“Your boyfriend is such a tool. Seriously. Just look at the guy. That stupid face. That stupid hair. I bet he pops up the collars on his polo shirts. Who does he think he is? Anyone with half a brain can see that the guy is a total tool. But then I guess you don’t have half a brain do you? I mean, if you did you OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t be dating him. Man…I can’t believe I was such good friends with that guy before he started dating you. It’s so weird that I had no idea he was such a tool until now…

“We’re all probably better off now that you’ve both removed yourselves from the dating pool, at least until one of you gets tired of blank stares and moronic conversation. You two really deserve each other. So yeah. Enjoy your tool boyfriend you ditsy brain dead twit.

“And…call me if you break up any time soon…”

The post Life Of Party appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I think we’ve all had a “work crush” or two. I’ve certainly had my share. There was the classy blond with the dimples who used to come in to my work sometimes. I bet she had no idea I used to dress extra nice on the days she showed up. Or that her dimples had the power to make me her slave.

Then of course there was the coworker who’s flirtatious games made me linger at work for hours. Playful banter and secret glances at the purple chair. Oh, that enticing purple chair…

Further back I can remember coworkers and girls at conferences with smiles that made me excited to go to work every morning.

So why does THE MAN try to prevent us from reaching our romantic potential in the workplace?? Are we really so unproductive when we’re twitterpated? Why is dating our coworkers such a bad thing? Sure, maybe all those flirtatious glances and knowing eyes can be distracting, but think of the upswing in office morale! Workers who WANT to come to work! What company or business wouldn’t want that?? I really think I’m on to something here. This could shape a new world of American business! Embracing and encouraging inter-office relationships. I may have single-handedly saved the future of the world economy!!

Unless of course there’s a messy breakup… In which case, I can see why dating in the workplace might be discouraged.

The post Inter-Office Dating appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I have decided there is something in a woman’s DNA that causes in her, an inexplicable and uncontrollable urge to play mind games with unsuspecting members of the opposite sex. Something in her genetic makeup causes this behavior, I’m sure of it.

Last weekend I attended a large social event of hundreds of people. Due to the nature of the event, I observed that there were several women present whom I had at one point or another been on dates with. For whatever reason, none of those dates had materialized to anything more than an evening or two. Some of the girls I had decided weren’t right for me. Others could only be captivated by my charm for so long before they lost interest in my exceptionally clever banter. Fortunately they were all very casual dates, so for the most part, there was no hatred or malice in any of the encounters.

Being women however, all of them took this opportunity to play some type of mind game with my head. One feigned interest before scurrying off prematurely. Another turned inexplicably cold. And then, there was “career girl,” who did what career girl does best.

I had been interested in career girl from the first time I made her acquaintance. She had the intelligence and the class that I find so very attractive in a woman, and which is a real rarity in today’s world of grammatically incorrect text messaging. I would soon discover however, that these qualities did not make her immune to the aforementioned proclivity for mind games.

After a somewhat flirtatious string of interactions I asked her to accompany me for an evening as my date. She complied and I took her to a ballgame, where I feel at home and do all my best dating. Looking back, I remember feeling compelled to NOT wear my genuine authentic team baseball jersey (one of two) because I knew she would be coming from work, and I didn’t want her to feel overdressed. In hindsight, I probably should have taken that as an omen.

Turns out, career girl was reeeeeeaaaaaaaally into her career. I sat there and listened to her tell stories of rubbing shoulders with big executives, politicians, and senators. She casually worked-in that she took a pay-cut to acquire her latest job with a 6-figure income. She used fancy career-oriented phrases like “earning potential.”

…I bought her a hotdog with my meager comic strip money. Most intimidating date ever. That feeling was compounded as we walked back to my car which is literally held together by Shoe-goo and duct tape. No, that’s not an exaggeration even in the slightest. Sadly, my car is really held together by Shoe-goo and duct tape.

Have I painted the picture well enough for you? Let me reiterate: Ridiculously successful girl with ridiculously successful income. Me; the struggling self-employed Jack-of-all-trades. Car glued and taped together. We good? Ok. Moving on.

