Crock’s Thoughts

So, let me set the scene first… a typical day in chemistry class was me slouched in the back, wondering how anyone in their right mind thinks balancing chemical equations is fun. For me, chemistry wasn’t Breaking Bad—it was Breaking My Will to Live. I hated it! To me, atoms were just tiny jerks refusing to sit still, mocking me with their little atom middle fingers flicking me the bird!

Thankfully, I had a survival plan: mooch off the smartest kid in class. Our partnership was simple—he did 100% of the work, and I provided moral support and well-timed sarcastic commentary… win-win, right?

And then there was Mr. Funk—our teacher, fearless leader, and super chill dude. Anytime someone let the F-bomb slip, he’d smirk and say, “Hey, don’t use my name in vain,”—classic dad humor, playing off his name “Funk” sounding suspiciously like a certain four-letter word we weren’t supposed to say. However, we loved him for it. We typically dropped F-bombs just to hear him say it. Lol!

But then came the day when destiny, karma, and my utter lack of lab skills collided in spectacular fashion—make-up lab day! I’d been out sick, which honestly felt safer in hindsight, and now I had to do the lab solo like some kind of discount mad scientist.

My science Yoda was busy listening the latest lecture, leaving me alone in the back of the room, unsupervised, with glassware, flammable materials, and something called a Bunsen burner, which—plot twist—I had never actually used. I had watched my lab partner use it a hundred times, sure, but so had my pet goldfish, and he wasn’t qualified either.

Now, to a trained chemist, a Bunsen burner is a useful tool. To me, it was a medieval torture device with a gas line.

I twisted some knobs. I clicked the lighter.

POOF! 🔥

A tiny blue flame… and I was like, “Cool, science!”

Then I adjusted something I definitely shouldn’t have.

WHOOSH! 🔥🧯🔥

Suddenly, the flame tripled in size and launched toward the ceiling like I was launching my career as a part-time arsonist with a minor in accidental pyrotechnics. It wasn’t a Bunsen burner anymore—it was a flamethrower! Straight-up Game of Thrones dragon energy!

I looked up. There was now a black scorch mark on the ceiling. Yes, the freaking ceiling! I’m pretty sure I created a portal to a parallel universe… but I could be wrong on that, just saying…

Everyone turned around like, “Is this part of the lab?”

I stood there, frozen, gripping the lab table like I was clinging to the last shred of my GPA.

And then, like a superhero emerging from the mist, Mr. Funk calmly walked to the back of the room—no rush, no panic, just that same “Why do I teach teenagers?” expression on his face. He gently reached past me, turned off the flame with the flick of a wrist, and said with the calmest disappointment I’ve ever heard, “Well… that’s not what we meant by ‘heat the solution gently.’”

The class lost it! And me? My face looked like a cherry tomato at a salsa dance—bright red and wildly out of place!

Mr. Funk just shook his head, glanced up at the damage, and added, “Next time, maybe let’s try not to recreate the sun.”

I never touched a Bunsen burner again. But hey, on the bright side, I discovered that my future probably didn’t involve firefighting, flame-juggling, or dragon taming—so that was helpful.