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Family Circus, 5/9/07

You know, I’m a man of simple pleasures. I’m not a club-hopper or an aficionado of fast cars or speedboats. All I ask for in life is to be left alone with my hobbies — like, say, pretending that the Family Circus household is possessed by demons, and one of those evil spirits is starting to communicate with Dolly through her talking doll, and she’s forcing Jeffy to participate in its plans to massacre the whole town, and a terrified Jeffy runs to tell his mother while the soul-destroyed Dolly and her hellspawn plaything look on blankly, adding him to their slaughter list — and when you they essentially run this as the “joke” in the comic, well, it kills a little of the fun for me, to be honest.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 5/9/07

“Mrs. Avery, as Avery International’s professional sexy, subservient Asian stereotype, I’ll be easing your pain with a variety of unprintable techniques. If necessary, I will remove these chopsticks from my hair and let my long, luxurious jet-black hair cascade down my back in slow-motion. You’ll have to lead me to my seat, though, because my contract requires me to keep my eyes closed at all times — all the crackers on this board seem to think that’s what Asians look like.”

Has anyone Asian — or, hell, anyone at all — actually used chopsticks to keep their hair up, in a boardroom setting or elsewhere? Brynna Antenna doesn’t count.

Judge Parker, 5/9/07

Barney Google began to slowly and inexorably become Snuffy Smith the day that Barney went down for a vacation in the hill country. Similarly, comics historians will mark May 9, 2007, as the day that Judge Parker began its transformation into Mullet Love, the ongoing story of two star-crossed lovers with gorgeous Kentucky Waterfalls of hair — one bright yellow, one manic panic red — pouring down the backs of their heads. Together, they fight crime, avoid their spurned spouses, and travel the world, occasionally falling on each other in episodes of passionate lovemaking that cause their hockey hair to spin around their faces and tangle together.

Apartment 3-G, 5/9/07

“Yep, coffee’s not helping; time to switch to bourbon. And if that doesn’t work, it’s on to whippits.”

Archie, 5/9/07

I just want to say that I honestly think “Mustard” would be a really cute name for a dog. Also, someone is clearly thinking about boning someone else in that third panel.

Finally, I can’t even bring myself to contemplate the fresh Funky horror, but the Chron has the inside scoop on the roller-coaster of metastasis that we have in store for us. (Thanks to faithful reader Cobra for the tip.)

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For Better Or For Worse, 5/1/07

Actually, I’m pretty sure I can’t say it any better than I did on the previous metapost: AAAAHHHH NOOOO THE MUSTACHE NOOOO.

The dialog in the first couple of panels is a little hard to parse, but it seems to be implying that Elizabeth is a bridesmaid, yes? That’s nice, considering that Shawna-Marie last appeared in the strip more than two years ago (at which time I quite gratuitously called her a “Québécois hillbilly”), and then appeared only as a vehicle to talk shit about the Mustache’s wife.

I also like the quote marks around “cream.” That way we know she’s really saying “slut.”

Archie, 5/1/07

Ah, Archie-Laugh-Generating-Joke-Unit 3000, someday you’ll pass that Turing test! But today is not that day, my bleeping mechanical friend. Obviously, the teacher’s gist is not hard to follow, but apparently the ALGJU 3000 was given some kind of upper limit to the number of words to its punchline, since the joke has been compacted into a sentence no human would ever utter.

It’s a good thing the word balloon was kept small, though, as otherwise we wouldn’t be treated to that vast expanse of empty wall.

Gil Thorp, 5/1/07

Surely Clambake’s “home remedy” will involve some ungodly country-style poultice made out of cornstarch and crawdad juice, but I’d love to see him say, “Here’s my home remedy: get the ball over the damn plate, kids. Now go get Clambake some whiskey.”

Judge Parker, 5/1/07

Here’s my new nickname for Cedric: He’s the butler who shared too much. Cedric, I know you’re all young and hip and a “new generation of domestic servant” or whatever, but the whole point of being a butler is that you completely fade into the background. No sign of your personality should be evident to those for whom you buttle (note: “buttle” is an actual verb). If you must have a sex life, it should revolve around service to your employer, as Groves’ does. At no point should a simple heavily-armed back alley rescue-and-extraction devolve into an animated description of your various kinks and/or fears about mortality. With this kind of attitude, you’re going to remain a temp forever.

And now, a couple of jokes about Cedric’s freaky-looking right hand in panel three.

Joke one: I’d be worried about growing old too if the arthritis in my hand were as bad as Cedric’s!

Joke two: In panel three, Cedric is flashing the sign of his gang, the “Cradle Robbers.”

Mark Trail, 5/1/07

Poor Rusty doesn’t understand that he’ll never be able to go anywhere with Mark. That’s why there’s the electric fence around the cabin: so that nobody in the outside world will accidentally look upon his hideous, misshapen face.

Marvin, 5/1/07

You know what would be funnier? If this joke were used in Momma!

See, Momma is often about an old woman and the old men who try to woo her and …

OK, you know what? That was probably over the line. I apologize. Carry on.

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Beetle Bailey, 4/29/07

The last four panels of this strip make up one of the saddest and most poignant little vignettes of homoerotic longing you’ll ever see. Denied their one outlet of physical contact, Beetle and Sarge take a long, wordless walk away from the base that defines their lives, through the countryside, through an enormous ice field in the middle of the city, and finally to some incredibly starry place of refuge. C’mon, guys, you’re miles away from anyone. You can at least let your hands touch.

Family Circus, 4/29/07

I am an unapologetically misanthropic bastard, but even I’m not such a sneering, above-it-all crank that I will hate on this cartoon. I will state now and for the record that I am and always have been pro-hugging. However, I do question the “silent performance” selling point of hugs that I’ve highlighted for you above. Is the fact that hugs are relatively quiet really one of their advantages over other forms of affection? Is their silence to be understood as their differentiator from loud, sloppy tongue kissing or boisterous slaps on the back? What if you and your intended hugging target are wearing raincoats, or pleather clothing, resulting in hugs that are squeaky? I’m all for hugs, but I’m just not sold on this angle, is what I’m saying.

Judge Parker, 4/29/07

Cedric is being remarkably blasé about the fact that his wife is a crazy crazy stalking lady, and whoever the word balloon on the right is coming from is way too ready to file her away under “good stalker,” but this cartoon is eight kinds of awesome for Neddy’s “Uh.. define insanely!” line. “Holy cow … I just got here” is a good runner up. “I mean, I was planning on cutting a swath through every married domestic in the Île-de-France région, but 48 hours a little fast even for me.”

Doodles by Mac and Sack, 4/29/07

I’m not going to get into the fact that this stupid damn koala (who is apparently named “Bosco” for some reason) has gotten himself tangled up in yet another larger, meaner beast’s digestive tract, or that, I wouldn’t have chosen Benedict Arnold as an archetypical liar (though I admit that his traitorous behavior probably involved a certain degree of dissimulation), or that what the Lying Lion is doing looks less like lying and more like smugly contemplating how exactly he’s going to prepare Bosco — in a nice white wine reduction sauce, perhaps — before devouring him. No, I want to point out, with disgust and disdain, the “what’s missing” panel, which I won’t even dignify with the name “puzzle.” Hmm, I wonder what’s wrong with this lion? Right number of toes … full, lustrous mane … two eyes … a tail … nope, I’m not seeing it.

Mark Trail, 4/29/07

God, first birds, now frogs. Sunday Mark Trails are a never-ending stream of filthy animal porn. I like to imagine that the formulation “a little romancing” was the end result of lengthy Pibgorn-style battle with the editors over acceptable content.