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A cornucopia of comics for your Sunday afternoon and/or Monday return to work! Let’s get one thing out of the way right off: in my rush to cover the burning hatred in the Family Circus on Friday, I neglected to bring this gem from Friday’s Gil Thorp to your attention:

Yeah, that’s what the ladies used to say about me in high school. Except they didn’t use the phrase “lead the league” because I didn’t play any sports. And they didn’t call me “cute” because they didn’t think I was. And they didn’t actually talk about “me” because they were largely unaware of my existence. But other than that.

It should also be noted that Jenny Su apparently leads the league in horrifying noselessness. I think that if I were moving in for a smooch, I’d be distracted by the twin punctures in the smooth flesh of the middle part of her face, where her nose should be.

Still, if she had told me in high school that I led the league in cute, I probably would have gone out with her. It’s a good line.

Now, on to Saturday. Let’s start with the foobs:

For Better Or For Worse, 1/21/06

(Gah, it’s foob images! What about the lawsuits? Well, as near as I can tell, what the For Better Or For Worse folks don’t like is if you “hotlink” to graphics on their server — that is, if you make graphics hosted on their computers appear on your site. Since I’m hosting this myself, it shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll see.)

It seems like everyone loves to hate For Better Or For Worse. I’m not one of the haters, but it does drive me up the wall at times. Mike’s mother in law in particular drives me batty, as she doesn’t seem to have been given a single redeeming characteristic to explain why her daughter puts up with her endless stream of crap. Thus, this week has been sort of torturous, though there was a glimmer of light when it was implied that she might be in the process of slipping into dementia, which might result in some deeply gratifying images of Mrs. Sobinski being dragged off in a straightjacket, raving like a lunatic about people banging on the ceiling downstairs. Saturday’s strip is particularly creepy, though, as it implies that Michael and Deanna’s choice to spawn more Pattersons might have set them on a collision course with madness themselves.

Mark Trail, 1/21/06

You know, if had told me earlier this week that Mark Trail was going to further slander the noble hillbilly, I would have said that it would be impossible to do so, but boy, would I have been wrong. On the bright side, this strip finally delivers the climactic fisticuff-heavy payoff that’s been bafflingly absent from the last few adventures. We start off with what may be the first kick in the ‘nads in the history of the comics. (It should be noted that in the strip before this, our skinny redneck threatened to “mess up that pretty face of yours,” thus proving that his grasp on anatomy is almost as tenuous as his understanding of hand-to-hand combat tactics.) Of course, mega-man Mark manages to dispatch the rural ruffian with a single blow and, in move long on dramatic symbolism and low on common sense, proceeds to carry his limp body over to a pen full of lovingly rendered pigs — while surrounded by heavily armed members of said ruffian’s family. Do they even know how to use those guns? Are they antiques left over from the War of Northern Aggression that won’t actually fire? For God’s sake, you dumb rednecks, shoot him already! A bullet in the shin will both teach this short-tempered naturalist a lesson and get you your dog ransom money faster than all this standing around slack-jawed business, trust me.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 1/21/06

The current Rex Morgan storyline has been so boring and slow moving that I’m not even going to bother to bring you up to speed on it. I’d just like to point out that Rex’s rasta-mon cab driver is frickin’ hilarious. Particularly amusing is his use of the phrase “hang on to your hair.” See, he’s unfamiliar with English idioms because he’s from Jamaica, where they speak … oh, wait.

Meanwhile, the Sunday funnies treated us to not one but two cartoons about dogs going to the bathroom.

Mother Goose and Grimm, 1/22/06

For Better Or For Worse, 1/22/06

The stink lines in the first FBOFW panel are nicely done, as is the look of mingled disgust and shame on Dixie’s face in the next panel. However, it’s Grimm’s precarious situation clinging to the hydrant that really made me laugh aloud. His look of contentment in the next to last panel, followed by his embarrassed admission that he really is going to do what must be done no matter how gross it gets, are real winners.

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Panels from Luann, Peanuts, and For Better Or For Worse, 11/17/05

As Brand and Toni share a tender moment, Snoopy exploits his best friend, and April desperately attempts to scrub the horror that is adolescence out of her face (you’ll never get it out, honey, you’ll never get it out), let’s take a moment to appreciate the subtle sound effects of the daily comics. Usually we associate comic noises with the sort of big, violent BIFFS and BAPS that result from the tangling of superhero and supervillain. But here they add texture to the more down-to-earth pursuits of the newspaper’s sequential protagonists. And the RAKES and the WASHES remind you that those everyday words are in fact onomatopoeic.

