This comic is based on a conversation my daughter and I had. The dialogue is transcribed word for word.

Why are you here? Strike that—you don’t have to answer that. It’s what’s called a rhetorical question, obvi. Also obvi: you came here for wisdom, for guidance, for that one little nugget of an insight which you can squirrel away and unleash upon the world in a big way. You came here with a plan, a tablet, a book rearing to go. Maybe it’s werewolves in space. Maybe it’s vampires meets Das Boot—Dracula in a Submarine. Maybe it’s Bambi-grows-up-and-commits-Bambi-patricide. Turns cannibal.

It looks like Ben and Winslow must live near me, because I can’t figure out the weather we’ve been having, either. Right now it’s in the high 80s, but the week before it was cold and rainy, and we had insane winds before that, and snow in March, and fireballs in February, and hailstones the size of babies, and then a rain of actual babies after that tornado ripped through the maternity ward. Strange times, indeed.

I once pretended to be Jamaican for five minutes.

Considering the fact that I’m whiter than mozzarella and have lived in Ohio my entire life, this was no small feat.

We here at Rank It All want to help you find the most direct path to Heaven. As sinners ourselves, we know the path to Heaven is fraught with distractions and perils, such as the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, college-level science, and masturbation. So we’re thrilled to assist you with this soul-saving selection process.

Hey everyone! It’s one of my three favorite times of the year: the times I sit in front of my computer with a newly edited and formatted copy of Defenestration awaiting its release, my only job at that point being to write an editorial. And I never know what to write! I could claim that my perpetual writer’s block is due to the sheer number of these things I’ve been expected to create; 2018 marks the 15th year we’ve been doing this, and I’d much rather you read the short stories and poems instead of whatever I’m cobbling together here.

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Conventional wisdom would dictate that potato chips were unlikely to lead a woman to her soulmate. But Sarah didn’t subscribe to conventional wisdom, nor did she eat conventional chips. Much like beer snobs only drank craft brews, she only ate artisanal chips. They were a thing. It was 2018, America was going to hell in handbasket, and people were finding solace in all sorts of small batch comforts.

If you were a hurricane hanging out with other hurricanes in hurricane heaven, you might get caught up in some interesting conversation. Hurricane So-And-So might say: “I made eight, EIGHT, different landfalls. I was fierce, boy. I was a baaaaaad storm.”

Republican Jesus rode into town on a beautiful Sunday on his brand-new luxury Mule-cedes. He had worked hard and deserved what got. Not everyone possessed his skills, like the totally earned water-walking ability. It was good to reap the benefits of his life.