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Apartment 3-G, Funky Winkerbean, and Mark Trail, 1/12/09
Not one but three continuity strips greet the new week with shocking plot twists, which, in the world of continuity strips, just means “dragging out the current plot lines in the hopes that you might complain if the newspaper decides to replace said continuity strip with Brewster Rockit.” We begin with Margo, who last we saw was snooping happily around Eric’s well-appointed apartment, finding what appeared to be her own engagement ring (and showing admirably un-Margo-like restraint in not tearing it open and proposing to herself on the spot). Then she noticed a message on Eric’s answering machine, decided to listen to it, and … what? What recorded message could have shaken Margo to her very core, leading her to physically remove the machine from the premises, presumably as a prelude to encasing it in concrete and dropping it into the ocean? Did Alan leave a detailed message explaining the profit-sharing on their dope-dealing scheme? Does Eric have significant overdue fines from Blockbuster for an embarrassing series of romantic comedies (including but not limited to The Lakehouse and Kate and Leopold)? Was it a call asking if he wanted his subscription to Hot Girls Who Never, Ever Wear Vests Magazine renewed? WHAT?
Funky Winkerbean perhaps isn’t supposed to be mysterious; maybe we’re supposed to be familiar enough with Rana’s personality to understand why she would find a “cheerleading notice” to be shrieeekworthy, and whether that would be a good shrieeek or a bad shrieeek. Of course, that would require more than maybe five post-time-jump strips to have focused on her, which hasn’t been the case, so: confusion. And Patty’s sudden urge to flee the Trail compound is confusing in that run-of-the-mill why-do-the-humans-in-Mark-Trail-act-like-this sense. “I thought that five in the morning would be the perfect time to have a woman-to-woman talk, Cherry! Usually at that time my husband is out in the woods, with the animals … oh, I’ve already said too much.”
Hi and Lois, 1/12/09
Ah, the too-busy suburban couple, failing to savor a too-brief moment of contact before heading out to their separate lives. By “icebergs” Hi no doubt means “the genitals of your fellow realtors, at least one of whom apparently has a thing for Phrygian caps.”
Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 1/12/09
“Haw haw, I knew that’d get a good tongue-wagglin’ laugh out of y’all, considerin’ our illit’racy! Now let’s commence with the book-burnin’.”
Judge Parker, 1/11/09
Oh my God, Judge Parker’s retirement party! Do you know how long ago this Randy-Parker-”runs”-to-succeed-his-father has been going on? More than two years! Not that we’ve heard much about it since Randy’s gay-baiting opponent’s wife had a drunken public meltdown, and it’s true that no sham, North Korea-style election could really follow that up. Still, it will be exciting to watch this combination retirement party/swearing in ceremony, when judicial power is handed down from father to son, as our Founding Fathers intended.
Curtis, 11/11/09
Ha ha! Can you imagine? A linguistic system in which words can mean the opposite of their meaning in conventional discourse! Mercy! I’m pretty impressed that Greg has managed to father two young children at the age of 109.
(Psst! It’s not too late to vote for me and Ces!)
Gil Thorp, 1/10/09
You may have noticed that I haven’t really commented on Gil Thorp lately; that’s because this storyline, which began with Nut Boy and armed robbery, has turned out to be total snoresville ever since. Today’s strip is noteworthy, though, in that it contains shocking images of Gil Thorp engaging in coaching — not in the usual sense of him holding a clipboard and collecting a paycheck in the general vicinity of high school athletics, but actually attempting to help a member of his basketball team with his play. Gil’s advice — “relax, you’ll be fine, and everyone else we have sucks even worse than you” — leaves a bit to be desired, I suppose, but it’s a start.
Meanwhile, the thirty-first participant in Brenda’s all-weekend sexathon has arrived.
Rex Morgan, M.D., 1/10/09
What I’m learning from this Rex Morgan storyline — in which the bored, angry passengers on this strike-stricken death boat are constantly demanding that somebody, anybody pour them a drink — is that the only thing stopping most cruise ships from degenerating into vomit-covered bacchanals are crewmembers trained in the fine art of cutting the lushes off gently. Hope for the livers of all involved has arrived in the form of this friendly off-duty bartender, who probably recognizes the symptoms of alcohol poisoning when he sees them and will start watering the drinks down accordingly. (As a side note, you may think it odd that a bartender would consider a navy blue suit and sharp red tie to be cruisewear, but one of the guys who bartended my wedding was an investment banker, so you never know.)
Lockhorns, 1/10/09
I must admit that I’m charmed by the evocative setting of today’s Lockhorns. Leroy and his nameless, emotionally numb companion are just alighting from the commuter train, heading into work on a chilly morning, carrying their briefcases and coffees. We’ve never really learned what Leroy does for a living; whatever it is, it apparently requires that he wear a baby blue smock for some reason.
Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 1/10/09
Snuffy Smith makes yet another acknowledgement of modern televised entertainment; however, this reference serves only to set up the main joke, which is that Hootin’ Holler’s sole religious institution apparently exists primarily to personally enrich its so-called “parson,” who cheerfully admits as much to one of the community’s most notorious lawbreakers.
