School’s been a crazy four years. I’ve had a lot of fun, and a lot of experiences, both good and bad. But I think in general, high school will be a time that I look back on fondly. It’s hard to believe that in just a little while I will be graduating (that is, if everything goes according to plan). It seems like only yesterday when the students of my class and I were just mere freshman. I wrote this spiffy speech for graduation speaker try-outs, but the faculty decided they’d rather hear only one speech, about computers no less, rather then get a wide spectrum of speakers and fill the three spots they had once said were available. They claim that none of the other speeches were as well prepared (I guess those three hours in my first two periods wasn’t enough). Frankly I think some of us weren’t chosen because of certain personality conflicts. But that’s just my opinion (even if others share it), and I’m probably biased anyway (even though I’m right). Lucky for me. anything I can’t say over the pulpit at graduation I can say here.

Review of High School

Freshman year we were an interesting array of youngsters, straight out of Jr. high. and we acted as so. We lived In our own little world, almost separate from the rest of the school, believing that if we didn’t play our cards just right we’d be stuffed into a locker or perhaps taped to a tree. We avoided the seniors, the juniors, and those sophomores (who though they were so much cooler than us), and endured to the end of the year. At this same time four years ago, we rejoiced with the graduating class of that year, thrilled to death that we could no longer be labeled as, “little freshman.”

Sophomore year was grand. Not only was it our turn to pick on the freshman, but at rallies we would no longer be subjected to the scoffs and mocking of the tipper classmen. If you were lucky enough. a nice upperclassman might even pity you and your sack-lunch, and take you off campus for a nutritious meal of hamburgers and fries. By the end of that year, a few of us became licensed drivers. and even dared to enter the student parking lot (a territory normally reserved only for upperclassmen).

Junior year was a disaster, academically. Overloaded with classes, homework, big red books nicknamed, “the Brick,” and backpacks the size of Montana, a few of us didn’t make it. But those who did enjoyed the wonderful and glorious reward: senior year.

Senior year has been the climax of high school. Taking only enough classes to get you into your college of choice, many seniors have learned to budget their time between eating, sleeping, and those four or five classes that we occasionally attend…when it’s convenient. Sometimes questioned by others. a senior is heard saying, “homework? What’s that?”

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But now for the class of ’99, the great and…”marvelous” years of high school are coming to an end. I must admit I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss walking trough the quad and seeing all the dead grass, and piles of construction. I’m going to miss walking out to the parking lot and seeing all those “cool” people light up their cigarettes. I’m going to miss having to do busy work in class for no apparent reason other than to pacify us momentarily. But in all seriousness, I am going to miss a lot of things. Events, teachers, friends… To be honest I’m a little scared of leaving. I’ve been going to school for almost as long as I can remember, and now…what now? The truth is, I don’t really know.

This year has been great. It sucked a lot too, but mostly, it was great. It seems like only moments ago I was printing the first Bachelor’s Corner, and it seems like since the initial theme of the column is relationships (or in my case, a complete lack there of), I ought to make a few final statements on regarding the opposite sex. There are a few key things that have brought me happiness throughout all these years that I have been chasing after all these girls that wouldn’t date me:

• Never gave up…EVER.

• Always remember who you are.

• Know what’s really important to you and in life.

• Friends are there when you need them.. and they’re there when you don’t. Use them accordingly.

I don’t really have much else to say My best wishes to the class of 1999, and to the rest of the school. Thanks for reading me.

Conversing with Santa Claus. I asked him for a girl friend. Apparently there are some things even Santa can’t do…

To the Seniors:

I. We have survived high school.

2. We have survived freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year.

3. We have survived the massive construction of our school, complete with large, drunk construction workers.

4. We have survived the destruction of our back lawn.

5. We have survived a first day of school rally on the track.

6. We have survived the invasion of our parking lot.

7. We have survived losses in the class cheer and float competitions, when we all know it’s. supposed to be rigged.

8. We have survived trips to the dean’s office.

9. We have survived numerous calls from the attendance office due to their policy, which seems to change every other week.

10. Thus, we have survived Saturday school.

11. We have survived PSATs, ACTs, AP tests, Golden State exams, competency tests, SAT I & II, and STAR testing. Not to mention eight semesters worth of finals.

12. We have survived the senior thesis.

13. We have survived Economics.

14. We have survived a yearbook without collages.

15. We have survived the loss of some of the best teachers to ever walk the campus, to other schools, and to retirement.

16. We have survived the deaths of friends, teachers, and a principal.

17. We have survived it all, and then some. Congratulations to the graduating class of 1999. There will never be another class like us.

