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Mark Trail, 2/25/05

You know, when you go on a long trip, manage feuding love interests, fight artifact smugglers, get knocked unconscious and left for dead by vicious drug-dealing taxidermist/veterinarian duos, and dribble water all over the place for hours on end in defiance of all known laws of fluid dynamics, when you come home, you just want to take off your electric blue sports jacket and relax. You certainly don’t want to deal with the fact that your adopted son has come down with a bad case of hydrocephaly, with his right arm withering to a freakish stump to boot. God damn it, Doc, we leave the kid alone with you for … um, how long has it been exactly? Feels like about a year and a half. Assuming that the freaky little bastard hasn’t become a hideous mutant and that the third panel isn’t supposed to give the reader a window into Mark’s PCP-distorted worldview, I’m guessing that it’s supposed to depict Rusty running headlong towards his returning family members. Though it may very well be the PCP thing.

By the way, Mark’s “Bill is a smart man” comment is probably the single cattiest thing that’s ever been uttered in this strip. Seeing as Mark used to date her too, its implications become more alarming the more I think about it. “Bill’s probably just using her for sex … you know, like, I did … um, wait, did I say that last part out loud?”

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Holy crap, a guy can’t get out of town for two days without all hell breaking loose on the comics pages. There’s way too much going on to leave unremarked until I get back from Bermuda, so here’s the wrap-up.

Mary Worth, 2/20–21/05

OK, so Dr. Brian was apparently wracked by so much pent-up lust after being constantly interrupted in his two-week quest to pop the question to Anna that, once he finally managed to spit it out, they flew directly to Vegas, checked into whatever sordid, jaundice-walled hotel is across the street from “Plaza,” got hitched, and then headed for their lumpy, overstarched nuptial bed the very next day. This is without doubt the fastest that anything has happened in Mary Worth, though the fact that they’re flying back home in the next day’s strip may indicate that something else happened a little too fast, too. (OK, that’s a cheap shot, but I have to work out my anger about the loathsome “bedside manner” foreplay talk somehow.) Anyway, Monday’s strip features some Mark Trail-style talking scenery and what appears to be the traditional post-coital arm-wrestling match.

Apartment 3-G, 2/18/05, 2/20–21/05

Meanwhile, in Apartment 3-G, not only does Tommie get two panels all to herself, but we also learn an important truth: good mothers are involved in their teenage daughters’ roadside activities, while bad ones live in vans in other people’s driveways. I can’t wait to find out what particular set of van-focused scriptures Mim’s mom uses as her guide to life. This sequence also features two classic Margo assertions: that parking-poor Manhattan is thankfully impervious to Lu Ann’s sister’s peculiar brand of driveway-based spirituality, and that being nice to people is really, really hard, especially when you have to give up your couch to do it. You can see that the effort involved in showing compassion is so great that it’s making her eyes point in different directions.

And, finally, over in Mark Trail…

Mark Trail, 2/18/05

“What you said is wrong! I dispute what you said! My lawyers will force you to show some sort of what-you-said evidence! Damn you, Trail!”

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Mark Trail, 2/11/05

Is anyone else painfully disappointed that this Mark Trail adventure is about to abruptly end thanks to an oh-so-convenient passing helicopter, and will apparently not feature Mark fighting off vicious sharks armed only with his encyclopedic understanding of sea life and his bare fists? Instead, it looks like we’ll get a quick flight back to shore, followed by the arrests of some coke-smugglin’ no-goodniks. B-o-o-ring!

On the other hand, our incredulous (or perhaps all-too-credulous) helicopter pilot seems to think Mark is being held close to the surface of the sea by some supernatural force; perhaps he’ll mistake the outdoorsman for Christ Himself. If word gets out, there’s no telling how Mark, drunk with power, will exploit his legions of followers. Perhaps there’s hope for my harem-of-polo-shirted-women idea yet.

Speaking of polo shirts, this strip also features sign #293 that Mark Trail is not drawn by a gay man (or, if it is, then by a gay man with a good deal of restraint): despite the fact that he’s soaking wet, Mark’s shirt is singularly failing to cling to his rugged, manly physique in a provocative manner.