A comic about life, love, death, and food, in about three colors.
I have to admit, my broken toe, this cane, theyaren't exactly hurting my jobprospects. And I've alwayswanted a cane, just neededthe excuse. Well, the best creativetypes are wounded... I'd be happy to poke out aneye if you want a little extraedge to go with the cane.



This is actually the second time I’ve had to write the blurb for this comic (and the three that follow it), as the webhost for PCT managed to lose a week’s worth of data. But this being a comic about handicaps, I suppose it’s appropriate.

As I had written before the temporary end of the world, canes are amazingly versatile accessories: they aid stability; give task to idle hands; imbue the appearance of wisdom and class; fend off French muggers. It’s true, you know, about the French muggers. Canes were a vital piece to the self-defense art savate throughout the 19th century.

But does having a cane make Kevin cool?

No, no it doesn’t.

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