It was my pleasure to participate in the creation of this week’s comic strip. Maybe I’m just a big softie, but I love stuff like this.

Have a fun time you two!

~Matt

The post Prom appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Once upon a time, in a land called high school, I was a young and defiant senior. Yes. I know. Anyone who has actually taken the time to read my writings here on the website is already well aware of many of the antics of my youth. So my statement of being a defiant teenager probably comes as no surprise.

It was senior year of high school. Obviously since I believed I was the teenage incarnate of both Parker Lewis and Ferris Bueller combined, I felt somewhat obligated to create a legacy of sorts and perform various acts of prank-dom.

There were multiple plans and operations. Some were achieved with great success. Others were…less than successful and resulted in trips to the dean’s office and meetings with my arch nemesis: the assistant principal.

But this prank was different. It was my pride and joy. I had literally been planning it for three years. And now, after all that time, the moment had finally arrived: It was time to walk graduation.

Let me first state here, that I kind of think the whole thing is rather meaningless. I mean, here you are, FINALLY ready to be released from soooo many years of school, and they just have to have you for one more day. It’s just one more day of time and money that school wants to suck from your life. They can’t just finally set you free into the world. They have to parade you around and dress you up like a doll first. Because that’s what school does to you man.

First they charge you a bunch of money for the cap and gown. I mean really. C’mon. Who do you think you’re fooling?It’s nothing more than an overpriced garbage bag and a flimsy hat made of cardboard and you’re charging me HOW much for it? For a silly little outfit that I will only wear once for a few hours in my entire life?? And then I’m just going to throw the hat up in the air and lose it anyway??

Robbery. Straight up robbery.

Then they drag you all out there and make you practice walking a bunch of times, before doing it for reals in front of all your friends and family. Ok…let me just state the obvious here. I’ve been walking since I was 2 years old. Pretty sure I got that one down. I’m ready to learn something new now. If you feel like you have to drag a bunch of young adults out into the hot sun to teach them how to walk back and forth repeatedly, then something is drastically wrong with our education system. Just sayin’.

The day finally arrives and you get to waltz around in your fancy clothes which ironically–no one actually sees because you’ve put a garbage over them– and then you get to sit forever and listen to some of your peers try desperately to sound deep and profound as they speak to the great gathered multitude. I’m sorry, but no 18 year old kid is that deep and profound. I don’t care how smart you think you are, you’re 18 and you know absolutely nothing about the world. I sure as heck didn’t when I was 18. The sooner we all accept that the sooner we can all stop pretending that we’re adults the minute we graduate high school.

Finally after all of that…after all that waiting…the moment FINALLY arrives… And you don’t even get your diploma. Oh no. Instead you have to shake the hand of your arch nemesis and smile, while they hand you an empty placeholder. No diploma there. Your REAL diploma–that fancy and extremely valuable (-cough-) piece of paper arrives by mail a month or so later. Talk about adding insult to injury. In a way it’s the perfect analogy to a high school education…

So I don’t particularly like graduation ceremonies. I think I’ve made my position clear.

Thus, it fell to me to rectify this problem for the sake of us all. And so I devised a plan. A great and noble plan. And it was glorious.

As is custom at most graduations, the senior class at our high school would be required to don their caps and gowns and be paraded before all the happy parents in our silly little ceremony. As we did so, the high school band would be required to play the popular high school theme “Pomp and Circumstance.” This would be the backdrop for my last and final high school prank.

I needed to bring graduation back to the students. It was my job…my DUTY… to let everyone know exactly how seriously we took this complete and utter waste of time.

My plan was simple. When the moment arrived, we the senior class would march out onto the field to the familiar tune of “Pomp and Circumstance.” Only this time, the band would not be the only ones playing. Oh no. For I would see to it that every member of our graduating senior class would have a kazoo with which to play along.

It was poetry in my mind. The thought of 300 kazoos all humming in wondrous harmony titillated the exuberant young  prankster in me.

I began the plot weeks in advance. I took donations from senior class members. A friend and I went to numerous party supply stores until we had accumulated roughly 300 multi-colored kazoos (mine was orange). Everything was going according to plan. I could not be stopped. The dream that I had crafted 3 years earlier was coming to fruition.

And then my mother found out.

As was my luck, a young, spacey, socially awkward girl from my class had called my house and left a message. In her voicemail this strange soul who had only days before donated money to the cause, stated that she had changed her position and that she felt that 300 kazoos would be making fun of graduation.

My mother heard the message before I’d even arrived home that day. All of a sudden the full scope of her wrath was upon me. At first she insisted that I not go through with it. I didn’t see what the big deal was. We were just having fun! And I couldn’t stop now, I explained. We had already purchased 300 kazoos!

Then she demanded I not go through with it. But this was my dream!! Desperately I tried to explain. I had wanted this since I was 15 years of age! Just think of it! 300 kazoos all singing together!

Then she gave me the ultimatum. In a moment of absolute parental dictatorship that I have never seen in my mother before nor since, she stated in so uncertain terms that either I put an end to my plans, or she would not attend my graduation.

