The days of facial ignorance are behind me, I’m slowly morphing into a hobgoblin of the highest order in my 23-years and I’m done shaking my gargoyle fist at the stars about it. I am a man surely soon to be damned to a life in the shadows of some long-forgotten David Cronenberg cathedral. With a missing canine tooth, the hair of a disgruntled Locks For Love terrorist, and one functioning pair of ink-stained Levi’s, I look more like the type of guy who writes erotic Neil Young fan fiction than a dude who you’d want to help give directions to the nearest ugly haven.

I would wear one of these all day, every day. Maybe even in my sleep. (I don’t think that would be safe, though, so maybe not.)

I wanted to learn one song on the piano. A single song from beginning to end, no slip-ups. Why? Because it was there—like Mount Everest was for George Mallory. The moment I laid eyes on my nephew’s new Yamaha Clavinova CLP-625, I knew exactly what George meant.

Today’s comic strip is based on a true story! Have you ever experienced the gastrointestinal equivalent of excreting an entire fireworks display? Because I have!

I imagine potty training a toddler is super fun for all of us, but I must say, it’s especially enjoyable for mamas like me, whose children are mommy’s girls to the fullest extent of the definition, girls who have unwaveringly decided that daddies are unfit to accompany them to the john for a front row seat of these festivities, the most sacred of moments, which in my experience, go something like this: “Potty! Potty!”