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Mark Trail, 11/14/08

Let’s imagine that you just started reading Mark Trail, say, nine days ago. Now, this supposition puts us firmly in the realm of the thought experiment, because nobody has “started” reading Mark Trail anytime in the last few decades, obviously, print is dying and the strip is coasting on nostalgia and will keep being drawn until its last reader dies, in 2019, but imagine that you started reading it nine days ago. You would say to yourself, “Good Lord, this strip is insanely action packed, with all the punching!” And then you’d be hooked, and willing to sit through eight to eleven months of mangled syntax and giant mutant animals and questionable ecological science and horribly misguided sexual advances and Mark’s eerie, soulless grin waiting for the next punch. But if you started reading this strip, say, twenty-three days ago, you would have inevitably given up on it before we got to this awesome Mark-Rabbit battle of fists.

What I’m trying to say is that this strip needs MORE PUNCHING, which will allow it to grow its audience and, eventually, be the only strip left in your daily paper (which, due to repeated cutbacks, will be only eight pages long, and will feature Mark Trail, obituaries, baseball box scores, and a single tire ad). BUT: will more Mark Trail punching diminish the awesomeness of each individual punch? Discuss.

Mark and Rabbit sure are striking iconic poses in the final panel, what with Mark’s fist swung up in a classic uppercut and his shirt collar mussed with exertion, and Rabbit’s hat flying off his now senseless head. It would be better if the two of them were even remotely near one another.

Dick Tracy, 11/14/08

Now, if you had just started reading Dick Tracy nine days ago, you’d think, “Gee! In this strip, robots both perpetrate and absorb all the violence! This must mean that actual humans never suffer any harm here.” And you would be so, so wrong. The only question is how Braces will be horribly dismembered; in true ironic fashion, it will involve his own robot, somehow, but it remains to be seen how many of his limbs will still be attached to his torso by the time he finally expires.

I admit to being charmed by “U R NEXT, POLICE PERSON!” Has Brute Force’s vocabulary chip been programmed to be carefully gender neutral, or can he simply not distinguish between the he-fleshling and she-fleshing varieties?

Apartment 3-G, 11/14/08

There are two reasons to love Lu Ann’s sassy Bea Arthur lookalike cousin Blaze: (1) he’s sassy, and (2) he mysteriously doesn’t look exactly like every other youngish male type in Apartment 3-G’s New York City. Today, we learn the reason for (2): instead, he looks exactly every other youngish male type in Apartment 3-G’s world outside New York City.

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Mary Worth, 11/12/08

Never mind Mary and Frank’s hissy fit over the most effective way to mold your daughter to your will; what sort of sordid public coupling is going on to their left in panel one? Oh, sure, Coachy McPervert is just “helping” his young skater with her “coat” — but that doesn’t explain why she’s reaching inside his jacket to pull him closer. Looks like some skating coaches know the power of good, old-fashioned positive reinforcement (which, I can’t emphasize enough, only works this way if the skater you’re coaching is not your blood relative).

Apartment 3-G, 11/12/08

The Who On Earth Talks Or Acts This Way Follies continue unabated in Apartment 3-G. As near as I can tell, Gary is freaking out because Tommie went public with their relationship. Which sort of makes sense, because wouldn’t you be embarrassed about dating the least interesting Apartment 3-G girl?

Crankshaft, 11/12/08

Oh, look, it’s apparently characters sitting silently on the couch while the TV news inflicts terrible jokes on them week in Crankshaft. I note that the characters are not watching these wacky news jokesters together, because not even Crankshaft characters want to hang out with Crankshaft characters.

Family Circus, 11/12/08

“Thank you, Grandma, for invoking the name of Beth-Chu-Harebzed over my soup, turning it inky black, like the soul of our satanic master! Now it will give me the strength of ten thousand demons!”

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Funky Winkerbean, 11/11/08

Every long-running narrative form drifts towards its own extremes, which explains how Funky Winkerbean went from being an occasionally melancholy strip about high school hijinks to a charnel house. Hopefully today’s near-wordless installment is about to take things to the next level: instead of being struck down by alcoholism or cancer or garden-variety despair, Montoni is going to be devoured by the rampaging Tyrannosaurus Rex that has escaped from a secret underground genetics lab, and is now eating everything in sight. Hopefully, the new accelerated pace of death will kill off all the strip’s characters in short order, opening us up for a new, happier beginning, or at least three blank panels a day in which nobody weeps openly.

Crankshaft, 11/11/08

Meanwhile, over in the “fun” Funkyverse strip, the complex issue of Afghan poppy cultivation — which is the only means that many impoverished Afghan farmers have to make a living, but which fuels terrorism and religious extremism in the region and desperate addiction in the United States — provides the source material for a terrible joke about pastries for Crankshaft to squint angrily at. Crankshaft is irritated by this news report, naturally, because it promises that the smack that makes his life bearable will be more expensive in the coming months.

Apartment 3-G, 11/11/08

The third-stringers continue to stink up the field here in Apartment 3-G, as Gary, completely rattled by a little razzing from Dr. Kelly, flails emotionally at Tommie for no reason. “You two work together. Is he always a little … ODD???? Hey, don’t walk so far away when I’m shouting paranoid nonsense at you!” It’s just as well that Tommie found out that Gary can’t deal with difficult people now, before she took him home to be terrified by Margo.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 11/11/08

“Seriously, no more! Your heterosexual shenanigans repulse me.”

Marmaduke, 11/11/08

“Guess who’s got rabies! Me, soon enough.”

Pluggers, 11/11/08

OH FOR THE LOVE GOD NO PLUGGERS AND GARAGE CLEANING NOOOOOO

(For you Johnny- and Janey-come-latelies who don’t know what “garage cleaning” is code for, travel back in time.)