The date actually went well enough. She was gracious and kind, and held her end of the conversation. My [our] team won, so I was in an exceptionally good mood. But later when I asked her out again she was out of town and made no effort to suggest that she would be available upon her return. She didn’t return phone calls or text messages, so naturally I assumed she didn’t find my witty remarks appealing enough to compensate for my pocketbook (or complete lack thereof), so I left it at that and chose not to pursue any longer.

Now. You would think that a successful confident woman would have no need to play mind games. Well, you’d be wrong. Because it’s in their DNA, and they can’t help but engage in mind games. It’s like a disease. An addiction. Like gambling, alcohol, or my Aunt Kaye’s mint brownies. Those things are like crack.

Months after I stopped talking to her, we both attended a function through one of the local churches in the area. I noticed her there, but didn’t intend to make any effort to talk to her. I figured I had already embarrassed myself adequately by asking for a second date, and I didn’t want her to assume I was still pursuing her when in fact I wasn’t.

Here’s where things got interesting. I was visiting with a few friends when she walked by slowly almost as if trying to get my attention. I pretended not to see her. This girl had turned me down, surely she didn’t really want me to talk with her. But then she walked by again, this time even slower, in the opposite direction. I could feel her eyes watching me as she walked right past me. And then a third time.

Six times. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and kept count. Six times she walked slowly past with her gaze locked on me, hoping that I would break my conversation and notice her. It was so delightfully awkward and seemingly out of character for this woman that I actually started becoming embarrassed for HER. Finally when it appeared to her that my vision really was that bad, she turned, faced me and gave an awkward little wave. So finally I “noticed” her and we had a nice little visit.

What did it all mean? Maybe I’d been wrong! Maybe I had completely misread career girl! Maybe I needed to ask her out again after all!

And so I tried contacting her not long afterwards to see if she would be interested in getting lunch.

I was completely ignored.

Again, let me reiterate: Completely ignored.

Fool. I had been suckered into a mind game of epic proportions despite all my efforts to resist. She had succeeded yet again, and my attention was her prize.

And so I’ve come to the conclusion that all women are subject to these uncontrollable whims of mind games. To them it comes as naturally as breathing. Meanwhile all of us men can only sit and wonder what the heck is going on, as we glue and tape our cars together.

I still run into career girl every so often, although I’m pleased to say I haven’t embarrassed myself by asking her out again. Each time she plays the same little game, doing her best to be noticed before finally walking towards me and engaging in conversation. And each time I watch out of morbid fascination as I try unsuccessfully to analyze the psychology of it all.

Mind games. Now there’s a competitive sport.

The post Mind Games appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Guys, we’ve been lied to. Turns out, not everything we see in the movies actually works in real life. I know, crazy right? But it’s the cold hard truth. We’ve endured countless chick flicks to make our dates happy, and all of them tell pretty much the same story. 2 guys. 1 girl. Guys fight over her. And to the victor go the woman’s heart. So naturally when we see our dates swooning over the brooding jealous type, we are left to assume that we can apply these same principles into our own lives.

Bad news gents. Turns out it’s soooo much more complicated than any given movie starring Sandra Bullock or Reese Witherspoon. You can’t just do something crazy and dramatic in the 3rd act to make the girl love you and forget about the other guy who EVERYONE can clearly see is a total jerk anyway. You can’t win the girl based on your sweet endearing humor despite the fact that your yearly income is suspect at best. I know, this hardly seems fair after a lifetime of Hollywood movies, but it’s the lot that we are left to deal with.

