I could make a dozen secondary jokes here, but I won’t, because all of them will be off-color and will involve a phallus in some way. And there might be children around.

You know you’re getting old when you wake up one day and you have no hair on your feet. One of the very first signs of aging is when you come home and find fifty pink flamingoes on your lawn, and you’re not even Italian. When you go to write a singles ad, and all you can come up with is, “Man with no future seeks woman with no past.”

You are old.

The dude next to Winslow seriously has no clue. No. Clue. Everyone else in the neighborhood learned this lesson a long time ago.

Dear B.,

Howdy, amigo, from Crawford, TX. I know you’re busy, which is why I’m writin you this letter and havin Laura scan it into the computer so I can send it by email, and then you can read it on your Blackberrypod while you’re takin a cigarette break or catchin your breath between basketball games or I don’t know. But however it gets there, I hope it gets there if it can (This Reader’s Digest compilation CD of great love songs that Laura sent away for just came in. LOVE it.) And, also, too, I hope this reaches you in well health. Seems like I’ve been hearin a lot about you and health in the news lately. I worry about you, B.

I honestly have no idea what Winslow’s stealing in this comic. I tried to make it as ambiguous as possible. That object on the left side of the panel could be a shelf, it could be a safe… who knows? If the artist doesn’t have a clue, the rest of you are completely in the dark.

I hope I did Moses justice here.