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Mark Trail, 8/29/12

Gosh, what are our sheep-killing, camera-stealing, Rusty-menacing doofuses up to now? Just a little light illegal organ harvesting, that’s all! Say, what do you suppose those “other parts” the dark-haired fellow is referring to might be? (SPOILER: Probably aphrodisiacal bear penis.) I also like the way this fellow carefully explains to his friend why his bear-bagging idea is so potentially lucrative. You’d think he’d already know this, but maybe not? “Black market? I … I thought we would just go out and hunt for the sport of it. You know, you and me, in the wilderness, testing ourselves against nature, really getting to know each other … God, I feel like such a fool.”

This isn’t the first time Mark Trail has grappled with gallbladder poaching, either. But then, all Mark Trail characters and plot points return again eventually, in slightly different combinations, following the strip’s dream-logic. Organ harvesting? Indian artifacts? Two dumb guys stealing Rusty’s camera? Every strip is an exercize in déjà vu.

Mary Worth, 8/29/12

Oh, man, this is great! Wilbur has come through a near-death experience and hasn’t deepened spiritually at all; instead, he’s learned that life is short and the time to get his is now. “There’s strong buzz about the disaster! Readers will be interested in my first-person perspective! A showcase piece in the Santa Royale Whosit will catapult me to the network morning news shows, an instant book sold in airports everywhere and, with any luck, a made-for-HBO movie starring Kevin Spacey as me! I’m gonna be rich, rich, filthy rich! Say, I wonder if I should tell Mary that she can stop doing my job for me without pay?” Oh, you’ll wish you did, Wilbur, because it sounds like she’s going to lay a load of heavy meaningfulness on some poor letter writer that’s probably going to ruin all your fun.

On an unrelated note, I dare you to explain how Wilbur’s hands are supposed to be attached to his arms in panel one. In panel two, I already know how Mary’s head is attached to her shoulders: very securely.

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 8/29/12

I guess this is supposed to be about the fire department attempting to draft Snuffy and Lukey and force them to contribute something back to the community they’ve sponged off of for years, but when I first read it I thought maybe our protagonists were about to be burned at the stake.

Beetle Bailey, 8/29/12

YAAAY, PEACE HAS BROKEN OUT EVERYWHERE, THERE’S NOTHING MORE FOR THE ARMY TO DO EVER AGAIN

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Apartment 3-G, 8/25/12

Dude, loosen the grip: Margo isn’t leaving, you are. Or maybe not! Ever the professional, Margo tells Cooper, “I will gladly break a prior commitment to avoid spending any more time with you than absolutely necessary. But no need for thanks — that’s just the kind of service my clients have come to expect from me, even though it’s my first day in this business!”

Dick Tracy, 8/25/12

You know, I don’t think I’d eat at a sushi joint at the back of an aquarium, especially if it had really low prices. But of course Phishface is a cannibal, not an epicure: he dines to assimilate the strength of vanquished foes, so taste and freshness aren’t deal-breakers. This adventure can end only in the gruesome hook-related death of Phishface, or a grand feast of bland, stale toreshimaki.

Also, whales are fish. Told you so.

Beetle Bailey, 8/25/12

Oh, look — more golf crap!

The Lockhorns, 8/25/12

You know, for somebody who routinely gets rowdy drunk, monopolizes the hottest chicks, and picks fights, Leroy Lockhorn still gets invited to a lot of parties.

— Uncle Lumpy

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Shoe, 8/11/12

The empty benches behind Roz actually speak rather well of the bird-people of Shoe-world. Rather than coming into open court to gawk at the spectacle of a poor delusional woman attempting to seek legal relief from her own biology, they have stayed away to give her some small amount of privacy and, to the extent possible, dignity.

Apartment 3-G, 8/11/12

Wow, this guy has answer to everything, doesn’t he? “Oh, is my main reference’s number not on my resume? Just take a look at … this business card! Oh, you don’t think someone from L.A. would have heard of your tiny middlebrow art gallery? Maybe that’s because I’m … not from L.A. at all, but from New York City — the very place where your art gallery is located!” Jesus, dude, just tell her you Googled her after you saw the job ad on Craigslist.

Beetle Bailey, 8/11/12

Sarge is not what you’d call an intellectual, so it makes sense that he looks so distressed at suddenly finding himself the subject of and a participant in an experimental work of recursive meta-fiction.

Pluggers, 8/11/12

Pluggers would rather spend their declining years staring in absolute silence at a tired cultural relic of their bygone youth than interact with their families. Also, they can’t be bothered to learn how to program a DVR.