So what  DOES a girl want? After much research, I am left to conclude that she has absolutely NO IDEA what she wants. Not. A. Clue. It would appear that this is the part of life the movies actually got right. In preparation for writing this, I googled around a bit and found some real-life internet profiles of women and what they claim to be seeking from men. It reminded me of why I am no fan of online dating. Here are some excerpts (you know they’re authentic sadly, because I didn’t correct the spelling, punctuation, and grammar):

• “Men are like parking spots, the good ones are taken and the free ones are handicapped! I want to be treated like the princess I am”

• “someone who can make me smile with a glance knows french loves movies and music wouldn’t mind dancing in the rain even if they were wearing a nice outfit happens to be in the milatary humble, kind, gracious, bruised”

• “I would like to meet an amazing man who loves to dance, cook, cuddle, kiss, who is intelligent, confident, knows exactly what he wants… and gets it…with dark hair and light eyes… Guys with long hair.”

• “You have to be able to keep up. If you like television marathons, interacting with video games, or devouring several bags of Lays while doing these things, you need not apply.”

• “a guy who loves me no matter how i look or how out of shape i will get. i want someone who likes to read and has realistics dreams. ofcourse a romantic guy. someone who brings me a single rose or small flower just because

• “A guy who accepts my weirdness, loves the crazy moments, and has infinite patience. I’m just a sucker for the fawning attention. A guy has to be a little passionate, yes. No one wants a wimp.”

• “to tell u the truth at first I want a guy who is dangerous, I want a bad boy, but when it starts to get serious, I want him to be serious, and cudly,,”

• “I’d tell you one thing, but I’d secretly be hoping for something else. But the first thing that came to mind [is] chocolate and someone to do my homework.”

Did you guys get all that? Wow! It’s all so easy! And I’m TOTALLY not being sarcastic to prove the absurdity of our expectations of the opposite sex! All we have to do is do all of those things until we finally succeed in becoming the likeness of every woman’s dreams! Like this guy:

Yes! We can do it guys! This is totally within our reach!! Oh wait…here’s one more personal I found:

• “The best thing a guy can do is try to be himself. Be yourself.”

Crap. Looks like we’re screwed, gents.

The post Need a Hand? appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Encounters. There’s an interesting word. I’m not talking about those close ones from the 3rd kind. I’m talking about those dreadfully unpleasant ones. The ones you take all precautions to avoid. Those terribly uncomfortable and awkward ones.

I think we’ve all probably got people in life that we’d love nothing more than to NEVER SEE AGAIN. You know who I’m talking about. Right now at this exact moment you have someone in mind. Maybe it’s a bully from the 3rd grade. Maybe it’s that girl who broke your heart after she told you that she loved you. Maybe it’s that pathetic loser ex-boss of yours who fired you and ushered in an era of living out of your car. Maybe it’s that crazy stalker you had in high school who memorized your class schedule and totally followed you into the library that time, forcing you to hide in a crumpled ball behind the non-fiction section. Maybe your nightmares are still haunted by one or all of these experiences. Maybe you should go create a website and write about it. That’s supposed to be therapeutic. Or something.

So what do you do when the unthinkable occurs and you find yourself in that terrible moment when you realize that you are about to cross paths with one of these…”people?” In preparation for such terrifying and gruesome events, and after much contemplation, I have developed this handy dandy list for you, my faithful and loyal readers, so that should the unthinkable happen and one of these encounters should occur, you will be prepared to handle it with the utmost dignity and grace.

• If you should encounter a former bully you might consider the following prepared statement:

“Hey. Remember back in the 3rd grade when you thought you were cool and you used to kick me in the stomach during recess soccer matches? Haha! Yeah! Isn’t it funny now, how you’re a fat tub of lard, and I have solid abs and can bench almost twice my own weight?? SO funny! Maybe you should get a gym membership. Fatty.”

• If you should encounter a former boss or coworker who you loathe or despise:

“Oh hey. How’s that “career” working out for you? Still single huh? Imagine that. Me? Oh I’m doing great. I draw cartoons and have this totally awesome website that’s probably read by like, at least 7 people. Yup. Totally famous now. I’m in the background of  TV commercials. Very reputable companies go out of their way to contact me because they see  how totally awesome I am and know that I deserve to have a better job than you. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m on the Tonight Show within the year. Your breath smells.”

