Mark Trail, 7/14/15
Look upon panel three, O Mark Trail readers, for here is a chunk of exposition of which you will not see the amazing like again for months, if not years. “Good thinking, Mark,” says the professional wordsmith, “I am aware that Doc is a veterinarian!” There are two potential explanations for this that make the slightest sliver of sense: either Mark goes into Doc’s veterinary bona fides whenever he brings him up in conversation, and Bill is cutting him off so he doesn’t have to listen to 20 minutes of blah blah about Doc’s MCAT scores and how he settled on the Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine, again; or Bill made an embarrassing error on this topic earlier and is covering up for it. “Ha ha, yes, of course I am aware that Doc is a veterinarian! 100% aware of that fact. And someone who knew that definitely wouldn’t have sent Doc a bunch of emails trying to convince him to prescribe Adderall, would he? Definitely not!”
A quick glance at Spidey’s awkward position atop this bat-glider (side note: should Batman sue Hobgoblin for appropriation of the bat- prefix?) shows that it’s not his feet that he needs to squeeze closer together, but his thighs and calves, which is pretty obviously what he’s doing in panel two. Not sure why he doesn’t say this; maybe the syndicate is trying to desperately draw attention away from the blatant humping going on here? Also, I’m not an engineer or anything, but I’m thinking that damaging the exhaust pipe of this contraption won’t so much slow it down as give the rocket’s output nowhere to go and possibly cause the whole thing to explode, which may not be the best outcome for our hero, but hey, let’s watch this play out.
“And in unrelated news, there’s a lot of hair on my cat’s chin! But let’s go back to talking about why your husband isn’t interested in you sexually and never has been.”
The usual marital dynamic in Spider-Man involves Peter being unreasonably and dickishly jealous about MJ’s financial success and/or interactions with other dudes, so it’s been refreshing (?) this time around to have the dynamic reversed and MJ jealous of the Black Widow. But now the two women have had a heart-to-heart, and the Black Widow revealed that she knew Spider-Man’s secret identity — and marital status — all along! This will make the coming conflagration, in which a helpless, spread-eagled, humiliated, and conspicuously unmasked Spider-Man slams into the movie set and explodes, all the more hilarious.
GOD DAMN IT HEATHCLIFF DOESN’T RIDE A MOTORCYCLE
HE ALSO DOESN’T GO TO CHURCH
AND THOSE EARS BUILT INTO HIS HELMET PROBABLY MAKE IT LESS SAFE
AND THE WHOLE THING LOOKS MORE LIKE A SPACESUIT THAN MOTORCYCLE SAFETY GEAR
GOD DAMN IT HEATHCLIFF
Slylock Fox, 7/6/15
Are we supposed to assume that our criminal dog, fleeing Slylock and his goons, got into this room one step ahead of the law? How did that work, exactly? He leaps into the unoccupied bed, starts feverishly wrapping bandages around his face, and growls to the actual patient, “You don’t say nothin’, see?” Or maybe it’s much more horrible: maybe he’s subjected the other dog to an involuntary Face/Off-style surgery, the better to escape justice. His victim is in a morphine haze, but the criminal refused painkillers; though he’s in agony, he knew he’d have to be sharp in case the cops showed up. Either way, the real tragedy is that the real patient didn’t receive a fruit basket.
This is a good question, because let’s be frank: even when he has his whole life ahead of him, caring about stuff isn’t Peter Parker’s strong suit.
The way Veronica stares directly at the viewer in the final panel, inviting us into her world of gossip, is profoundly unsettling. “Do you miss the good old days? Sign up for an account on Gosspr, my new social app for gossip and rumors, and feel free to share what you know or have heard about your closest friends! #jointhecoversation”
Ha ha, it’s funny because Francis and Marylou are slowly poisoning their mother!
Pluggers have found that they hardest part of living is the seemingly endless slog through a meaningless existence that we have to endure until we finally feel the sweet embrace of death.