Not to be two koi about it . . .

As there’s a remote possibility you have been otherwise occupied with counting the holes in the ceiling tiles while I was previously presenting you with irrefutable mountains of evidence (not that I have ANY knowledge of such off-topic pursuits myself), I will just state plainly and without prejudice and for the record that I am a little kid in semi-adult clothing. If you have a problem with that, I certainly don’t know what you’re doing here, of all places. But I suspect that the majority of us over-twenties simply come to terms with a similar internal détente at some point after realizing that (a) being grown up is highly overrated and (2) as long as we can at least put on the guise of behaving in an appropriately adult manner when absolutely necessary, it is in fact quite pleasant, if not desirable, to indulge the inner infant as much as we’re able.

That’s why so much of my art and writing are full of lowbrow hijinks and saturated in silliness. So today, I give you a brief picture-book with a storyline that can pander to those too deeply entrenched in their maturity to admit to liking such things (but only, perhaps, having a reasonably stretchy imagination that can drag this tale into meta-meaning-infested waters) but is really designed simply to attract with pictures of fun creatures and a caption-fed miniature narrative. I leave it to you to fill in the blanks with enough buttercream icing and expanding lightweight spackle to suit your particular tastes or needs. Without being too coy about it, I hope.

. . . but I've had a crappie day . . .

. . . so don't bug me about it, okay?

Death and disintegration will come to all of us eventually . . .

. . . so I guess there’s no point in being a big chicken about it.

Yes! Cheer up, my lambs, and quit your woolgathering . . .

. . . something new and exciting will come along soon enough!