• If you should encounter a former love (or loves):

“I’m sorry. Who are you again? Oh…yes. Now I remember you. Yeah, it IS funny running in to you. Especially since I vowed never to return to your town, you black-hearted incarnation of evil. I’m doing great. I’m going on the Tonight Show. I totally date women hotter than you now. Like all the time. You should probably feel bad about that for some reason. Your husband is a tool, by the way. He reminds me of Ben Affleck. That’s not a good thing. At all. And no, we cannot be Facebook friends.”

• If you should encounter a former stalker:

“I’m sorry? No. You must have me mistaken for someone else. I have no idea who you are talking about. That sounds like someone who is dead though. I’m pretty certain that person is dead. You should forget about them and follow someone else into the library. Anyway, I’m kind of busy. I’m about to go on the Tonight Show. But I think I have a former boss you should meet.”

All grace. All class. All dignity. You might want to go ahead and print out that list. Save it in your wallet or something. That way you’ll be prepared at any given moment. Yeah, we are SO ready for this. Bring on the encounters.

The post The Encounter appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

There’s nothing worse than another guy stealing your girl. If there’s one thing that television and movies have taught us, it’s that everyone hates that guy. Everyone.

It’s happened to me. Obviously the girl couldn’t have been in her right mind (obviously…), but it has happened to me nonetheless. At the time, I was young and somewhat immature, so naturally the fitting solution to this problem was to prank the new guy mercilessly.

There were several ill-advised attempts that worked in varying degrees, but the best one really showed off my skills as a prankster. You see, my newfound enemy had a habit of drinking soda. Dude drank soda like it was going out of style. Naturally, this seemed like an opportune method to deliver a prank that would surely somehow result in his removal as new boyfriend.

After much diabolical scheming, I stumbled upon the answer. Lemon flavored laxative. Oh yes. You read that right. It was time to fight dirty.

You know what happened next… There was much laxative dumped into many giant-sized sodas, I can tell you. I even overheard him mentioning that his colas had been tasting different lately. I have no idea how adversely the laxatives affected him. But in all of my imaginative scenarios, the poor fool was dropping a messy and greasy bowel movement every hour on the hour. And he deserved it. Jerk.

The post Obsessive Ex-Boyfriend appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

My apologies for not having a comic strip last week. I was in NY, being awesome.

I love how Michael in this comic strip is using a grappling hook. I have always wanted to use a grappling hook. They are like the epitome of awesomeness. All the coolest people use ropes and grappling hooks. Just think about it. Spies. Ninjas. Batman. Indiana Jones. Ok, Indy uses a whip, but it’s basically the same principle. And that principle is grappling hooks = awesome.

When I was a kid I tried to make my own grappling hook. I took a long 50ft. piece of rope, then tied it to a set of handlebars from my old tricycle. Instant grappling hook, and hours of playtime fun. I used it to climb my tree, although the rope had a little too much elasticity so it proved to be less effective. But you know what? It was still cool. And I looked awesome twirling that handlebar grappling hook by my side.

The post Peeping Tom appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I would make an incredible spy. Seriously. I still don’t understand why the CIA hasn’t tried to recruit me. I’m sneaky! I’m stealthy! I look good in black! Obviously I have all the skills needed to become a globe-trotting master spy. It’s only a matter of time before you see me in a classy casino bar drinking a chocolate milk (shaken not stirred), while extracting vital information from a beautiful woman using only the power of my charm. The nation’s security depends on it. Trust me.

Once at a Halloween party I took part in one of those Murder Mystery games. I was playing the part of a French Chef. Except, I wasn’t really a French Chef. Oh no. I was really a SPY for the US government!! My mission was to find and identify smugglers on our ocean liner and have them cast into the brig!! I needed to do so without revealing my secret identity.

I don’t want to brag or nothin’ but yeah…I totally caught those smugglers. They didn’t stand a chance. I befriended them, developed and orchestrated a sting operation, and had them cast into prison without them ever knowing who put them there. Oh yeah, and I also found a double agent, identified a murderer, AND survived an assassination attempt on my life, ALL without losing my cover as Master Chef Blaise de Richelieu.

