“The Redcoats are coming! The Redcoats are coming!”

“What?” the newcomer asks. “The red what?”

“The Red Coats. You know, Redcoats — the British soldiers: the Regulars, the King’s Men, the Lobsters, the Bloody Backs, etc. etc. etc.”

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you yelling? Why are you trying to warn me about…the British, you said?” The newcomer pauses and kneads his hands. “I mean, they don’t seem that bad.” He does a quick scan of the area. “And I don’t think I see any here.”

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlbV-NPT56s Maybe I missed something, but is it written somewhere that when I’m not satisfied with the most insignificant of things, that I’m allowed to become an outright prick? I mean, if it is, I’d like to have this document sent to me so I can create a laminated card containing the specific section, hang

[continue reading…]

Amidst the glut of über-chic boutique eateries crowding the labyrinthine streets of Manchester’s resurgent North-West district nestles the new venture of renowned gastronaut Harley Figgs-Baumgartner. In keeping with its so-trendy-it-hurts postcode, the restaurant plies its trade under the near-unpronounceable moniker of Xtcokpøt, and spreads it tables over seventeen floors in a tall cylindrical building, converted from an industrial chimney.

This comic is based on an actual conversation I had at work, making the first panel here as true to my life as I can make it. The second panel is not at all true, because that robot angelghost didn’t show up until two days later, and it wasn’t hovering politely over our heads, but stealing donuts and coffee from the kitchen down the hall. Then it leaked oil on the carpet and drew mustaches on photographs of people who already had mustaches. What a crazy day that was.

After all these years of suffering under a hopeless crush, I’ve finally gotten my heart’s desire. I am literally (sort of) sleeping with John Stuart Mill. And let me tell you, darlings, People magazine needs to make up a new contest, because he is the sexiest man no longer alive. Or at least he’s the sexiest moral philosopher no longer alive. For one thing, he is HUGE—485 pages, not even counting the extended bibliography and prodigious notes. Now like most women, there’s nothing I like better than a long, slow read. But it’s not just the size. From the first time I read the Autobiography, On Liberty, and of course On the Subjection of Women, I was sure JStill was the only man who would ever really get me (except maybe Captain Kangaroo).