Post Content

Apartment 3-G, 6/5/06

Let’s take a break from the current brain-taxing (or is it mind-numbing?) Apartment 3-G storyline and, like our leering layabouts in panel four, appreciate the sight of these two fine ladies enjoying a jog. Apparently these two jokers are a constant discomfort-causing presence on that particular park bench, because unlike the casually limb-exposing joggers in the background, Margo and Tommie have taken the precaution of covering up every inch of potentially titillating skin. Under most circumstances, Margo’s turtleneck would qualify as the Most Prudish Workout Outfit Ever, but Tommie has one-upped her by incomprehensibly choosing to wear a black polo shirt under her long-sleeved tracksuit! This way, once their running route takes them through Little Lancaster, Brooklyn’s famous Amish district, all they’ll have to do to avoid being pelted with stones is pull out their bonnets.

This entry simply cannot end without taking a few potshots at the individual at the far right of panel three. The pulled-up white socks, the knock-kneed, falling-forward, spasmodic running style, the dark glasses — he’s got “victim” written all over him. Godspeed, buddy. Watch out for the dude in the backwards baseball cap — after that glare from Margo, he’s gonna be pissed.

Post Content

Apartment 3-G, 5/29/05

You’ve already had your fun with it, but I can’t not say it. Ascot ASCOT ASCOT! Holy crap, Janitor Scott’s wearing an ascot. And I don’t know what the deal is with his collar, but it makes him look like less like a rich guy and more like a rich vampire.

Now, some of you may doubt that Scott would just lounge around his opulent Manhattan digs wearing an ascot. Isn’t it a little formal? Wouldn’t a purple silk smoking jacket be more appropriate? Well, ignoring the fact that he’s dressing to impress a date, I offer a data point for you. A few years ago, I got bumped up to business class on a transatlantic flight. In addition to spoiling all other forms air travel for me for life, this experience brought me face to face (well, more like back-of-head to face, since he was sitting behind me) with a member of the entrenched economic elite, who was — and I’m not making this up — wearing a red polka-dotted ascot, deck shoes, a white shirt and white pants, and a jaunty sailor’s hat, much like the one sported by the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island. It was as if he expected to step directly off the jetway at Dulles and onto his enormous yacht. Now, I don’t know about you, but I usually find air travel so unpleasant and uncomfortable that I try to wear clothes that are as comfortable as possible, meaning that I’m generally decked out at one step above hobo status. Thus, I can only conclude that rich people find ascots comfortable. And so the fact that Scott has casually slung one around his neck here makes perfect sense to me.

What doesn’t ring true is the notion that Ascot Boy, with this modern decorator’s nightmare of an apartment, chock-a-block with Picassos and busts of Herodotus and Buddha and stately paneled doors and Second Empire mirrors and what not, would choose to cook Thai food for his date. I mean, first, obviously he would have his manservant do the actual cooking; and second, the only kind of food that would go with this apartment would be fine French cuisine or something English and bad for your heart, not some vulgar concoction from heathen Siam.

Post Content

Josh’s indecisiveness means extra bonus comics for you!

Ziggy, 5/25/05

Proof that Rex Morgan, M.D. isn’t alone in the category of Comics Whose Authors Should Really Read The Dialogue Aloud Before Choosing Which Words To Boldface or Underline. I’m trying to think of what the pizza emporium representative could have said that would make this intonation make sense. “We have a special on our five-cheese pizza.” “Really? …do you have five-cheese pizzas?” “Uh, yeah, we have a special on it.” Really? …do you have five-cheese pizzas?” “Um…”

I should cut him some slack, I guess. He’s a mouse. It’s an achievement that he’s learned to speak English and operate a phone.

Sally Forth, 5/25/05

Ces, you magnificent bastard, if this storyline ends with Sally poking at a mummified cat corpse with the handle of her tennis racket while Hilary screams in terror and grief, I will be deeply impressed. Tip to Ted: a casual aside at such a vulnerable moment along the lines of “Kitty heard that you were going away to Paris for a week so she killed herself” equals seven days of gettin’ it on in the City of Light without bratty child interference.

Apartment 3-G, 5/25/05

You say you hate to see him go, Lu Ann, but it’s sure giving you a nice opportunity to stare at his ass, isn’t it? I notice in this strip that Lu Ann and Janitor Scott are parting ways in SoPink, the all-pink district in Manhattan that the hipsters seem to have discovered lately. Time Out New York says SoPink is the new DUMBO.

Update: 158 comments, and nobody points out that I got the day of the week wrong in the title of this post? Thank God for the future Mrs. C.