I kind of feel like I’m trolling my own fans with this one…

I’m Bryce. There’s so much happening right now and my schedule is crammed to the gills that suddenly I went all genius and realized I needed to make one big, epic post to cover all I need to say. Get this: I need a job, am looking for a place to live, have a demo of my music I’m willing to give to anyone who can truly appreciate it, and I want to know who that sexy chick was at the gas station yesterday. I think we had a moment, so hopefully you check out Craigslist on the regular, sweetie.

To all the women out there reading this comic… don’t you hate how the entertainment industry automatically assumes that a story needs some sort of romance element to keep your attention? Like, Hollywood will make an action movie, and then say, “You know what? We need women to see this movie, too. Let’s add a love story.” Because women aren’t interested in anything else. It must be all those emotions you have sloshing around inside your bodies.

For our entire lives, birthdays have been dedicated to our own happiness and fulfillment. We’re being celebrated for an act we had no part in and are rewarded for simply falling out of a vagina.

Raymond Chandler once said that chess was as elaborate a waste of intelligence as you could find outside an advertising agency. Still, it had always been a human waste. As a last redoubt of the rarified mind, it was an irresistible target for programmers and purveyors of the new “thinking machines.” By the 1980s, computers had reached a level of sophistication that allowed them to challenge a grand master. As it happened, the world’s greatest chess player in the mid-80’s was a restless genius named Garry Kimovich Kasparov (pronounced “Gary” in Russian).