In the second comic strip dedicated to my dear friend, Yogi Bear Jones, I fondly recall how his exuberance would fill the air with his joyful barks.

There is a hidden message in today's Comic Strip. The little Yorkie only appears in one panel of today's comic strip. This strip was conceptualized with that premise in mind. This symbolizes the briefness of time we experience with our pets.

"I still cannot believe it", Porph grumbled. "Earthlings have discovered our mothership and they named it 3i/Atlas. What kind of name is that. It sounds like a coupon code for a discount gym membership".

Frenchy leaned back on her barstool and stared at the transparent newcomer floating a few inches above The Candy Bar’s floor. Nigel Hammerstein puffed out his spectral chest the way Charmy did whenever someone accidentally called him brave. Nigel had that same proud glow, except his glow was literal and mildly unsettling.

Frenchy was the first to react when Flimp the chimp planted his hands on the bar and kicked his feet straight into the air like he was auditioning for some new viral fitness trend. Her eyes widened as his toes wiggled above her drink, which was unfortunate because her drink already had a reputation for attracting chaos. Last week a moth had dive bombed into her latte. This week, evidently, it was Flimp.

The day started out perfectly for Davy Jones. He was feeling confident, sipping on a steaming cappuccino at The Candy Bar, sketchbook open, drawing away on the latest Charmy’s Army strip. The sun was shining through the big front window, hitting him just right. His pen glided like a pro skater on fresh ice, and the latte foam even looked like it approved of him for once. Life was good.

To access Parts 5 and 6 of this adventure, simply become a subscriber. Frenchy froze halfway into The Candy Bar, her purse dangling from her shoulder and her expression melting into pure horror. Weaver was sitting at the bar, sipping his cappuccino like a smug detective who’d just cracked the case of the century. He turned around with that goofy grin of his and chirped, “Hello, Francy Fluhicky!”

Charmy sat alone at a table inside The Candy Bar, staring at the empty chair across from him as though sheer concentration could make his blind date appear. He tapped his fingers on the table rhythmically, then stopped, adjusted his bowtie, and glanced at the clock again. Two hours late. Two whole hours. The only thing keeping him company now was a half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee and the deep feeling of regret that came free with every first date.

Frenchy sipped her drink and sighed. “The worst part is that I keep falling for these guys who sound amazing. Like the one who said he was in the food industry. Turns out, he runs a hot dog cart outside a DMV. And I’m not judging—honest work is honest work—but when your date shows up smelling like mustard and says his dream is to ‘expand into condiments,’ you know it’s time to delete the app.”

Frenchy’s adventures in love are like watching a car crash in slow motion. You cannot look away, even if you want to. In today’s saga, her blind date with Jerry was supposed to be a sweet evening of polite conversation, candlelight, and maybe a shared dessert. Instead, it turned into something closer to an episode of “The Bachelor” if it were written by people who binge reality TV after drinking three cans of Red Bull.

The March Toward Animation – Charmy’s Army Comes to Life! Big news for the Caffeine Crew! After years of laughter on the comics page, Charmy’s Army is finally stepping into a whole new world of entertainment… animation! Yes, you heard that right. Our favorite ant troop, led by the wise-cracking Charmy himself, is marching onto the screen. And the best part?

Turtle could not believe it. For years, he thought Weaver was nothing more than a goofball with a head full of cotton candy and the IQ of a kazoo. But then, today, in a moment that rivaled the invention of sliced bread, Turtle realized that Weaver was not only smart but a super genius. Finally, Turtle had someone he could share deep thoughts with.

The Candy Bar was buzzing with its usual energy that came less from paying customers and more from the sheer chaos of Charmy holding court at the bar. Candy had been behind the counter since morning, serving lattes, frappes, and three experimental drinks she invented that afternoon just to keep her regulars guessing.

The Candy Bar had witnessed many strange things. Charmy once tried to juggle chainsaws in here after a YouTube tutorial convinced him it was “super easy.” Frenchy once got her head stuck in a pickle jar because she wanted to “see if the pickles had an echo.” And of course, there was that time Weaver tried to invent a self-stirring latte machine that exploded so violently, the ceiling fans are still sticky.

The moment the comic strip ended, Frenchy leaned back on her barstool, twirling her hair like she always does when her brain is in overdrive. The two FBI agents, looking as serious as men in identical black suits can, stood stiff as flagpoles in The Candy Bar. Frenchy blinked once, twice, and then broke the silence.

The latest Charmy’s Army comic strip is hot off the griddle, and let me tell you… it is a stinker. Literally.

The Candy Bar was supposed to smell like freshly ground coffee beans, toasted bagels, and whatever sweet concoction Candy Kane had baking in the oven. That was the dream. That was the branding. That was the reason she put her life savings into this cozy little coffee shop slash hangout spot.

The Candy Bar is a lot of things. It is a coffee shop. It is a hangout for soldiers and locals alike. It is a place where weird things happen so often that the unusual has become routine. But today… today was special. Today, Candy had finally reached her breaking point, and it all started with a smell.

If you look closely at the first panel of today’s comic strip, you might spot something you have never noticed before. Just behind Charmy and Weaver, at the far end of the room near the rear of The Candy Bar, hangs a gold-framed portrait. It is subtle. Easy to miss. But once you see it, you cannot unsee it. The lighting catches the edge of the frame in such a way that it gives off a soft, angelic glow. That glow is not an accident.

There are a handful of phrases that can make any sane person pause and rethink life choices. “Losers weepers, finders keepers” is definitely one of them, especially when said by Charmy Packy while strumming a banjo he found at the edge of a creepy river bottom.

Weaver had barely touched his seat at The Candy Bar before his frustration spilled across the counter. Charmy had seen that expression before. This was not just the exhaustion of travel. This was the face of a man who had witnessed things. Terrible things. Things that could not be unseen.

So the comic strip ended with Frenchy plopping her freshly wiggled toes on Candy’s pristine bar. Candy, aghast, nearly short-circuited from the sheer horror of it all. Her beautiful mahogany countertop, normally reserved for coffee cups, half-eaten muffins, and the occasional flirty note from lonely locals, now served as a personal footstool for one overly enthusiastic ant who apparently has the concept of “boundaries” filed somewhere between “unicorn farm management” and “squirrel karaoke etiquette.”

The studio lights burned bright as Frenchy sat there behind her shiny news desk, blinking into the camera, trying desperately to keep her perfect smile from curdling. Meanwhile, Weaver beamed proudly, oblivious to the horror he had just unleashed upon both Frenchy and anyone unfortunate enough to be watching Feast with Frenchy on the Pleasantville Public Access Channel 3.

The Candy Bar was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning. The espresso machine was chugging along, sending jets of fragrant steam into the air, as Candy moved from table to table refilling cups and delivering pastries. Behind the bar, Frenchy found herself sandwiched between two people she never imagined would team up against her: Candy and this new girl Pam—who, frankly, Frenchy already decided must be a bit unhinged.

Sarge didn’t just dislike the Navy. He loathed it. Why? It all traced back to an interbranch softball game where a smug sailor named “Bubbles” hit a home run off Sarge and did a celebratory cartwheel around the bases. Sarge never got over it.