OK, have you taken your moment? Are you done appreciating? I just wanted to add one more thing before I go…

Mother Goose and Grimm, 11/17/05

Have I mentioned that I’m starting to think that all the comics are about me?

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OK, let’s start this catching-up post with the events over in the province of Foobonia that have had comics readers across Canada and the U.S. (aka “Baja Manitoba”) so exercised. I actually don’t have much to say on the subject except to reiterate what most have already said, which is FOR GOD’S SAKE EVERYBODY CALL THE GOD DAMNED MOUNTIES OR SOMETHING BECAUSE HOWARD JUST TRIED TO RAPE ELIZABETH AND WE’RE ALL STANDING AROUND MAKING LAME-ASS PLAYS ON WORDS AND LAUGHING BEHIND OUR HANDS. Ahem. I mean really, even an accountant — even a Canadian accountant — can’t possibly think that a little ear-twisting constitutes sweet vigilante justice.

On the other hand, I’ve given up on hoping against the inevitable Liz-Anthony get-together. Of course, in real life, Thérèse would make their future lives a living hell vis-a-vis the adorable little baby whose name I now forget, but the strip has shown her being so unrealistically disinterested in the little bundle of squalling, pooping joy that no doubt she’ll be happy to let Liz adopt her (him?) and turn him (her?) into a Patterson By Proxy. And everyone will be happy ever after. Except, we hope, Howard.

With those weighty subjects out of the way, let’s move on to a little nose-picking from Monday’s Curtis:

Now, I ask you: is this the most graphic depiction of prospecting for nostril gold ever to grace the funny pages? It’s not so much the visual that bothers me, offensive though it is, but the explicit — well, I’m not sure if they’re sound effects or stage directions, exactly, but they’re gross, and the accompanying motion lines don’t help. Though I have to admit that I’ve always liked the Curtis convention of people suddenly sprouting enormous eyes and long, luxurious lashes when they’re being disingenuously cute, as Barry is here.

Mary Worth, 8/12/05, 8/15-16/05

I continue to be utterly horrified by Mary Worth’s treatment of both women’s shelters and alcoholism. I kept waiting for Mary’s illusions of the horror that is downtown to be shattered by the tough-minded but caring women who took in Rita when she had nowhere else to go. Instead, we’re treated to a tearful reunion while a bunch of slightly mussed but reasonably well dressed white women stare and listen to the shelter-bashing in creepy silence. Check out panel two of Friday’s strip — Rita is so desperate to get the hell out of there that she’s pushing Mary out the door, despite the fact that there’s been zero evidence that anything bad happened to her there. Maybe she’s just happy that she won’t have to look at that woman with the huge cyst on her face anymore.

But hey, at least Boilface never took her to the scene of her one of her most humiliating drunken moments and expected everything to be fine. Yeah, Rita, I suggest you go down the “complete abstinence” route — though of course I’ll be having the ketchup-colored Chateau Heinz with everyone else in here. Hope you don’t mind driving home!

I really, really hope that, in tomorrow’s strip, Rita’s answer to our bow-tied waiter’s question is “A double scotch — and make it #$&*#($ing snappy!” And then further hijinks ensue. Mary needs to learn that clever rhymes are no substitute for a treatment program run by certified substance abuse counselors.

Gil Thorp, 8/15/05

If you haven’t been following Gil Thorp’s non-stalking storyline, then I don’t have anywhere near enough time to explain why Sports Illustrated’s Rick Reilly is lurking in the bushes, ballpoint pen and reporter’s notebook in hand, waiting to hear this vicious anti-Pac-10 diatribe. I would just like to say that this development reminds me of the embarrassing amount of time I spent as a youth watching Scooby Doo, whose adventures would often feature guest spots from the sort of big name stars that your typical eight-year-old living in 1982 would be sure to love, such as Phyllis Diller or Tim Conway. I’m sure said stars were happy to spend twenty minutes in the studio recording some lame-ass jokes and then walk off with a nice pile of dirty, dirty Hanna-Barbera cash. Rick Reilly didn’t even have to do voice work, though I’m assuming he also didn’t get paid or have any creative control. And in fact, perhaps the latter is something of an issue. Here’s a look at the real Rick:

Now, the photo reveals that Mr. Reilly has a fairly typical number of smile lines around the eyes for a man his age. His Thorpian doppelgänger, on the other hand, has crow’s feet that are so pronounced that he appears to be wearing KISS make-up. Way to treat your guests, guys!

And speaking of special appearances, “Smitty Smedlap” of Subdivided We Stand has already pointed out that the evil coach is really none other than radio’s own Don Imus, and put together this little graphic to prove it:

Scary, no?