Once, on a long flight back from the midwest, I had a 3-hour layover in glamorous Newark, NJ – a time just bursting with opportunities to eat $14 sandwiches, watch other cattle shuffle to and from their respective flying machines, and piss. Tempting as the other two options were, I opted for the latter.

At the time, the heady combination of fatigue, and honed reflexes as to the typical bathroom procedure gave me a rather detached view of the events that followed. Neurons fired, and commanded my legs to stagger to the nearest bathroom, my arms to shove the door open, my eyes to locate a vacant stall, hands to direct my pee, my head to nod to my wife as she emerged from the next stall over, and finally my legs again to sprint out of the women’s room ahead of a shocked and shouting group of them with my fly still half-unzipped.

Optimists would have regarded the fly as half-up, however this group didn’t seem to contain any with such a sunny disposition. The latest strip contains but a taste of the horrors I have dredged up from the repressed memories of my brief journey behind enemy lines. Prepare yourselves, Men – your would-be rulers walk among us.