I did not care about my graduation ceremony. Not in the slightest. But I knew my mother did. And I knew I could never live down the guilt trips that would surely follow if I did not bend to her will.

Disappointed and crushed, I tried to figure out what to do. We had 300 kazoos. People had paid for them. Could I really just call the whole thing off?

My friend and co-conspirator , bless her soul, suggested that we hand out the kazoos and instruct the students to use them at the final commencement of our graduation, when hats are flying in the air. My mother seemed to approve of this compromise. And the matter was settled peacefully. I was still crushed. My dream shattered.

In the end, it didn’t really matter.

As it turns out, 300 kazoos attract a fair amount of attention. My arch nemesis, the assistant principal became aware of my designs and stood by the gate with a large cardboard box collecting the kazoos from each student that marched onto the field.

As I passed by him I heard him laugh with the principal.

“Kazoos! That’s a new one!”

Curses!! Even my arch nemesis himself could acknowledge the brilliance of my scheme! And yet I was still thwarted. Defeated by my nemesis, my mother, and a strange awkward girl.

I did manage to smuggle into the ceremony 100 or so kazoos. I hid them in every pocket on my person. But even though I dispensed them to the senior populace once we had reached our seats in the stands, aside from a few timid kazoo noises, no one really paid them much mind.

And thus, this was the way my high school pranks ended. Not with the triumphant chorus of 300 kazoos humming, but with the whimper of my little orange kazoo.

The post Try And Stop Me appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Once upon a time, as a young teenage lad, I had a driving lesson from a strange man who reminded me of John Travolta. Or fat Elvis. Or both. I was somewhat weirded out by this odd man with his flashy gold chains. Even worse, he made driving a somewhat painful and awkward experience. So I did what any young high school student would do: I wrote about him in the school newspaper.

And so, if you desire to relive teenage history with me, that particular column is in fact published somewhere on this website. You may read it by clicking HERE.

Be gentle with my simple teenage prose. My adolescent writing skills had only come so far.

The post Driving Lesson appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Teenagers. What a mess. Seriously. What is wrong with those things?? Seems like they’re always in a heap of depressive overemotionalism. Or they’re brooding silently ready to snap at any moment. And you can never tell which it is. Their over-hormoned manic state could erupt at any moment….and no, I’m not talking about acne.

As a rule though, I give teenagers a free pass. A get out of jail free card. You really can’t judge a teenager too harshly. Much like juvenile records and high school midterms, everything anyone ever does in between the ages of 14-18 should be completely disregarded and forgotten.

What’s that? You crashed the car?? Oh. You were 16. I see.

Hmm? You led the student body into a frenzied riot?! Oh…you were a senior in high school. I get it.

What? You robbed a bank by releasing a heard of hungry goats into the vault while perfecting your Rex Kwon Do on the bank’s manager?!? Actually, that’s just kind of awesome.

All is forgiven. I get it. I was a teenager once. I mean, I wasn’t weird or crazy or anything. I was completely normal. I certainly never got in to trouble. I mean, sure there was that incident with the desk…and that other one with the plastic forks…and that one with the water tower and the bow and arrow….

That was high school. I was a teenager. It doesn’t count.

The post Teenagers appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I’ve never written a fake note from my doctor to get out of work before. But once upon a time I was known to…”avoid” going to school on some days. Especially on my birthday. As a youth I always made it a point to skip school on my birthday. I figured it was the best present I could give myself. I figured I deserved a day off. I figured anything really, to avoid another day of mind numbing boredom.

My days off were always highly enjoyable. Unless of course you, the person reading this, happen to be under the age of 18. In which case, it was not enjoyable at all. You shouldn’t ever skip school. In fact, I pity the fool who doesn’t stay in school. I could never condone such school skipping behavior… -cough-

I always prepared for my days of school cutting by preparing myself emotionally. I tried to channel Ferris Bueller and Parker Lewis into my soul. I would create lists of things that I would be doing on my day of absence. I notified my teachers ahead of time that I would not be in school on that particular day and would have to take my English midterm at another point in time. I simply explained that I would be on vacation for that particular day. They always complied with my request. Yup. Some of those student-teacher English teachers weren’t all that bright.

Once a particular vice principal carelessly left some summons slips lying around his office. He was also careless enough to leave his signature stamp and ink pad lying around as well. That’s pretty careless. I mean really. What was I supposed to do?? I swear some of these teachers make these sorts of things all too easy. Naturally I had no choice but to tear off a few summons slips and take the liberty of stamping them with his signature. I kept them hidden away for a rainy day. Bona fide get-out-of-class cards. All I had to do was have a friend deliver them to my classroom at the beginning of the period to “summon” me away and I’d be out of there just after roll call. Trigonometry just got a whole lot easier to deal with.

Say what you will about my young adolescent school habits. But you have to admit, I certainly learned something.

The post I Have a Note appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

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?”

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

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.

The post Graduation appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

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.

The post Adventures In Driving appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

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.

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“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.

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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.

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