Ah, yes, here we are. Now, to set down The Grande Steampunke Timee Machinee. Ahem… klunk. Now, to get to work and, oh dear… Why, this isn’t January. Oh well, an easy mistake to make. Augusts are the same colour as Januaries, after all.

Oh no! The Timee Machinee! It is gone! Stolen by Canadian terroristes! What havok! They will get maple syrup on the dash! It’s going to be all gummy.

And now they’ve activated it. Such terror grips me, I cannot move — save to continuously write down every word I am saying. The machine propels the marauding Canucks through Heisenberg’s Torus and they sing robust songs about how blocks of wood can sometimes be similar to women.

Oh, they were eaten by a dinosaur. The End.

…

Dear Sir or Madam,

What fate! What cruel, convenient fate! That I am to be stranded here in this foreign era! An ocean of time — well, perhaps not an ocean — a fjord of time, whose icy corridors contain a mad blackness wherein you were deprived of my wisdom. And my wisodomy.

Ah well, I am going to have to buy a new iPhone to grossly underutilize, but at least I am now even younger than my friends. In addition, it seems that today is the one year anniversary of when we began this marvelous adventure. How serendipitous!

Let us reflect on a year one third well spent. What you have learned from me is incalculable. I know because I tried to calculate it and the calculator said, “No,” though that might have stood for “number.” What have I learned, though? Now there is a decidedly more interesting question. (Because I’m in it.)

Perhaps my comics were muddily drawn, their stiff characters belching non-sequiturs in a lifeless white void, certainly mirroring my view of humanity. And perhaps my rather verbose epistolaries were ignored by certain viewers, due to a common mental retardia found on the Internet. Have you heard of it? It reduces the window of cognition of casual readers to the size of the proverbial eye of a needle. The intellectual equivalent of stomach stapling, but not as funny because it does not involve fat people. Commonly known as tl:dr.

So, let us try something new. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I shall try and trot out one mind-dazzlingly brilliant observation or featurette. An hors d’oeuvre of knowledge, if you will. A bite-size morsel that I shall gently feed you, massage your jaw to ease mastication and, and then rub your belly whilst cooing softly as you digest. I shall assist with excretion too, but only if you let me sell the photographs to German websites.

As Winston Churchill once said, “There is nothing quite like a good [be]gin,” and thus I shall begin again. Tomorrow.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

P.S.

Would you be so kind as to send me an emily? Someone needs to keep the fatherless women with the dead eyes in my inbox company. Say anything. I love the sound of birds squawking. If you require a prompt, here it is: What would you like to see on this page in the future?

I’d also love to give advice, or rather, I believe I need to. No, no… to put it another way, you need my advice. Ask me your questions and grant me your hardships and I’ll try to keep the sniggering to a minimum.

gentleman@gentlemancomics.com