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Herb and Jamaal, 2/9/06

I had hoped to take the high road and simply ignore the current Herb and Jamaal storyline, in which Herb hopes that by parading his dwarfish, half-naked, pot-bellied body around, he’d get Jamaal and Yolanda to admit that they love one another, if only to make him stop. That was before today, when we see that this feature has made the unfortunate decision to mine the supposedly rich vein of son-in-law-wearing-mother-in-law’s-drawers humor. So here’s my pronouncement on the matter: if Herb and Jamaal had an embassy, I’d burn it down.

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Herb and Jamaal, 12/15/05

OK, I am really, really pretty sure that Herb and Jamaal has already had a storyline involving someone (I believe it was Herb) finding money and then having a moral quandary about whether he should seek out the owner to return it. So, we get it, Herb and Jamaal, we get it, OK? Keeping money (or, in this case, precious gems) that doesn’t belong to you is wrong. Blah blah frickin’ blah.

More importantly: what the hell is the deal with the cab driver dude? Specifically, why does he have featureless black patches where his eyes should be? Are those glasses? If so, why don’t they have arms that hook over his ears, like our stingy jewel hoarder has? Is he supposed to be blind? Is he a panda? Oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s a blind, cab-driving, single-hoop-earring wearing panda. Jesus, this strip much, much weirder than I thought.

Thing I like about this strip: the little thought balloon in panel two with a dollar sign in it. I have thoughts like that all the time, actually. I wonder: when Herb and Jamaal is translated for foreign markets, do they replace $ with €, ¥, or £, as needed?

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Herb and Jamaal, 10/25/05

We don’t get Herb and Jamaal in the paper anymore, so I had to act this one out for Mrs. C. (I don’t think I have to explain why I felt a need to share the content of this particular strip.) Anyway, her response was, “Isn’t that what married life is about? Spitting milk back into containers for one another?” Then she (an aficionado of soy milk) followed up with: “Anyway, I don’t give a shit if you do that, because I don’t drink cow juice.” So there you have it, folks: I’ve been given a green light to not only drink milk right of the container, but also to spit it back into said container. And, since I have no interest in soy goo, she’s got a similar free pass on spewing hers back into the handy-seal box it comes out of. I guess the lesson here is: if you come to our house, bring your own milk.