Just Nod If You Can Hear Me. . .

Another technicolor dreamscape, barren save for today's bringer of confusion: another nondescript vending machine. Placebos are, of course, the perfect drug for the dedicated hypochondriac, though clearly labeling the machine dispensing the drugs seems to defeat the purpose.

Which reminds me: Didja hear about the guy who took an entire bottle of placebo sleeping pills? He committed fauxicide! I just thought of that.

So many Ziggy strips play out like this: Our pale protagonist stands in the shadow of some looming monolith, which purports to offer solace or escape. Sometimes this monolith is machine, but oftentimes the dysfunctional agent of inconvenience is a fellow human. In true monkey's paw fashion, the solution is but a half-answer, a mere facade, and does nothing to help Ziggy in his searching, without exactly hurting him either. You get the feeling that there's a curse of sorts on Ziggy, that the entire world functions perfectly well except for the space surrounding our tiny hero's person. Inside this space, dry-cleaning will be late, you are subject to personal insults hurled by the television and will be the victim of bizarre, inexplicable accidents.

Ziggy's website tries to explain this phenomenon but makes him sound like some kind of broke stalker:

Poor Ziggy. He’s perpetually one step behind, one nickel short, one lane away. But we love him for it, because everyone feels like Ziggy now and then!