Willfully ignoring the request made by your psychiatrist to never read the Peanuts comic strip again, you’ll lock yourself in a study room at the library with the Peanuts and glut your desire into the fading evening while librarians pound on the door. “Charlie Brown is a depressive shmuck,” you declare. “And Snoopy is a smug asshole.” But still you cannot stop reading. Never stopping reading until security finally forces the door and removes you from the premises. Next to wander the narrow downtown streets, detoxing from your comic binge, dreams of Linus and his stupid blanket obscuring your vision, and wanting very dearly to take the football away from Lucy, if not her entire cartoon existence. Life often imitates comic strips, however, for what’ll appear before you then but the towering pants of the godhead retreating upwards into fog and darkness. From out of which issues a voice speaking crucial truths to you alone, but all you can hear are the insane sounds of a muted trumpet?