About the only thing missing was the beautiful woman that’s so typical of all my favorite spy movies. I did however, get pretty good at my fake French accent.

So c’mon already CIA! Get with the recruiting!!

The post Shaken Not Stirred appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

‘Fess up. You’re all a bunch of stalkers. You know it, and I know it. You’re not fooling anybody. You’re sitting there at your little desk, clicking around on all those social networking sites. You’re smiling to yourself because that popular girl from your youth is totally overweight now. Or maybe your ex looks like death incarnate. Or maybe you’re checking out that friend of a friend that you’d sure like to “run into” one of these days. You know the one I’m talking about…the one that you used to stalk on Myspace before there was a Facebook…

Sometimes I wish we all lived in the 1800′s. In the days where the only way you met people or communicated with anyone was if you actually left the house. The days when a guy would walk up to a girl and ask her if he could call on her. And of course the girl would say yes, because we’re all totally polite in the 1800′s.

But if there was no Facebook or internet in the 1800′s, how did people stalk people?? You know they must have had some other methods because those 1800′s people were expert when it came to gossiping. Perhaps if a young woman saw a guy that grabbed her fancy she went outside at opportune moments to churn butter or something. Or maybe the young lads kept going to neighboring villages to dig wells, hoping to catch a glimpse of that sassy farmer’s daughter.

Yeah, that makes sense. I’m sure they stalked somehow. Still, it must’ve been difficult without tagged photos…

The post Stalking appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

The best way is the sneaky way.

Once upon a time, in a faraway distant land we like to call high school, I sat at a desk in an American History class. But this wasn’t just any desk, oh no. This wasn’t some crude plastic chair that was bolted to one square foot of particle board. This was a real desk. A REAL desk. And it was glorious.

You see, the class was so full of young bright-eyed students eager and willing to learn, that the teacher had run out of those cruddy desks that you can barely fit into. You know the ones I mean. A piece of wood stuck to a hard, cold chair specifically designed to be as uncomfortable as possible to poor, overworked high school students.  And so with a limited number of “chairs” (if they can indeed be called chairs), my teacher somewhat apologetically, placed me at a table in the corner of the room.

And it was wonderful. Seriously. I loved my desk like no student has ever loved a desk before. And why shouldn’t I?? I got to sit in the back. By the window. With a padded chair. I sprawled all of my belongings across my domain and still had enough room to write, read, and rest my arms. I was more attentive. I was happier. My 1st period History class was all of a sudden the highlight of my day. I could actually feel myself getting smarter by the minute! And as if that wasn’t enough, my teacher was still one more seat short. And so I was assigned to share my desk…with the prettiest girl in my History class. I loved that desk. I loved that desk, oh so much.

Life was good. The educational system was finally working. My historical knowledge of the Americas was reaching new bounds. I was the Alex Trebek of my classroom. The cool breeze from my window kept me alert and ready to elaborate on various topics from the  mid 19th century. And in a completely unrelated note, my luxurious padded chair was slowly inching its way closer and closer to the pretty brunette next to me.

And then one day, the unthinkable occurred. I arrived to my morning History class, naturally eager to make the most of the educational opportunities that lay before me, only to discover the awful truth… My desk had been replaced.

I stared at the two abominations that stood in its place. Two plastic chairs, each welded to a small piece of wood. The brainchild of some sinister educator looking to cram more students into a single class room, and cut costs on large beautiful tables and cotton filled seats that were meant to cushion my buttocks. -sniff-

I immediately demanded an explanation from my teacher. He smiled a devilish grin, and laughed a devilish laugh.

“Your desk is GONE!” he said to me as he mocked my pain…my sorrow…my heartache. “Deal with it!”

I could not, and would not “deal with it.” For too long I had reaped the rewards of a desk built for two and a warm comfy seat cushion. I began plotting a scheme so clever and so crafty that I was sure that if the US government were to ever hear about it, they would immediately seek my services for the CIA. I would get my desk back. Oh yes. It would be mine.

