are times when I have to go out to dinner though. Usually it’s when I’m out on a date. There’s something to be said for supplying a pretty girl with sustenance for the evening. And in this scenario, the extra waiting time of the restaurant is ideal as it results in less date time that I actually have to plan! Win-win. Bi-winning.

I always find it interesting to see what my date orders from off the menu. I find it a fascinating character study. I really don’t care what she orders, but I like to pretend it tells me something about her personality that I didn’t already know. A burger? All-American girl. A Salad? Fitness buff and/or overly concerned about body image. A peanut butter honey sandwich? My future wife. A giant fried onion? Not interested in making-out with me. At all.

Actually that was one of our little “tests” when I was dating and in high school. I’d take my date to a burger place that had the greatest milkshakes ever. If she ordered a shake that was anything in the mint/peppermint family I figured I had the green light. So many women of my youth tantalized me by the simple order of a mint-chocolate dairy product. Those sultry little vixens. They knew exactly what they were doing. Come to think of it, that’s probably still a good gauge to go by.