The poor blokes across the pond from us who use “pants” to denote their underoos may very well be confused by that first panel. “No, Mo, I haven’t. And those don’t look bloody Christmassy at all!”
Last holiday season, we promised a sequel to the battle between Smoodge and Santa. Well, suffice it to say that Smoodge requires at least another year to get his wits about him before taking on the big man. Or you can just see through that fiction and realize the Will and I made and will continue to make promises we can’t keep.
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Mo’s feelings in the final panel–anguish, despair, a profound sense of loss–are much the same as what I felt when our downstairs neighbors got rid of their piglet. They owned it for a mere twenty hours; just enough time for me to get attached. I still remember the happiness that welled in my heartspring whenever it’s shrill squealing permeated our floorboards. I got to give it a bath. One bath on the day they brought it home. The next morning, when I went downstairs for a visit, the piglet was gone, and with it, my hopes and my dreams. I’ve never forgiven those people since.