I never understood the appeal of fucking at another person' house.

With their consent, I mean.

that was pretty much his joke, yeah

I once stayed in a military facility where all the mattresses had initialled and dated stains.

Come over here, I'll show you

And seriously... what is it with the scones? Was there a point in history when someone in England ordered a biscuit, said, "I don't believe this is dry or crusty enough! I need the thick, rock-hard texture of a cracker, but the mouth-filling bulk of a nice moist biscuit!
Gavin, return to the kitchen and bake this biscuit until it has less moisture than Mars dust! Quickly! I have a bicuspid that sorely requires a hairline fracture!"
Oh, but then you have the cup of Earl Gray to dunk it in. What a delightful treat. News flash: how about cooking food that's edible on its own without any "treatment"?

Fie upon your inability to enjoy such a superlative foodstuff. Fie!
Srsly though, scones shouldn't be like that - it should be as moist and creamy as ... well, a maiden's thigh, I suppose. Maybe America didn't cook it quite right. (Makes sense, that's what happened with chocolate....)

This does not explain why Hershey Kisses taste like cheese.

That's because Hershey's is lowest denominator chocolate. Chocolate for the masses.

Although if you are eating Hershey Kisses and it tastes like cheese, you might want to go to a doctor because I'm pretty sure that's a stroke signifier.

Hershey's Kisses truly are the lowest. Basically, Hershey's milk chocolate tastes like grease with some burned charcoal for flavoring. And the kisses give me mad squirts... not surprising since they are shaped like little drops of poo.

Ah, I love these digressions

But in this B&B it's the cats running it.

With a ridiculous number of humans in the lobby?

A horribly unpopular "B&B" can be a wonderful tax shelter.

uh such as a new computer to do programming on and maybe The Prisoner on DVD hehe that Patrick Doogan is such a man !

oh then maybe just like a new mouse pad the mouse pad I have now is hell of dingy and there is such as a coffee stain that looks like Star Jones on it

What is felt: AAAAAAAGH! AAAAGH!

Why are you doing that? It seems like a poor idea both for sexual release and finance. Also, why is this happening in the summer? Do you need to save up for it to be a large enough pile to be considered erotic?

MOLLY KAZENZAKIS COME ON SHOW ME HER NUDE

Bed and Breakfast for Dudes would be tough.

I mean, it couldn't be Lyle-level dirty, but it also couldn't be so clean that the tenants are constantly aware of the fact that it has been cleaned.

Basically that same philosophy would apply to the cooking. Ideally the host would just subtly ensure that there are plenty of leftovers from dinner that are still sitting on the counter when the tenants wake up, so that they can munch without it becoming a thing.

Fridge has nothing but bacon and the ingredients to a bloody Mary. There are also garlic heads.

The living room has a comfortable but annoyed golden retriever/lab mix named Chuck. Chuck mostly just sleeps.

There is a table to the side of the coffee table just for empties. Both tables are mostly covered by empties.

Wowm you guys just wrote an entire strip right here. Nice work.
I want another one every day.
Sent to my PDA.
You will all be compensated with $2.99 a month divided evenly.

I believe all one would really need is a smokey English tavern/Irish pub which did not close and had rooms consisting solely of a fireplace, a bearskin rug, and a well-ventilated white-tiled bathroom.

Atmosphere would be provided by an amplitude of rough cut timbers, antique arms, sternly glowering portraits, bronze statues of naked godesses, animal skulls, and a pack of aging hounds.

Bed and Breakfast for Men, be they stout Lads, swarthy Fellows, or estimable Greybeards.

You drink yourself to sleep in a big saggy armchair in front of the fire. Next morning you are woken by a discreet cough; the landlord has shuffled over with a bacon butty, a half of mild and Capstan Full Strength. You eat your breakfast and walk out into the thin grey light of morning.

Testosterone.

CORRECT

LOVE HIM.

LITIGIOUS.

Jim has been wearing an actual black strip over his eyes since the operation.

Correct. I wanna cum.

Not after the operation, you won't.

I wonder how long Molly just sat there staring at him waiting for an answer before sighing and turning over to go to sleep.

