Personally, I find this alternative a lot more positive than lemonade.

1. The butler did it.

Sometime I draw a comic because I want to tell a funny joke. And sometimes I draw one because I want to draw giant syringes.

God hates me. And now I have proof.

See, there’s this guy. Cute. Awkward. I’m hoping smart. He’s caught my attention. But, because God must hate me, the list of reasons why we’d never work is depressingly long, so I hold no hope that anything beyond requisite pleasantries will ever transpire between us. And yet this guy short-circuits my brain like no one else has. When I get within 10 feet of him, my usually coherent mind vacates the premises and leaves a bumbling, babbling half-wit in its place, believing, I guess, that I won’t notice.

Do we really want to explore the possibilities of Winslow having children? Little Winslow is the closest thing he has to a son, but I don’t think miniaturized clones really count.