Pluggers, 1/10/09
Pluggers redirect their suppressed sexual feelings towards their enormous, gas-guzzling cars.
Mark Trail, 1/9/09
“Dear Penthouse: I never thought this would happen to me, but one day I came home from a long trip early in the morning, with my dog Andy, and found my wife with both of her hands touching another lady! Andy is a St. Bernard! The lady who isn’t my wife was blonde, and my wife was wearing her robe! They leaped away from each other when I came in, and yet it still made me feel funny, somehow, as if I were seeing something unlawful! Andy sure is a good old dog! That’s why I take him on trips, instead of my wife! Later, my wife told me she had changed her hair, but I didn’t notice. I hope you print my letter! Sincerely, Mark Trail.”
Dick Tracy, 1/9/09
The current Dick Tracy plot is only just getting underway, but since it revolves around Tess attempting to market a Dick Tracy line of cosmetics, it may already the strip’s most laughable yet, since the Dick Tracy brand mostly consists of his impossibly square head and cheerful fascism. It’s appropriate that the final panel juxtaposes the phrase “doesn’t smell right” with a flaming house in which a scientist has just accidentally immolated himself, as the Dick Tracy cologne will smell mostly of seared human flesh.
Marmaduke, 1/9/09
When Marmaduke viciously claws at the eyes of random passersby, blinding them, his owner refers to his violent acts as “kisses.” I shudder to imagine her home life.
Oh, yes! Don’t forget:
(Thanks to Uncle Lumpy for the graphic! And vote for Ces and Medium Large, too!)
Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 1/8/09
Must I take on the burden of keeping comics within the bounds of their self-constructed universes? Look, the chances of Loweezy’s Gossipy Friend Whose Name I Neither Know Nor Care About being acquainted with the still-popular-but-no-longer-red-hot-enough-to-merit-pop-culture-namechecks TV program Gray’s Anatomy are pretty low, seeing as her community’s only contact with the outside world comes from the town’s few lovingly maintained Hoover-era radios. I suppose its a possible that a few of Hootin’ Holler’s more successful moonshiners acquired fancy tee-vee sets back in the day to tune into the Dumont Network; fortunately, after the switchover to digital broadcasting next month, we will be spared any more attempts on the part of Snuffy Smith to engage with modern television programming.
Frankly, I’m more concerned at the sight of a doctor cramming with a basic anatomy textbook just before an appointment. “OK, the hip bone’s connected to the leg bone, the leg bone’s connect to the … to the … damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have prescribed myself so many drugs during med school!”
Judge Parker, 1/8/09
Ah, so Sexy Heidi the Sexy Detective is turning to Sam not for sexy sex, but for emotional comfort. “Sam, I admire the way you just stood by bored and disinterested while we pumped that woman full of bullets. You’ve obviously learned to look death in the eye and not be touched by it, just as you’ve managed to remain detached from all other aspects of the human experience other than your own smug self-satisfaction. Can … can you teach me how not to feel?”
Mark Trail, 1/8/09
[INSERT PREDICTABLE AND DISTASTEFUL BUT COMPLETELY MANDATORY BESTIALITY JOKE HERE]
So, throughout this whole Weblog Awards business, I’ve tried to take the high road, refusing to even acknowledge my competitors for the coveted Best Humor Blog award. I’m modeling my campaign on the greatest of American presidents, Warren G. Harding, who felt that traveling the country seeking votes was beneath his dignity, and instead just had voters shipped in to Ohio to watch him bloviate from his front porch (except I refuse to go out on my porch because it’s cold). However, as all campaigns will, this one has turned ugly, and now I’m going to have to dirty my hands a bit. It seems that one of my opponents, the so-called Bloggess, is spreading scurrilous rumors about me — namely, that I eat kittens and plan to celebrate my inevitable victory with a kitten feast. She’s even made a badge for those who won’t vote for her, and taken her dastardly lies to the Twitter, where I can’t fight back because I can’t even begin to understand the Twitter or how it works, but here’s a picture of those Twitter lies:
Anyway, I would like to state right now, for the record, that I would never, ever eat a kitten. I love all cats, as my own pampered kitty can attest. Instead, once my opposition has been crushed and the award that is rightfully mine has been handed to me, I will celebrate by eating babies.
Seriously, though, you should totally read her blog because it’s very hilarious! And please do not start a blog fight with her commentors! We can all be friends (as long as I win). And I’m not just saying that because she also writes for the Houston Chronicle and could maybe somehow cut me off from my custom comics page. Or because, according to the Twitter, she has naked pictures of me, somehow. And when you’re done enjoying her blog, come back and vote for me, which you can do every 24 hours. Because babies is delicious.
In other Weblog Awards news, Medium Large is, against all odds, within reach of third place in the Best Comic Strip category! Vote for Ces to get a bronze medal! It will help with his self-esteem!
IMPORTANT AD NEWS PLEASE READ THIS: In non-self-congratulatory news, I am about to restore the ads that I removed a couple of days ago. Please e-mail me if anything sketchy happens when you visit this site after this point (i.e. after 8:45 pm eastern time on 1/7) — pop-ups, weird redirects, etc. Thanks. UPDATE: Ads taken back down. Blech.
