The Joys of Working From Home.

I really enjoy working from home. From 8:00 AM until 2:00 PM, it is absolute bliss. My office is the smallest room in the house — a tiny sanctuary of productivity, silence, and the occasional sense that I am, in fact, a functioning adult. But come 2:30 PM, everything goes mental. It is like trying to work in an asylum without the nurses to restrain the troublesome inmates.

The real horror is the constant, stealthy invasion of the little people. It requires zero tactical errors on your part — merely a brief lapse in security. You head out to the kitchen for a swift, life-sustaining coffee, and by the time the kettle has whistled, a hostile coup has occurred. You walk back into your office to find two kids and a dog rammed entirely into your desk chair, staring at you with an unblinking, vacant innocence, genuinely wondering if you’ve noticed them.

Nobody is immune to this domestic guerrilla warfare. Which got me wondering how far up the ladder this level of utter disrespect actually goes. Surely the ultra-wealthy in their fortified compounds, the tech bros, the bloodthirsty dictators of the world — men who control global markets and entire armies — cannot get through a single morning briefing without someone small, sticky, and entirely unreasonable appearing in the doorway to demand you watch a tedious Lego build video.

I tried several scenarios. None of them felt quite right.

Then a personal challenge I’d been sitting on for a while came back to me. My brain does this — it jumps around, hoards things, and then, if I’m lucky, connects them into something vaguely coherent. The challenge in question: to use the phrase “Jesus Christ” in a comic in a way that was entirely non-inflammatory. It occurred to me, quite suddenly, that I had found the one scenario in which the phrase was not only non-inflammatory — it was, technically, a statement of fact.

Naturally, I had to take it to the highest office in the land.

It turns out the highest authority in the universe has the same problem as the rest of us. Which is either deeply comforting or absolutely terrifying, depending on your theological disposition.