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Phantom, 8/10/25

One of Phantom‘s many charms is its meticulous attention to aviation history. That doomed B-17F Flying Fortress is the Miss Nonalee II, captured and looted by the Luftwaffe at at the end of 1943, then repainted with German markings for clandestine operations. Phantom’s raceplane is F-ANPY, one of two de Havilland DH.88 Comets sold to the French and last seen in poor condition at Étampes, France, on 16 June 1940, the day the Germans invaded. So these particular aircraft could plausibly have wound up in this Phantom timeline.

But I’m worried about the Walkers’ marriage. Look at the guy, fully suited up at breakfast, pecking at his miserable egg and millet with his mind clearly on work, no eye contact (no eyes!), cryptic communications, keeping secrets until there’s no turning back yikes. And “Remove the …? !!–the canopy!?” sounds to me like Phantom will indeed be flying with Diana tonight, but she’ll be landing all alone.

Next: New Adventure—Savarna Comforts the Ghost-Who-Grieves

Crankshaft, 8/10/25

Plenty of local detail here to justify a sweet tax deduction for the author’s “research” trip to Winnipeg: mascot Boomer there, Coach O’Shea’s beard, and #86 wide receiver Kennans Clercius. The embedded joke is that this is an actual stunt play that could work to shake off tight coverage: the slot back moves before the snap to misdirect defenders; QB hands the ball off to the slot back, who hands to Clercius, who flips to the running back, who throws to the QB. The curl “sluggo” (slant-and-go) route is a misdirect by the split end to open a seam for the QB to run through after the catch. It works in Canadian football because pre-snap motion (the “waggle”) is permitted and the field is wider, so there’s time and space to spread out the defenders.

But the funny part is seeing the Crankshaft frog-marched off to prison, just like the author will be once the IRS learns that Boomer’s #00 jersey is gold, not blue. Hey, it would work in Slylock Fox and Dick Tracy, why not here?

Luann, 8/10/25

Ha, ha, the DA pushed for “intent to defraud” and Brad didn’t plead out. Saved seventy-eight cents; got five years. So I ask: is a year of Brad’s life really worth sixteen cents? Let’s have a reader poll!

Dustin, 8/10/25

“Paparazzi, Fitch? What about that guy in the corner with the sketch pad and colored pencils? He thinks I don’t see him, but I do … always. My life is not my own. You think it’s the camera that makes paparazzi intrusive?”

—Uncle Lumpy

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Marvin, 8/9/25

Sincere thanks to the editors who demanded that Marvin‘s creative team add the garden hose, change the punchline, and recolor the runoff.

Blondie, 8/9/25

Like me, Dagwood is of a generation for whom drinking out of the backyard hose brings back cherished summer memories of refreshment, petty transgression, and freedom. If Elmo’s lemonade was tapped from such a wellspring of fond nostalgia, Dagwood will savor it all the more. Nevertheless, he’ll make damn sure it came from Elmo’s own backyard, not that pissy toddler’s up the block.

Mother Goose and Grimm, 8/9/25

And anyway, it could be a lot worse.

9 Chickweed Lane, 8/9/25

Way back in 2016, I outlined the problem faced by 9 Chickweed Lane after the 2008 consummation of Amos’s and Edda’s courtship, which resolved the sexual tension that had long been the foundation of the strip. The solution, then as now, was to create Amos and Edda surrogates and run the whole will-they-or-won’t-they routine (spoiler alert: they will) over and over again.

But after nine years of barely disguised reruns, the narrative present has become overrun with Amos and Edda surrogates whispering coy innuendos, sublimating their lust into musical performance, and humping all over the damn place. What to do?

Apparently this: slip the bounds of time and plant those recaps in the past and future. Hence today’s legacy Edda demanding attention from prepubescent Amos, the pair’s future children, teenage twins Lolly and Polly, tormenting their own thralls, and an assortment of past, present, and future walk-on foils being sexually one-upped by the regulars. One constant is that they all seem to migrate to this lake here, which by now has got to be more grotty than Marvin’s pool.

Hi there, faithful reader! I’m sitting in for Josh through Sunday the 17^th, with a sampling of comics even Josh won’t touch, as well as the old soapers I know you crave. If you run into any issues with the site, subscriber emails, or Patreon posts, please contact me at uncle.lumpy@comcast.net and I’ll do what I can to help. Enjoy!

—Uncle Lumpy

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Daddy Daze, 9/21/24

How it started.

Blondie, 9/21/24

How it’s going.

Archie, 9/21/24

Veronica tries a little too hard to sell Archie’s lame observation—not even a joke, really. Foreground Babe knows the score.

Luann, 9/21/24

What is it with this strip and basic repairs? We’ve seen Toni use a torque wrench to remove bolts (when the torque is zero you’ll know it’s off!) and a pipe wrench backwards until the fitting broke and flooded the laundry room. And now instead of splurging twelve bucks on a good flap valve, Bets here commits to a lifetime of jiggling the handle. Which is somehow a metaphor for her relationship with Gunther but I don’t wish to explore that any further thanks.

Gil Thorp, 9/21/24

Coach Kaz—man of action—has a go-getter’s literal-mindedness. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for Gil. Here, at this table, drinking wine with you! He invited me!”

Program note: Rod Whigham, Gil Thorp‘s artist since 2008, is retiring. He will be replaced on September 30 by Rachel Merrill, who looks to me like a good fit. Congratulations, Rod and Rachel!

9 Chickweed Lane, 9/21/24

Here we see that Edda’s self-image pretty much corresponds to Amos’s image of her, albeit with subtle enhancements. And Amos, “briefed” isn’t quite the right word; the one you’re looking for is “pantsed.”

Well, that’s all for me; Josh will be back tomorrow. This was a lot of fun—thanks, everybody! But as much enjoyment as I get subbing in for Josh, it’s also a lot of work. So I think I’ll go find myself a nice park bench and sit for a while.

—Uncle Lumpy