By: Kelly Chia, Editor-in-Chief
My precious literate raccoons,
Did you miss my smooth voice narrating the most succulent meals found on the campus floors? I did, too. I had to take a sabbatical from my important work reviewing foods for raccoons all over. If you have to ask, I think my taste was . . . tarnished by the poor scraps of lettuce and tortilla chips. Cruel, I know. It can happen to any raccoon — even me.
For those not in the know, I have taste buds descended from the Raccoon God himself: Guy Racoonieri. I’ve used my powers to responsibly discern the most refined dishes any raccoon can find on city floors, for a dime of your dollar. So when I, culinary connoisseur Reginald the III, was asked to challenge the reindeer chef, Bobby Sleigh on his show, Beat Bobby Sleigh, I hesitated. I’m not known in my social circles (filled with only the most sophisticated of paws) for my cooking. But Bobby had a manner to him that irked me to my core. Why did I, Reginald the III, have to beat other contestants for the opportunity to fight him?! It behooved me to find out. Incidentally, Bobby’s hooves frighten me.
And so, this regal raccoon found himself once more on the cold, cold floors of Simon Fraser University. Bobby had chosen a venue for our battle that most inspired dread. As I looked out into that foggy sky, I knew this wasn’t only a duel. He came to my territory. Bobby and I fight for our reputation here on the illustrious concrete campus. It’s me or the reindeer.
Then, he appeared before me: Mr. Bobby Sleigh. To my dismay, he started waving his spatula at me, and McFogg, the other contestant of his show. “It’s me, Bobby Sleigh!” he yelled. “Today, these two persnickety contestants will have the opportunity to beat me, Bobby Sleigh!” I rolled my eyes, sniffed at the table wine they offered us, and turned my nose. I would not be so easily impressed by IGA! They refused my offer to sponsor them, after all. It’s too bad they don’t know taste.
Then, my eyes settled on my fellow contestant. He was tall, scruffy, and had a certain Scottish charm to him. No . . . it couldn’t be.
“I’m here to show my skills!” A production assistant blitzed by with a sign, confirming the Scottish dog mascot’s identity: McFogg. A true hero to the SFU scene, left relegated to SFU’s forgotten mascot costumes. So we’re both here to polish up our reputations. I gave him a firm pawshake. “To Hell and back, old friend.” I told him.
We nodded solemnly as we gazed up at Bobby Sleigh, who had now found a podium tall enough to look down at the both of us. “My little, fragile, talentless chefs,” he began. Okay, rude. “I think you should have a little treat. A dog treat.”
McFogg wagged his tail.
“Your ingredients for this challenge are: this stunning dog treat from our sponsor, GoodPaws,” he winked at the camera as he held up the treat. It smelled like preserved dreams. “A pack of instant noodles from the IGA,” he held up a pack of Mr. Poodles. “And a singular grape!” I gasped. Was he trying to kill McFogg?? Dogs are famously allergic to grapes!
They don’t sit well in my tummy either, but as we established, I am a raccoon of taste. I gritted my teeth at this impossible challenge. How would I conquer it?
Find out next time on: Reginald the III: Sleighing My Enemies!
