Deke’s right. This is what’s wrong with the world.

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You know the feeling all too well. You’re patiently waiting in line at the airport. You’re caught in a sea of people. Being corralled like so much mindless cattle. You made all the proper preparations. You didn’t pack your broadsword in your carry on. You don’t have any “liquids of death” or “nail clippers of doom.” You even wore your easily removable shoes that don’t contain weapons of mass destruction. You were so ready for this checkpoint. But the repetitive sound of gray monotone plastic bins stacking and re-stacking is slowly wearing you down. It’s sucking your will to live.

You arrive at the moment of truth. You’re no amateur, you’ve got the system down. Shoes, belt, pockets… Only a few more minutes of this charade and you can go sit by your gate for the next hour or two and make fun of other travelers with your clever inner monologues while you rock out to your iPod. But then, it happens. A large overweight TSA agent approaches you. You’ve been randomly selected.

There are really only a few ways you could interpret this “random” selection. You may choose from any of the following:

1. They think you are a terrorist. They’re on to you. That sweet innocent traveler act isn’t fooling anybody. Your shifty eyes must’ve given you away. Blast! It’s only a matter of time before they discover your shocks with the 3-foot collapsible machetes in them!! Should’ve taken the train you America hating Nazi!!

2. They don’t think you’re a terrorist. But they do think you’re hot, and they’re looking for a way to keep the eye candy around a little while longer. Because that’s what you are: sweet, sweet, delicious eye candy. I suppose you could take it as a compliment. Just remember that when they ask you to step into the image scanning machine, or assume the position for your pat down. What’s that you say? You’re sure they will be very professional when they’re sliding their hands up your crotch? Who are you kidding? We both know what’s going on in their heads. I’m a guy. I know how guys think. Should’ve taken the train you sweet, sweet temptress of the terminal!

3. You were selected randomly by some sort of machine, and you are just really unlucky. You poor loser. You can’t even win a game of rock-paper-scissors, let alone avoid being randomly selected for additional security procedures. At least you can take some comfort in knowing that our crack-shot airport security team is pulling a few random people out of line… Y’know, because they can’t seem to identify the loads of explosives under the pants of the guy ahead of you… I suppose you could’ve taken the train, but you’re so unlucky that someone would have placed a penny on your track causing you to derail and die a horrible  death by “exploding into a FIREBALL!!”  …you unlucky loser.

I should note here that I’m not in favor of “profiling.” What I am in favor of is some well trained professionals who aren’t making minimum wage, with real experience who can identify people acting and behaving suspiciously. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a guy who likes to take the train.

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I don’t like the TSA. Even before they started trying to get all pervy with everybody I didn’t like them. I didn’t like them when they asked me to take off my shoes. I didn’t like them when they made me pack my pocket knife. I didn’t like them when they freaked out about my shampoo bottle. I certainly didn’t like them when I was randomly selected over and over. And I also didn’t like them when they made my younger brother miss his flight because he didn’t have a licence to drive (which by the way, you do not need to fly).

But these new procedures have really got my goat. They just aren’t right. I’m not concerned with whether or not people are comfortable with them. I know that for many people and maybe perhaps you as well, these new scanners and pat-downs aren’t a big deal, and are nothing but a minor inconvenience. But that’s not why they bother me. Something about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Kind of like my mother’s tuna casserole which was the bane of my existence all the way through childhood. I feel like it crosses the line (the TSA’s new procedures…not my mother’s casserole). It’s just not right. Because this is America dangit. It’s not the way we treat our citizens. When we treat our own countrymen this way, the terrorists have won.

Regardless as to what you might think of these new procedures, I just don’t believe that they’re actually doing anything to prevent terrorist attacks. I don’t think these check points are effective. Not only that, but I think terrorists probably lost interest in hijacking planes about the time the airlines started locking their cockpit doors. I mean honestly, I think bombers would be more likely to target large cities or malls or events full of tens of thousands of people rather than a plane of 100 or so passengers. But that’s just me. I’m probably too smart to be a terrorist.

