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Momma, 1/14/11

It’s been a long time since I’ve checked in with Momma’s passive-aggressive, vaguely incestuous stylings, and today’s entry is so delightfully absurd that I hesitate to try “explain” what it might “mean.” Are we to imagine that Francis has stuffed his nice hat so full of clothes that it has ridiculously stretched out? Or that Momma, in her dotage, went all knit-crazy and made a ludicrously oversized hat for her son? Or that Francis, having long ago traded away the precious maternal keepsake for beer or whatever, just tells the first improbable lie that comes into his head, betting that his mother’s senility will cause her to quickly forget exactly what they’re talking about?

Also, this strip reaffirms my firm belief that black and white strips should not be colored in, because that allows me to imagine, based on the vague patterns visible, that Momma has knitted Francis some kind of oversized rasta hat.

Mary Worth, 1/14/11

A quick visit to the Website of the Four Seasons Bora Bora reveals that it is (a) awesome and (b) the equivalent of about $650 a night, so Jill’s guilt over a little light drunken rehearsal-dinner-ruining must have been quite acute. But I’m less interested in what Jill hocked to pay for this craziness (assuming she just didn’t create fake “vouchers” in Photoshop) and more interested in Adrian and Scott’s wildly different reactions. Remember, Scott was the one who suggested a honeymoon at the local Motel 6, while Adrian longed for an exotic voyage; so why is Scott grinning with manic intensity at the thought of sun and fun in the South Pacific, while Adrian is about to vomit in terror?

Curtis, 1/14/11

We’ve finally arrived at the lesson of this year’s Kwanzcaapade in Curtis, which appears to be: there’s nothing we can’t achieve if we work together a species, so long as we can just go back in time and correct all our mistakes.

Gasoline Alley, 1/14/11

With his pleas to his God having been rejected with contempt, Slim has quickly turned to nihilism. “Really, honey, in 100 years we’ll all be dead. All of us, just marching inexorably towards the grave, and nobody will remember we ever existed. Why bother? Why bother doing anything?”