Jon Arbuckle is the anthropomorphized manifestation of the cognitive dissonance of the American right wing. Forever self-pitying, always complaining about the problem plain as day before him but forever enabling a slow and perpetual decay. Ever wonder what happened to Lyman? Lyman was the conscience, and Odie the burden of the conscience. The conscience disappeared without any explanation. Just... gone, one day, never to be mentioned again. Liz, the object of Jon's lust, remained enshrined in the obsessive mind of Jon, and Jon only became more and more obsessed. AOC's feet. By maintaining the illusion of the very serious intent to create meaningful content, every day became the satire of the day before. The mondays became more repetitive, the lack of soul behind the eyes more vacant. Where does Garfield end and where does Ben Shapiro begin? Ben Shapiro is the void between meaning and satire. He is Garfield. That strip of colorful panels, that noise on a screen that continues... continues... continues... without saying a damned thing. Lasagna. Mondays. Liberals. Facts. Feelings. Hollow, empty void emulating human behavior. Perpetually. An obese orange cat, a squinty-eyed smirky manboy patting himself on the back, self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing with reassuring sarcasm and repetitive catchphrases. Mondays don't care about your lasagnas. Character as deep as the newspaper it's printed on.