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Mark Trail, 3/4/09

With a mighty KEN!, Patty single-handedly redefines ludicrous dialogue boldface in Mark Trail; and with a weepy “It’s all my fault!” over the supine form of her beloved abusive husband, she single-handedly sets attitudes about domestic violence back decades. I look forward to seeing just how hilariously offensive the conclusion to this story is: presumably Patty will apologize for forcing Ken to slap her, Ken will allow the deer that caused him massive internal injuries to live in their house, the magazine article Mark will write about the whole affair will arouse such sympathy in the timber-purchasing community that Ken’s business will pick up again, and our happy couple will finally have that baby, which will quickly die of Lyme disease.

Gil Thorp, 3/4/09

CRUTCHES? CRUTCHES? NOOOOOO! I CLENCH MY FIST IN RAGE! See, what the doctor doesn’t realize is that Milford student-athletes are only valued for their physical prowess; like racehorses, once they’re injured, they’re put down so that they don’t take up valuable classroom space that could be used by a point guard who can walk unaided. Ashley knows that Coach Kaz will be waiting at her house with a shotgun if she fails to leave the hospital under her own power.

Alternately, Ashely might be enraged because she realizes that the “doctor” is actually Marty Moon, who has wandered into the hospital hoping to find some unguarded morphine.

Pluggers, 3/4/09

This may be the first time that Pluggers has inspired pity in me rather than rage or contempt. So, you thought the basic literacy and arithmetic skills taught in public schools would help you climb the economic ladder despite your lack of elite connections, eh, pluggers? You poor anthropomorphic saps.

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Beetle Bailey, 3/1/09

Sometimes people complain about the mishmosh of anachronisms and inaccuracies that make up the military uniforms in Beetle Bailey, to which I respond: check out what happens when the artists try to draw any other form of clothing. While most of these outfits are rendered with equal parts lazy and terrible (and I long to hear faithful reader Fashion Police’s take on them), I feel must I draw particular attention to Rocky, slouching there smack dab in the middle of this grid of awfulness. While I suppose I am not an authority on what constitutes “urban hip,” I feel that I can with some certainty give examples of what “urban hip” is not, and here is one: an oversized, untucked, bright red waistcoat, worn over what appears to be a white t-shirt with a single, incomprehensible button at the collar.

Zero’s bit of hanky code, meanwhile, is neither to be asked about nor told of.

Family Circus, 3/1/09

More proof that the Keane Kids are unnatural demon-children. “AAGGGGH! The yellow face, it BURNS!”

Mark Trail, 3/1/09

Another example of how the top row of throwaway panels can subtly alter a strip’s dynamics. Without them, today’s Mark Trail is just a charming story of poisonous plants and early biological warfare. But with the mention of the poisonous plants growing in your yard, this becomes a manual for a guerilla army. “So remember, kids, when the invaders come to your town, you’ll have a weapon ready to strike back at them even after they confiscate everybody’s firearms. Wolverines!”

Mary Worth, 3/1/09

Ted has finally and officially been outed as a cad by his cheapskate thought balloon in today’s final panel. I’m sure we’ll have much more delicious character assassination to enjoy over the coming weeks, but today I want to dwell briefly on just how damn pleased with himself Jeff looks as he bellows out his offer to pick up the check. Presumably everyone in his family just views him as a giant talking wallet, and he’s internalized that and is now just desperate to please in the only way he knows how.

Panel from the Phantom, 3/1/09

While Spider-Man’s narration box is acknowledged as the sassiest of superhero narration boxes, the Phantom’s is no slouch. I was particularly impressed by this atmospheric and semi-comprehensible offering today. It sounds like the latest underground hip-hop album to hit the street (though I leave to the reader to determine whether “Day of Reckoning” should be the artist name and Through the Eyes of a Thug the album title, or vice versa).

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Marvin, 2/28/09

If you had told me, way back in July of 2004 when I was starting this blog, that there would come a time when I would feel obligated to parse drawings of toddlers running around completely pantsless, I would have have immediately shut down my crude Blogger.com account and turned to a more worthwhile and ennobling pursuit, like philately or house-flipping. And if you had told me yesterday that there could be something more terrifying than seeing Marvin’s genitals, I would have laughed at you, and yet here is the proof: more terrifying than seeing Marvin’s genitals is not seeing Marvin’s genitals where his genitals are supposed to be, and glimpsing only some kind of unbroken, Ken doll-like smoothness instead. Now let us never speak of this again.

Mark Trail, 2/28/09

Oh, everyone who feared that Ken would not receive his narrative comeuppance for slapping around his wife and then trying to kill her beloved pet: Ken is very much about to receive his narrative comeuppance. A frightened, dangerous Bucky is about to literally run headlong into the economically ravaged abuser, with his antlers conveniently sawed to razor sharpness by Mark. I’ve long felt that what this strip really needs to compete in today’s entertainment market is more humans being killed or mutilated by the animals they’ve wronged, so I’m really looking forward to next week.

Dick Tracy, 2/28/09

Speaking of people being killed or mutilated, Dick Tracy once again proves that all’s well that end’s well horribly. Tess’s face in the second panel offers particular insight into what her marriage must be like. “Oh, God, he’s going to make a pun about Angelorious’s agonizing death, isn’t he? Wait for it … yep, there it is.”

Marmaduke, 2/28/09

“As well he should, since the Dread Lords of the Outer Darkness have appointed him Demon-King to rule over Earth. Oh … oh God DON’T LOOK DIRECTLY AT HIM!”