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The Professor’s Story

July 28, 2017



My old friend, the professor, sat down at my table. He looked up at the attentive waitress, offered her a gentle smile, and ordered a glass of the house merlot. We shook hands, exchanged our customary pleasantries, and got about the business of enjoying each other’s company. It had been several months since our last visit, and there was serious catching up to do.



As always, our conversation moved seamlessly from one subject to another. I don’t remember what triggered the professor to tell me this story, but it instantly became one of my favorites…



It was just another day at Chester A. Arthur High School. I got this message to come to the office right away.

In my experience, this was never a good thing.

I went to the office, and the principal was waiting for me. He looked at me the same way a store owner would look at a suspected shoplifter. He sniffed and stated, “Your parents want you home…now.”

I walked home with great uncertainty. I had no idea what this was about.

When I entered the house, my parents were at the kitchen table. They looked perturbed and suspicious. I tensed up immediately. Then I saw my old army surplus ammo box. It lay on the table, open, with its contents revealed. “Uh, oh…” I said to myself.

My mother pointed to a small pile of grade-A weed I’d scored from friends who had found a reliably periodic connection to a source in Mexico. Usually, I kept the box locked. I’d gotten sloppy and careless. Going into my room to put away freshly laundered clothes, she’d made the discovery.

Also on the table was a public service booklet for parents on how to identify marijuana. It hadn’t helped much, as they were still uncertain as to what the unidentified, dried-out vegetation was.
“What,” my mother asked, “is this?”

Without hesitation I replied nonchalantly, “rabbit food.”

“Rabbit food,” my mother repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” I explained, “I ordered it through the mail. It’s highly nutritious, organic, and grown specifically for domestic rabbits.”

“Really?”

I nodded. I looked at my father who took a step back from the table, as if the stuff could bite. He was satisfied to let my mother handle the interrogation.

“Fine!” stated my mother. She picked up the weed and handed it to me. “Let’s just see how well your rabbit likes it.”

I lead the way to the rabbit hutch in our backyard. Our furry pet was a large gray, lop-eared bunny named Samson. I lifted the lid of Samson’s cage and dumped the pot into his food dish. He pounced on it immediately and began to devour it as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

My parents watched Samson silently for a few moments, then nodded with some relief “Well, I suppose it is rabbit food after all,” my mom acquiesced.

We left the yard with Samson still munching away at top speed.

Once back inside the house, the very moment I was certain that both my mother and father were off my scent and back to business as usual—I sprinted to the rabbit hutch and scooped out the remaining weed, and cussed out the rabbit for being a glutton.

Samson didn’t move for three days.

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5 Comments
  1. I laughed so hard I hurt!!!

  2. I can just see my mother doing that. 😉

  3. Hilarious. Excellent job. I can’t wait for Martha to read this. Great cartoon. Keep up the great work.

  4. Jeanne permalink

    Hilarious story, Ernie. I wish I had thought of a story equally creative when I got in trouble in HS!

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