So that’s my little rant about the TSA. I don’t think they’re effective. I don’t think they’re appropriate. And I don’t think they’re really there to protect us. And so I say to the TSA along with many others, “don’t touch my junk!”

That’s my opinion. You of course are welcome to have your own. Thankfully, we’re still entitled to that.

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Is it just me, or is Halloween becoming less of a holiday for the kids, and more of a holiday for scantily clad sorority girls? I’m not going to turn this into a rant about current trends in women’s costumes. But I will say this: Underwear ≠ Costume. I mean seriously. I’m as attracted to beautiful women as the next guy, but that’s just not very creative. C’mon girls, you can do better.

But let’s be honest and realistic here. When you dress like a dumb floozy*, I’m going to assume you’re a dumb floozy. And when you walk around in your underwear and think it qualifies as a costume, I don’t just think you’re a dumb floozy, I know you’re a dumb floozy.

What on earth could you possibly be dressing “up” as when you’re practically naked? I suppose it’s possible that in this scenario your Halloween costume is in fact, a dumb floozy…but if that’s the case…you really aren’t just pretending…

* (The word “floozy” was substituted for a number of other possible less kid-friendly choices. Take your pick.)

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Hey that’s great. That’s really interesting. I’m so glad to hear that. Listen, I gotta go finish up my workout and get out of here. I need to drink a protein shake before it gets too late. And there’s a ballgame on.

The post This Is Why I Wear Headphones appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

There’s one of these at every gym. You know exactly who I’m talking about. They’re not there to work out. They’re there to prance around in as little clothing as they can get away with. They’re there to be seen. You try not to notice. You try to avoid glances in their direction. But they are masters of stealing attention. They are gym bunnies.

It doesn’t matter if you are male or female, old or young, or even if you prefer great taste or less filling. They want you to look at them. They desperately want to be watched. They hold your gaze like some kind of twisted tractor beam for your eyes. They will not be ignored. They’ll do all that they can until you finally succumb and steal a glance by looking through the reflection of 3 or 4 different mirrors. But she sees you. You’ve fallen right into her trap. You are her prey. And thus the conquest for your gaze is over. She’s won.

The post Gym Bunnies appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

It’s a story that’s all too common in the gym. You’re waiting for a machine, or the cables, or a bench to open up. You’d come back to it later if you could, but you’ve already finished everything else from your workout. All you need is just three sets of one last, stupid, exercise. But you can’t do it. You can’t do it because some gym-illiterate nimrod has been sitting there on the machine all evening long. It’s been half an hour and he’s still there, doing the same repetitive exercise with barely any weight. And that’s if he’s actually doing any exercise at all. Half the time he isn’t even using it. He just sits there staring into space. You desperately want to believe that he’s resting between sets, but that can’t be since the pansy had barely any weight on there in the first place. Often he’s sitting there talking to someone, mindlessly droning on and on about some pointless piece of drivel. Or maybe he’s chatting up some young gym bunny who’s been running around on the stair master without enough clothes on.

The point is he’s the only thing that stands in the way between you and your workout. There are a couple of methods you can try at this point. You can stand there, obviously…hoping that he’ll get a clue that you’re waiting on him and have been for the past decade. But often these people are completely oblivious to the world. You can ask politely if he’ll let you and perhaps others work in. But chances are that the poor sap is so lost to proper gym etiquette that he probably wouldn’t even have a clue what that means. He’ll stare blankly at you with a stupefied look on his face, wondering why you’re readjusting the weight when he’s still “using” this particular piece of equipment.

“Look pal,” you’ll say, “I could do a week’s worth of workouts in the time that you’ve been sitting there hogging the [insert gym equipment of choice here]. It’s bad enough that you stole it from me an hour ago when I was trying to use it during some supersets. But now you’re still here. And you’ve been here. All night long. Taunting me with your sheer immovability. Well no more. I’m finishing my workout and I’m going home. Why don’t you go use the ab cruncher. You look like a guy who thinks that he can lose some of that flab on your gut by using the ab cruncher.”

