Yeah, this is a comic about toilet paper. It’s even a comic about stockpiling toilet paper. But it is not a comic about the pandemic.

Store-bought? Blasphemy. The wheat, I harvested it, in the old ways, scythe razor sharp and back firm. The cheese, from cows I first midwifed and nurtured, and once grown, gently milked, and the milk I curdled in my own hands. These tortellini I was first to name, for before me they crossed our lips as spaghetti, or still prior, as sketty, all noodles of the pasta variety subsumed thusly.

This is the kind of conversation that goes on when you’re at work and it’s late and you and your coworkers don’t have anything to do.

Picture a factory. No, not like that. Like a mega metronome fueled by space and time. Billowing smokestacks ascend into the ethers, releasing sonorous aphorisms born of byzantine soothsayers. Turning cogs crank such a hyper neo sea change that your atmosphere reverts to primordial Babylon. There, can you see it now? This is the C+C Music Factory.

It’s been a while seen we’ve seen Psychic Rob. I think he’s been busy honing his new skill!