My plan began in simple stages. After school, I staked out the classroom of my History teacher until he left for the day. Then I promptly found one of our school janitors. I explained to him that I had left a book inside the classroom, which I needed to recover. He unlocked the door, and let me in. A friend distracted the janitor while I quickly took my table which now sat against the wall gathering dust, and restored it to its rightful place. Success!! The next morning my teacher was astounded to find me (and the pretty brunette) sitting comfortably, once again at our table.

My teacher was not one to give up easily however. It only took a day before he had removed my heavenly desk away from me. He smiled at me as I found myself once again regulated to a tiny blue seat imprisoned by the bars of metal holding the slab of particle board that was to be my “desk.”

“Deal with it,” he said, laughing at my misfortune. “And don’t go asking the janitor for help, because I’ve told him not to let you in.”

Curses! My plan was foiled! But I could not be stopped. I had seen Heaven, and in that Heaven there was a wonderful, glorious desk with a visage that shone like the trumpet of Gabriel himself. And I was making headway with that brunette, dang-it!

The solution struck me as I gazed solemnly outside my window. Yes! The window! If I could somehow manage a way to keep the window from being locked at the end of the day, I could climb in and retrieve my desk thus reuniting myself with my soft chair, with higher learning, and with the pretty brunette who was already in the habit of letting me use her binder paper.

I am not going to disclose here how one prevents a window from being locked for the night. In fact, I should probably state here that this whole story is really just a made up figment of my imagination. Really. Honest. I never had a classy desk…Um.. In fact…I never had a high school. Yeah…that’s right. I don’t even know what history is. And there’s no “Deep Throat” anywhere who can tell you otherwise. But hypothetically speaking in this imaginative narrative of mine, if one WAS to prevent certain windows from being locked for the night, one could do so with just two or three pennies placed in the proper locations. Or so I’m told. I really have no idea. Because I’ve never tried it.

Regardless, my teacher was once again astonished to find me in the morning, once again sitting comfortably at my big luscious table while flirting with the brunette beside me.

This game went on for several weeks. My teacher would move my desk away from me. And the following day it would magically reappear in the proper place. He couldn’t figure it out. He had literally talked with the school janitor dozens of times, repeatedly being assured that I was not being let into the classroom after hours to make the switch. He was completely baffled.

At this moment, I may have become somewhat overconfident. I may have begun bragging to my teacher that “my desk would always find me” and there was nothing he could do about it. I may have convinced myself that I was Ferris Beuller, Zack Morris, and Parker Lewis all rolled into one. I also may have hid a “Baywatch” poster of Pamela Anderson on his world map which he later discovered while in the middle of teaching 6th period. I may have. I’m not at liberty to say.

And so, it was really a matter of time before the inevitable happened. I arrived to school, and my desk was once again missing. I looked all around the classroom, but it wasn’t pushed against the wall, or buried under some papers by the cabinet as it had been so many times before.

“It’s gone,” said my teacher. “It’s over. You’re never going to see your desk again.”

“Where is it!?” I retorted. “What have you done with my desk?!?!”

“It’s gone forever!!” cackled my teacher. “Deal with it!”

My blood boiled at this injustice. “This isn’t right!! Where is my desk?!?!”

“Deal with it!”

I was beginning to panic. What if he had it thrown away?? Would he do such a thing? It was such a nice table! I tried to appeal to his sense of compassion. “What am I supposed to do?? How would you feel if your desk suddenly disappeared??”

“I’D DEAL WITH IT!” came the response.

And that was all I needed to hear. Those words lit a fire inside me that simply would not be squelched. I would have my desk back. And no one, not even my History teacher would stop me.

For two hours after school that day, I scoured the campus for my desk. I enlisted the help of a trusted friend and we checked every classroom. Literally. Every classroom. We checked the back parking lot, and looked in garbage piles. Finally, when I was beginning to feel that all hope was lost, we found my desk, tucked away between a fence and a dumpster. My teacher had done the unthinkable. He had thrown out my desk. He had attempted desk-genocide.

