Warning: Today’s Dick Tracy strip elicits the least unpleasant commentary
Dennis the Menace, 12/17/09
I hereby request demand that Dennis the Menace be renamed Henry Mitchell the Lascivious, Menacing Pervert, as today he appears to be insisting that Dennis ensure that sexily emaciated 15-year-old baby-sitter Chloe remain in the Mitchell family employ. I’d say that Henry was merely planning to teach Dennis about sexual objectification early, or perhaps that he had found a new star for his masturbatory reveries, but yesterday we saw him making time at the mall with some non-wife person, so clearly he plans some unseemly, legally actionable advance. This panel is by far the most distasteful thing on today’s comics page.
Mary Worth, 12/17/09
By comparison, today’s Mary Worth is positively innocent, though I do require that Wilbur keep both hands where we can see them. This is literally the twelfth consecutive day Wilbur has spent parked in front of his computer, and many of us were beginning to despair that we’d ever seem a flashback, so today’s sexy thought balloon about Wilbur’s lost love is something of a breath of fresh air, even if it is juxtaposed with a facial expression of Spock-like seriousness. C’mon Wilbur, who could have resisted that pearl necklace, that frilly collar, that fringy jacket? It was the sort of outfit that drove men wild, on whatever alternate-universe 1970s Earth where someone might have actually worn it!
Dick Tracy, 12/17/09
I would like to point out that that the alienating, inhumanely scaled architecture on display in the second panel of today’s Dick Tracy nicely parallels the alienation between long-haired father and long-haired son. I’d also like to point out that, if you want your rage-frenzied classical orchestra conductor dad to stop hitting you, you probably shouldn’t refer to violins as “fiddles.”
In case you’re wondering what this is about: this is what this is about! I’d like to add that I dearly hope that comics editors really do go work wearing a suit and tie, and that they sit behind a large, imposing desk, and that, when they ask hairless, half-naked weirdos to maybe put on some pants, they do so with an expression that shows that they speak more from sorrow than from anger.