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Apartment 3-G, 7/16/08

I’m a tad bit uncomfortable at the notion that the phrase “husky note of longing” is just sitting there in the comics pages where little children can see it — not because I’m sexophobic, but because I worry that impressionable eight-year-old-boys everywhere will try to imitate it, and end up sounding like Lauren Bacall. Wait, did I say “uncomfortable”? Scratch that, because that actually sounds hilarious.

In panel three, Margo is looking discombobulated and holding the phone several inches from he ear. She looks less like someone being proposed to and more like Peter Parker being berated by J. Jonah Jameson.

Beetle Bailey, 7/16/08

Good Lord, Walker-Browne Amalgamated Humor Enterprises LLC, how clear do I have to make it? ENVIRONMENTALISM DOES NOT WORK THAT WAY.

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For Better Or For Worse, 7/11/08

You know what it’s been way, way too long since we last did? A little bit of What They Say And What They Mean!

Apartment 3-G, 7/11/08

Jack may sound concerned about the possibility that riff-raff might be pillaging the Mills Gallery, but his facial expression in panel three conveys to me a certain growing sadistic glee. I predict that a certain trio of crackheads are about to be on the receiving end of a savage and righteous keying. Perhaps Jack’s inner vigilante has been frustrated for years by modern New York’s low crime rates, or, more likely, he may realize that an act of shocking violence is the quickest way into Margo’s affections.

Mark Trail, 7/11/08

One look at that second panel will show you why Kelly Welly is considered the sex symbol in this strip. Oh yeah, baby, roll that right eye a little further towards the side of your head while staring straight ahead with the left. Mmm-hmm, that’s the stuff.

Pearls Before Swine, 7/11/08

Oh, Mr. Pastis, I ignored you when you taunted Lynn Johnston. I ignored you when you tried to kill Jeffy. But Masky McDeath? Oh, well played, sir.

Gil Thorp, 7/11/08

More proof that illegal immigrants do the sort of dirty cleanup work that Americans won’t! Steve Rosen probably refused to drive in the winning run unless he got dental insurance and overtime pay. You wouldn’t have gotten that kind of lip from Elmer.

Ziggy, 7/11/08

Ha ha, Ziggy’s killed his only friend with off-brand dog food!

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Mary Worth, 7/10/08

Now that Mary’s been dumped, she’s taken off the alluring maroon one-piece belted number she was wearing as part of her seduction strategy, and changed into her lounging clothes, which apparently consist of t-shirts she scrounged from the “Lost and Found” box down at the cruise ship terminal in 1985. The shirt’s unnatural inky blackness should easily mask any butter stains as our jilted biddy eats her seafood scampi with her hands right out of the microwaveable plastic tray while standing over the sink. But will the hot pink island scene be dulled by her tears?

Cleats, 7/10/08

I don’t really talk about Cleats very often, because it resides in that netherworld of “generally not interesting enough to make fun of on my blog, but not actively offensive enough for me to go through the trouble of removing it from my Chronicle custom comics page.” This week’s strips have consisted of typical dull-ish whimsy, about a soccer ball that’s getting a little too warm after being left out on the sunny field during half time — until today, when we’re presented with the horrific image of an inanimate object somehow imbued not just with the power of thought, but also with the biological urges to eat and drink, and yet lacking any of the anatomical equipment needed to meet those needs. I can think of no crueler punishment that a sadistic creator could dish out.

Apartment 3-G, 7/10/08

Alan is turning out to be an even more delightfully incompetent drug dealer than any of us could have hoped. Over the past few weeks, he’s repeatedly violated such well-established Drug Dealer Rules as “Don’t smoke your product,” “Don’t smoke your product with your customers,” “Don’t use your straight job as a drug-dealing den,” and “Don’t let your crackhead customers hang around your straight job smoking crack when there’s a perfectly good alley out back.”

Ray, meanwhile, is showing the lethargic semi-consciousness that’s all too typical of users of depressant drugs like crack cocaine. However, even in Ray’s crack-numbed state, faithful reader Shandyowl recognizes something in the young man: himself. “I have been joking with my friends that Alan using his paycheck to buy some sort of generic non-specific narcotic is based on me and today I find that I am guesting in the strip!” Behold the uncanny resemblance:

“If only I were at home — I would have access to pictures where I am
actually wearing a yellow t-shirt, darn it!” he says.