Comics Creators

Fashion Illustrated --


Dear friends!

When my wife goes out on her christmas shopping spree I like her to wear proper attire.



On the other hand, my “niece” Vanessa had a really traumatic day yesterday: We just couldn’t decide on a matching dress to go with her leg cast, dear friends.

Luxury problems.



Yes, dear friends, Tanya made my bells jingle double-time when she wore this showy ‘Stella Beckham’ dress at that very posh christmas party last friday.



Dear friends,

in one of her fantasies my better half Constance envisions herself as a Bond girl – quite oblivious to the fact that my Bond days are over.

I quipped: “I don’t shoot that quick any more, dearie!”

She said: “You confuse the issue, champ!”



Constance is my second wife, actually. We met years ago in a tiny back street café in Milano, Italy.

She had complained about itchy mosquito bites and I had feigned sympathy and taken her back home with me.

It is likely the café doesn’t exist any more, though, dear friends. All attempts locating it were in vain when I wanted to go there recently for a refund.



Dear friends,

on rare occasions I acqiesce to conjugal duty, although my thoughts go drifting while at it.

I got seriously carried away to a steamy jungle last Saturday.

“Lady Croft” I whispered into her lap, “your casted leg drives me crazy!”

She aspirated: “Tis as long and hard as you, viscount!”

My spouse Constance squeezed hard.

“You’ve got balls to call me slut names in bed, sport! Did you just call me Lady Gaga?!!”

“No, I never would!” I cried. “Ouch!! Let go, dearie! Ow, ow, ow!”


Due to unforeseen events this thread is turning in a way one couldn’t have contrived even if imagination ran wild, you may have noticed, dear friends.

It is not uncommon for us to have experiences that are immediately followed by such a sensation of familiarity that we could swear we had lived through them before in detail, yet we are unable to recall the time or place or any coincident occurence.

Such a déjà-vu sensation I experienced this morning when I chatted with my better half.

I have had sufficient experience with women to understand fairly well the mental processes based upon their deep-rooted superstition that had let my second wife Constance to commit a seemingly inhuman and disloyal act in violation of my civil rights and so did not place so much blame upon her as might another less familiar with her or her gender.

I am giving a literal account of said conversation that I cannot be accused of falsifying, and as a surplus you may learn from example:

“Why were you acting so terroristic and hired a private investigator?” I said. “You could have just asked me, dearie!”

Calm, serene, and suddenly very sexy, she said: “Are you drinking again, asshole?! You would have lied!”

“I just wouldn’t have told you!”

“You f–ked a slut with a casted leg in the back room of a public bar. As it turned out you seem to have quite an obsession with women wearing leg casts. I thought you were into bondage?!”

“I thought you were into bondage!”

“Is that why you tied me up like a roasted duck out of a cookery programme on TV?”

I said: “You squealed with delight! I even attended a bondage workshop in a community center at the far side of the city to get it right! Come on, ducky, be tolerant!”

“Don’t dare touch me, you pervert!!”

“Say, can I keep the videos?”

At this point my better half Constance broke out into spasmodic fits and screams. Subsequently I quietened her down. When her nose-bleeding subsided eventually, she said: “This will cost you more than a new pair of Fucci shoes!!”

The domestic bliss indeed appears to be tarnished this christmas, and to add to the grief the TV set broke down, but mine is not a temperament to be depressed or discouraged by seeming reverses.

Merry Christmas, dear friends!