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Beetle Bailey, 9/17/07

There’s been much speculation as the real nature of the relationship between Beetle and Sarge. In the absence of any leadership from Camp Swampy’s officer corps, has Sarge’s near-limitless authority over his subordinates simply allowed his inner brute to emerge in full, sadistic force? Or is Beetle no mere subject, but rather a participant in a complex and largely unspoken sadomasochistic relationship? Today’s strip offers another, even darker take: Sgt. Snorkel is an artist — an artist whose medium is human flesh and bone and blood, and Pvt. Bailey is and will forever be his greatest masterpiece. In this view, the opinion of Beetle on his role in this transaction is really no more important than a dab of paint’s views on being part of van Gogh’s Sunflowers. The chaplain, naturally, is horrified by the human price of art, but the angry beauty of Beetle’s mangled still-living body cannot be denied.

Funky Winkerbean, 9/17/07

Hey, remember a while back when gym teacher Bull implied that he wanted Les to knock up his ever-smirking wife? And now here they are, black-helmet-haired tot in tow? I’m sure that it was really adopted from Romania or something, but let me just for a moment revel in the idea that Les is at long last seeing the result of a fairly lucrative 20 minutes he spent “running errands” while Lisa was in chemo.

Marvin, 9/17/07

Marvin’s look of numb, wide-eyed horror tells us all we need to know about mom’s sadistic will to power through infinite punishment. Presumably he realizes that he’ll spend the rest of his life in that playpen. When he gets tall enough to climb out, his mother will simply put a lid over the top of the pen, leaving him to become a tiny, bonsai-sized adult with stunted limbs, a gruesome example to any toddlers thinking of doing whatever I’m-too-lazy-to-come-up-with-something-specific act of mischief the cowed dog is referring to in panel one.

Mary Worth, 9/17/07

I’ve played a fair amount of Wii Boxing in the past few weeks, and I’ve even seen filmed evidence (with audio) of what I look like while playing Wii Boxing, so I have a pretty good idea of what Dawn’s fists in that position portend. Drew and Vera, get ready to have those little knuckle sandwiches come flailing at you while she lets out little high-pitched grunts of rage! You won’t be able to fend off her head-vibrating assault without giggling.

Dawn’s “And I thought you were the ‘one’!” is actually a pretty effective comeback, in the sense that it riffs off of Drew’s “I thought you were studying” excuse, which is so lame that she could never have anticipated it in advance. I hope she uses her razor wit to further humiliate Drew and Vera as she pummels them. I suggest she start with their bizarre decision to wear matching brown pants.

Pluggers, 9/17/07

A plugger’s body is a battleground where the marketing departments of major pharmaceutical companies fight to the death.

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Rex Morgan, M.D., 9/16/07

Well, hello there, radical disconnect between tone and subject matter! How nice of you to drop by today and hang out with Rex Morgan, M.D., for a bit! With Rex sitting there all stoop-shouldered and palms-upraised on May’s shabby couch, he looks less like he’s going to be taking Niki on a fun fishing trip and more like he’s representing the loan shark and is here to finally collect on that long-standing debt, and he’s really sorry, but if May doesn’t have the cash, he’ll be taking one of her thumbs. The final panel is just entirely baffling to me: it’s a damn fishing trip, how disappointing can it get? “May, I’m afraid that after six hours, your son wasn’t able to catch a single fish, so obviously there won’t be any need to repeat this fiasco. And your further services won’t be required down at the clinic either.”

The less said about “This is as much for me as it is for him!” the better, obviously.

Marvin, 9/16/07

I’m mildly befuddled by the first panel in the bottom row here — “I’ve been wanting to try out one of these babies since the day I was born!” Has evolution finally programmed the urge to draw with felt markers — and, perhaps more important, breathe in their sweet, heady fumes — right into the DNA of every member of our species? Are we literally born to vandalize? But that’s nothing compared to my profound disquiet at the throwaway panel at the top right. Well … does he? Does he? Does he what? What does Marvin do? And, more to the point, why is Marvin speaking this question aloud rather than thought-ballooning as is his usual wont? Can you imagine if your toddler, who previously was incapable of speech, came into your living room, standing up straight with his hands clasped behind his back, heavy-lidded with ennui, and said, “Well … do I?” Would your first instinct not be to brain the unnatural creature with a shovel? Maybe that’s just me.

Slylock Fox, 9/16/07

I’m beginning to think that Count Weirdly needs some sort of image consultant or stage manager. I can’t figure out what the solution of this puzzle is, and the text is too small to really read, but I’m assuming the Count and his bald-headed accomplice are communicating with the usual run-of-the-mill vaudeville trickery. Meanwhile, Weirdly’s greatest scientific triumph, a furry, jagged-toothed tentacled creature, possibly an animated towel of some sort, skitters about grinning with no acclaim or notice. That thing ought to be the centerpiece of his act, not his feats of phony phrenology. I do like the fact that Max is clutching his head in terror, convinced that Count Weirdly can read every thought in his puny (and no doubt very filthy) mouse mind.

