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Beetle Bailey, 8/27/08

Focus groups conducted by Walker-Browne Amalgamated Humor Industries LLC determined that last Wednesday’s strip, which contrasted General Halftrack’s lecherous fantasies about his comely secretary against the more staid reality for comic effect, greatly reduced the strip’s effectiveness among one of its key demographics — namely, lonely perverts who like to imagine having sex with Miss Buxley. So this one’s for you, sickos! Look, she’s exhausted because she spends her evenings taking Ecstasy and participating in orgies with other hot cartoon ladies and one dude who looks exactly like you. Are you happy now? Huh?

Gasoline Alley, 8/27/08

Speaking of cartooning sex appeal, Gasoline Alley has decided that its previous attempts to titillate were just too subtle. So enjoy some cartoon ass-crack from this once-proud franchise, everybody!

Rex Morgan, M.D., 8/27/08

Today’s Rex Morgan, M.D., provides us with not one but two smashingly entertaining examples of classic Rex dickishness. First he feigns ignorance so as to imply that his elderly patient might be working on some kind of sex doll to keep her company in her lonely old age; then, after passive-aggressively getting her to admit that she needs his help on the boat, he cheekily wishes her luck and tells her that something will come along to solve her problem. Well played, sir!

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Blondie, 8/12/08

Yes, Dagwood, whenever we see the lithe, toned bodies of male Olympic athletes at the top of their form, their muscles rippling, their torsos dripping with man-dew … well, who doesn’t think of “hot dogs?”

Dennis the Menace, 8/12/08

“Oh, and just so you know, I’m wearing one of those anachronistic union suits for no reason that anyone can fathom, and it’s unbuttoned in the back, obviously, so you’re pretty much guaranteed to see my ass.”

Gasoline Alley, 8/12/08

In a desperate bid to hold on to its share of the ever-shrinking comics page, Gasoline Alley has decided to woo readers by dishing up hillbilly T&A. All I can say is: better here than in Snuffy Smith.

Gil Thorp, 8/12/08

This is the moment where Gil realizes that he needs to stop giving out his cell phone number to his loser students and their lame-ass parents. I’m pretty sure that he’s flying the Thorp-Plane over to the Hughes residence in order to strafe it and put an end to these irritating phone calls once and for all.

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Gil Thorp, 8/5/08

Could Gil Thorp’s summer insanity at last be belatedly getting underway? That crazed look in Jimmy Hughes’s eyes in panel two is strangely reminiscent of what you’d see in the origin story of every supervillain ever. Are we about to learn that the cult hero status that comes with being on an extremely minor league baseball team is too much power for any man with legal permanent U.S. residence to handle? Will the prospect of toiling in the Tigers’ farm system for the next six years instead of getting a college education and a job with a 401K drive young Mr. Hughes mad with glory-lust? Will Gil step in to set Jimmy on the straight and narrow path back to humdrum normalcy, or does the five-minute walk to “Java Jive” represent the limit of how much he’s willing to care about his students during the off-season? Hopefully we’ll get answers, before football practice starts!

Gasoline Alley, 8/5/08

I’m quite proud of myself for successfully ignoring the Gasoline Alley storyline that just wrapped up, which featured painful hillbilly stereotype Rufus tangling with a painful French stereotype during the filming of a cat food commercial. I’m looking forward to the upcoming plot, though, as it appears to be ripped right from today’s headlines. Four dollar gas has driven our rustic protagonists to desperate measures! Perhaps Rover will be able to tweak his Eisenhower-era pickup so that it gets an incredible eight miles per gallon.

For Better Or For Worse, 8/5/08

John has obviously been spending way, way too much time hanging around his teenage daughter. For one thing, he’s slipping into adolescent Canadianisms like “hafta”. For another, he’s squirming and whining about putting on nice clothes like a fucking twelve-year-old.