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New directions for old favorites, just in time for the weekend!

Apartment 3-G, 6/20/2008

Hey, Tommie’s back! And it’s clear Gary’s ardor hasn’t cooled — soon, he’ll whisper that if the hospital doesn’t upgrade the intrusion detection software on the Pharmacy network leg to current specs — and fast — there’s no way they’ll demonstrate HIPAA compliance before the first-round JCAHO review. Tommie will just lower her eyes and coo that the time may have come to negotiate with an outside service provider for penetration-testing services.

Then comes the howling.

Funky Winkerbean, 6/20/2008

Hey, Les is on the fast track: just learned where the glassware goes, now he’s running the Manhattan operation. At least he knows the neighborhood — last visit, he spread his wife’s ashes in Central Park, got mugged, and squandered his precious honeymoon memento calling Funky to come bail him out. Now he — and we! — can relive the magic.

Back home, Summer will spend her copious lesiure time ginning up fresh tragedy, as required by her genetic inheritance, her contract, and the strip’s mission statement. Her Dad, of all people, should know there are no “comfort zones” in Funky Winkerbean.

Luann, 6/20/2008

Hey! Brad’s on the job! He’s gonna rescue TJ! Five days ’til The Kiss!

— Uncle Lumpy!

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Blondie, 6/4/08

Wait … is Dagwood supposed to be an office manager? Is … is that the joke? Because he often deals with “accounts” and makes presentations to clients for Dithers Enterprises, which isn’t something that office managers do, I don’t think. Or is he just taking offense at criticism of lazy incompetents on general principles? Or does he find it hard to relax because his co-chatter is talking about work? DAMN IT DAGWOOD YOU BROUGHT IT UP.

Anyway, I refuse to believe that Dagwood would just be spending time on random chat rooms. If he were to frequent any Web site, I’m pretty sure that it would be this.

Luann, 6/3/08

Comics about Brad’s sex life: Distasteful.

Comics about Brad’s fetishistic shaving-based sex life: NGGGNGGGNGNGH

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Herb and Jamaal, 5/12/08

I was going to make some snide comment about how sad it is that Herb and Jamaal thinks it’s keeping its readership enthralled by this cut-rate David-and-Maddie-style romantic tension plot, but then I realized that I keep commenting on it, so who’s the sad one, really? Anyway, today’s installment takes the strip’s usual nonspecific circumlocution to some kind of higher art form. Are these two even aware that they’re talking about each other any more? Is Jamaal !ing in the final panel because he’s trying to visualize what Yolanda means by his “hammer” and her “bent nail”?

Luann, 5/12/08

Speaking of tedious romantic storylines, with TJ safely bundled off to … wherever he goes to when he’s not in the strip (*cough* gay bar *cough*), will tonight finally be the night when Brad “mixes some Brad” with Toni’s “Toni”? I have no real idea what that sentence I just wrote means, but it sounds gross, so I hope not.

For Better Or For Worse, 5/12/08

Speaking of tedious romantic storylines, I have to admit that today’s FBOFW made me crack up. Sure, it’s a reinforcement of the horribly retrograde idea that the strip’s been going on about for some time — that if some guy you don’t like is coming on to you, all you can do is wring your hands and whine weakly about it unless you have a bit of finger hardware purchased for you by someone else with external genitalia. But the sight of Warren recoiling in horror from the second-cheapest ring from Zales (or its Canadian equivalent) as if it were filled with deadly radon gas is so hilariously over the top that Foob, Inc., has to be in on the joke. Right? Right? Right?

Mary Worth, 5/12/08

In happier news, Donna Amalfi celebrated Mother’s Day by dropping dead. Since this blessed event took place at the beginning of the week, we should be treated to five or six glorious days of Mary helping the Brothers R process their emotional pain before giving this whole thing up as a bad job and blessedly moving on to something equally dumb.

Ziggy, 5/12/08

AOL-themed joke from 1998 + talking feces = desperate, desperate cry for help.