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Apartment 3-G, 6/12/13

There are so many things I [love/am horrified by] (this is a single emotion that I trust is familiar to anyone reading this blog) about today’s Apartment 3-G that I can hardly stand it. Let’s start with the idea that Lu Ann lacks the rudimentary linguistic-cultural competencies necessary to parse the concept of a “famous stylist,” which would be pretty embarrassing even if she hadn’t fairly recently been on a reality TV show in the course of which she got a makeover from a famous stylist. Then add in the fact that what had on Monday been an ignorable peach-orange shirt has today suddenly become a peach-orange shirt insanely paired with an all white suit jacket, which, when combined with Lu Ann’s weirdly rubbery-seeming fish-lipped visage, makes her look like a villain from the Adam West Batman. Look, the governor is affectionally patting her mask-face! Haha, this is a [nightmare/delight].

Funky Winkerbean, 6/12/13

Man, Funky Winkerbean is really going there, if by “there” we mean “dragging one of the sad sack characters from Crankshaft ten years through a time-wormhole into the Funkypresent.” Things we’ve learned today: Jeff looks even more beaten down by life and depressed than he does in the Crankpresent; and, Crankshaft still lives, but has been banished to a nursing home, and thus presumably no longer endangers children by driving a bus. What about Jeff’s terrible mother? Has she finally shaken off this mortal coil? I’m legitimately on tenterhooks!

Crankshaft, 6/12/13

Meanwhile, back in the Crankpresent, my shriveled black heart twitched in delight at Crankshaft’s look of genuine panic in the second panel. Is this the moment when the school district decides to let him go from the job that lets him preserve a modicum of independence and dignity? Let’s hope!

Mark Trail, 6/12/13

Oh, man, I’ve been totally neglectful in keeping you up to date with the new storyline in Mark Trail, which involve otter poaching and otter traps and rescuing injured otters, and have been bubbling along on just this side of hilarity. But I think it’s safe to say that the sentence “How are the otters today, Rusty?” crosses that line at a pretty fast clip.

B.C., 6/12/13

The B.C. creative team apparently has only a vague idea of what the “internet” is or how one interacts with it.

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Mark Trail, 5/30/13

Well, all’s well that ended well for Mark and Cherry and Wes and Shelly! Someday Wes will be able to put weight on his inexpertly set ankle again, Cherry only got lightly mauled by a bear, and probably no more than a few hundred acres of protected forest went up in flames when the gang’s propane tank blew up. It was all worth it, though, if the end result was the final panel: Shelly weeping tears of glorious relief at being within range of a delicious, life-affirming cell phone connection one more.

Marvin, 5/30/13

Marvin’s dad, meanwhile, has encountered kindness in the form of an invitation from a co-worker whose existence is not defined by catering to a squalling, pooping hell-infant. He appears to have gone into shock as a result. Presumably the tears of relief will come later.

Heathcliff, 5/30/13

At first, I thought that the government of Heathcliff’s town had broken the sanitation workers’ union and replaced them all with non-human primates, but then I realized that this ape is apparently … delivering garbage cans? As described by talking owls? Anyway, this has been your daily installment in the Chronicles Of Heathcliff’s Descent Into Total Madness.

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Heathcliff, 5/27/13

The best thing about this Heathcliff is that it almost isn’t creepy. Like, we could just take it at what I’m pretty sure is meant to be face value: that Heathcliff celebrates the beginning of hot grilling seasons by getting up on the roof and throwing a bunch of hot dog buns into the air. (Side note: Do some people say “hot dog buns” and others “hot dog rolls”? Is it a regional thing? Am I weird for thinking “rolls” sounds off?) That would be … well, weird, but not unsettling. But in fact it doesn’t look like Heathcliff has thrown them at all. His arms are barely extended, certainly not enough to explain how far up the hot dog buns are. No, it looks like he really did release them, and they’re flying. They’re alive. The bread flapping like wings. Rustling. Raining crumbs down below. They’re free. They’re free. They’re free. Heathcliff stands, arms extended. The hot dog buns swoop and dive and trill their little song to each other. Grilling season …. has begun.

Slylock Fox, 5/27/13

I’m not even going to get into the extremely dubious physics behind the solution to today’s puzzle because I can’t stop thinking about who drove that car into the water. Because somebody’s dead, right? That playful octopus pushed aside the bloated corpse of Harry Ape or Buford Bull or some other nefarious land-beast, or maybe the octopus is on top of the drowned evil-doer, just draping his tentacles all over the poor guy’s stiffened limbs. And let’s not even talk about the fact that Slylock knew all about this, used his ratiocination to get to the beach before the robber even did, probably watched the car go into the water, watched it sink under. “Let’s take a leisurely walk up the road and get some scuba equipment, Max,” he said. “Things ought to be nice and safe for us down there in about, say, an hour.”

Mark Trail 5/27/13

Guys I … I don’t think Cherry knows where her shoulder is