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Mark Trail, 2/28/11

“His name is Mark Trail and he is American.” God, has any phrase ever been so perfectly calculated to make your proud to be from the U.S. — or, if you aren’t from the U.S, to make you ashamed for being a filthy foreigner who can’t vote for the same President that Mark Trail votes for? (Mark Trail casts his ballot with his fist, so that there’s never any question of “voter intent”.) My heart was so swelled with patriotism upon reading this that I almost missed the insane implication that underlies this statement, namely that Mark somehow drifted in his small boat to another country, an exotic tropical island inhabited by white people. Who are these mysterious tribeswomen? Why have they dragged Mark back to their home rather than seeking medical attention for that festering black wound on his forehead? What oppressive regime causes them to fear being discovered in even this half-assed act of kindness? Why does Mark keep an autographed photo of his wife in his wallet? Is it in case he forgets her name, or forgets which of the baffling and terrifying females in his life he’s married to?

Crock, 2/28/11

God help me, I have to say that I like almost everything about this Crock strip. I like the way the camel is drawn to some kind of realistic scale, dwarfing the bartender and all the human-sized furniture in the strip. I like his nonviolent but apparently extremely effective threat to slobber all over our speciesist barkeep. But mostly I like the dialogue-less third panel, in which the camel grins at us triumphantly, with the telltale cartoon bubbles over his head indicating that he’s already well on his way to being drunk. Kudos to you, my soused desert-dwelling friend!

B.C., 2/28/11

Today’s B.C. accidentally raises an interesting question about primitive societies: in tiny early hominid bands — there can’t be more than, what, 10 named characters in the entire B.C. universe, right? — where everyone knew each other intimately, could much of what we think of as crime ever happen?

Apartment 3-G, 2/28/11

Ha, it’s only Monday and Margo is already getting lit. There’s a number of ways this story can end — in recriminations, in violence, in oversharing — and all of them are delicious.

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Apartment 3-G, 2/26/11

Look at that sly smile on Margo’s face. There’s nothing that she likes better than to see a couple of elevator fetishists getting together to “take a ride,” if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and if you don’t, I’m talking about having sex in an elevator with a lot of great early 20th century iron work. Sure, Margo is sad to lose her new boyfriend, but the fact that Lu Ann will be losing hers more than makes up for it.

Dick Tracy, 2/26/11

“I can’t shoot the monster in cold blood”? Cripes, Dick is going soft. “Hey, are you trying to steal my watch?” “What? You took your watch off yourself, and you’re on the other side of th–” BLAM BLAM BLAM

Shoe, 2/26/11

I am not comfortable with the cheerful way that the Perfesser is patting his chest in panel one as he boasts of his weight loss. “Yep, I’ve lost twelve pounds on my diet — and it all came right off my man-boobs!”

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Crankshaft, 2/21/11

Last week’s big action in Crankshaft consisted of Rose, the ’Shaft’s son-in-law’s senile, unlikable mother, leaving the house out of spite after being told not to do so, and then falling on the ice, with no one around to help her. Apparently this week will be taken up entirely by Rose lying on the pavement, presumably terribly injured, cracking wise (or perhaps cracking senile dementia) as she slowly freezes to death. Crankshaft is, of course, the “light-hearted” Funkyverse strip, so grab your popcorn and get ready for a laugh riot of gradually numbing extremities.

Apartment 3-G, 2/21/11

Every day, Lu Ann is discovering another one of the joys of dating the extremely dumb. Today she learns that you can use tired old clichés and they’ll think you’re incredibly smart and witty for coming up with them. My one regret about today’s strip is that there isn’t some audio accompaniment to make clear exactly how badly Paul botches the pronunciation of “curator.”

Dick Tracy, 2/21/11

I’m posting today’s Dick Tracy so you can compare it to Saturday’s and see that, yes, it’s just giving you the same basic information in a different sequence. This happens over and over again, forever, until the sun expands into a red giant, killing everybody. Today’s strip is mainly notable because “doze” is spelled “dose.” Presumably this is because, come on, who the hell would bother to edit Dick Tracy, though it’s possible that Dick is a closet dope fiend and is afraid to shoot up or take goofballs or whatever lest Toasterhead gain the upper hand. (The strip’s previous casual use of drug lingo may be instructive in this regard.)

Dennis the Menace, 2/21/11

OH SNAP DENNIS JUST CALLED AMERICA’S MOM A HO