Post Content

Gil Thorp, 12/7/05

Great God and saints in heaven above, if this strip were any whiter, it would belong to a country club and have a whole closet full of pastel golf shirts. Having the words “streetball” and “sweet passes” come out of the eager, post-orthodontia-perfect mouth of überhonkey Steve Luhm is just icing on the cake. (I also can’t read the latter phrase without hearing Napoleon Dynamite saying “sweet jumps.”)

I once knew a guy who had a haircut identical to Mr. Ithaca there; he was a 70-year-old French medieval history professor with a bad hip, and he wasn’t much of a baller. I also went to school in Ithaca, and trust me when I say it’s not really a streetball town. You can now buy t-shirts that spoof the city’s traditional “Ithaca Is Gorges” motto, reading instead “Ithaca Is Gangsta.” That might have thrown the good people at Gil Thorp off. Guys, I know it’s a little late for this but: trust me, they’re ironic.

In the category of Things I’m Going To Draw Your Attention To That You’re Going To Really, Really Wish I Hadn’t: check out the package on the black-sweatshirted dude on the left in the second panel! Them’s some tight sweatpants, and that ain’t right.

Post Content

Nothing in Sunday’s funnies set my curmudgeonly world on fire, so I’m doubling up on Saturday:

Gil Thorp, 12/3/05

Gil Thorp is in the midst of proving that its divorce from anything even vaguely resembling competitive athletics is total. In the midst of Milford High’s biggest football game of the year, with the championship on the line, goody-goody Sean Pettibone admitted to the referees that he had stepped out of bounds on an apparent touchdown play. This is short order has rid him of his hateful, helmet-haired girlfriend and won him the affection of the towering cornrowed nice girl who’s been eyeing him all semester. Weirder yet, he’s being protected from the rightful vengeance of his fellow players by … Brent? Brent “Rap Dog”? For those of you who aren’t familiar with this strip’s pantheon of losers, this is the aforementioned Brent:

In what plane of existence is this young man handing out swirlies, rather than suffering on the receiving end of so many that his otoretolaryngologyst would be financially secure for the rest of his life? Seriously, if kids like this are administering swirlies in high school these days, I want to go back. I’ve got a list of deserving candidates.

Meanwhile, in Santa Royale:

Mary Worth, 12/3/05

I’m having a hard time remembering: what was it that goeth before the fall again? Oh, yeah, it’s insufferable goddamn smugness. Wilbur, a few weeks from now, when you’re standing terrified on your kitchen table, trying to fend off a mob of angry, lonely women with nothing but a broom handle, you may want to look back on this moment with a certain degree of humility.

Actually, Mary Worth did provide Sunday’s high point of interest. Things seem to be looking up for Josh “Mr.” Hand, the latest collateral victim of Wilbur’s lousy advice, especially now that he’s mysteriously morphed into David Bowie!

Post Content

Nothing really inspired me on Sunday … so how about three quickies from today?

Gil Thorp, 11/21/05

Dear Gil Thorp: All is forgiven. Retroactively and in advance. All of it — the bad hair, crappy art, Brent “Rap Dog” — all of the pain has been washed away by this beautiful moment. It may be that the weeks of the Brick House storyline have entirely existed to set up the exchange in panel three here. If that’s the case, I will testify in a court of law that it has not been time wasted.

The Middletons, 11/21/05

Sweet Christ, The Middletons, what sort of sick sadist are you? To portray these noble birds responding to that call for freedom and life that beats within the heart of every living being, making a desperate bid to escape, only to find the gutted, skinned, and cooked corpses of their unfortunate fellows? Oh, the horror! THE HORROR!

Seriously, though, I’m sure looking forward to Thanksgiving this Thursday, ’cause I like me some gravy and some turkey skin. Mmmm… skin. Sorry fellas!

Rex Morgan, M.D., 11/21/05

More proof: you can send a man to med school, but you can’t make him care.