Only then, at long last, do you finally get to finish your workout. You may sound like a jerk. But at least you’ll finally make it home. And silently, everyone else in the gym will appreciate your sacrifice on their behalf.

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I have a few pet peeves when it comes to working out in the gym. But my biggest one hands down, is when people don’t rack their weights properly. Nothing irritates me more then when someone puts the weight on the wrong rack, or worse yet, when they don’t rack their weight at all.

I mean c’mon, really! I’m not at the gym to pick up after you. I’m not at the gym to follow you around and put your weights back for you before I can use a bench. I’m at the gym to get my workout done as efficiently and quickly as possible. Because I actually care enough about my workouts to time my rests between reps and sets, I don’t have time to waste putting your weight back for you. I’m not your mother. And I’m not an employee of the gym either (who by the way, hate racking your weight for you as much as I do).

So for the love of Pete, rack your weight! If you don’t or if I catch you doing it wrong, you’re going to get a dirty look from me while I stop whatever it is I’m doing, walk over to your weights and stare you down while I rack them properly in front of you. Don’t hate me when I do. It’s the only way you’ll learn your gym etiquette. And you need to learn your gym etiquette.

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For the month of October I will be updating the comic strips SIX days a week! That means you’ll have a new comic strip every Monday-Saturday! If you like the comic strips and enjoy reading them on a daily basis I would encourage you to make a donation to the website in addition to visiting the site frequently. Believe it or not, it really helps!

The post Rack Your Weights appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Don’t you just hate it when this happens?? You feel sick. Miserable. Coughing. Aching. Sneezing…and all that other stuff they talk about in the NyQuil commercials. But you’re much too tough to go to the doctor. Who wants to go waste a day at the doctor’s office anyway? You have to make an appointment. You’ll have to tell the receptionist what’s wrong with you.

“Um…yeah…everything’s coming out…bad…”

“Can you be more specific sir?”

“Um…no…”

You know they all start laughing at you the moment they hang up the phone.

Then you arrive and you have to fill out a bunch of paper work. You could have your leg chopped off and they’d look at you and say,

“Please have a seat and fill out this sheet with any changes in your insurance.”

“My leg is missing!”

“Yes sir. I can see that. We have quite a wait here in front of you. Please have a seat.”

You laugh, but I’ve totally had this happen to me. Well…fine…it wasn’t my leg…

Your moment finally arrives and you get to see the doctor. Only, you don’t get to see the doctor. You get to see a nurse first. She’ll ask you to sit on the little bed, then she’ll want to take your blood pressure, look in your ears, and take off your shirt. Hmmm…wait…you know now that I think about it that sounds like a pretty good date…

But just when you think the nurse really likes you she’s gone and there’s some old pompous man with a white coat and a fancy degree. And then, it happens. It always happens. You explain what you’ve been suffering through for the last week at least, but all of a sudden the symptoms seem to have disappeared. It’s like the germs got stage fright or something.  The doctor just nods his head while you try to convince him that you’ve really been sick.

“I was throwing up! There were colors!”

“Mmmhmmm… is that right?”

The patronizing look from the MD is too much for you. You watch in agony as he scribbles something into his little folder no doubt labeling you some kind of hypochondriac. As a last resort, you try desperately to muster up some coughs, a sneeze, ANYTHING! But no…the virus knows exactly how to play this game. It wants you to appear totally and completely healthy as long as the man with the meds is there.

The doctor says you’ll be just fine. And so you leave. And vow never to return. But the germs will get you again one of these days. And as you leave the doctor to his little room and his smug smile you know in your heart that sooner or later you’ll be back. And you know that in a few weeks time, the bill will arrive with the fees for this “consultation.”

Blah. I hate you all. And your little coats too.

If you enjoyed this rant, you’ll love this:

http://www.raccoontoons.com/2weeks.html

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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