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Apartment 3-G, 8/11/07

WOO-HOO, ALAN’S BEATNIK BUDDY IS BACK! If you don’t remember this bad-news countercultural type, check out his first appearance, from more than a year ago. Crazy kick! I don’t know if we knew before today that his name was “Jones,” though. I wonder if this fellow is actually the Archie gang’s resident nonconformist, Jughead Jones, all grown up, who’s traded his first name and his felt crown for a soul patch and a gig dealing weed (“good”) and smack (“bad”).

Momma, 8/11/07

I was going to write a screed about how if you weren’t a dedicated Momma reader, you wouldn’t get the “joke” of today’s strip, which is that Francis doesn’t really have a steady job and so “getting up and going to work” probably means putting in applications or working at one of his various menial but otherwise not particularly stressful jobs and that based on the level of dishevelment in his hovel, you might assume that he did literally work in a salt mine, albeit one with complimentary wake-up calls, and that furthermore this meant that nobody would get the “joke” in today’s Momma because there was no such thing as a dedicated Momma reader, but then I realized that I was a dedicated Momma reader and that I got the “joke” (keeping in mind that “getting” is not the same as “being amused by”). Then I was sad.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 8/11/07

Good news, everyone! Hugh’s conscious and his histrionics levels are back to normal!

Judge Parker, 8/11/07

All right, Judge Parker, you’ve been waving those things around all week trying to get my attention, so here it is: boobs. BOOBS. Boobs boobily boobs boob. BOOBS. Are you happy now?

Mark Trail, 8/11/07

Speaking of boobs: You’d think that Sam, who’s been through a lot with Mark, would take the lead in thanking him for his help in saving this small-town airport, which help mostly took the form of violence and threats of the same, but it’s her dad who’s doing all the jawing here. Still, in panel three it does sort of appear that she’s about to thank him … visually.

And now, a little something for the ladies…

Gil Thorp, 8/11/07

Legitimate questions were raised about whether yesterday’s crotchtastic Gil Thorp was really as crotchy as all that, or if it was perhaps just the view through Bill Ritter’s boxing gloves. There’s really no doubt today, though. No, sir. That’s quite the crotch shot. Yep.

By the way, if Bill were holding a pack of cigarettes and wearing chaps, panel three would look uncannily like an enormous Marlboro billboard that loomed a mere two blocks from my high school when I was a kid, I swear to God.

The Lockhorns, 8/11/07

Ha! It’s funny because Leroy has a crippling problem with alcohol! Funny!

Beetle Bailey, 8/11/07

Ha! It’s funny because General Halftrack has a crippling problem with alcohol, and is so drunk that he’s managed to intoxicate his golf ball, in defiance of all the laws of biology and physics! Funny!

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Crankshaft, 8/10/07

If there’s one thing that redeems Crankshaft for me, its the fact that the title character really does live up to his name. He’s always angry about something — or about everything — all the time. Take today’s strip, for example. Most people in this situation saying this word would be making a light-hearted little joke. You might expect them have a smile on their face — or, in this context, the patented Funky Winkerbean/Crankshaft gentle smirk. Not the ’Shaft, though. He’s regarding that feeble little sapling with the same look of unbridled hate and rage that he also uses on his yuppie neighbors, the children who ride his bus, his friends, and his own family. When he says “timberrr!”, he’s saying, “Hey, little tree, I know you didn’t get to choose where your seed landed. I know that you’re an example of the magic of life, of that genetic code that orders everything alive to reproduce and to grow, even the harshest of circumstances. I know all this and I don’t care. You’re in my gutter and I’m going to kill you. Fuck you, little tree.”

Mark Trail, 8/10/07

Did you ever notice that Mark never punches rich people? His fists of fury seem almost exclusively aimed at low-life hillbillies like Buzzard, occasionally deigning to sock out a lower-middle-class striver like Diver Dan. I used to think this was part of some ugly class-based agenda in the strip, but today we see the real reason: rich people are cowards. I’m guessing Mark is starting to ever so gradually clench his right fist just below the bottom of the first panel, leading to Leo’s terrified sweat balls and eventual confession. “He did it! Him! Punch him, not me!” The poor either aren’t afraid to get a facefull of Trail knuckles, or aren’t perceptive enough to recognize the incipient fisticuffs and surrender in advance.

