Michael accidentally begins teaching Matt’s online class.

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For April Fool’s I went and found the first ever landing page for website and put it up again saying we’d done a website redesign. Ha. So clever. I kill me. The site looked so very different over 12 years ago. A lot has changed.

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Looks like Michael is up to his old tricks again…

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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.

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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.

Halloween. Haunted houses. Costumes. Candy. Um…trick or treating…

I’m sorry. I should be writing about something Halloween related, but the truth is I can’t focus at all because the Giants are in the WORLD SERIES!!!!! WHOOOOOOO!!!!!

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This has nothing to do with today’s comic strip, but I am SO unbelievably happy that the National League finally beat those American League DH-swinging pansies. I am not going to turn this into a rant about how absolutely WRONG the designated hitter rule is. I am not going to write an endless barrage of well constructed arguments to the convincing of even to the most casual baseball observer as to how morally corrupt the DH is. I am not going to spend days of research and cite my findings with a properly annotated bibliography in MLA or APA format. I am not going to do these things here, because you come here to read comic strips-not to be formerly educated on an adulterous rule that is causing the disintegration of the very fabric of our society. I am not going to do that here. I could, but I won’t.

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Starting to get into the Halloween spirit!

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