Living as an adult, you quickly come to accept that your time really isn’t your own. A third of your day is spent at work and a third sleeping, giving you a measly 8 hours to do what you need to in a normal work week. In this present day world, if you even wish

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Ha! I do not even know, guys. I popped two gummi bears in my mouth the other day, and almost immediately, the dialogue for this strip magically appeared in my head. It was such a stupid idea that it made me laugh out loud, so I set aside the strip I had originally planned to draw for today and threw this one together instead.

I sometimes wonder what the hell is going on in Winslow’s mind, and then I remember that I’m the one putting those thoughts into his head in the first place….

My dining partner (a young man whose most singular talent is an ability to laugh-snort milk through his nose virtually on demand) and I entered the dining establishment hungry and eager for a pleasant midday culinary experience. The restaurant was “cafeteria” style, meaning that we chose our meals from a steam-shrouded and ambrosial variety of possibilities, effulgent in their pristine stainless steel serving containers.

Whenever I hear chefs or cooking enthusiasts or members of the Recipe Card Guild talk about ingredients, I can’t help but think they’re making things up. They could do it, too, and no one would be the wiser. Even other chefs. It’s probably an unspoken rule among chefs that they aren’t supposed to call one another out on made up herbs and spices.

Mad Men is a popular show on {previously obscure acronym} about Madison Avenue during the industry’s golden era: the early {decade often portrayed using broad generalizations and hackneyed, one-dimensional stereotypes}. The show has received much acclaim, particularly for its verisimilitude and perspicacity in capturing the zeitgeist of the period, which is a phrase that the {synonym for “affected pedants”} who watch Mad Men would understand but you probably don’t.