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Mark Trail, 9/28/09

You know, while Mary Worth was busy pumping ancillary characters full of lead, Mark Trail was offering us the unusual spectacle of Mark experiencing the blunt head trauma-induced unconsciousness he usually dishes out to others. The most exciting aspect of this plot is not any danger to Mark — surely he can punch out any real threats to his person while out cold — but rather the prospect of the feeble Rusty wandering aimlessly around the alligator-lousy swamp with only his own hideousness to protect him. Sadly, we weren’t even given a few hopeful days to imagine that Mark’s deformed ward had been devoured by a vicious reptile before the inevitable discovery that he’s safe and as sound as he ever is. I don’t normally root for stories about children in danger, but I make exceptions for Rusty.

Dick Tracy, 9/28/09

Oh, also, the soulful-eyed clown, who I pegged as the killer pretty much upon his first appearance, then briefly began to doubt the guilt of, turns out to be the killer after all! Thank goodness Dick Tracy isn’t challenging my plot-related expectations in any way, as I don’t think I could handle it.

Really, though, Dick Tracy isn’t particularly interested in the big-picture strokes of the plot at all: it’s not a “mystery” strip as such, as your most base impulses (sinister clown = murderer, in this case) are always likely to be correct. No, it’s more interested in following its own drifting dream logic on the way to its predetermined conclusion. So Ringo was a corporate whistleblower (OK) who was put into the care of the witness protection program (makes sense) and given a job running a circus (wait, what?). And Mr. Pops the clown worked at the company Ringo worked at, or something? And now everybody at the circus also hates Ringo, because … they also were profiting from the corporate malfeasance … or maybe because he’s a bad boss, or bad ringmaster? You might think that Mr. Pops’s accusations will be followed up on in future strips, but trust me, they won’t, not to anybody’s satisfaction, anyway. It’s not so much a “tightly constructive narrative” as one of those nightmares you have where you’re in college or a new job and you haven’t done your homework or learned any of your duties, and everyone is mad at you, and eventually you get eaten by a tiger.

Pluggers, 9/28/09

Kudos to pluggers for allowing their yards to revert to prairie, but why not go all the way? They ought to allow their human-style dwellings to decay, strip off their clothes, and go feral, like the beasts that they are. Of course, they may be devoured by their wild cousins who never experienced the softening effects of domesticity, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Beetle Bailey, 9/28/09

Ha ha, Sarge is closing his eyes and pretending that the only words he hears are “bigger,” “job,” and “harder”! Jesus, I am a fucking twelve-year-old.

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Fall Fundraiser update: So ends another week-long gin and Ritalin® binge Comics Curmudgeon fundraiser. Thank you for your generosity and patience — no more formal appeals until spring, promise! Of course, you can still contribute and get a bracelet for a week or so, and that PayPal button is always over there at the left — just sayin’! Seriously, you folks are great – thank you!

Funky Winkerbean, 9/26/09

Oh, game on! Serial P.O.W. Wally Winkerbean proves that brain damage or no, he’s still the disarming ladies’ man of days gone by. Five bucks on the table and Rana beams “that’s my Dad”, while Comic John’s Bat-cojones shrink to Robins’ eggs.

Apartment 3-G, 9/26/09

Shaky or no, drug-addled elderskank Bobbie Merrill still got game — Ruby passive-aggressively accepts her downgrade from friend to neighbor, as Bobbie deftly snags the “Doc” for an afternoon Ambien® adventure.

Beetle Bailey, 9/26/09

And who doesn’t love the Game of Golf? Ida Know, Not Me! General Halftrack’s odd collection of fetish objects suggests he’s a latter-day Fulvius Stella, lighting a white candle to invoke the tender mercies of Celtic Horse Goddess Epona, with a martini at the ready to help him forget That Special Night. And all dressed up for a Morris Dance.

And a few final matters —

Margo Moments — a Fall Fundraiser special, part 7

Apartment 3-G (panels) — 2/17, 3/13, 4/28, 5/11, 5/31, 6/23, 7/15, 7/21, 8/23, 9/13/2009

OK, you’re all up to date. What will Margo do next? Stay tuned!

Margo, Queen of the Universe!

Bracelet pix have been pouring in from Middle Earth to deepest space (the final frontier!), furthest Afghanistan to deepest Baltimore, Santa Royale General Hospital to a lonely Lhasa morgue. Here’s a sample:

Thanks to faithful reader AeroSquid, Josh and Amber and Aunt Lumpy for photographic documentation of the awesome range and power of What Margo Would Do!

Josh will be back Sunday; look for Sunday comics in the early evening. This has been a fun week; thanks, everybody!

— Uncle Lumpy

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Beetle Bailey, 9/18/09

Wow, I’m not sure who reeks of desperation more here: Sgt. Snorkel, wandering despondently around Camp Swampy in the middle of the night because he can’t be with his true love Beetle, or Sgt. Lugg, who has given up on having Sarge acknowledge any kind of affection for her and is now just offering no-strings-attached sex. Sarge is sad and lonely enough to take her up on it, but obviously he needs to get himself good and drunk first.

Blondie, 9/18/09

I’m a 35-year-old who spends much of his time writing a blog about Mary Worth and Apartment 3-G, so obviously I’m not “hip” and “with it” when it comes to the kids today, but: really? I always thought of Crocs as being dorky and suburban, not the sort of thing the kids would use to drive teachers crazy and “push the buttons” of anyone in authority. (Thanks for using the quote marks there, Blondie, as otherwise I would have assumed that some literal button-pushing was going on.) I suppose upon reflection that Crocs have all the necessary attributes for being a punk rock accessory, seeing as they’re both ugly and uncomfortable.

Hi and Lois, 9/18/09

Speaking of punk rock, here’s one of those scary, crazy, anything-goes Webcomics artists! Man, they’re a bunch of angry radicals, aren’t they! And why wouldn’t they be, with their failure to make as much money as the 50 or so widely syndicated newspaper comics artists? Don’t worry, my pink-haired friend; someday your son will be smugly paying gag writers to churn out daily installments of the strip you created before heading out to the golf course, right up to the point when the medium in which its published goes bankrupt.

Family Circus, 9/18/09

“I’m diggin’ up all the pets we buried and piecing together bits of their corpses to make a Frankenstein animal monster! Should I reanimate the dead matter using dark magic or perverted science?”

Ziggy, 9/18/09

Ziggy thinks that his parrot should know something about Quetzalcoatl, the fearsome flying snake god of the Aztecs! That’s because Ziggy experienced a psychotic break from reality, many years ago.

Speaking of breaks, psychotic and otherwise … I’m takin’ the next week off! But don’t worry, your favorite Uncle Lumpy will be here to amuse you. See you next Saturday!