I would like to thank: My Heavenly Father, my parents, my sister (who made me do marching band, and filled out my Oracle application), my little bros., Andrew & Ryan, Linds, (hey I liked your speech…) Road kill & Lone Star (heh, heh), PopSky, Keith, Michelle, & Tyler (thanks for “Black Friday”), the drumline (celebrate good times), The Lustful Foremen, my first stupid ex-girlfriend (still miss you), Girl #2 (IOU), my second stupid ex-girlfriend who dumped me after four days (good riddance), that blond girl who would sooner roast on a hot skillet than give me the time of day (don’t care), the “epiphany” girl AKA: “Corie,” (it’s past your bedtime, 823), all the other girls that wouldn’t date me (I love you), and the few who would (maybe some other time), heroes: B. McMinn, J. Young, K. Balson, D. Skeehan, column mentors: Amanda & Erica, CJ & Bryan, M. Austin, J. King, C. Cutler, teachers: Alipaz (why’d you have to go?!) DeVine (I want my desk), Greene, Navarro, Baldauf, Beban, Ridell, Tocharian (enjoy retirement), Dewar, Paul, Bogo, PJ, Baer, Berglund, Georgia (hi Georgia, thanks for all the candy), and you too Neely (remember ASB’s supposed to be fun), the MVPD for being so nice), the class of ‘99, and the rest of MVHS.

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That summer, I took driver’s education. I endured the week-long classes. I endured the sheer boredom. I endured “Red Asphalt” I, II, and III. I took the written test (only missed one!), and got my learner’s permit. The next step to driving freedom was to take the behind the wheel training. We set up the next available appointment, and I became that much closer to driving. But, had I had even the slightest notion of what I was about to go through, I probably never would have began the course. By the time the date of my first lesson arrived, school had just begun, and the driving instructor was to pick me up from the faculty parking lot. That Wednesday after class, I rushed to the front of the school. I waited only a moment before a red car labeled with the name of the driving school. (The name of this particular driving school will not mentioned, due to the fact that they frequently advertise in this paper.) As the driver pulled up, I walked to the window and told him that I was to be his student. I got into the passenger seat and immediately began the introductions. My instructor, “Ronald” (the name has been changed), spoke with a heavy British accent. But what was even more obscure about him (and much more noticeable at that) was his appearance. “Ronald” (a rather large man), had a sort of an afro hairstyle; big jet-black curly hair that had obviously been dyed. Aside from that he wore thick, dark aviator glasses, so dark in fact, that you couldn’t see his eyes through them at all. “Ronald” was also sporting a white large-collared shirt, which was unbuttoned halfway, revealing several gold chains, and a rather massive amount of chest hair. At first I tried to put “Ronald’s” appearance beside him. But I couldn’t for the life of me get these images of Jon Travolta dancing in “Saturday Night Fever” out of my head.

The first of my three lessons was rather interesting. All along the way, Ronald kept asking me these trick questions, questions like: “What do you do at a stop sign?” Naturally I’d answer, “Stop?” and he would continue by asking, “Why?” I said, “because the sign tells us to.” He seemed to like that answer well enough. (Especially since he asked me the question every ten minutes.) I remember one time I asked him, “Which way should we turn next?” He responded with,

“Oh, are we both driving the car now? Are we taking turns? I think what you were trying to say is, ‘which way should I turn next?’” I think maybe Ronald had once aspired to be an English teacher, but decided on driving instead. My lesson continued in a similar fashion. Ronald had this special system of driving that he felt every driver should learn. It was really, really complicated. I had to learn the conversion for number of houses, number of cars, number of trees, and number of telephone poles. Needless to say, I became frustrated with all of Ronald’s trick questions and complex driving strategies. The next lesson I had dreaded. I begged my mom to call the school and cancel my lesson. She wouldn’t, she thought my experience would build character. I studied his driving system for an hour before hand. (That’s more time then I’ve ever spent on homework.) He showed up at my house…early. I think he was eager to torture me for yet another two hours. It was pouring rain outside, and as I got into the car, Ronald told be that we might have to cut the lesson short because the car’s battery was dying. I told him that was fine by me (inside rejoicing), and we started down my street. We hadn’t gone more than two blocks before Ronald had to resort to keeping the windshield wipers on the low setting. By the time we went three blocks, and were on the first major street, the wipers were dead altogether, along with the car’s headlights. At this point, five minutes into the lesson, on a major street, and pretty much driving blind, Ronald had me quickly make a U-turn in the middle of the street. (And I executed it quite well if I say so myself. I work well under pressure.) We then drove down the street totally without sight, and hoping that I was still in the right lane. We got to the stop sign and Ronald had me “roll” the stop sign, saying that if I made a complete stop car would die altogether. Seven minutes after my second lesson began, it ended. Ronald expressed his thanks to me, saying that I handled the situation well. Of course it would’ve meant a whole lot more, if he had gotten my name right. At the end of the lesson he said,

“See you later Mike.” The lesson was later rescheduled, and once again I was on the road with Ronald.

The second lesson wasn’t nearly as bad as the first. By this time I had gotten used to Ronald, as well as all the people pointing at laughing at the student driver. (People can be so cruel.) Towards the end of my lesson, Ronald became rather quiet. I assumed it was because I was becoming a better driver and he didn’t feel the need to criticize me. But then, out of the blue, Ronald turned to me and asked me the question that to this day I will never understand.

“Do you know any Chinese doctors?” At first I thought I had heard him incorrectly.

“What?” I asked. Ronald repeated himself as before.

