Poor uncultured Captain Poulet! He’s throwing around big words like “Platonic,” which means pretty much exactly the opposite of what it’s pretty clear that he thinks it means. Perhaps his only experience with Plato comes from reading The Symposium, and he thinks the evening is going to end in a drunken sodomistic orgy, though even in that case he seems to have seriously misunderstood some genders.
Oh, also, this lady is out on parole! This is “funny,” for some reason.
Apartment 3-G, 10/6/09
See, this is the difference between Ruby and Tommie. Ruby may be beaten down by the big city — she have been thrown over by a man she thought she was getting on well with for some pill-addled floozy — but she still knows that she’s worth something! In panel two, she looks mad about her lonely, unloved state. Screw you, New York! If you’re not good enough to appreciate Ruby, well, she’ll just go back to Texas, and you’ll be all the worse for it!
Tommie, meanwhile, is in the process of melting into a puddle of self-pity. The only thing keeping her standing upright is the fact that her coffee mug is mostly filled with Wellbutrin.
Speaking of pills, these women — one with a heavy-lidded expression, the other with eyes the size of dinner plates — appear to be having some kind of spontaneous little party in the shoe store, in which they’re stumbling around muttering about how “it’s like walking on marshmallows.” They are clearly high, on drugs.
Funky Winkerbean, 10/6/09
Now, Kayla, we know that you weren’t aware that Lisa’s ghost was spying on you when you and Les first made out, because you aren’t gifted with Creepy-o-Vision. But for the record, “Every peanut butter and jelly sandwich is like an edible tombstone for my dead wife and it must be made properly” is the part where you run screaming for the door and never look back.