My righteous indignation was fueled to no end. I would have my revenge.

And so, late that very night under the cover of darkness, I [hypothetically] maneuvered my way into the classroom one final time. I was not however, there to return my desk to its rightful location. Not this time. Not after what he did. I would not stand idly by while he removed my desk and had it thrust into the dumpster like some common piece of garbage. This wasn’t about the comfy chair, the massive writing space, or even the pretty brunette. Not anymore. This was a matter of principal. I needed to send a message.

I stood there in the middle of the night (hypothetically), staring at the empty chairs and desks before me. I marched to the front of the classroom. Under a stack of papers, my teacher’s desk called to me like a beacon in the night. I knew what I had to do. There was no turning back now.

The next morning, my teacher walked into his classroom to find his papers stacked neatly on the floor, and his large, beautiful desk missing. In its place was a dirty, broken, tiny, wobbly little chair/desk hybrid from the early 70′s that I had found in the dumpster out back. Scribbled on the dirty wooden writing surface were the words, “DEAL WITH IT!”

I had not yet arrived to school when this particular discovery was made. And I am so very glad that I had not. What happened at this point, I only know from third hand accounts. There was an outburst of sorts. And when I reached my classroom, there was the broken little desk from the 70′s, lying overturned in the hallway; the victim of my teacher’s outrage.

I walked into my classroom. My teacher sat quietly in the corner with his head in his hands. I approached him carefully. My moment of victory was quickly becoming a moment that I did not want to savor. He couldn’t speak. He was shaking. He was scared. He was broken. Holy crap…I had broken my teacher! What had I done?!? He was my FAVORITE teacher and I had broken him!! Instantly I regretted our cat and mouse game and felt ashamed for all of my high school-ish bravado. Quietly I apologized with all sincerity.

Without raising his eyes, he quietly stuttered, “I-I- I just need my desk.”

instantly I sprung into action. I ran to the empty classroom in which I had hidden my teacher’s table. Utilizing the help of a student passing by, we carried the desk back to my teacher and placed it in front of the class. I picked up his papers and tried my best to put them back as they had been before my desk-stealing transgression.

By this time, the bell had rung, and students were in their seats wondering what was going on. My teacher picked himself up, and began instructing us in the day’s lesson. I sat in my little plastic chair (my desk was safely hidden away at the other end of campus where I could love it forever and always) and nervously tried to sort through what had just transpired. At the end of the period, the students filtered out of the classroom, until only my teacher and I remained.

I thought for sure I was in the greatest trouble of my young life. I had taken things too far. I had done wrong. I had broken the law. And most importantly, I had pushed a good man to his limits and ignited a wrath in him that frightened and terrified us both. I approached him humbly. I had no idea what to say or where to begin. But before I even had a chance to say a word, he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” his voiced trembled.

Wait…what??? I had just driven this good teacher, this good man, to sheer madness, and he was apologizing to ME?!?! I immediately tried to beg forgiveness, placing on myself blame, punishment, anything so that he would know how sorry I was, and how much I really looked up to him as a teacher.

The conversation the two of us had from that point on was personal, and so I will not disclose it here in this writing. But suffice it to say, I learned more about my teacher and his character than I ever knew before. I learned what his life was like. I learned how much he cared about his work and his students. I learned who this good man was. I learned.

My teacher and I had a truce for the rest of the year. I would no longer make him the target of my teenage pranks, but my experience that day left me with a commanding love and admiration for this man that could never have been achieved by my silly cat and mouse game alone. I remain grateful for that teaching moment, and the lesson I received that day.

My desk remained safely hidden behind a bush for the rest of the school year. I said hello to it everyday as I passed by. But as I grew older I finally came to realize that it wasn’t the desk that I loved, or the soft cushy chair, or even the pretty brunette girl who sat next to me. It was the relationship with my teacher I loved, and his devotion towards his craft and his students. I’m glad he finally taught me that lesson.

The post I Am Not A Crook appeared first on Raccoon Toons.