I’ve drawn the picture over and over and over, sometimes zoomed in on a pimple on the belly of the Beast (and I do mean you, Jack, no malarkey) and sometimes zooming out in sweeping pageantry and zealous manic tones to vistas from before the days when I first drew breath.

When I said that all the politics was a distraction for me, that I was going to try to stop spitting it up and get along to better things, I was struggling to say: I’m done with electoralism; who you vote for is just as irrelevant as the fictional corporate tax rate; fuck the R’s, fuck the D’s; fuck the insulated hopeless greenish libertarians too, because all of that is just what They want you to fret about, should you be constitutionally incapable of fretting about first-round draft picks; the third quarter is already over and before you know it the whole Game will be too, so refuse to get woke and wake the fucking fuck up motherlovers.

And when you said well fuck man What Now and I said, well, anarchy now that too was me trying to say something more and not doing a very good job of it, yet.

We’ll get there.