In the “how many things start with S” cartoon at the top, this family seems way too blasé about the inevitable mold problem that will visit a lifetime of respiratory problems upon them and render their house completely unsalable. Maybe they just get sadistic enjoyment from the man of the house’s incompetence. “Come on, Billy, let’s go downstairs and watch daddy fail again! I’ll make sandwiches!”

Panel from Mary Worth, 9/16/07

Today’s Mary Worth was six panels of snoresville capped off by one panel of delightfulness. Watch out, Drew and Vera! Your horse-drawn happiness is about to be rudely interrupted by Dawn Weston and her tiny, tiny fist of fury! Dawn, since Drew is dumping you because you’re too young, it was a pretty clever idea on your part to show up wearing a collar that makes you look like a twelve-year-old.

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Apartment 3-G, 8/20/07

WOO-HOO! NERD FIGHT! NERD FIGHT! NERD FIGHT FOR TOMMIE’S LOOOOOVVVVE!

Last we saw Gary Walker, he was some kind of ancillary member of Gina’s Required-By-Court Order-To Remain-A-Minimum-Of-500-Yards-Off-Broadway theater company … the bookkeeper or something? I forget, and Lord knows I’m not looking it up. He mooned mopily after Tommie as she made out with the pencil-mustached director of the play. His hair, it almost goes without saying at this point, was the same sandy hue as Dr. Whatshisbutt, but apparently he’s dipped into the Miss Clairol Sassy and Brassy in a desperate attempt to win Tommie’s heart.

I know that failing New York theater companies aren’t professional, and that their members almost always have real jobs, but I’m suspicious of Gary’s professional geek credentials. (His personal geek credentials are in the clear, obviously.) “Solution package” just doesn’t ring true to me, and believe me, I have to read more of this crap than the average mind can comfortably encompass. “Solution” should be the noun for whatever horrible mass of code he’s going to foist on the hospital’s hapless IT department, modified by one or more of the following: “enterprise-class,” “HIPAA-compliant,” “open standards-friendly,” “Web services-ready,” or “XML-based.” I can only assume that Gary isn’t a systems engineer at all, but is merely willing to type aimlessly on a laptop he’s brought into the hospital for a chance to hover passive-aggressively in the vicinity of the boring object of his desire. Tommie’s quizzical look in the second panel seems to say, “Wait a minute — I’m going to be fought over by these two? I’m sorry, even I don’t find that remotely believable.”

Luann, 8/20/07

Now, the question of “What aspect of TJ’s outfit is the most jaw-droppingly ludicrous?” is one that we can all have a good time debating. Is it his elevator heels? His extra-high-waisted pants? The stripy sweater vest? The fact that Brad non-ironically calls it “stylin'”? The best part is that there are no wrong answers. Still, I’m holding out hope that what appears to be a sort of weirdly dark set of buttons below the collar is actually a tie, of either the bolo or the skinny ’80s variety. Either way, this ensemble is surely an early Labor Day present to each and every one of us.

By the way, I was in the Gap on Saturday and there was an entire rack of black sweater vests in the menswear section. Could Al Scaduto have more control over fashion choices than any of us realize?

For Better Or For Worse, 8/20/07

OH SNAP LIZ CANDACE JUST CALLED YOUR NEW BOYFRIEND FRIENDSHIP PARTNER GARBAGE! By uttering the phrase “angelic little Francie,” Candace cements her place as one of the few remaining likable characters in the strip.

Liz’s word balloon is already taking up a lot of panel four, so there probably wasn’t room to improve its accuracy by putting “who hit on me while he was still married to her” after “wonderful man” and “whom she was passive-aggressively browbeat into having” after “beautiful daughter.” I’m very excited about Liz’s boast that she can “handle” Thérèse. I sure hope she gets a chance to prove herself in physical combat — not because I get off on seeing the ladies fight with each other, but because Thérèse would almost certainly win any such altercation in short order.

Blondie, 8/20/07

I have to admit that I actually laughed at Blondie today. Dagwood’s eating patterns — frenzied bursts of feeding activity in which massive caloric intake occurs in a short period of time, followed by hours and hours of napping — match up pretty well with those of typical large carnivores, so the nature-documentary vibe of this strip, with a feral, hungry Dagwood roaming the corridors of Dithers Enterprises, works pretty well. The question is, who is the weakest member of this herd, destined to be culled by Dagwood’s razor-sharp teeth?

Marvin, 8/20/07

I’ve never raised an infant, so maybe I just don’t know, but someone who has raised an infant, help me out here: Surely it’s not socially acceptable to come into work covered in vomit, just because that vomit came out of someone too young to feed himself? And you wouldn’t relay this information without shame with a sort of heavy-lidded numbness to whoever might ask? Is this what casual Friday has wrought?