Sometime I draw a comic because I want to tell a funny joke. And sometimes I draw one because I want to draw giant syringes.

God hates me. And now I have proof.

See, there’s this guy. Cute. Awkward. I’m hoping smart. He’s caught my attention. But, because God must hate me, the list of reasons why we’d never work is depressingly long, so I hold no hope that anything beyond requisite pleasantries will ever transpire between us. And yet this guy short-circuits my brain like no one else has. When I get within 10 feet of him, my usually coherent mind vacates the premises and leaves a bumbling, babbling half-wit in its place, believing, I guess, that I won’t notice.

Do we really want to explore the possibilities of Winslow having children? Little Winslow is the closest thing he has to a son, but I don’t think miniaturized clones really count.

1. How do you welcome your new Mormon neighbors? (a) I tell them Mormons are the just the nicest people, then ask them to watch my dogs while I’m in Maui for a month. (b) I formulate a rescue plan that includes college football and a seven-layer bean dip when the husband slips me a

[continue reading…]

This is a lot of vending machines full of products I’ve never seen before. I think Winslow and Kurt must still be in Japan.

In a statement to the press this week, Coca Cola reflected on the recent release of their new marketing campaign—“Share a Coke, Passive Aggressively.”

This is the second time Winslow has been hanging around in someone else’s bathroom when legs are being shaved. I swear I don’t have a weird thing about this sort of thing, but being married for a million years gives you a fascinating look at women’s grooming habits, and I feel like I need to share this information with all the single guys out there who have an unrealistic view of womanhood.

I’m not disabled, just a terrible person. The boyfriend sometimes accuses me of being manic when I write to him at 3:30 a.m. calling him a magnificent, exotic pitcher plant or a gorgeously ornamented egg-cup. But not disabled — I feel like that’s an important piece of information before we start.

Good morning or possibly afternoon (or night)! Welcome to the April 2017 issue of Defenestration! And if I’m here welcoming you to a new issue, that also means I’m sitting at my computer the night before this issue goes live, wondering what the heck I should be writing about for my editorial. I mean, I could tell you about all the stuff you get to read this month, which may or may not include clown removal, jabberwockies, interesting clothes, dead bodies, ballet, and a bear named Doug.

I’m in the middle of my tuna melt when Wendy tells me she’s got a woman on the line with a clown stuck in her window well. Great.

“Can I call her after my break?” I say with a mouth full of moist tuna.

To which Wendy says, “I’m really sorry but she sounds like hysterics.”

Wendy’s big for her age, her age being about 55—or 20 years my senior—and big being residual body mass from her college rugby days.

I put the rest of my lunch in foil.