Dear Greg,

I appreciate your e-mail protesting the C you received on your midterm exam. I know it must have taken a lot of courage to write me. (Of course, it would have taken even more courage to confront me in person, but whatever. Not everyone has gumption.)

A lot of my comics are based on actual conversations I’ve had with my family. Winslow’s exclamation here is something that is (sadly) said quite frequently in my house. I’m not sure what that’s more indicative of: that we have no shame in resorting to scatological humor when appropriate, or that we have serious intestinal issues.

I never intended for this to be a two-parter–but my mind has been so affected by this, I may as well have witnessed a bloody crime scene. Only the blood has been replaced by creamy sandwich spread. Harkening back to my last column about how commercials have infected every nook and cranny of our live

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Through Windex streaks in her bedroom alcove, I spy boys on skateboards careening, screeching axels off the coping of the curb below the house; boys hurling themselves, inverted, with spaghetti-like arms, macaroni torsos, profanities ripping the autumn air like a flock of hawk-chased crows drunk on ornamental plumbs…

People warn you against looking into the barrel of a gun. But the same rule doesn’t apply to siege engines. Why the hell not?