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Marvin, 3/2/07

All right, Marvin, listen to me: “like that popular toy” isn’t something that any human being would ever in a gazillion years say. An actual human being would say “like Dancin’ Elmo” (and substitute the actual brand name of whatever animatronic Taiwanese-manufactured hunk of plush crap is being demanded by all the little squallers this year for “Dancin’ Elmo”). The only situation in which you’d say “like that popular toy” is if you had a law firm on retainer that was terrified of angering some major toy manufacturing concern vetting your dialogue before you speak it.

Of course, these are all Marvin’s thought balloons, and I suppose that we don’t really know how pre-vocal infants think, so it’s possible that their internal narrative sounds like it was composed by a committee of overcautious corporate lawyers. But I kind of doubt it.

By the way, Floppet, if the way I’m interpreting that last panel is correct, as soon as Marvin starts walking around and shaking his diapered butt vaguely in time to the Barney song, you’ll be finding yourself in a box at the Salvation Army in short order.

Herb and Jamaal, 3/2/07

I find it charming that Ezekiel’s mom looks so horrified that her son is apparently making the essentially arbitrary choice of underwear style by a somewhat whimsical method. Presumably, if she knew the truth — that Ezekiel had gone through some horribly misguided career-selection algorithm that boiled things down to two possible life paths, one of which involving hundreds of thousands of dollars in education expenses for her, the other involving her son being repeatedly punched in the head until he’s left a near vegetable at the age of thirty, and that he’s using random chance to determine which road to take — she’d be totally fine with it.

Family Circus, 3/2/07

P.J. from the Family Circus + pornstar mustache = my weekend ruined, thanks a lot.

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Archie, 2/20/07

I find it kind of amusing that this little drama of internecine hatred and sublimated violence is taking place among members of a bowling team named the “Buddies.”

The less said about the loving attention lavished on Archie’s crotch in panel three, the better.

Cathy, 2/20/07

I honestly have no interest whatsoever in passing judgment on Cathy’s exercise regimen and ability to adhere to same, but … what about the dog? Is she just going to have to go to the bathroom in the house? Or what?

Dick Tracy, 2/20/07

If Dick looks disgruntled in the third panel, it’s because he knows that Beetle Bailey introduced this character under the name of “Chip Gizmo” in 2002, and there are few things in comics more humiliating than being beaten by half a decade to some pop cultural touchstone by Beetle Bailey. Plus, Chip Gizmo doesn’t look like a smug, svelte Richard Nixon.

Gil Thorp, 2/20/07

Dear America: Tyler and his girlfriend staged the attack on Tyler in order to get R.J. in trouble and thus solidify Tyler’s position as a starter on the Mudlark basketball team. You may now cease paying attention to Gil Thorp for the next several weeks. Signed, The Comics Curmudgeon.

P.S. You’re welcome.

Marvin, 2/20/07

Ha! It’s funny because the dog is pooping!

Wait, did I say “funny?” I meant “horrifying and shameful.” Marginally less horrifying and shameful than when it was babies pooping, but only marginally.

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Marvin, 2/14/07

There’s been something increasingly disturbing to me about the rage-a-thon that’s been building up in Marvin all week. Our titular enormous-headed baby has been alternately standing defiantly in the corner with his back to us and turning around to mug for the viewer, but I think this is the first time that his face has been such a transparent mask of evil and hate. Watch out, mom and dad: now that he has the ability to walk upright, he also has his hands free to kill.

Mary Worth, 2/14/07

I’m beginning to believe that this bedside conversation will go down in Mary Worth lore as the Great Meddle of 2007. Some might whine about how long and drawn out and boring it is, but that’s precisely the point; we’ve been privileged to watch Dr. Jeff’s will be slowly broken by degrees. Look at how he’s squirming around, clutching the bed handle in the first frame, adopting the universal Victorian “vapours” pose in the second: he’s like a particularly fascinating insect trapped under an entomologist’s pin, and there’s no escape for him.