“Do you know any Chinese doctors?” I thought for a minute or two, thinking that maybe this was another one of his trick questions. But finding absolutely no relation to driving I finally answered,

“No.”

I waited for an explanation.

“Oh.” he said, as he turned back to the road. By this time I was really confused, and tried to think of what he was trying say. I finally turned to him and asked,

“Why do you ask?” Ronald replied with, and I quote,

“Well, sometimes I ask people if they know any Chinese doctors and they say, ‘I don’t know’ and I say, ‘well you must know if you know any Chinese doctors!’”

I don’t know what he was trying to say, or what he was trying to explain. I finally came to the conclusion that he was attempting to be humorous, so I let out this sort of delayed courtesy laugh. After that, Ronald didn’t say much until the lesson was over. That was my last lesson with Ronald. After that experience I wasn’t too interested in taking my final lesson, and thus my driving progress halted. Two years later, I finally took my final lesson, but not from Ronald. I specifically requested someone else. When I did take my final lesson, my new driving instructor seemed to understand my qualms with my previous teacher. He looked at me knowingly and said,

“Yeah, I get a lot of Ronald’s students.” I don’t know what Ronald was trying to tell me when he asked me that question, or if he was even trying to tell me anything at all. None-the-less, two and a half years later I finally got my license. (I scored a 94) The other day while driving, I saw Ronald. He was in the passenger seat of the same infamous red car, instructing some poor soul. I pitied the poor lad. Maybe in two and a half years, he too will get his license.

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It’s not easy being a super hero in the small suburbs of Mountain View and Los Altos. One would think that in such mild surroundings a super hero would lead the easy life, but even here the life of a super hero is quite to the contrary. Fighting for freedom, justice, and the American way takes a lot out of you. (Not to mention all the kiddy birthday parties.)

Often times people ask me, “Dark Offender, how can I become a super hero such as yourself?” In hopes of answering such a question, I have compiled what’s been dubbed, “The Dark offender’s Official Guide to Becoming a Super Hero, Volume 1.Ó It is my earnest hope that with this guide in one hand, and a good marketing plan in the other, even the most incompetent fool can reach super hero status.

1. The birth of a super hero: Every super hero somewhere along the line, must have a traumatizing experience which in turn results in the desire to crush evil wherever it places it’s corrupt hand. Both Spiderman and Batman lost their parents, and Zorro watched the murder of his brother. In my case, it was five years ago on Halloween when my colleagues and I were viciously attacked by a renegade gang of bag-snatchers. We barely escaped with our lives, let alone our candy. It was then that the Dark Offender was born.

2. Super powers: Not every hero has super powers, but they can undoubtedly make a difference in your battle against crime. If you aren’t fortunate enough to be born on a strange and exotic planet, or to be born some type of mutant of some sort, you can always gain super powers the old fashioned way by involving yourself as the test subject of some bizarre scientific experiment. Naturally, this isn’t guaranteed to work every time, and there is a slight risk involved, but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s a small price to pay for law and order.

3. Choosing a name: The name of a super hero is extremely important. A proper name will strike terror into the hearts of evildoers everywhere. If you are gifted with some type of super hero function, then you will naturally want to somehow incorporate that into your name. For example, if your super power was the amazing ability to eat lots of cheese, then you could call yourself, “Cheese Man,” or “Cheesy Guy,” or maybe “Cheese Whiz.” You could always pick an animal form for your super hero name (i.e.: Batman, Spiderman, Wolverine), but keep in mind that your costume must also represent your super hero name in some way. So don’t go calling yourself “The Amazing Hippo Boy” unless you do in fact look like a hippopotamus. I chose the name “The Dark Offender,” for the simple reason that that is my purpose as a super hero. I offend darkness.

4. The costume of a hero: The super hero’s costume is very important. Without a good costume, super villains will not take you seriously. Capes have been a super hero tradition for centuries. Gloves, boots, and multicolored utility belts are not only flashy, but useful as well. Keep in mind that you have a secret identity to preserve as well, chances are you will need a mask.

5. Sidekicks: Almost every super hero has a sidekick. Batman has Robin, Darkwing Duck has Launch Pad McQuack, and even Radioactive man has Fallout Boy. Sidekicks are necessary for three things: First for comedy relief. Second for doing all the stuff that the super hero doesn’t want to deal with. Third for saving you, the super hero, from the evil villain when you get caught, so you can undoubtedly take the credit for saving the day later. Indeed sidekicks are a very good investment. I myself have two; “The Light Avenger” (he avenges the light), and super hero in training, “The Blue Defender” (He uh…defends blueness…I guess…)

6. Your secret identity: Secret identities are essential to every super hero. Without them, you run the risk of being easily duped by villains, and mobbed by adoring fans. Every self-respecting super hero has an alter ego with which he can enjoy life like everyone else without endangering himself or others around him. Preserving your secret identity is critical.

7. Finding yourself a home: Once you have completed steps 1-6, you are ready to begin your crime-fighting extravaganza. But first you need to find a city to protect from the forces of evil. I recommend starting in a small city, where you can work to make a name for yourself. (The competition in the larger cities is enormous.) You might try looking in the classifieds for cities looking for a hero. Once you have chosen a city, your next move is to find yourself a secret hideout. When first starting out, look for something small and affordable. Once your merchandising starts taking off, then you can begin expanding your domain.

