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Mary Worth, 11/14/11

For someone who had a careful list of all her credit card information on hand in case of theft, Mary sure seems shaken by the fact that her credit cards were stolen. In an ideal world the purpose of the list is to make her feel smug and prepared, and perhaps even allow her to assert her superiority over those who don’t have her foresight. She should never have to actually use it, how gauche!

I’d like to believe that Mary’s thought balloon in the second panel heralds some rethinking of her world view, and an understanding that we do not live in an ideal world, that bad things sometimes happen to good people, or even to the best people (i.e., Mary). But probably it just presages her transformation into a brutal masked vigilante who will hunt down criminals wherever they hide, which, I should emphasize, will also be pretty great.

Mark Trail, 11/14/11

Gosh, Kelly, I’m not sure what it is that Mother McQueen might want to melt, in relation to making her gold goose bands? Gold? Does gold melt? Gold does melt, right? Will someone answer Kelly? Someone? I mean, she is talking to someone, right? Otherwise she’s just talking loudly to nobody in particular while in the process of sneaking around at night, which is clearly ridiculous. C’mon, whoever she’s talking to, get her on the right track!

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Six Chix, 11/8/11

I’m a little puzzled by the visual messaging going on here. The icon of the culty robed figure, standing on a public street and holding a sign, is well established in the cartoonist’s vocabulary, if not in reality. Usually these people are bearded old dudes, and I’ll accept the divergence from the type here to accommodate Six Chix’s lady-centric mission, but the placards they carry generally offer dire warnings of impending apocalypse, and so I don’t buy the slightly too wordy (is “Hugs Not Drugs” trademarked?) anti-drug PSA this woman is perpetrating. I do like the sassy pill-popper’s response, though. “Oh, honey, I can go days and days without physical contact with another human being — let’s be honest, most of them smell bad or linger too long or both — but it’s been four hours since I took my last Vicodin and I’m really starting to miss it, you know?”

Mark Trail, 11/8/11

I certainly hope that Kelly Welly’s article is just an expansion of what we see in panel three, which is to say that it should be page after page of closeup photos of her eyes and bangs overlaid with free associated noun phrases. It will win every single Pulitzer Prize available.

Apartment 3-G, 11/8/11

Meanwhile, the Apartment 3-G writer and artist are in the middle of one of their “you are going to draw things if I have to kill you” spats. “What will it take to get you to draw clothing that is not boring? Lu Ann’s breasts? Is that what it takes? Fine.”

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Mark Trail, 11/3/11

As if we needed more evidence, today we see who’s really in charge here in McQueen Valley. Supposed lawman Mountie McQueen gets all twitchy and gun-happy at the slightest hint of trouble. Mother McQueen, however, just casually and subtly lets everyone know who’s in charge and who could be savagely ripped to shreds by a bear at any moment. “Yes, I rescued this beast as a cub from a pack of bloodthirsty predators, and now it is devoted to me, and only me. Does his presence make you … uncomfortable? Here, let me tie this flimsy muzzle around his snout. I can take it off just as easily as I put it on! And of course his claws remain at the ready. Now, was one of you saying something about leaving this valley or attempting to contact the outside world?”

Crankshaft, 11/3/11

It used to be that you could say, “Crankshaft may be a miserable, hateful human being who will soon die alone and unloved, as he deserves, and occasionally we’re forced to contemplate the ugly and pathetic libidinous impulses that lurk below his crusty, misanthropic surface, but at least we’re never forced to contemplate the volume and texture of his bowel movements.” Used to be.

Funky Winkerbean, 11/3/11

Meanwhile, a couple of depressives playing video games in a comic book store are trying to compare themselves to badasses who practiced dark magic.