Hi and Lois, 7/12/22
Though I strongly believe in the comedy principle that specific things are funnier than vague things, I have kind of come to respect the fact that most comics dads have the same extremely ill-defined white-collar jobs they’ve had since the ’50s. Their wives got their jobs in the more specific ’80s and ’90s, so they’re in identifiable businesses like “real estate” or “catering,” but the husbands are still going to generic offices doing generic professional stuff in the year 2022. Today even Mr. Foofram looks utterly exhausted by this ruse, as he urges his employees to give 110% with an affect indicating that he’s giving about 35%, 40% tops.
On Sunday, America’s comics-reading public was “treated” to Ed Crankshaft — and this is no time for delicacy, so I’m just going to say it — fucking his girlfriend in a car less than three feet away from impressionable children. Today we learn that he likes to leave plates of rotting meat out to attract flies. I fear that this strip is beginning to realize that its main character will never experience any pushback or consequences for his actions, and that’s taking things to a very dark place.