8. Finding a worthy adversary: Perhaps one of the most difficult steps of becoming a bona fide super hero is finding a super villain with which to do battle. With the economy going as well as it is, there has been a real lack of decent super villains. You might try the Pacific Bell Yellow Pages. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. You can always direct traffic and help old ladies across the street until a good crime wave hits.

It is my humble wish that in due time, all of you faithful readers might become legitimate super heroes. Matt will be back next issue, assuming the pressures of teenage life haven’t driven him insane. But alas, I must be off, for the perils of evil must be vanquished.

The post How To Be A Superhero appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

“You’re having a baby?” I inquired. About ten minutes later (after my parents had finally suppressed their laughter), they announced to my brothers and I that our sister would be getting married. Responses were mixed, varying from: “cool,” to “it’s about time, they’ve been dating long enough!” Nonetheless we were all rather pleased, and not really all that surprised. We had all anticipated the engagement long enough, almost to the point where we were becoming anxious. My parents told us the rest of the details of the engagement, and then we went back to playing video games. I didn’t think much of the marriage announcement after that. In fact, I’d completely forgotten all about the big news until later that night. It was then that in all dawned on me.

The whole thing just feels really weird. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally happy for my sister, and the guy she’s engaged to is one in a million, we’re all very fond of him. But I mean, this is my sister. This is the sibling I grew up with and looked up to. This is the sibling who watched cartoons with me on Saturday mornings. This is the sibling who when I was born, wanted to name me “Flagoona-lagoona-baboona.” This is the sibling who threw-up on me when I was two. And now, she was getting married? Now, she was going to start a family of her own? Now she’s going to have her own kids, who will watch cartoons and throw-up on each other? But how could this be? I mean it seems like only yesterday I was fighting with her because I had to go with Mommy to pick her up from school at the same time that Scooby-Doo was on. (Of course, given the right circumstances, I suppose it could have been yesterday.) I thought about this long and hard into the night, pondering how time could possibly have moved so quickly, and realized that I was only four years younger then my sister. (Actually three and a half to be exact.) In such a period of time, I could be the one getting engaged. “No.” I thought, “This is ludicrous! I’m not at all prepared to be getting married. Besides, I don’t need to be thinking about this now, four years is a long-way-off.” And so I put such thoughts behind me…that is…until I remembered that as a Freshman…my high school graduation, seemed a long-way-off…

Now I can’t help but wonder; How long will it be before I meet my future wife? Where will I meet her? And most importantly, what kind of a crazy woman is going to be able to put up with me? In all seriousness, one of my greatest fears is not being able to find “the one.” And so now, in hopes of putting some of my fears to rest, I have created this handy-dandy checklist, so that when I do meet my future wife, I’ll know that it’s her, and I can cherish her forever.

1. My future wife will undoubtedly be very clean, and well-kept. She will be modest, but very beautiful just the same. She will have very small feet, and have no problem with wearing the color orange.

2. She will be very bright, and enjoyable to converse with. She will have millions of little things to say that will utterly fascinate me. She will also know how to program the VCR.

3. My future wife will also have a great personality. She will be really fun to be around, and I will surely be the envy of every man because of it. My future wife will enjoy multiple trips to Disneyland.

4. It is not required that my future wife know how to cook. (I’m such a picky eater, it probably wouldn’t matter if she did.) It only be asked that she learn how to make macaroni & cheese, and chocolate milk. She will have perfect table manners, and not mind that I don’t have any. Aside from that, my future wife will have no problem with me barbecuing meat at least five days a week.

5. She will want to have children, at least three, maybe four or even five. I would hope that she would want to stay home to care for the children, play with them often, and make sure that they don’t throw-up on each other.

6. She will be musical, and have the voice of an angel. (I swear I’d marry a girl based on her singing voice alone, if it were good enough.) She will sing songs to our kids whenever they feel sad, and sing to me too, whenever I get sad. She will not mind my constant drumming (no matter what my parents say).

7. My future wife will happily grow old with me, and put up with me even when I become old and senile. When all of our children have grown and left home, we won’t get lonely because we have each other. At the age of eighty, my future wife still won’t mind watching Transformers with me.

8. Most importantly, my future wife will love me for who I am, and I will likewise love her.

I suppose it’s possible that I might be demanding a little too much of my future wife. I imagine that there’s no way she can possibly hold all the characteristics that I have perceived her to contain. Still, I can’t help but wonder what she’s really like, where she is now, and what kind of life we will hold together. I only hope that when we do find each other, we’ll realize it, and not pass it by all together. She’s out there somewhere, and we’ll meet sooner than we know. In reality, four years isn’t very far away.

The post Marriage appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

As I watched my younger brother do his report, still without his thumbs (and holding back convulsions of laughter), I began pondering the whole evolution theory and how it came to be. My first impulse was that it seems awkward that people would make the assumption that man came from the ape just because of a few similarities like; we both have arms and legs. How these scientists figure this stuff out, I will never know. There was a lot of controversy when they first starting teaching the subject in schools. Personally, I just think it’s amusing how the school system has decided to teach the subject, as evidenced by my brother’s latest homework assignment.

