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Mary Worth, 3/8/10

When I was a kid, some Buffalo Bills star or other had been suspended for failing a drug test, and I remember having a conversation with my father (who was then the director of an alcoholism clinic) about why someone would endanger their very lucrative career for an occasional high. He explained, in a formulation that has always stuck with me, the addict’s trajectory: first using drugs makes you feel good, then you need drugs to feel good, then you need drugs to not feel bad.

This statement really jumped into my mind today when watching the suddenly diminished Clan Weston hash out the aftermath of Kurt’s duplicity over yet another sandwich-based meal. These white-bread-and-baloney-and-mayonnaise sandwiches ought to be a comfort to Wilbur and Dawn in these trying days; but Wilbur is just shoving his in the general direction of his mouth without even giving it a glance, let alone pausing to savor the subtle interplay of flavors. He’s like a junkie in some abandoned rowhouse, shooting up because of his raw need and long ago forgetting the transcendent high that got him hooked in the first place, and his sandwich requirements have just become a semi-conscious undercurrent in his life now. He probably doesn’t even realize that he’s got a second sandwich all queued up on this dinner plate ready to go once the current one has been devoured. Did he even bother to put condiments on that one?

The really sad part of this scene is Dawn, who’s only of college age, and yet seems equally blasé about sandwich use. She appears to be using her sandwich as a prop for gesticulation, just waving it around for a bit until she’s ready to cram it down her gullet with as little chewing as possible. She learned it from watching you, Dad. She learned it from watching you.

Family Circus, 3/8/10

Many victims of repeated trauma eventually form a sort of bond with their oppressors; in hostage situations, this is called Stockholm Syndrome. Thus, after repeated exposure to Jeffy’s naked ass, I seem to have become inured to disgust and indeed experienced brief amusement at today’s Family Circus panel. Most experts agree that a swift and merciful death would be for the best.

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Family Circus, 3/4/10

Today’s comics mostly didn’t grab me, but I did quite enjoy this installment from the 50th anniversary flashbacks to the first week of the Family Circus. Dolly, grinning like a meth-crazed demon, announces to a horrified gathering of Eisenhower-era matrons that she plans to end her little recital with a tune about a stab-happy killer from a Weimar-era Marxist agitprop musical. Her accompanist (mother?) is too enfeebled to resist her demands, barely being able to maintain consciousness as her horrifically tight girdle squeezes all the air out of her lungs, but someone’s going to be turned over to HUAC before the afternoon is out. Can it just be 1960 in the Family Circus forever?

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Apartment 3-G, 2/19/10

Say, it’s been a while since we checked in with Margo. What’s she up to? Destroying Eric Mills’s legacy of presenting the work of talented artists to a discriminating public, it appears! “Look, Jack, it doesn’t matter what you think; I’ve already signed the franchise agreement. Starting tomorrow, the Mills Gallery is rebranded as Mills Gallery Presents: Thomas Kinkade®, Painter of Light™.”

Oh, also, we get some bonus parental sassing. Jack appears to appreciate it as well. “I can’t agree with her business decisions, but darned if I don’t love her moxie! I wonder if she likes jowly, balding men who appear to be older than her father?”

(By the way, it’s good to see that Margo no longer suffers PTSD attacks just from hearing the syllable “zip.”)

Family Circus, 2/19/10

The problem with creating all-ages entertainment is that it tends to go for the lowest common denominator. Thus, this game, which is easy enough for Big Daddy Keane to play, has clearly bored P.J. out of his mind. Look at him there, holding onto his cards, and obviously dreaming of playing no-limit poker or something that might actually engage him a little.

Jumble, 2/19/10

Holy crap, over the last couple of days the Jumble has been laying down some serious and radical social commentary! Ha ha, while you poor saps go hungry in your empty kitchen, this rich lady sits in her chair ordering her servants about! Once again the blank letters for the solution aren’t numerous enough for the obvious answer: SOAKED THEM IN THE BLOOD OF THE MASSES.

Spider-Man, 2/19/10

Hey, Sabretooth, why are you so sure that only Spider-Man knows where Wolverine is? Have you even considered asking anyone else? I think you’re hurting Daredevil’s feelings; he probably keeps swinging by you hoping you’ll strike up a conversation.