I just now noticed how Molly sort of smirks and cocks an eyebrow when Beef goes into a silent internal monologue in which he worries about being forced to participate in something he finds asinine. I'm not nit-picking or anything, I just think it's a cute little touch that Molly's become entirely accustomed to the idea of Beef not responding immediately to a question because something about it unsettles him on a primal level.

Why is the title "Bead and Breakfast"?

Typo? Or callback to the bead store strip?

Half an hour later, Molly is still waiting for an answer.

Haha yeah Onstad, them women sure are dumb. High five!

In England they call them "bangers in the mouth".

... or you go away for the weekend, fuck like bunnies, hang out, read a book, have someone else cook food for you and then STOP YOUR FUCKING WHINING. If she's not adapting the holiday so you have fun as well then you're a fucking doormat and she's a bitch.

Jim had been a salesmen. A wholesaler. A wholesaler of wool. In his heyday he had driven the long miles between in never quite successful textile mill in China Basin and the sheep ranches of Napa, Sonoma, Lake and Mendocino Counties. Occasionally he would stray up to Humboldt, Trinity and Shasta, but there were middle men aplenty willing to meet him in Santa Rosa. Between 1973 and 1975 he kept a mistress, one Darla Larkspur, with whom he trysted at a Motel Six in Rohnert park once a month. They met over shared beers and shock at hearing the fate of Fancy Mark Clancy on the wireless at the Drake's Public, a now-defunct roadhouse known best for its below-average salted peanuts and waitresses so nicotine stained it seemed as if they had washed their hands in yellow hi-lighter. It was a bittersweet affair, ending much as it had begun, in an alcohol fueled night of fucking and sobbing.

Jim and his wife, Sylvia, raised three children, two sons and a daughter, in Burlingame, CA, a suburb of San Francisco. Rachel is a temp accountant in Foster City, Evan managed a Circuit City and is in talks with a local Best Buy franchise about coming on as a traffic optimization consultant. Sadly, Ian, the third, suffered spiritually from his father's constant travels. He is a fixture at various social groups whose names end with -Anonymous that meet in the halls of churches and community centers along the 680 Corridor from San Jose to Pittsburgh. Jim and Sylvia's marriage may not have been the most idyllic, but it survived more stresses than most, and in their own way, they did love one another.

Jim retired a few years back. He didn't take to domestic life. In an effort to cheer him up, we took him on a trip along his old route. From 101 to 12 to 37 and further. I sat bitch in the back of an '87 Acura Legend, between Jim and his wife. I saw a tear escape his eyes somewhere between Cloverdale and Willits. We asked him what it was, and he told us that, in all the years he'd driven it for almost three decades, he had never realized just how beautiful that country and its rolling hills and redwood forests really were.

He had the operation a little after that; said there wasn't really much he was giving up. Sylvia talked him into opening the B&B in a fit of pique after the last time Darla, drunk, broke, and lonely, tried to call them from her brother-in-law's trailer up in Boonville. Jim resigned himself to it by reasoning that, if he couldn't still be out on the road himself, he could at least maintain contact with travelers this way. They leveraged his pension to purchase a modest ranch and re-established themselves, after a lifetime of small compromises, as hostlers in Olema. Occasionally, if a guest makes a strong impression, or if, recalling the good old days, Jim will lead personally guided tours of some of the more colorful county routes and the taverns and brewers the casual tourist is like to miss.

This comic makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable. I share Beef's misgivings about bed and breakfasts, which makes it funny to me, but I think the way Onstad framed it is really quite sexist.

I think Onstad is really quite sexist.

Girl, you know it's true. I'll lick my dick for you.

With all this hate, mindless BS, I thought I would share something nice. I'm a beautiful black female and my love, a beautiful white man just made love to me for hours upon hours. It was amazing, blissful, I was melting, and he kissed me over and over and told me how much he loved me, and we just came all over each other. I actually feel renewed. And no it isn't something that is going away, we have been with each other for almost four years, and it is still amazing.

STOP focusing on each other's difference, and getting sidetracked with race, color, etc. We are all in this together, man & woman. Spread love, and your world will expand with positivity