I never took Biology, so I have to admit, the whole concept of evolution alone still puzzles me. Why, if we evolved from monkeys, do we still have monkeys on the earth today? Scientists have given the explanation that half of the monkeys evolved toward modern ape, while the other half in order to adapt to the environment better became what we are today. (Darwin’s Theory.)

As I pondered this, I started laughing at how much trust we put into the scientific community. There’s a lot of the world of science that I will never come to know for myself. So much of what we come to know about Science we take on the research and credentials of others. The more I think about it, the more I think that Scientists could really screw with our heads if they wanted to. Because I mean, if a scientist says it, it must be true. Everybody knows you can’t argue with a guy in a lab coat. I suppose that if they really wanted to, scientists could have made us all believe that we evolved from grilled-cheese sandwiches. Mmmm…sandwiches…

Either way, I’ll probably never really understand evolution. I can’t understand man evolving from monkeys any more than man evolving from woman. (Or woman from man, which ever is your preference.) I guess that explains why I don’t understand woman any more than I understand monkeys.

The post Monkey Business appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I never anticipated it so soon, or so suddenly. Walking in some random parking lot one doesn’t exactly plan on just “running into” their ex. It happened so quickly, I didn’t really have time to think about what events were about to occur. So, I did what any red-blooded American would do in my situation…I hid in the sanctuary of my peers. I kept at least a twenty-foot distance, as she visited with one of the friends I had just moments ago been walking with. I said nothing. I didn’t even cast a glance in her general direction. (Well, at least not when she was looking.) Instead I conversed with my friends, trying extra hard to laugh and appear whimsical. (After all, it’s the first rule of breakups; always lead your ex to believe that you’re doing better without them then you really are.) And when she finished talking with my friend, she left, and so did I. Perhaps never to see each other again, or perhaps to see each other in another seven months. Who knows.

It’s kinda weird how relationships work. Here was a girl who I at one point devoted catastrophic amounts of time and energy. A girl who I thought I could never live without. A girl whom I thought I loved. (The keyword there is “thought” folks.) And here, in a parking lot in front of a Jamba Juice…we were strangers. Our relationship ended a year and two months ago. (To the exact release date of this paper in fact.) I won’t give the gruesome details of how or why we broke-up. Such things shouldn’t be discussed, let alone printed. The results however were tragic. Our relationship broken beyond repair, our friendship lost forever, and though I can’t say the same for her, I was a total and complete wreck for eight incredibly pitiful and truly pathetic months. I would often times blame her for the events which transpired, convinced it was her fault things came to be the way they were. Then I would blame myself, convinced it was my incompetence that destroyed whatever it was we once had. I’ll never know nor understand what she thought or felt during these times. Maybe she was feeling many of the same things I was. Then again, maybe she really was the corrupted, unfeeling, deceitful girl I had once proclaimed her to be. (I said a lot of really nasty things that I’m not-too proud of.) Confused, mislead, depressed, and just really cheesed-off, attempts were made to mend the gap between us, although the stubbornness of two people would inevitably drive the awkward wedge between us deeper still. Needless to say, we drifted further, and further still, until we were but mere acquaintances, or even worse, strangers. Nothing but painful memories. Much different from the life-long friends we had once sworn to be. Funny how things work like that…frickin’ hilarious…

But these are mostly forgotten memories. I’ve seen several of my friends come out of relationships. All of them sad, and depressed. I attempt to console them, and as I do I think to myself, “Wow, was I as depressed as this a year ago?” Then I ponder for a moment and realize the answer is no…I was worse. Far worse. The epitome of worse. For those of you who have come out of relationships, heartbroken, teary-eyed, and convinced that you are destined to live your life this way; things get better. It goes away. I promise. After all, things need to get worse before they can get better. And things could always be worse.

I am pleased to say, that seeing my ex-girlfriend brought no animosity or feelings of anger. Even more pleasing to me, seeing her didn’t bring that feeling of attraction that I had once grown so accustomed to. Indeed time has taken it’s toll, and absence has made the heart grow fungus. As for the next time I see her, who knows how I’ll react then. Maybe there won’t even be a next time. If there is, who knows, maybe I’ll actually talk to her, see how she’s doing. Or maybe I’ll just retreat into the comfort-zone of my piers again. Either way it doesn’t really matter, and I don’t really care. I have much more important things to worry about, and better people to obsess over.

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For those of you who didn’t read the last issue of The Bachelor’s Corner (either because you didn’t care to, had chronic memory loss, or simply because I bore you to tears), I stated that I would be giving up all my romantic pursuits effective immediately. Don’t take it personally or anything, but I deceived you all, and I’m sorry. Please, find it in your hearts to forgive me. I guess I just got fed up with everything, all the frustration and depression. Either that, or I was just bored and wanted to get some people to lay off of my personal life for a while. (But that didn’t work…so I guess it’s back to the basics.)

