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B.C., 7/25/06

Greetings, citizens! Certain liberal agitators — greenies, communists, and other America-hating terrorist sympathizers — may have misled you to believe that dumping phosphate-containing detergents into rivers or oceans may somehow damage the so-called “environment.” In fact, the sea is a filthy, filthy place, and the beasts that swim within it essentially live in their own urine and feces. Thus, by allowing our used cleaning products to flow into the water supply, we’re doing the fish, crabs, sea urchins, and other watery creatures a big favor. Don’t withhold your life-giving detergent from our ocean-borne friends!

Also, a note to Jews, Muslims, atheists, and other non-Christians: YOU ARE ALL DOOMED TO HELLFIRE! TURN OR BURN, PEOPLE, TURN OR BURN!

Mary Worth, 7/25/06

Can’t … stop … staring … at … Mary’s … freakish … pinky finger! Seriously, what is the deal with her hand in panel one? It looks like her finger and a chunk of her palm was somehow hewn off (possibly in a “household ‘accident'”) and Dr. Jeff threw his medical ethics to the wind to attach a donor hand-piece to his beloved in an experimental and highly dangerous procedure.

Meanwhile, Toby’s tale of hearsay and spite continues along its merry way. Cunning use of scare quotes around “accident” there, Mrs. Cameron; because surely if two people are in a house together and one of them dies, there can be only one diagnosis: murder. Say, what fundamental aspect of U.S. law does Toby seem to be undermining here?

Good to have her back, isn’t it, folks?

Hagar the Horrible, 7/25/06

Yeah, but … you never … really answered the question … of … why … uh … actually, I don’t think I want to know.

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Hagar the Horrible, 4/13/06

Ah, it’s tax season, so what better opportunity for Hagar the Horrible to deploy an incomprehensible gag about tax collectors! Note that in panel one Hagar is blase about this radical change in tax policy, while Helga looks shocked and appalled that the royal government has decided to abandon a progressive income tax. Presumably the change was pushed through by fat-cat campaign contributors whose portfolios were heavy on capital gains-producing investments and low on foliage.

Anyway, the joke, such as it is, revolves around the sheer number of leaves on the The Horribles’ trees, and the sky-high tax bills that will no doubt result. This strikes me as the sort of thing that the artist thought was a great idea until he suddenly found himself in the position of having to draw all the damn leaves. So, he loses points on foresight, but kudos to him for following through to the bitter, hand-cramping end anyway.

Apartment 3-G, 4/13/06

How little respect does Apartment 3-G get from my hometown paper, the Baltimore Sun? Well, first they tried to cancel it, though obviously the outcry was too great for them to get away with that. Now I find out that the writing duties for the strip changed some time ago (Lisa Trusiani’s out, Margaret Shulock’s in) and the Sun has yet to change the byline in the paper. For shame! I had to find out by seeing that the Apartment 3-G article on Wikipedia was updated, which fact of course entails the disturbing corollary that there are people out there who care even more about this strip than I do and update its Wikipedia article when its authors change. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing that the author changeover happened right around here, when there was this weird abrupt wrapping up and yet the next storyline ended up continuing the previous one instead of just imposing the usual mind-wipe on all its characters.

Anyway, this has been a long-winded way of saying that if we can count on the new author to keep on creating bizarre and simultaneously sexy and slightly unnerving scenarios like “Let’s admire Tommie in Nina’s bridal veil and a polo shirt under an sweater,” then I for one welcome her with open arms.

(Oh, and confidential to King Features: It’s fine that you didn’t bother to contact me this time, but when Margaret gets tired of this gig in two or three years, I am totally available. Just FYI.)

Mary Worth, 4/13/06

Lou’s thought balloon is no “My very own meth lab,” and in fact I have no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but sure sounds sinister, doesn’t it? It should rightly be followed by maniacal laughter.

Lou: Yes, you’re right, hon! We do share everything!

Lou thought balloon: [And we always will.]

Lou: Heh he. Moo ha ha. MOOHOHOHO HA HA! HA HA! MOO HA HA!!!!

Kelly thought balloon: [God damn, that freak likes pie a little too much.]

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Hagar the Horrible, 1/3/06

Cathy, 1/3/06

So, I’ve been doing the married thing for about four months now, and I have to say that it’s been pretty awesome so far. Still, if the comics are to be believed, all I have to look forward to is my soul dying in tiny increments. Today’s glimpse into the essential deadness of the The Horribles’ marriage is nothing new — we’ve already seen Hagar so desperate for affection that he’s trying to pick up zombie chicks — but there’s something poignant in the second panel here: the look of desperation in Helga’s eyes as she realizes that she’s wasted her life on a slob, Honi’s stunned expression as the epiphany that her parents’ marriage is a sham (how could I not have known? she must think) hits her full-force, and the fortune teller’s total panic as she realizes that her charlatan’s platitudes have hit far deeper than she ever intended.

Cathy, meanwhile, seems to have gone even further off the reservation, as Irving progresses from wide-eyed shock to full-on horror that the woman he married (after what you may recall was a wholly spite-motivated proposal) has turned out to be totally insane. If Cathy takes an abrupt, all-out turn for the emotionally devastating, with Irving’s attempts at procuring a quick annulment leading to recriminations, legal suits and countersuits, and the eventual total public emotional meltdown on the part of both spouses’ mothers, then I for one will be happy guy. Still and all, Irving, Cathy may be an obsessive-compulsive overspender, but she’s managing to sleep happily despite the fact that she’s married a guy who’s such a tool that he wears his damn polo shirts to bed.