Very nearly tongue-in-cheek here.  Not to be confused with a tongue-out-cheek. Entirely different, in fact.

It’d be easy to build a case about my view of Harley-riding, grease under the nails, leather-wearing, loud-pipe-blaring bikers based on my treatment of Jones.

More literary types might try to stick a label on Jones and try to call him a “tragic hero”, one who is brought down by some error in judgement.  In the Aristotelian definition they guy actually has to be noble, which pus Jones right out of the race before he even arrives at the track.  Lest you think I’m some ivory tower smart-alligator, I got that from Wikipedia.

You may also think I promote the ways of my wayward protagonist: the womanizin’, the drinkin’ and carousin’, the retainer kept at the bondsman’s office.  I don’t think my wife’d put up with any of that kind of noise, and fun of that variety has a pretty limited shelf life for a guy like me.

I tried writing Jones as a good guy who never got in trouble. The result was a boring, hard to write strip.  Matt Marino (Motobasturds) shared the sentiment that he hoped Jones’d never get his poop in a group (I paraphrase here) as it’s so much more fun to read about Jones doing mistake after mistake.

Dammit, it’s a comic strip; not some treatise on how to make friends and influence people.  And, having read some of the stuff they make kids read in English class in high school these days, Jones is nearly a saint.  If you doubt me, try reading Lord of the Flies, The Great Gatsby, or just about anything by that one English guy from Stratford-on-Avon–the one who apparently got nicknamed as a kid playing war and shaking a spear around.

I think I’ve made my point here.  Relax and enjoy the ride.  And since it’s a comic strip, leave your helmet at the bar, we’ll bounce back like Wiley Coyote.