I guess the change of plans came to pass a little while ago when I went to the dentist. I went in to have some x-rays, and for the first time in my life, discovered that I had some cavities. My mother blames it on all the chocolate milk. I blame it on non-fluoridated water. Either way, I had to go get my teeth drilled. Not my idea of a good time, but I got to skip one of my two academic classes, so it was almost worth it…almost.

But that’s beside the point, I’m getting off track. Lying there in the dentist’s chair with a spit-sucker in my mouth, there’s wasn’t really much I could do to keep myself entertained, except think to myself. I guess I could’ve engrossed in deep conversation with my dentist, but being the dentist’s patient would have made it a little difficult. (Although there are some dentists who while fiddling around in your mouth, are extremely good at deciphering what it is you’re trying to say. Almost like a whole separate language. I wonder if they learn that in dental school…) Anyway, as I lay there, staring into a shining dental lamp, with various intricate tools being stuffed into my mouth, I began to ponder my current situation. Call me crazy, but I decided to go for the glory. I really like this girl, and I didn’t want to give up, and by golly, I didn’t have to, so by golly, I didn’t. I wonder what brought on this change of mind…maybe it was the Novocain talking…

So the answer is no. I am NOT giving up. In fact, I’m rather opposed to the concept all together. Why not try? Isn’t it better to try and fail, then to never have tried at all? I’ve been told a million times that by trying I’ll hurt myself more then if I just gave up now. Well guess what folks, I’m not a masochist. I enjoy trying, it depresses the crud outta me when I don’t. And if it’s gonna cause me more pain in the long run (which it won’t) then I couldn’t care less. Besides that, I get bored easy…consider this a hobby of mine.

“A wise man and a fool went digging for buried treasure. They dug until they found a beautiful and precious chest filled with sparkling gems. Unfortunately, they had dug a hole so deep that they couldn’t get themselves and the treasure out of the hole. The fool, who desperately wanted the chest filled with jewels, said, ‘I know, we’ll dig ourselves out of this wretched ditch, and then the treasure will surely be ours.’ But the wise man said,

‘Nay, let us leave this treasure behind and pull ourselves out of this hole, for then we will surely live to discover treasures elsewhere.’ The wise man pulled himself out of the ditch leaving the treasure behind, while the fool attempted to dig himself out of the hole. An hour later the fool struck oil and became a ka-zillionaire.”

Sometimes you just gotta keep on digging, regardless as to what everyone else might say. As far as I’m concerned, all those wise men in the world today think way too much and have no hopes or dreams or anything. I bet they don’t believe in fairy tales either. Stupid wise men.

For those of you who believed that I actually had given up; good, that was my intention. For those of you who knew all along that I wasn’t giving up; congratulations, you know me better then I’d like you to. For the beautiful girl of my desires, who is right now reading this column and saying to herself something along the lines of “Oh, shoot! I thought I was rid of him!”; I was thinking…what are you doing this weekend? And for those of you who have come to the conclusion that I am totally and completely insane;…jeeze, it’s about time you figured that out.

The Bachelor’s Corner will remain relatively the same for the rest of the year (sorry, no politics or weather for you, I lied about that too). Who knows…maybe I’ll see Vegas yet.

The post Back Again appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I’d like to think that my story is no different then any other. I’d like to think that there are millions of people out there who just like me, watch from afar, and spend most of their time throughout the course of the day, dreaming about that which may never be. I’d like to think that there are other terribly scrawny guys who lift weights in the belief that they too, might actually one day become as ripped as Marcus the nark. I’d like to think that there are other guys who get so gosh-darned terrified about calling a girl, that they chicken out, and then recite in their minds totally lame excuses about why they didn’t call just to make themselves feel better. I’d also like to think that the girl of my aspirations will read this column, realize how crazy she is about me, and run off with me to Vegas… I’d like to think that.

But let’s be realistic folks. No matter how much class time we waste daydreaming, it doesn’t make a bit of difference. (except maybe in your test scores) No matter how many weights you lift, unless you’re on creatine, (and if you are, hook me up) you’re probably not getting the physique you desire. No matter how many good excuses there are, (and believe me, there are lots) there are still those of us who are still too chicken to make a phone call. And no matter how much I’d love to go to Vegas…well, you get the idea.

I remember back in the day, when girls had cooties. Ah…now that was the life! Your biggest concern was whether to watch Scooby-Doo or Transformers. (I always chose Transformers, although Scooby-Doo was a close second) Now my biggest interest is whether or not I’m acting like a total and complete buffoon in front of particular members of the opposite sex. (Well, that and Transformers)

Just recently I pondered the question: Is it better to try, and have that small fraction of hope, or is it better to simply give up and quit wasting time and energy? All my life I have never given up on anything. Not one, single, solitary thing. But at this point in time, the notion of just leaving all my girl problems behind seems rather appealing. Frankly, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being called obsessive. I’m sick of being depressed. I’m sick of kicking myself in the pants because I can’t get up the guts to talk to a girl. I’m sick of wallowing in self-pity. I’m sick of publishing my personal feelings and problems in this column every issue. I’m sick of trying way too hard and getting no where. I’m sick of always trying to say the right thing, in hopes that somehow I’d come across the ultimate compliment and she’d be so flattered that naturally we’d live happily ever after. …Yeah, right Matt. This isn’t the movies dip wad, no matter how much you want it to be. I swear sometimes I am the biggest idiot. I’m sick of it…and I bet she is too.

