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Gil Thorp, 7/3/18

In the annals of phoning it in, Gil Thorp stands as a colossus. And it’s contagious — unless Gil has taken to asking himself questions, the artist was supposed to draw Kaz in the first panel (“Wait a minute … did I just? … Aah, screw it!”).

Anyway, at Gil’s urging, beloved straight-shooting State Coach Colvin has promised no-hoper Kevin Pelwecki a big, steaming sack o’ nothing — walk-on tryout, no aid, thanks for stopping by, see ya kid. My advice? Take it, Kevin — it’s a damn sight better than anything you’ve got now. Especially the coaching!

Funky Winkerbean, 7/3/18

As his hermetic working relationship with Uber pal Pete grows more intense, Darin has gradually distanced himself from wife and family — fobbing off son “Sky” on his exhausted Mom, “forgetting” that wife Jessica lives three time zones away, and then using that as an excuse not to call her. Now, the image of his beloved Pete standing naked and dripping wet throws him into panic: “Must run from feeeeeeelings … !”

Tell me again who’s on the cosmic treadmill here?

9 Chickweed Lane, 7/3/18

The archives of the Comics Curmudgeon are littered with the bones of abandoned one-gag comics: Marmaduke is a big dog, Herb and Jamaal never say anything straight out, Heathcliff is nuts. If it weren’t for the occasional breath of “Everybody hates Grandpa” fresh air, Marvin would join them on the discard pile.

And so it is with 9 Chickweed Lane, with its now decade-long “Oh, the sexy, sexy music!” theme. Lately it’s just been a rotating cast of interchangeable partners rutting to unheard compositions. Is it wrong to want the Nazis back?.

Dustin, 7/3/18

Dude, have you ever read this comic?

— Uncle Lumpy

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Blondie, 9/18/17

Sometimes I wonder about the Bumsteads’ relationship. They have a sweet romantic backstory: Dagwood gave up his inheritance to marry flapper Blondie (née Boopadoop) for love. And they seem affectionate — kisses in and out the door, shared bed, respectful and brief arguments, even if Blondie seems to get the upper hand more often. No Lockhorns-grade emotional desert, that’s for sure. Still, I’m just not feeling the spark, y’know? Arlo and Janis, Walt and Connie, Darryl and Wanda, Henry and Alice, Frank and Nancy, Ted and Sally; hell, Gil and Mimi — you know those folks got it going on, right?

Maybe 87 years together sands off the highs and lows? Or having a pair of teenagers underfoot since oh, say, 1958 puts a lid on intimacy? Maybe living so long in the public eye encourages an excess of modesty? Not for me to judge.

Anyway, every once and a while like today a co-worker will open a window to the cauldron of longing, passion, and betrayal raging just outside Dagwood’s matrimonial bubble, and it leaves him pensive: Is he missing out on all the excitement? Could Blondie be stepping out on him like that? Did he blow a chance to bang this guy’s wife?

9 Chickweed Lane, 9/18/17

Erstwhile Catholic schoolboy Amos van Hoesen checks his list to see if there’s any sacrament, commandment, or sacred tradition he and his new bride have not yet reduced to a sexual fetish.

“Nope — we’re good, babe!”

Herb and Jamaal, 9/18/17

For this joke to work, you have to believe that Herb a) remembers his wedding year, b) can subtract, and c) hasn’t aged since the strip ran five years ago. Even so, Sarah’s estimate seems way high.

Isn’t it adorable that Herb’s coffee gets mad when he does?

Curtis, 9/18/17

Some guys find dress codes an unbearable affront to their dignity — I guess Curtis is one of those guys; I guess Greg isn’t. But jeez kid, don’t call your father a corporate stooge after all those years he put in at the DMV. He’s a government drone, and don’t you ever forget it.

— Uncle Lumpy

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Mark Trail, 10/15/16

And it’s an invasive wild boar – the very worst kind! What’s more, he’s either a really ROUGH sort, or a real GROUCH – it’s hard to tell from context. Maybe both!

But hey waitaminute: what are wild boars doing on a volcanic atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? I’m guessing they weren’t carried ashore in bundles of firewood like the ants. Maybe the neo-Aztecs who built the mountaintop temple imported boars for sacrifice until the boars figured out the deal and turned the tables?

Most likely it’s all a plot by Abbey Powell’s sinister “U.S. Department of Agriculture.” Alarmed by the invasion of fire ants, they brought in Formosan termites to control them. This turned out to be a terrible mistake. So they shipped in “beneficial” nematodes, which promptly started eating all the coral. The marine iguanas they imported to kill the nematodes quickly overwhelmed the beaches, so they airlifted in packs of boars and here we are. In a desperate attempt, Abbey has conned Mark Trail to come in and punch the boars into submission. I hope it works, because the next step is nuclear weapons.

Dick Tracy, 10/15/16

When someone is killed for persecuting an ethnic group with exactly two members, the police know where to start their investigation. When both of those members are friends or relatives of Dick Tracy, they have a pretty good idea where to stop it, too.

Phantom, 10/15/16

OK, so the Phantom has one of those Lone Ranger-style “see my unmasked face and die” gimmicks going on, and it apparently includes his wife??? Brrr….

Maybe he only goes all shadowy like this when we’re watching, which frankly hurts my feelings a little bit. Dude, we’re your fans. We stuck with you through Hide the Lion. We toughed it out through The College Kid — that’s gotta count for something. How ’bout a little peek at them baby blues?

Judge Parker, 10/15/16

OK, now that Bob Dylan has his Nobel Prize we’d better get used to the fact that Boomer culture is universal culture everywhere and forever.

At 77, ’60’s icon Spencer Davis (Gimme Some Lovin’) is old enough enough to work at Neddy’s factory, but not desperate enough for her starvation wages. From his retreat on California’s Catalina Island, he writes:

♬

Well, the factory’s collapsing, got a hole in the floor
Canes and walkers clacking on their way to the door
Let me through granny, I don’t want to be entombed
And you better hobble quicker, ’cause this place is doomed.

And I sure hope you make it — we olds can’t take it
You’ve got to: gimme some running (gimme, gimme some running)
Gimme some crushing, (gimme, gimme some crushing)
Gimme some shoving everyday.
Hey hey.

Hi there, faithful reader! I’m sitting in through Sunday the 23rd while Josh takes a break. Please let me know if you experience any access or comment-posting problems at uncle.lumpy@comcast.net. Enjoy!

— Uncle Lumpy