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Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 11/27/11

The throwaway panels of today’s Snuffy Smith shed light on a perennial interest of mine and nobody else’s: the economy of Hootin’ Holler. Though I’ve never spotted him as one of the strip’s cast of characters, apparently “Farmer Johnson” lives in this blighted hamlet, attempting to make a living from agriculture. Since the chickens and sausage he produces are invariably stolen by his parasitic neighbors, one wonders why he hasn’t pulled up stakes long ago, or at least given up working hard like a sucker.

If anything, the rest of the strip is even more unsettling, in that we learn that Snuffy, had not his neural circuits been overloaded by visions of chickeny pleasure, would have killed and devoured his hapless nephew. Jughaid’s pleas for mercy would have only registered in Snuffy’s mind as clucks as the thieving hillbilly lived out his great fantasy of eating an enormous angel-chicken. I assume the first throwaway panel depicts one of these divine fowl, which leads us to a sad question: Are chickens killed, dismembered, fried, and eaten, even in chicken heaven?

Crankshaft, 11/27/11

C’mon, Crankshaft, there’s plenty of room for another word-balloon lobe there, so why not end Ed’s musings with “…and, finally, your coffin?” The general vibe of the Funkyverse would seem to demand it. I mean, I’m assuming the family is intending to wall up their hated matriarch in that room Cask of Amontillado-style anyway.

Panel from Mary Worth, 11/27/11

We’ve had a few thousand years of YHWH trying to guide our morals, but we haven’t really taken the lessons to heart. A much crueler God will be handing down the commandments from now on.

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Family Circus, 11/13/11

Man, the disgusted look on Big Daddy Keane’s face as he realizes that his daughter views sacred communion with God as just another sordid amusement is pretty priceless. One hopes that he remains so focused on her that he doesn’t notice Billy making a wholly inept attempt to summon up the Prince of Darkness by reading the hymnal upside down.

Crankshaft, 11/13/11

Crankshaft may be old and senile and kind of deaf, and they might have finally gotten some kind of legal mumbo-jumbo that says he isn’t allowed to have all his guns anymore, but he fought the Nazis to save America and by God he isn’t going to let that God-damned Khrushchev and his commies take over his lawn.

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Mark Trail, 11/3/11

As if we needed more evidence, today we see who’s really in charge here in McQueen Valley. Supposed lawman Mountie McQueen gets all twitchy and gun-happy at the slightest hint of trouble. Mother McQueen, however, just casually and subtly lets everyone know who’s in charge and who could be savagely ripped to shreds by a bear at any moment. “Yes, I rescued this beast as a cub from a pack of bloodthirsty predators, and now it is devoted to me, and only me. Does his presence make you … uncomfortable? Here, let me tie this flimsy muzzle around his snout. I can take it off just as easily as I put it on! And of course his claws remain at the ready. Now, was one of you saying something about leaving this valley or attempting to contact the outside world?”

Crankshaft, 11/3/11

It used to be that you could say, “Crankshaft may be a miserable, hateful human being who will soon die alone and unloved, as he deserves, and occasionally we’re forced to contemplate the ugly and pathetic libidinous impulses that lurk below his crusty, misanthropic surface, but at least we’re never forced to contemplate the volume and texture of his bowel movements.” Used to be.

Funky Winkerbean, 11/3/11

Meanwhile, a couple of depressives playing video games in a comic book store are trying to compare themselves to badasses who practiced dark magic.