I’m really gonna miss it though, to be honest. All the excitement, all the crazy stunts, the devious plots, and all the other things that came along with the pursuit of a relationship. (especially since I had so many great ideas that had yet to be executed) Fact of the matter is, I really liked chasing after her…I liked it a lot…maybe too much. I don’t really know. I don’t really know much of anything anymore. Guess I’m just a helpless romantic.

When I told a good friend of mine that I might be dropping the whole thing, she congratulated me. She thinks it’s better that I quit now and save myself a lot of heartache. Deep down I was sorta hoping she’d tell me that I shouldn’t give up and that I had to keep trying. But instead she gave me the thumbs up and said it’d be better for me. I’m not sure if it will be better for me or not, but for the sake of my sanity, and the sanity and happiness of the girl of my unwanted affections, I’d better quit now.

“A wise man and a fool went digging for buried treasure. They dug and dug until they found a beautiful and precious chest filled with gleaming, sparkling gems. Unfortunately, they had dug a hole so deep that they couldn’t get themselves and the treasure out of the hole. The fool, who desperately wanted the chest filled with jewels, said, ‘I know, we’ll dig ourselves out of this wretched ditch, and then the treasure will surely be ours.’ But the wise man said,

‘Nay, let us leave this treasure behind and pull ourselves out of this hole, for then we will surely live to discover treasures elsewhere,’.”

I’ve been trying to dig myself out of a ditch for almost eight months now. I think maybe it’s time I pulled myself out of the hole.

Thanks for reading as I vent all my frustrations. But you can all relax now, it’s all over. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. Next time I’ll write about something totally different and less depressing than my girl dilemmas. Maybe politics or the weather or something… Either way it’s going to be a totally different Bachelor’s corner. I guess there’s only one thing left to say: I give up. Man, that hurts…a lot. Anyway, see ‘ya around. Dang, I’m pathetic. I think I’ll go watch Transformers.

The post Giving Up appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

1. Holmes sits in his room, mustering up courage.

2. Holmes picks up telephone.

3. Holmes realizes that he doesn’t know the phone number.

4. Holmes hangs up, and looks up the telephone number.

5. Holmes picks up telephone.

6. Holmes decides that she’s probably busy, so he decides to call later.

7. Holmes hangs up telephone.

8. Holmes procrastinates for the next few hours by making up lame excuses why now isn’t a good time to call, so instead watches Transformers.

9. Holmes picks up telephone.

10. Holmes dials number.

11. Holmes hangs up telephone after one ring, because he can’t think of what to say, should anyone answer.

12. Holmes spends the next half an hour making an outline of the conversation, and then practices it out loud for another fifteen minutes.

13. Holmes picks up telephone.

14. Holmes dials number.

15. Holmes hangs up telephone, this time after two rings.

16. Holmes collects his thoughts, and takes a few deep breaths.

17. Holmes picks up telephone.

18. Holmes dials number.

19. Holmes hangs up telephone.

20. Holmes looks at his clock and figures that it’s probably too late to call, so he decides he’ll try again tomorrow.

Some of you may say that this is an exaggerated display of the pathetic life of one individual. (who I swear, isn’t really me) Well…it’s not. I’d like to go on the record and say that whoever came up with the notion that the guys should do all the asking should be dragged out into a street and shot. It’s bad enough that the guys already have to pay for everything.

Okay, I have a confession to make. I originally wanted to write the whole column about the perils of the infamous “Homecoming Date” but I realized that I have very little if any, authority on the subject. Fact of the matter is, I’ve never taken a girl to Homecoming. Well, alright there was one time my Sophomore year, but I don’t really count that one. The girl ended up ditching me for a “friend” of mine, and I never actually danced with her once. (I forgive you, don’t feel bad, you know I love you to pieces) She ended up going out with the guy for a while. (some friend) Ironically, that makes a lot of sense to me. It was kinda exciting though, (the dance I mean) from what I remember. My mommy bought me a new suit, and we went to this really expensive place for dinner. When it was all said and done, I owed my little brother about seventy dollars. I finally paid him off about six months later. Stupid high school dances, they’re murder on your economic status.

