I lived in Utah for five years in my twenties, and the first place I lived was a condo, chosen for me by my sister due mostly to a room with built-in bookshelves. The majority of the living space was on one floor, but there was a long staircase down to a hallway, which led to a door, which opened into the parking for the complex. Also downstairs was the aforementioned bookshelf room, which was fortunate because it was also the only space big enough for the library (which was not half the size it is now.) So every time I started a new book I'd have to trek up and down the stairs, and it was COLD down there (colder still because I moved there in January and my roommates thought the heat was too expensive. Young adults are dumb.)
Anyway, one day in the summer when we'd all mostly defrosted, my roommates discovered a cupboard under the stairs and rummaged through it. It transpired that previous tenants had left a box containing several books, and with no way to locate the birth parents, I adopted the poor little orphaned waifs. (Providing shelter to the abandoned will become something of a recurring theme in this series. I may be in danger of overextending the metaphor.)
One of the forsaken foundlings (yeah, I did it and I don't care) was this one. At times when I have regular access to a newspaper, I enjoy comics, and Foxtrot is one of my favorites; it's always felt familiar to me, like a friend from elementary school that moved across town and then years later runs into you at a high school dance. (That wasn't a simile; that happened to me once.) It's clever and situational and feels true, as humor should.
Author: Bill Amend
Potentially objectionable content: I can't think of any
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