The Raccoon Who Witnessed the Fall of Greg
Greg trusted the chair. The chair did not trust Greg. And the raccoon? The raccoon had *opinions*.
Alright, gather round.
This isn’t one of those ‘ghost in the woods’ stories.
This is worse.
This is a story about Greg, a camping chair, and a raccoon with zero impulse control—and possibly a minor in forensic anthropology.
See, Greg trusted the chair.
The chair did not trust Greg.
It was one of those flimsy, aluminum-frame, ‘I swear this holds 300 lbs’ chairs—held together by hope, rust, and sheer audacity. Greg sat. He leaned. He contemplated existence while roasting a marshmallow.
Then—SNAP.
Not a gentle creak. Not a warning groan. A full-on glow-stick-at-a-rave betrayal: brittle, dramatic, and deeply personal.
Greg hit the dirt marshmallow-first. Like a human soufflé collapsing under existential pressure.
And that’s when the raccoon showed up.
Not scared. Not shy.
Just… deeply invested.
It trotted over, sat three feet away, folded its little paws, and locked eyes with Greg like he was mid-deposition.
‘Explain the structural integrity failure. And yes—we’re recording.’
Greg tried to stand. The raccoon tilted its head.
Greg tried to dust off his shorts. The raccoon blinked—once, slow and judicial.
Greg whispered, “It wasn’t me—it was the chair!”
The raccoon paused, then deliberately licked a paw. Case dismissed. But noted.
We don’t camp there anymore.
Greg says it’s because of the bugs.
We all know it’s because the raccoon now owns that spot—has erected a tiny, leaf-lined tribunal, and reportedly charges admission in stolen granola bars.
Anyway… who wants s’mores?
(Disclaimer: Greg is fine. The chair is composting. The raccoon has since filed for incorporation.)
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