Not long ago in my Civics class we were discussing the debate on whether or not males and females are different by nature, or different because they’re raised in the way society says they should be raised. I’d have to agree with the idea that guys and girls are different by nature. For example, girls go to the bathroom in groups, and spend about an hour or two in there. No guy on the face of the universe really knows what they do for so long. Guys however go straight to the rest room, alone, do their business, and we’re outta there. Half the time we won’t even flush. (except for that one stall that overflows all the time, we love flushing that one) But anyway, enough bathroom talk, back to the subject at hand. The average guy prior to the Homecoming dance will start getting ready about twenty minutes before hand. He steps out of the shower, combs back his hair, throws on that suit (which he never wears) from the depths of the closet, and he’s on his way. The average female on the other hand, will wake up extra early to begin her preparatory Homecoming extravaganza, by first attending her nail appointment (which she made about a month before hand), then rushing to her hair appointment (which she made about a month before she made her nail appointment), and then, if that wasn’t already enough, her best friend needs to come over and help her put on her dress (which is a given). Girls are different than guys, no question about it. My suggestion to the guys is to tell your date you’ll arrive at six, and then show up at seven. She won’t know the difference, trust me.

In closing I’d like to wish all those people with dates good luck. My last bit of totally pointless advice is as follows: Guys, don’t try to act too cool at the dance, girls hate that. And girls, don’t drag you dates onto the dance floor during the songs “Barbie Girl,” and anything by the “Spice Girls,” we hate that.

I had just barely worked up enough courage to ask a girl to the Homecoming dance this year, when another guy beat me to the punch. Guess it’s my own fault for waiting too long. (i.e.: our dear friend “Holmes” which was spoken of earlier) At least now I don’t have to stress out about it though. Dang-it-all. Looks like I’ll be going stag…again. Guess it’s become my tradition. Oh well, all the better really. This way I don’t have to make a total and complete idiot of myself trying to impress somebody.

The post Homecoming appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Dear (place name here),

This is of course the opening of the letter. Most girls begin casual letters with “Hey (place name here),” or maybe just the name at the top of the page. When the letter begins formally with “Dear,” you should take caution and prepare for the worst.

Paragraph #1 (Prior stuff)

The first initial paragraph is usually the standard letter material. i.e.: “Hey, how are you? I am fine. Class is really boring…etc.” Guys don’t want to hear all this pointless drivel. It lulls us into a false sense of security.

Paragraph #2 (Rejection)

The second paragraph consists of the actual rejection, and often times begins with the phrase, “I am going to be totally honest with you.” This is where the big warning lights come on. Obviously if a girl states that she is just now going to begin to be honest, then logic would presume that she has been dishonest and deceiving up until this point. It’s bad enough that they’re rejecting us, but as if only to add insult to injury they feel obligated to tell us that they’ve been lying to us all this time. Another popular opening is “I’ve been doing some thinking.” Any letter that has this phrase can’t be anything but trouble. Any guy anywhere will tell you that thinking is bad. Thinking leads us to places that we don’t want to be, places that we shouldn’t be. And besides that, it makes our heads hurt.

Paragraph #3 (Apology for rejection)

After the rejection, there always seems to be a huge portion dedicated to apologizing for one’s feelings (as if feelings were somehow controllable). Various phrases like, “I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me,” and “I’m just not ready for a relationship right now,” tend to pop up. Many times, a girl will write, “But I still want to be friends.” This is never good. Nothing stings worse than the infamous “F-word.” Saying that phrase is much like a kidnapper releasing his prisoner and saying, “Hey, come back and visit!” To the women of the world I plead with you; I beg of you: Do not offer us the consolation prize of friendship, not after you’ve just pushed our hearts through your own little garbage disposal of rejection. Although it is admirable for you to want a friendship between you and your rejectee, the word “friend” is not something he wants to hear right now.

Love, (place name here)

Ever notice how girls always sign their letters with “Love,” or one of those hearts? It doesn’t matter what the letter says, they refuse to sign it any other way. The letter could say, “I hate you, I never want to see you again. I hope you rot in heck,” and they’d still sign it “Love, (name here)”. As if they weren’t already confusing enough, they feel the need to contradict themselves. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it’s all part of some grand conspiracy to mislead the male population of the earth. The first step is to turn our minds to Jell-O with their countless contradictions and mixed signals. After that, they attempt to get us thinking… What else could account for such conformity among so many rejection letters?

Almost every letter that I’ve studied follows the above outline’s basic design. Mere coincidence? Perhaps. But I’m not so sure. But the fact remains the same: Women are poorly educated in the ways of the “Dear John.” I wonder if there’s some type of course available for girls that teaches the fine art of rejection. Maybe it could be used for college credit.

In light of such widespread misunderstanding, I would like to display the ideal rejection letter in hopes of better educating the female population:

“Dear (place name here)
I don’t like you. I never did. Sorry.
Sincerely,
(place name here)”

Straight and to the point. Some may say that this method is a little harsh, and lacks the gentle tone of the typical “Dear John” letter. This is true, but to the girl who says, “I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” you need to understand that it is inevitable. No guy’s going to get shot-down and be greatly enthused because his feelings weren’t hurt.

In closing, there’s really no easy way to go about rejecting a person. Someone’s bound to get hurt, so you might as well get it over with in one clean shot. Being rejected is a lot like having your heart dug-out with a dull spoon: nobody wants it prolonged. Don’t beat around the bush, or drop little hints that he’s about to get his tail feathers dropped. I’m sure he’ll thank you for it later. I once had a girlfriend who said to me, “All men should be kept underground and only be used for breeding.” She dumped me four days after we started dating. I should have seen it coming.

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