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Herb and Jamaal, 7/12/13

Herb’s mother-in-law is a fallen angel, cast out of Heaven after she and her evil confederates attempted to rebel against the Almighty.

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 7/12/13

The introduction of flatlander science into Hootin’ Holler could have radical implications for the lives of the community’s inhabitants, which is why Maddy’s boy will probably be burned at the stake by the end of the week.

Dick Tracy, 7/12/13

“I know cigarette smoke could really irritate a throat injury, Dick, so just say something if you don’t want me to light up. No? Nothing? I’ll just take your silence as permission!”

Blondie, 7/12/13

It’s kind of sad when your real name is more embarrassing than “Pastrami Guy.”

Mother Goose and Grimm, 7/12/13

Grimm would like to “take a personal day,” for sex.

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Momma, 7/6/13

Normally I do not endorse Momma’s attempt to micromanage her children’s lives. But the fact that Francis has shown up at her house (where he does not live) in the middle of the day in what appear to be his pajamas makes me wonder if for once her maternal concern is legitimate.

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 7/6/13

The fact that Pappy is grinning blankly while staring at nothing really reinforces the punchline here. “Can’t hear a word the wimminfolk are saying! Are they talkin’ about me? Guess I’ll just smile and hope for the best.”

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Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 6/26/13

Oh, look, Cuzzin Zeldy has arrived in Hootin’ Holler! Her brand of pagan spiritualism may provide a welcome alternative to Parson Tuttle and his desperate, fraudulent promises. Her first attempt to transform the theological world of the townsfolk involves informing them that chickens and other animals killed for their meat have immortal souls, and will vengefully haunt those who murdered/ate them. Could be awkward!

Spider-Man, 6/26/13

I’ve never really doubted J. Jonah Jameson’s journalistic instincts before. I’ve had plenty of questions about his journalistic ethics, sure, obviously, but I always assumed the guy knows what sells. But if people won’t buy your tabloid when the front cover features a sugar-crazed mob angrily wielding candy bars and screaming for the blood of a mayor who’s deep in the pocket of Big Public Health, maybe print is dead.