I remember the year I went to camp, I read the Sunday Comics named Selma and some blacks. Somebody put their fingers in the president’s ears, and it wasn’t too much later they came out with Johnson’s wax.

Wreck! Observe the front wheel spinning upside down Wreck! The Sunday Comics fragments strewn around Wreck! The back wheel’s ‘O’ is now a letter ‘D’

Hey, Sunday Comics, let’s not pretend that for one second you are my friend. Knock on my door and I’ll turn out the light, close the curtains and turn in for the night!

Second time he went away left the Comics out on Sunday, stereo on and cooking bacon…Never came back to tell us why.

We’re feeling the same thrill; whatever we do, trust. Imagine a broadcast, the Sunday in Comics. You say that you want your cherry-ade fountain.

The President reads the Comics and speaks. His shirts are clean but his country reeks. Unpaid bills In Afghanistan hills. Bombs away (but we’re O.K)! Bombs away in old Bombay!

When my feet touched onto land: the Sunday Comics, the hot, dry sand. With one short breath, my chest expands. My body is my own again.

She stands beneath the mistletoe screaming for him to stand beneath the mistletoe, screaming…Now I can’t help but read the Comics each time she climbs on his knee.

They are digging through all of your files, stealing back your Sunday Comics. You cover your windows with lead, even keeping the pets outside. Then you hear, a moment too late…