Heavens to Murgatroyd

Meet Baghead, the bastardized lovechild of boredom and misanthropy in the workplace.

Perhaps he’s a mistake— he certainly wasn’t planned (and I‘m fairly certain my employer does not compensate me for sketching such morose gobbledy-gook during work hours)— but, instead of stashing him in a trash bag with soiled cotton swabs and rotting bananas, abandoning him on the side of the highway or discarded in an alleyway dumpster, I decided to keep him. I shall train him in the art of seduction until he is old enough to join the military and be sent off to kill whichever nation of brown people is our nemesis at the time. When he asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was mauled by a lion at the Six Flags drive-through safari. Either that or she was kidnapped by primates after disregarding the “do not feed the monkeys” signs and providing the chimps with Cool Ranch Doritos on the roof of my car. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

(Click to enlarge)