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Crankshaft, 5/21/07

Since a Crankshaft is a Funky Winkerbean sister strip, talk of death ought to make any character within earshot worry that they’re next in line for a demise that is both informative (to the reader) and agonizing (to the character … and, OK, also to the reader). The hilarious switcharoo in the final panel shows that the ’Shaft has not in fact worn his omnipresent baseball cap to yet another funeral, but is merely continuing his reign of terror over the cowed ladies of the Garden Club. To be honest I’ve never really understood his svengali-like hold over these innocent horticulture enthusiasts; there has to be some sort of cult-like angle to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next Garden Club speech starts very similarly to the one we see here, but ends instead at a table set with lots of little Dixie cups full of Kool-Aid.

Blondie, 5/21/07

Dagwood Bumstead — overeater, oversleeper, underachiever, tool moocher, intellectual soul mate to middle-schooler Elmo — has never been particularly troubled by shame. Thus his sudden look of mingled guilt and confusion in the final panel of this strip must indicate that his dream — with its “cherries the size of bowling balls” — got very, very weird indeed. Good taste, and our own peace of mind, must preclude us from contemplating the matter further.

Hi and Lois, 5/21/07

I’d blame this on another wacky coloring sweatshop mix-up, but the rug looks like this in black and white, too. There are only two reasons to have an inky black wall-to-wall carpet: to remind you of the dark abyss of Death that will one day open up and swallow your soul (and the Flagstons don’t seem like the type) or to absorb any and all liquids you might care to spill onto it without show visible stains. There’s a reason that they leave Trixie sitting in front of that window for 20 hours a day.

Mark Trail, 5/21/07

Oh, Mark, Mark, Mark. You’re so eager to impress your chesty little friend that you’ve blown the cover off of your journalistic M.O. “Take a boring story from three years ago that nobody remembers, replace a few paragraphs with updated information, and … ka-CHING! Another fat paycheck, plus a free trip away from my Stepford Wife and freaky gap-toothed big-headed not-son!”

I’m pretty sure that panel two offers the first look at a dangling mouse corpse with its head half-masticated to ever appear in the comics pages.

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Gil Thorp, 5/19/07

Everyone who’s been whining about how relentlessly depressing and maudlin Funky Winkerbean’s cancer storyline may change their tune once they get a load of Gil Thorp’s frenzied, hard-to-follow take on the same material. My guess is that Coach Mrs. Coach Thorp is not, in fact, being told that she has cancer — the “bad news” will be that her insurance co-pay has gone up from $20 to $40 or something — but her student will spread the news to her squabbling teammates that Coach is on death’s door, and hilarious lesser-Shakespeare-comedy-of-misunderstanding-style hijinks will ensue, interspersed among Clambake’s down-home, vaguely racially offensive antics. It’ll be all cleared up right around the time the Lady Mudlark softball team gets bounced in the second round of the playdowns, and we’ll all learn a valuable lesson: namely, that nobody you actually know will ever get cancer.

Meanwhile, nobody will pay attention to the emotional and physical scars left by the vicious monkey attack on Blondie McWhatshername in panel three. The sinister simian has already clawed off most of her nose, and now it’s coming back for more.

Blondie, 5/19/07

It was distressing enough to learn that the Bumsteads’ neighborhood is full of vicious feral dogs who travel under the cover of night. Now we see that even the day isn’t safe, as this middle-school mafia travels from house to house demanding cash for work they don’t perform. The suburbs are even more terrifying than I could have imagined!

Apartment 3-G, 5/19/07

Some might argue that the revelation that Lu Ann’s veins are filled not with blood but some viscous black fluid indicates that she’s a robot, which would go a long way towards explaining her limited emotional range and general dimness. I prefer to believe that she’s been possessed by the X-Files’ black oil, and that “Albert Pinkham Ryder” is an avatar of the alien invasion force that’s been forcing her to paint endless numbers of boring fern watercolors to advance their sinister and inscrutable plans. In makes as much sense as anything else, which is to say: none at all.

9 Chickweed Lane, 5/19/07

A lot of people have been kvetching about this week’s 9 Chickweed Lane, in which Edda waxes maudlin about how nobody seems to understand the difference between being a dancer and being a professional dancer. As a non-traditional-job-having type myself (though my wife informed me this weekend that I did not actually qualify as “funemployed,” as much as I might like the word), I had a bit more sympathy than most, but even I was finding it pretty wearisome by the end … until suddenly it turned into Edda wearing short shorts and encountering a centaur, or unicorn, or something in the middle of a New York City park, and BAM! HOW YA LIKE ME NOW? It’s totally insane and doesn’t make any sense, but at least it’s more fun that Lu Ann’s leaky, addled skull.

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Blondie, 5/13/07

The saddest thing is that the central joke of this strip — that Blondie has been utterly charmed into an aroused frenzy by her pampering, and is eager to discovery what other surprises her husband has prepared for her, while Dagwood has one foot out the door as he’s planning to head out for a “men’s foursome” — is so in keeping with the well-established dynamic of the Bumstead marriage that I barely noticed it. The thing that really disturbed me is the heart that’s drifted up into Blondie’s word balloon in the final panel. I have no idea what it’s supposed to represent semantically. I suppose it could be “love” as a noun and term of endearment, rather than “love” as a verb, which it usually stands for — but then it ought to have a comma after it. Really, the fact that it’s sitting after a comma just makes it all the more anomalous to me. Mostly I’m worried that Dag and Blondie have ingested some kind of potent hallucinogen and now believe themselves to be conversing using abstract symbols rather than normal human speech.

Family Circus, 5/13/07

This strip is a subtle but powerful reminder of the strict laws of patriarchy that govern the Family Circus. Note that Dolly wonders who their mother would be if her parents hadn’t met, not who their father would be. On Mother’s Day, she assumes that her mother is just an interchangeable womb who could have been replaced by any number of other females from other times and places and their family would have remained pretty much the same.

I really enjoy the fact that all the other comics moms in Billy’s thought balloon are just sort of idly looking off into the distance, except for one. FBOFW’s Elly is looking straight at the eldest Keane boy in goggle-eyed horror, as if contemplating how excruciating it would have been to pass that enormous melonhead through her birth canal.

Doodles by Mac & Sack, 5/13/07

Someone’s kind of fixated on the idea of being crushed to death by a boa constrictor, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’m also disturbed the puffed-out cheeks of “the Doughboy” in the Doodle Zoo: they clearly indicate that he’s dying horribly as the smart-ass little koala cracks wise. I am kind of amused that the Doughboy seems to have lost his “Pillsbury” moniker at the last minute due to trademark infringement concerns, though it does bring to mind the notion of an American infantryman, having survived the hell of combat in the trenches against the Hun’s forces on the Western Front, being felled by an unexpected snake attack.

Panels from Dennis the Menace, 5/13/07

I’m not showing you the rest of this strip, because these panels perfectly set up the Dennis the Menace strip we’d all like to see, the one where Mr. Wilson murders Dennis with a pair of garden shears.

Panel from Mary Worth, 5/13/07

Since Vera’s so angry at Von, it’s ironic that she’s remembering him at the height of his glory: all decked out in his yellow suit, shirt, and facepaint, standing in front of that blue door, and disco dancing like nobody’s business.