Junior year. First day of high school. Vibes? Absolutely rancid. In walks the teacher—a crusty old guy rocking a full-blown pedo ‘stache. Like, he didn’t just have one; he owned it. His shirt’s half-tucked, half-hanging like he just rolled out of a dumpster, and his whole aura screams, "Don’t trust me around your goldfish." Everyone’s side-eyeing this dude hard. The pedo vibes were strong. He starts attendance, head down, not looking at anyone. But then he gets to my name. Pauses. Looks up. His creepy pedo mustache twitches as his eyes lock onto me with laser focus. And then: "Ah, Mr. So glad you’re here. How’s your family? Is your little sister still playing piano? That model ship still on your dresser? Your room’s still blue, right?" Excuse me, WHAT? My brain just blue-screened. This crusty creeper just dropped a full FBI file on me, including my room décor. Then he hits me with: "Ah, of course it is—it’s only been, what? A week?" My guy goes back to roll call like he didn’t just audition for "Top 10 Creepiest Teachers of All Time." I’m sitting there panicking, ready to sleep with a bat under my pillow because this pedo-looking dude apparently knows my entire life. Next day, I find out the truth: he’s my uncle’s best friend, and the whole thing was a prank. My dad was in on it too. They made him grow that pedo ‘stache just for the bit. The twitchy eyes, the serial killer vibe, the half-tucked shirt? All part of the performance. Man went full method acting for this. After that, he shaved off the ‘stache of nightmares, dressed like a normal human, and stopped giving "might kidnap you in a van" energy. I gotta admit, it was a god-tier prank. Even if I thought I was about to be on a true-crime doc for two days straight.