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Marvin, 1/20/22

Today’s Marvin is a good Rorschach test for readers. Where did your mind go immediately after reading this? Are you a pedant who looked up when “Who Let The Dogs Out” was released in an attempt to try to figure out the question of how old Jenny and Jeff are (it climbed the charts in mid-2000, meaning they’ve gotta be in their late 30/early 40s, unless Jeff put the song in a mix “ironically” after the fad had faded)? Or are you a pervert, who assumed that Jeff played “Who Let The Dogs Out” on their honeymoon, during sex, to his wife’s horror? Because my brain is so quick to go to the worst possible places, I sadly fall into both categories.

Crock, 1/20/22

I guess the joke here is that smoke signals, a primitive method of long-distance communication, have been “hit with a virus,” just like a high-tech computer might be, but obviously that’s only a conclusion you would draw if you are, like me, cursed to read the daily comics and attempt to figure out what’s actually going on with them. I assume most people would instead take the more obvious reading, which is that the Lost Patrol are all dying of some terrible disease.

Mary Worth, 1/20/22

Sorry, Wilbur has only one panel to spare on self-reflection as to how he ended up in his current predicament. Now he’s got to move ahead and deal with more important questions, like where on this island he can find sandwiches, or, if they’re not available, cold cuts and condiments he can use to make sandwiches.

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Mary Worth, 1/4/22

Ha ha, yes, Wilbur, this is absolutely great, completely ignore Estelle’s body language and just demand that she recite these vows you wrote in front of the cruise ship’s off duty purser — who happens to be right here, by the way — and then you’ll be legally married in the eyes of all the nations that have ratified the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea! And if she says no, well, then, at least you tried, and the only downside will be the absolutely excruciating five to seven days you’re about to spend sharing a cabin with a woman who now 100% realizes what a terrible mistake this all was.

Speaking of Mary Worth, it is absolutely required for the health of democracy that you vote in the most important election of the year: the Fourteenth Annual Worthy Awards, as always put together by faithful reader Wanders, celebrating the best Mary Worth plots and panels of 2021! All the categories are a delight, but I am particularly jazzed by the options in the Outstanding Floating Head competition this year. Make your voice heard!

Crock, 1/4/22

I was going to complain that for this to make sense, Figowitz’s little joke should be personally insulting to the bookmobile guy in some way, but you know what? Punching someone in the face is an absolutely acceptable response to any joke arising within the comic strip Crock. If the characters got punched in the face more often, maybe they’d make fewer jokes, which could only be a good thing.

Crankshaft, 1/4/22

Wait, are these three guys drunk every time they go to the diner? It sure would explain a lot!

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Mary Worth, 12/18/21

I may have said this before, but I feel like the new-model Mary Worth doesn’t have quite enough nose visible when she’s looking straight at the reader — or, as in this case, when she’s looking straight at the reader in Wilbur’s mind, which may indicate that he’s imagining her looking at him? Anyway, like I said, not enough nose. Like Ralph Fiennes as Voldemort. Maybe the fact that she’s appearing here in Wilbur’s imagination shows what he really thinks of her, ha ha! “Can’t wait to get on a cruise ship with my lady, who’s mine forever now, and abandon our pets to the meddling old biddy who browbeat her into getting back together with me! See ya, snake lady, I’m gonna have ocean sex!” Anyway, confidential to Estelle: international waters are a great place to murder somebody.

Crock, 12/18/21

A thing I enjoy doing sometimes is trying to figure out the chain of thought that produced a particularly lame or weird punchline in a comic. Like, today’s Crock: did this start off as a holiday-themed gag, like someone tried to think of what a guy named Kyle (?) would have for Christmas dinner and came up with “pigs’ feet in possum gravy”? Or did the food joke come first, and then the writer realized they needed to make this about Christmas because it was December 18th, so they wedged in “…for the holidays” at the end of the setup? Either way, I appreciate how truly depressed the legionnaire who doesn’t have any dialogue looks, both when he’s hanging up the wreath and when he’s just looking out at us in glum resignation that his lot in life is to be a silent reaction character in Crock.