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Beetle Bailey, 5/30/07

While I’m not a morning person and sympathize with Beetle’s attitude, I’m a little unnerved by the way he goes about expressing it. Specifically, who exactly is he ordering to “go away” and “leave me alone”? It seems that he’s so haunted by this world that he’s addressing existence generally, preferring the icy numbness of sleep or even death to consciousness. Alternately, since he is Trixie Flagston’s uncle, he may be railing against her buddy Sunbeam, hinting that this is a relationship that can go sour once you grow up.

Gil Thorp, 5/30/07

I had high hopes that crafty old Clambake was going to launch into a detailed treatise on just when and how you launch a beanball at a batter for maximum psychological impact. Instead, he appears to be giving young Elmer a “we black folks have it much harder than you Mexicans or whatever ever will so shut your yap whippersnapper” speech, which will inevitably result in either a soul-searching look at prejudice in a new, multiethnic America or an all-out race war, neither of which I’m interested in seeing in Gil Thorp, now or ever.

It’s nice to see the most personable and attractive Gil Thorp recurring character in panel three. I’m talking, of course, about the disembodied alien claw-thing perched on Elmer’s shoulder. It sure loves to sit on people’s shoulders, but it don’t mean no harm to nobody.

Hi and Lois, 5/30/07

I’d fling my food at my parents too if they tried to feed me that undifferentiated inky black goo. It’s like a bowl of finely minced despair.

Mary Worth, 5/30/07

Mary Worth is looking more skeletal and Nancy Reagan-esque than ever in panel two. I have no idea whose enormous hands those are flapping around in front of her, but they clearly aren’t hers. Perhaps they were once attached to her latest hapless victim, the remainder of whom is baking in a casserole dish back in her apartment, to be force-fed to Vera later this evening.

Slylock Fox, 5/30/07

I know it’s all part of the Great Cycle of Barnyard Life, but, like the duck in the pond, I am a little unnerved to see that fox’s last moment of happiness before the farmer beats him to death with that stick. I guess the lesson is: if you’re a fox and you like getting into other people’s business, get a cape and a deerstalker hat and learn to spout some deduction-y sounding bullshit. Otherwise, you’re fair game.

Ziggy, 5/30/07

Ha ha! Ziggy is going to die of smallpox, because he’s poor!

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Dennis the Menace, 5/22/07

Dennis the Menace rightly gets flack on this site for his repeated failure to menace anybody, and today’s installment, in which he and his pal Joey take a whimsical trip down memory lane on the family footstool, would seem to be even less menacing than most. But think about it: Dennis is well aware of the fact that Alice, who used to have a name, and, moreover, an identity of her own, has now, by the very fact of his whelping, become merely an adjunct to his own larger-than-life personality. She’s no longer Alice Mitchell, and she’s definitely not Alice Whatever-Her-Maiden-Name-Was; she’s just “mom,” and, more to the point, she’s mom to the most hated child in the county. And Dennis looks pretty damn smug about this state of affairs. That sound you hear is millions of women across the country opening the cases that hold their birth control pills, double-checking to make sure they haven’t missed a day.

Hi and Lois, 5/22/07

I like the fact that Hi is not charmed by his twins’ antics, but rather stares at their handiwork in goggle-eyed panic. The lawn is shaggy enough that he can’t really care that much about the damage to the landscaping; rather, he sees that his golf dates, which were his only chance to get away from his hated family, will now be replaced by sullen putting around his backyard to delight of his squealing kids, followed by his suicide.

Crock, 5/22/07

Today we learn that the characters in Crock are in fact parasites who live their days wandering around the bright yellow flesh of some unimaginably huge being. If you had told me that somehow they’d find a way to make this strip even more unsettling than it already is, I wouldn’t have believed you, but there it is.

Momma, 5/22/07

Today we also learn that Momma’s Francis is into watersports, or maybe scat play. This revelation really ought to make the strip even more unsettling than it already is, but after I found out that Francis surfs for Internet porn while sitting right next to his mother, frankly nothing he does could possibly shock me.

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Crankshaft, 5/21/07

Since a Crankshaft is a Funky Winkerbean sister strip, talk of death ought to make any character within earshot worry that they’re next in line for a demise that is both informative (to the reader) and agonizing (to the character … and, OK, also to the reader). The hilarious switcharoo in the final panel shows that the ’Shaft has not in fact worn his omnipresent baseball cap to yet another funeral, but is merely continuing his reign of terror over the cowed ladies of the Garden Club. To be honest I’ve never really understood his svengali-like hold over these innocent horticulture enthusiasts; there has to be some sort of cult-like angle to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next Garden Club speech starts very similarly to the one we see here, but ends instead at a table set with lots of little Dixie cups full of Kool-Aid.

Blondie, 5/21/07

Dagwood Bumstead — overeater, oversleeper, underachiever, tool moocher, intellectual soul mate to middle-schooler Elmo — has never been particularly troubled by shame. Thus his sudden look of mingled guilt and confusion in the final panel of this strip must indicate that his dream — with its “cherries the size of bowling balls” — got very, very weird indeed. Good taste, and our own peace of mind, must preclude us from contemplating the matter further.

Hi and Lois, 5/21/07

I’d blame this on another wacky coloring sweatshop mix-up, but the rug looks like this in black and white, too. There are only two reasons to have an inky black wall-to-wall carpet: to remind you of the dark abyss of Death that will one day open up and swallow your soul (and the Flagstons don’t seem like the type) or to absorb any and all liquids you might care to spill onto it without show visible stains. There’s a reason that they leave Trixie sitting in front of that window for 20 hours a day.

Mark Trail, 5/21/07

Oh, Mark, Mark, Mark. You’re so eager to impress your chesty little friend that you’ve blown the cover off of your journalistic M.O. “Take a boring story from three years ago that nobody remembers, replace a few paragraphs with updated information, and … ka-CHING! Another fat paycheck, plus a free trip away from my Stepford Wife and freaky gap-toothed big-headed not-son!”

I’m pretty sure that panel two offers the first look at a dangling mouse corpse with its head half-masticated to ever appear in the comics pages.