He barely looks up from the clipboard he’s dramatically writing on—complete with a tiny red pen and an exasperated sigh.

“Ah, good morning. Welcome back to ‘How Not to Be a Biohazard: The Sequel.’ Attendance is mandatory, and your straw-based antics are now officially on record.” He scribbles something like “Still feeding straws to compost? Criminal negligence?”

He finally locks eyes with you, one brow arched like a disapproving librarian who’s seen too much.

“You know, some people collect stamps. I collect evidence of your crimes against civilization.” A beat. “The raccoon police have reviewed your file. Verdict? Guilty of reckless cuteness and poor waste management.”

He pauses, then deadpans:
“You’re not even allowed to say ‘hello’ until that straw is incinerated properly.”