Gil Thorp, 8/10/07

Speaking of punching, the next time Mark decides to punch someone, could we see him winding up looking through the undercrotch of the punchee? Failing that, could every comic in every newspaper just be replaced by today’s Gil Thorp, forever? Thanks.

Hi and Lois, 8/10/07

Hey, look, kids, it’s a ghost! That is, if you think “some dude being paid minimum wage to wear an old-timey miner outfit” is some sort of acceptable substitute for “a ghost.” Considering Hi ruined his family financially to go on this vacation, this is a pretty poor showing.

Mary Worth continues to be ludicrous, of course, but nothing I say could match t.a.m.s.y.’s Mary Worth/TDIET mashup.

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Judge Parker, 8/5/07

Wha … buh … WHO IS THAT DISTINGUISHED-LOOKING OLDER GENTLEMAN LURKING BENEATH THE STRIP’S LOGO? Why, that’s Judge Parker, natch, just like the label says! Hizzoner has appeared in this strip exactly twice in the three years or so that I’ve been reading it, but I like the way he’s staked out his position in panel one here so that he can still claim proprietorship. “I may not jet off to find lost treasures in Mexico, or to tussle with punks in Paris, or get involved in high-stakes real estate deals in the Napa Valley — but I’m still Judge Parker, damn it! Without me the rest of you losers are nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!” Presumably he’ll remain in the first panel of the Sunday strips, glowering manfully, until his totally-not-gay son Randy cruises to an easy election win and becomes a judge himself. Then Judge Parker the Senior, no longer needed for his one current duty of justifying the name of the strip, can drop dead post-haste.

In the ostensible “action” of today’s strip, Sam and Trudi are doing a little dance around the patio or balcony or wherever the hell it is they are. Sam’s presumably ducking and weaving because he’s afraid of losing an eye to one of Trudi’s pointy, bullet-like breasts. Still, leaping up on the railing and striking a pose out of the Cosmo’s sexiest male comic characters feature may have been a little much.

Spider-Man, 8/5/07

Speaking of breasts, I wish — oh, how I wish — I had time to hunt through the Spider-Man archives to prove this, but I’m pretty sure that Mary Jane’s “Oh, I’m so tired, I think I’ll stand up and stretch in a way that is advantageous to the display of my unusually large chest” in panel five is a fairly regular occurrence in this feature. Today’s is more blatant than most because she’s wearing the skin-tight pink fuzzy belly sweater that’s all the rage with the movie stars this season.

Meanwhile, in the final panel we’re introduced to the Shocker, who, based on what generally goes on in this strip, I must assume is an eccentrically dressed network programming executive who plans on picking up a number of shows that will annoy Spider-Man now that he’s turned the TV off.

Curtis, 8/5/07

For those who believe in a more or less literal interpretation of the Genesis creation story, the question of whether Adam and Eve had navels — and, for that matter, whether the trees in the Garden of Eden had growth rings, or whether anything that was created by God in the beginning carried evidence of age — has been a subject of theological discussion since at least the time of Saint Augustine. There’s actually an Answers in Genesis pamphlet on the subject, and the philosophical issues arising from the question gave rise to the so-called omphalos hypothesis. Thus, Rev. Caldwell ought not to have been reduced to weeping, sputtering incoherence by Curtis’s question, like a computer in the original Star Trek series presented with some elementary paradox. One can only assume that Caldwell had a sudden panic attack because his claimed divinity degree is a fraud that he purchased online for $10, and that he’s afraid that his theologically curious congregation, led by young Mr. Wilkins, will soon discover that he’s been skimming off the collection plate for years and plans to decamp to the Cayman Islands very soon.

Speaking of theological conundra, I’m a little disturbed that Barry is both so convinced that Curtis will be condemned to an eternity of torture in hell and that he’s so smug about it. On the other hand, Curtis does wear that damn hat with his church clothes, which can’t be pleasing to the Almighty.

Mark Trail, 8/5/07

Jesus, the final panel of this strip — aka Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Bloodhounds” — is going to haunt my dreams for weeks. Mark is all very upbeat about bloodhounds not mauling your children to death despite the breed having the word “blood” in its name, but you notice he doesn’t say anything about the emotional scars of seeing melting dogface every morning when they wake up.