It’s been a crazy, emotional week, and I couldn’t find the motivation to sit down and finish the strip I had originally planned for today. So guess what? I sat down and drew Deadpool instead. And then I drew Winslow. And then I wrote words. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a comic strip is born.

Dear Charlotte,

Like the rest of us arachnids, when I was a baby spider, I looked up to you. Before I could even embalm a fly on my own, I’d heard about your barnyard heroics.

Come on, Ben! Why are you asking so many questions? Why do you have to be that guy?

Shiraz, Iran: November 1, 1978. The day I was born. I’d like to say it was a Wednesday, but who the hell knows, I’m not Rainman. And even if I did have a talent for counting errant toothpicks, wrapping one’s mind around temporal exactitude once the International Date Line has been crossed is nearly impossible.

I was a child born into a time of revolution and flux. Iran had only recently deposed their Shah and the first day of the hostage crisis was almost exactly one year away. The world watched with concern as Iran’s 2500 year old monarchal tradition dissolved in a fantastic heap of religious fundamentalism.

Winslow has replaced his head with jack-o-lanterns lots of times (and he’s replaced his body with a jack-o-lantern once, too). I figured it was about time for him to think outside the box.