Run—er, drive away, Bets! Otherwise you’ll be caught in a spiral of never-consummated innuendo. Just don’t end up at 9 Chickweed Lane, that place is even worse!
It’s probably too much to hope for a “Breaking Bad” scenario to develop—although Greg and Karen are masters of misdirection, so anything is possible.
But imagine Bets and Gunther, forced into a life of crime as mules, subject to God-knows-what for every slightest infraction, carrying drugs across the desert in their VW Vanagon. Until one day—in a spasm of horrifying and gut-wrenching violence—they get away, piles of bodies in their wake, Mr. Grey among them.
There are no heroes here, no heroes—but Gunther and Bets escape.
Maybe Stef is upset because for the past two weeks, everyone’s been calling her a wh*re for enjoying sex with her boyfriend while forcing her to have sex in a tent in a dormitory hallway.
None of these other characters need a privacy hut. Who’s Tiffany having sex with? Oh that’s right, no one. Dez? No one—and she can do her nude yoga when Bets is off at Gunther’s shed.
Frankly, this person has every right to think her roomies are awful people. And her boyfriend ain’t much better than they are.
think about what very small slice of the population that is, brother. The only people reading this strip are old people and snarkers.