Mystery box shame
Today we have an excellent demonstration of the inner workings of the underimagined hell-world that is Crock. Our action involves Figowitz, who is always slouched despondently against the exterior wall of the Foreign Legion’s fort, and Captain Preppie, who for dramatic reasons should be shown sitting jauntily with his legs crossed. Except: there is no furniture upon which the good captain can place his shapely buttocks in Figowitz’s blasted desert sitting-spot! What to do? Summon a vaguely cuboid sitting-box out of nowhere, of course. Once Preppie gets up to stroll away, this mysterious plinth can simply vanish into the ether of narrative convenience out of which it emerged.
On a surely totally unrelated note, the chunk missing from Preppie’s right elbow in panel one is no doubt of aesthetic significance too sublime to be understood by a ruffian such as myself; we certainly shouldn’t assume that this particular drawing of the handsome captain has been carelessly cut and pasted from an earlier strip.
Apartment 3-G, 1/25/11
Normally when your new boyfriend drives you to a creepy abandoned house somewhere in New Jersey, that’s a sign of very bad news to come. But Paul drives a huge, pearly white Hummer! He must be a classy guy!
The WikiLeaks saga, combining as it does political intrigue, cloak-and-dagger spy drama, philosophical debates about the merits of openness vs. secrecy in different realms, and accusations of sexual assault, has enough inherent drama to serve as a the foundation for a whole series of fascinating novels. Or, if you’re Marvin, you could use it as the basis for a pun about pissing yourself!