Remember the time (read: the 80s) when phones (the kinds with cords) were made to look like things? Like, you could buy a phone shaped like a shoe or a football, and everyone would marvel at how quirky or eccentric or whimsical you were. Our cell phones haven’t quite reached that phase yet. We can get fancy covers for them, but I don’t think anyone’s designing mass-market cell phones that look like things other than phones. I want a cell phone shaped like a frog or a slice of pizza or… well, a rock.

If I had a talking dog I would train it to have a reasonable debate with the postman rather than viciously attacking him. It could politely ask:

“What are you doing in my garden? Please get out of my garden.”

And the postman would reply:

“Please don’t be cross, I have letters for you, they are replies from all those celebrities you write to.”

At long last, we reach the final showdown in Strong Female Characters Battle Royale. We started with eight glorious challengers and have made it to the final two: Violet Crawley vs. Jessica Fletcher: I am proud to say that both of these ladies feature the arse-kicking attributes of a champion. But first, let us not

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The dialogue in today’s strip is absolutely real. I heard it at a local Burger King several months ago (which just goes to show how long I’ve waited before uploading this).

Basically, the manager of this particular Burger King is a fast-food stereotype: short, overweight, balding, pasty, and greasier than the hamburgers. The poor guy was probably in his mid-thirties but looked like he was ten years older. His staff consisted entirely of teenagers, and it was easy to see that they didn’t take this guy seriously.

Generally speaking, my vintage trumpet, a Bach Stradivarius, has been an obedient, often delightful, and even comforting companion. She—no way around it, it’s a she—has never complained about being shut up in her case and ignored for days, or for being treated as carry-on luggage, or for resting bell down on a stand that sticks up into her gut… Just pick her up, jiggle her three valves, blow a few warm breathes into her mouth, and she’s ready to go. It’s true that on occasion we’ve had our little spats, disagreements over, say, triple tonguing (which she hates) or sorting out the low C sharp which stubbornly refuses to stay on pitch. “It’s not me,” she says, “it’s you!” To which I respond by flushing her out with soapy water.