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Jeez, our power was restored this afternoon, but there was deep server wonkiness this evening that almost forced me to put off a new post yet another day. Thank goodness it got resolved just in time for me to put up a loopy, two-o’clock-in-the-morning, caffeine-fueled post. I feel like I’m seeing transparent divorce birds bumping see-through uglies in midair or something.

Mark Trail, 11/28/05

I was convinced that we were going to be forced to endure the Most Boring Mark Trail Plotline Ever™, which seemed destined to go something like this: “Hey, it’s an incredibly rare bird!” “Let’s call in an expert to verify it!” “No, that’s not the bird you’re looking for.” “Oh, well, thanks anyway!” But just in time to stave off this disastrously dull denouement arrives this clan of inbred, overall-clad bumpkins, determined to shake things up by striking back at the Northeastern liberal elite the only way they know how: by kidnapping an innocent dog. Perhaps the long, snooze-inducing buildup is Elrod’s little way of telling us that, despite Mark Trail’s ostensible nature-focused narrative purpose, actual nature is actually boring, and we should be thankful when the strip returns to its true calling, which is to say: fisticuffs in which our attractive, square-jawed hero defeats ugly people. You better watch yourself, there, no-neck: Mark Trail doesn’t take kindly to dognappers. You’re much more likely to get a knuckle sandwich than the “over a thousand bucks” you’re dreaming about.

By the way, the phrase “Pa, please don’t steal any more pets!” is going on a craptacular item that you can buy with good money soon. Mark my words.

Blondie, 11/29/05

You know what I like best about today’s Blondie? It’s the fact that the punchline depends on a homonym, so it’s only obvious in word balloon form. I’d like to imagine that Baldo McMustache here continues to stare blankly at the sleeping Dagwood, wondering desperately if there was a season of American Idol that he missed or something (“Isn’t he too old for the show anyway? My God, is that Bo Bice with his hair cut short?”). Meanwhile, Mr. Dithers looks back and forth between the idiot and the narcoleptic and wonders again about just how his HR minions make their decisions.

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Blondie, 9/25/05

In my first non-metapost as a married man, I don’t really feel a need to point out the insufferable lameness that is the Blondie wacky anniversary adventure, or the problems with this strip’s surf instructor’s technique (which, according to Mrs. Curmudgeon, who’s been known to “hang ten” now and again herself, are many and egregious), or even discuss Blondie’s lovingly detailed breasts. No, today I want to draw your attention to Dagwood in the first panel on the second line, and specifically to his torso. At first glance it appears that he’s wearing what one would expect for a surfing lesson, which is to say no shirt at all. But the absence of nipples, combined with the baffling rippling concentric circles around his neck, lead me to believe that he is in fact wearing a flesh-colored turtleneck. Let’s hope that he hasn’t actually fashioned a shirt of real human skin in some kind of twisted, ritualistic attempt to gain spiritual power, conquer the big “momma” wave, and awe everyone with his surfing prowess. Because not only would that be wrong (yes, I take the tough, unpopular stands against making garments out of human flesh), but it clearly hasn’t worked, which is always embarrassing outcome to an unspeakable act of totemistic horror.

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Garfield, 8/20/05

My personal curmudgeonly opinion is that the less said about the 75th anniversary Blondie mutual wank-a-thon, the better, but I feel compelled to drag Saturday’s Garfield out to help illustrate why comics characters drawn by different artists shouldn’t be put in close proximity to one another. Because I’ve been reading Garfield pretty much since I achieved rudimentary literacy, but it wasn’t until I saw Jon next to Dagwood that I realized that OH MY GOD HE HAS NO NOSE! I MEAN, LOOK AT HIM! HIS ENORMOUS, BULBOUS EYES ARE JUST SITTING DIRECTLY ABOVE HIS UPPER LIP! SWEET JESUS CHRIST THAT’S CREEPY! I’m sure the architects of this huge crossoverfest were looking to instill a sense of “warm and fuzzy” in their readers; for me, anyway, they got “aesthetically unsettled” instead.