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Mary Worth, 12/20/09

Wilbur is reacting to the revelation that he may have sired a young person named “Kurt” in a way totally at variance with the way in which a normal human would respond, which I guess is another way of saying that he’s reacting exactly like a Mary Worth character would respond. He seems to be treating the possibility that he has an unknown son not as a shocking revelation or a potential scam, but rather as part of the unpleasant memories of his college years. “You know, once I graduated, I never really wanted to revisit that part of my life — the drugs, the embarrassing politics, the creation of other human beings using my naughty bits, my obsession with prog rock…”

Marvin, 12/20/09

Today’s Marvin is another strip whose entire tone is changed by the throwaway panel in the top row. Without it, we have a simple, tragic story about a young boy whose selfless gift to Santa was pillaged by a greedy dog. But with those panels in place, we know that Marvin himself stole those cookies, and thus his moral indignation at this little drama’s denouement must be seen as rather ironic.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 12/20/09

This is pretty much a near-perfect Rex Morgan, M.D., containing as it does June wildly oscillating between supercilious rage and mortifying self-doubt, a groggy Rex desperately trying to soothe his wife and so he can get some sleep but still expending enough energy to be kind of a dick about it, and copious amounts of skin and sex appeal all around. (I’m assuming that “mortifying self-doubt” is the emotion we’re supposed to be seeing in the second panel, as “face-melting” isn’t an emotion per se.) Panel three is a particularly delight both for June Morgan boob fans and aficionados of general ridiculousness, as June seems to have carefully positioned herself before waking up her husband. “Brook thinks you’re too cute for me … I mean, has she even seen my impossibly perfect breasts? I’m gonna cut her!”

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Marvin, 12/16/09

I’m a bit confused as to the relevance of the first panel of today’s Marvin. Roy does not seem to have done anything to get into character as he stomps through the living room; rather than going into a festive “Ho ho ho, you don’t want to end up on my naughty list!”, he merely snaps at his grandson for casually spreading filth all over the house. It’s possible that Marvin is fooled because only the jolly old St. Nick would have the superhuman reserves of love and forgiveness necessary to resist throttling the little monster right there; on the other hand, the real Santa would know that Marvin is being good, for Marvin: instead of just dumping out easy-to-pick-up trash, he could be shitting everywhere.

Crankshaft, 12/16/09

Crankshaft, meanwhile, is doing exactly what you’d think he’d do as Santa: providing unnecessarily convoluted and awkward set-ups for jokes, and terrifying little children until they’re on the brink of tears.

Dennis the Menace, 12/16/09

I do believe that Dennis is getting some of his menace back! The image of an unruly mob of children looting Santa’s workshop is a delightful one, as is the thought of the desperate elves vs. tots battle that would be the logical prelude.

Dick Tracy, 12/16/09

Oh, sneaky long-haired son of the long-haired conductor of long-hair music, this is Dick Tracy! The phrase “If you can stop beating me…” will not compute for anyone. It will just earn you more beatings!

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Curtis, 11/9/09

This may not be interesting to anybody else (though really, what’s the point of having a blog if you can’t write about things that aren’t interesting to anybody else?), but I was sort of intrigued by Curtis’s father describing The Day After Tomorrow as a “Dennis Quaid movie.” I mean, yes, Quaid got top billing, but the film featured an ensemble cast, and you certainly wouldn’t call it a Dennis Quaid vehicle. It got me wondering whether films with large casts jockeying for screentime aren’t sort of Rorschach tests, with people seeing as most prominent the actor with whom they have the most in common. So, whereas middle-aged dad Greg Wilkins might call the film a Dennis Quaid movie, younger adults might consider it a Jake Gyllenhaal flick, whereas short sixtysomething Brits would identify it as an Ian Holm film. (As a believer in the auteur theory, I’d call it a Roland Emmerich movie myself, and who else is going out on opening day with me to see 2012, the latest from history’s greatest artiste of delightful computer-generated mass destruction? Anyone? Anyone?)

Getting back to the comic, I’m sort of amused by Curtis’s “Um, yeah” in panel three. “Dad, The Day After Tomorrow was a huge Hollywood blockbuster with an enormous marketing budget, so obviously I saw it. I’m the film industry’s perfect consumer! It’s like they grew me in a lab!”

Shoe, 11/9/09

Have you ever noticed that virtually all of Shoe’s distasteful romantic interludes are depicted as occurring in bars? I’m not just talking about the creepy courtship; even the sort of relationship talks that you’d expect to take place at home, or in the car, or in one of the more secluded booths at Pizza Hut, or really just somewhere that provides a little privacy, are instead aired out with Shoe and some interchangeable member of his cast of soul-deadened lady birds bellied up to the same bar where they presumably first set bleary, bloodshot eyes on one another. It leads one to believe each partner has someone or something at home that much be kept in the dark (e.g., children, spouse) or kept secret (e.g., porn collection, spouse) about/from the other. The logical conclusion is that the entire duration of these ephemeral relationships takes place at smoke-filled watering holes, with the drunken lovers hopefully retiring to the backseat of one of their cars to get it on rather than taking up a valuable toilet stall in the men’s room.

Marvin, 11/9/09

In somehow even more distasteful romantic news, today we learn what odor Marvin finds sexually arousing: the unguent one has smeared on one’s nether parts to soothe rashes caused by sitting in one’s own urine or feces for extended periods of time.

Marmaduke, 11/9/09

Hey, lady, don’t try to impose your square heteronormality on Marmaduke! Unfettered by humanity’s hang-ups, he’s free in his polymorphously perverse state to flirt with either the carefully groomed poodle or the big butch terrier, or both, whatever strikes his fancy. And anyway, this being Marmaduke, he’s probably not planning to “flirt with” anyone so much as to “kill and eat” them.

Funky Winkerbean, 11/9/09

Meanwhile, Wally Winkerbean, his life torn apart by a cruel twist of fate and his mind tortured by traumatic brain injury and PTSD, has decided to drink himself to death. Gonna be a fun week!