The One-Oh-Furst, Part One
I am a “good boy” when it comes to the vast majority of correct opinions. Some I believe because they are right, some I make peace with because they are inevitable, and some I honestly can’t believe we’re still arguing about, but that’s what’s it’s like when you live in a world filled with evil people who will not, can not be wished away. They stay, defiantly, even when you’ve put in a firm request with natural law that they evanesce.
If my son came home from high school one day and told me tearfully, haltingly, that he was double gay, I would love him twice as much. I don’t give a shit about that. If he was a llama or something I guess don’t have a bin for that yet. It seems like if I have to put up with a notoriously ill-tempered packbeast, I should be able to get wool and milk at a minimum. At a minimum. I assume shearing and milking your son is a form of abuse, but I don’t actually know if that’s true. Do you see what I mean? This is the wild-ass motherfucking frontier. Nobody knows the answers yet. I already have a hobbit for a wife, and a “pirate princess mechanic” for a daughter. I don’t need no proto-cameloid for a son besides.
In our inimitable way, we tried to imagine our polymorphic, highly granular, identity performance culture occurring in or at any time but now. You’re welcome to be insulted by it, but we actually fell in love with this man, so much so that we wrote two strips about him when we intended to write one. I know where it goes from here - think graphic novel/Hitler in a fursuit - but this may not be a real genre. Two strips is probably plenty. One strip may be too many!
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