Party beach massacre
In my first non-metapost as a married man, I don’t really feel a need to point out the insufferable lameness that is the Blondie wacky anniversary adventure, or the problems with this strip’s surf instructor’s technique (which, according to Mrs. Curmudgeon, who’s been known to “hang ten” now and again herself, are many and egregious), or even discuss Blondie’s lovingly detailed breasts. No, today I want to draw your attention to Dagwood in the first panel on the second line, and specifically to his torso. At first glance it appears that he’s wearing what one would expect for a surfing lesson, which is to say no shirt at all. But the absence of nipples, combined with the baffling rippling concentric circles around his neck, lead me to believe that he is in fact wearing a flesh-colored turtleneck. Let’s hope that he hasn’t actually fashioned a shirt of real human skin in some kind of twisted, ritualistic attempt to gain spiritual power, conquer the big “momma” wave, and awe everyone with his surfing prowess. Because not only would that be wrong (yes, I take the tough, unpopular stands against making garments out of human flesh), but it clearly hasn’t worked, which is always embarrassing outcome to an unspeakable act of totemistic horror.