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(I was planning to comment on the FOOBs today, but the image from gocomics.com was so ludicrously large that I thought it might cause blindness and dementia to those who looked upon it, so I’ll just say in passing BLARRRGGGH.)

Slylock Fox, 8/19/07

Pity poor Count Weirdly! It’s like a guy can’t even have a press conference atop his most scenic turret to promote his faked moon landing (like the so-called “real” ones weren’t!) without some nosey fox sticking his snout where it doesn’t belong and criticizing his Photoshop skills. If telling bald-faced lies at press conferences is illegal, I know a lot of more important venues where Slylock should be putting his patented brand of pedantic deduction to work. As it is, the only organization apparently gullible enough to accept the invitation to the Weirdly Moonshot announcement appears to be Agence France-Presse, as indicated by the reporter’s micro-miniskirt and the cameradog’s beret (and good luck getting any usable footage out of this nighttime press conference with absolutely no artificial lighting, Fideaux). In fact, this pair is probably more likely to be filming for the series Les Hommes Les Plus Étranges Au Monde than they are to be taken in by the idea of air-tight Chuck Taylors.

Mary Worth, 8/19/07

Man, that Dr. Drew is one smooth operator, isn’t he? One date’s worth of his bland, slick-backed handsomeness and Mary-style aphorisms and Vera is literally throwing herself at him! And of course we can see why Drew would be so eager to draw Vera into his web of love. “Ha .. ha .. I’ve decided to go out in public in shoes that I have no idea how to walk in! I belong in a sideshow like the circus freak that I am! AARRGH, I just fell over! Did I mention all the sexual tension with my brother?”

Apartment 3-G, 8/19/07

So I have to admit that when I joked about Alan being an addict and Jones the beatnik being his dealer, I didn’t actually think it was true. I guess I have a lot to learn about the soap opera comics’ willingness to obliquely take on tough themes! Alan’s commitment to sobriety ought to be obvious from his deeply square sartorial choices, as his white dress shirt/black vest combo would get him laughed out of any drug den in the five boroughs. Still, the years of chemical abuse of his brain have taken their toll; he’s undoubtedly spending this entire strip trying to keep his shit together despite the fact that events keep repeating themselves, and his and Eric’s hair keep swapping colors.

Crock, 8/19/07

And speaking of drugs … the combination of misplaced geography (Inca pottery in North Africa?) and garden-variety stupidity is all too typical for this feature, but the final panel pushes today’s Crock into the realm of peyote-addled nightmare. A little boy named Otis in the middle of the sun-blighted wasteland, chatting with a vulture who’s sporting a baseball cap? And where are they going to get the toilets, huh? Where are they going to get the toilets? Ye gods.

Dennis the Menace, 8/19/07

There is no reason why Dennis shouldn’t have unloaded that ball directly into Henry’s nuts in the third-to-last panel. None. They even set it up with the whole “waist high” thing. Still, this’ll keep dad from attempting to spend any quality time with his kid for the rest of both of their lives, leaving Dennis with more time to get into extremely low-level unsupervised hijinks.

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Dennis the Menace, 8/1/07

Not to keep on repeating myself, but there are few things more disturbing in this life than seeing that single drop of sweat roll slug-like down George Wilson’s florid, spiteful mask of a face. All of the things that it could signify — an incipient killing spree, a massive cerebral hemorrhage in progress, unwanted sexual arousal — are things better left uncontemplated.

Today, Dennis is identified as a pest, which is an epithet much more in line with his severely downgraded antisocial behavior. It doesn’t actually rhyme with “Dennis,” but I would argue that his current pale reflection of his past menacing glories ought to revoke his right to a rhyming nickname. I had a brief hope when my eyes settled on the word “pest” that Mr. Wilson was referring to a three-foot-tall fly-human hybrid, who had escaped from his basement lab and had arrived to wreak a gruesome revenge on his creator. This, to me, would have justified that creepy bead of sweat.

Crankshaft, 8/1/07

Ha ha, silly old person! You thought that as an adult you were still entitled privacy and autonomy! Has nobody pointed out to you that you’re old?

Popeye, 8/1/07

After our last visit to this feature, those of you who don’t read Popeye regularly are probably wondering if the strip continues to be totally bonkers. Today’s installment, in which Popeye, Olive Oyl, and Olive Oyl’s brother Castor cower in a Cold War-era bomb shelter from a bloodthirsty cow determined to bite off their heads and drag their corpses across the field, is here to answer with a hearty “Yes!”

Gil Thorp, 8/1/07

“All beginners have issues with footwork Mr. Ritter, but Bill has only half as much trouble as most — because he only has half as many feet! Get it? Because he chopped one of his legs off with a chainsaw, you see. But anyway, your boy can punch! It’s almost as if he carries some kind of burning, unquenchable rage inside of him! I can’t guess why that would be, but let’s just hope that the guy who invented the chainsaw doesn’t get in the way of his fists, you know what I’m saying? Get it? Because he chopped one of his legs off with a chainsaw! Hey, come back, where’re you going? I got a million of these!”

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Beetle Bailey, 7/25/07

All day, people have been commenting in varying degrees of arousal about the hot, hot Miss Buxley action in today’s Beetle Bailey. All I can say is: why? The Walker oeurvre is one of the funny pages’ more stylized, and there are few less detailed or realistic looking “sexy” women in comics than General Halftrack’s oft-harassed secretary. Seriously, if this was all it took to get me worked up, I’d just draw a stick figure and slap some boobs on it and WHAM! Instant porn. Even the theoretically sexy frilly unmentionables are terribly botched, with Buxley’s brassiere seemingly wrapped around her robe, implying that either that the artist has little grasp of spatial relations and/or undergarment topography, or that she’s dressing quickly because she’s aware of the series of hidden cameras the general has stashed all over her apartment and wired up to the phone somehow.

The less said about whatever’s in her robe pocket, the better. Is it a hot glue gun? Or something more untoward There’s something about its crap-brown color that unsettles me.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 7/25/07

Now, Heather Avery — that’s a cartoon character whose sex appeal I can endorse. I don’t even care about those little droopy devil horn things on the front of her head, which indicate that she’s probably a succubus in addition to being a gold-digging nanny and stock-manipulating white-collar co-conspirator.

This whole encounter is more than a little porntastic. “Hugh … what is it? I’m getting dressed — and since I’m already in the process of removing my robe, surely it’s unrealistic to expect me to close it again now that it’s half-way open, since I’ll just be taking it off completely in a few minutes. Can’t it wait? The robe-closing, I mean.” Of course, since there’s no blood relation between the two of them and they’ve only met the previous day, there’s nothing untoward or incestuous about the prospect of them falling into each other’s arms for comfort in the wake of their great loss — or at least there wouldn’t be if they didn’t essentially look exactly alike. Even Von and Vera, Mary Worth’s creepy Flowers in the Attic pair, didn’t share this much of a resemblance. Of course, this has less bearing on any potential Heather-Hugh match-up and much more bearing on Milton’s now-revealed-to-be-deeply-disturbing attraction to Heather.

Dennis the Menace, 7/25/07

Lucky for Ruff the Mitchell’s floor is covered with a healthy layer of rotting organic matter! Of course, we can’t blame Alice for the unhygienic state of the house: Henry forces her to wear those killer stilettos at all times, so she can barely walk; I don’t know how you expect her to operate a vacuum cleaner.