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Blondie, 12/23/09

As is sadly typical, the actual punchline in today’s Blondie is so gentle as to be essentially undetectable, but I confess that I like the visual gag. Generally, when the Bumsteads’ shop, they end up with packages ludicrously stacked in their arms in structurally improbable configurations. Today’s strip takes this to its logical conclusion, with a series of boxes just sort of floating in a cloud around Blondie, without any visible means of support.

Mark Trail, 12/23/09

OH YEAH MARK TRAIL JUST PUNCHED A COP RIGHT IN THE FUCKIN’ FACE! This is the greatest Christmas gift you or I or anyone else will receive this year. Note that the mighty blow has miraculously dislodged the car keys that Mark and the lawmen were discussing in the previous panel; Mark’s fists are unerring plot-device-seeking projectiles.

Hi and Lois, 12/23/09

Add another entry to the “call social services on the Flagstons” file: the apparently unsupervised Trixie is just eating garbage she finds under the furniture now.

Herb and Jamaal, 12/23/09

I’ve been reading this strip for going on five years now, and more or less against my will I’ve actually accumulated some knowledge about the title characters. For instance, here’s what I know about Jamaal: He’s a firefighter, he’s in love with his fellow firefighter Yolanda, his name is “Jamaal J. Jamaal,” and — a relevant detail about today’s installment — he’s a former professional basketball player. Since today he’s challenging his gnomish best friend to a game of one on one, I’m guessing I’m going to have to add “he’s a cruel bastard who needs to boost his fragile ego by demolishing poor Herb on the court” to that list.

Apartment 3-G, 12/23/09

“To be more specific: I hope you like them enough that you’ll let me trade these poinsettias I stole from the Macy’s window display for more sleeping pills!”

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Family Circus, 12/22/09

So why is Grandma smiling? It’s certainly not because Jeffy has opened his mouth and proven, once again, that he doesn’t have the brains God gave a bowling ball; she probably isn’t even marveling at the wonderful advantages that modern capitalism has over the primitive ointment- and precious-metal-based economic systems prevalent in Biblical times. No, I think she’s cracking a little grin because the drugs are finally kicking in. How else do you explain the fact that Jeffy is significantly tinier than PJ, a miniscule Jeffy-homunculus perched in the crook of her arm? He’s probably spouting his idiocy in a squeaky, comical little voice! “Soon,” she thinks, “he’ll be so little that I can just ignore him altogether!”

Mary Worth, 12/22/09

As noted yesterday, the drugs kicked in long ago in Mary Worth. I’m not sure where those hands on Dr. Jeff’s chest are coming from in panel one, but they certainly aren’t attached to Adrian’s arms — at least, they wouldn’t be in the three-dimensionally Euclidean space with which I’m familiar. But in Dr. Jeff’s hash-hazed mind, Adrian’s left shoulder can be behind him but her left hand in front of him. Why not? Time, space, location — all illusions, man! His expression in panel two is that of someone who’s going to describe this new world-theory to you in earnest and incoherent detail for about twenty or thirty seconds before wandering off to go lie down on something.

Mark Trail, 12/22/09

Oh, look, it’s Mark Trail, backwoods hypocrite. Normally he’s all “Those sideburns are the only search warrant I need” and “My fists may be cruel, but they’re not unusual.” But now that he’s the one thrown in jail, all he can talk about is “Wah wah wah rights of the accused wah wah wah” like a little liberal baby. You’re lucky this comical country lawman is so scrupulous about Constitutional provisions for due process, Mark — which you’re no doubt going to exploit, like the nature-terrorist you are.

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Ziggy, 12/18/09

Wow! Like a lot of people, I assumed that Ziggy would make a token response to Pearls Before Swine’s put-pants-on-Ziggy crusade before getting back to the bizarrely optimistic despair that is its stock in trade. But today brings us back to pants, and puts a whole new spin on things! Ziggy is visiting his wizened dry cleaner, who offers to give back the gnomish alopeciac’s trousers — along with his Nehru jacket, a garment that went out of style many years ago. Thus, this panel turns our scorn back upon us. Pants are so out of date, it seems to be saying. Maybe you narrow-minded losers are walking around, your thighs unfairly constricted by fabric tubes; but Ziggy is the new model man, his legs exposed to the open air, as is the style here in the future. You squares with the pants can do what you want. Ziggy won’t be having any of it.

Wizard of Id, 12/18/09

Hurl all the epithets you want at the Wizard of Id — “unfunny,” “irrelevant,” “badly drawn,” “minimizes torture” — but one thing you have to give it credit for is its unflinching attitude towards alcohol. While Hi and Lois, for instance, has gone along to get along, with “Thirsty” Thurston’s gin blossom-scarred nose of old having long ago vanished, the Wizard of Id’s Bung remains on the funny pages as an unrepentant alcoholic, and not the fun, charming kind. Today, for instance, we learn that, in the brief period of time after he awakes from his booze-numbed slumber but before he can stumble down to the bar to start drinking again, his hands are shaking so badly due to the lack of alcohol that he injures himself while attempting to attend to basic grooming. This may shock and horrify you, but anything that leads to awkward conversations along the lines of “Daddy, what’s the DTs?” is OK in my book.

Six Chix, 12/18/09

Speaking of horror, there’s something quite touching about this scene, in which ephemeral snow-lovers trade a last few endearments even as their bodies droop and melt.

Mark Trail, 12/18/09

Sheriff Stogie Q. Doublechin is right! That is a good one! What kind of monster leaves a little boy trapped under a car on the beach? How the hell does a car even get onto a beach on the first place? And would anyone leave a child in the care of this obvious lunatic? No, the sheriff doesn’t think he’ll be following that lead, than you very much. He’ll just stay here with his thumbs hooked into his belt and glare at you there in your cage, mister! Haw haw!

Note just what a state Mark is in, with no less than five hairs somewhat out of place. This is really the most desperate we’ve ever seen him.

Crock, 12/18/09

So, uh, the Lost Patrol, after years of all-male company, has been saved by water and masturbatory fodder? Eh, why not, it’d hardly be the most distasteful Crock ever produced.