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Ziggy, 11/9/06

See, “diversity” used to be code for “black people,” but now it’s code for “gay people.” This represents the new PC horrorshow that awaits us under a Democratic-controlled Congress. Marriage is between one man and one woman, not a cat and two mice. Sickos.

Mother Goose and Grimm, 11/9/06

Speaking of which, I’m not a biologist or anything, but I’m pretty sure only boy cows have horns, which makes this already disturbing strip even weirder.

The Phantom, 11/9/06

This pretty much takes the cake, though. The dude in skin-tight lycra, the dog sticking its tongue in the drugged, blindfolded woman’s ear, the interrobang … sick, I tell you, sick.

And here’s two soaps from today that it would have been sick to ignore…

Apartment 3-G, 11/9/06

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHO DO YOU THINK MARGO’S “ASSISTANT” IS? Is it Tommie? Lu Ann? Gina? The hobo who saved her life a few years ago? Margo herself in a blonde wig, answering to “Maggie”? I am on tenterhooks, I tell you what.

Mary Worth, 11/9/06

Mary Worth has of course been delicious all week, as Mary seethes inwardly at her coming obsolescence. Panel two may be the moment at which anger turns to self-doubt, the moment when Mary’s steely self-confidence began to soften just a little. More interesting, though, is panel one, in which she appears to be shoveling off-white glop out of bucket onto a cookie sheet. Many of you have wondered why exactly Mary has a thigh-high bench in the middle of her kitchen; the fact that she needs to drop her … food … from about a foot above its target would seem to illustrate how impractical this arrangement is. But I’ll bet she just likes the sound it makes.

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Heart of the City and Get Fuzzy, 11/6/06

There’s been a bit of back-and-forth in the comments today about the latest Mallard Fillmore, and exactly who and who not is being urged not to vote by America’s favorite only talking Republican journalist duck. While things have remained civil enough to avoid banishment to the Cockpit (and let’s keep it that way, shall we?), I’m surprised nobody mentioned these two strips, in which children and animals are urged to vote. I think that Satchel might be Canadian, even. The fact that he’s a Green supporter should probably come as surprise to no-one.

Beetle Bailey, 11/6/06

Meanwhile, Beetle Bailey is just totally insane and such. I’m going back and forth on whether this is a genuine hallucinogenic product of a deranged mind or an attempt at forced whimsy that has resulted from all the elevated prose extolling Duck Amuck. On the one hand, the little cutsie waterfowl outfits (look, a little girl! a cowboy! a millionaire!) are a bit too precious and calculated; but the phrase “invaded my dream” creeps me out, and the weird circle-with-a-line beaks of the father/son ducks in panel one and richie rich duck in panel two are just not right at all, and are in themselves fertile nightmare fuel.

Slylock Fox, 11/6/06

Also today, the little Goat kids (see what I just did there?) are being made accustomed to the nightmarish police state that awaits them as adults. “Say, someone ate the cookies? Let’s call in CSI: Genus Vulpes and subject you three to a full-on interrogation until someone confesses!”

At least Slylock uses the power of deductive reasoning to determine the culprits, rather than just going at them with a rubber hose right off the bat. I love the look on the face of bowler-wearing-sidekick-mouse-whose-name-I-forget. He has no real crime-fighting abilities or interest; he’s just happy to be there, drinking coffee out of a mug the size of his head.

Mark Trail, 11/6/06

I’m beginning to think that Molly, the pet bear, isn’t particularly bright.

Hey, everybody! Kelly Welly and Ranger Rick have suddenly re-entered this story after — what is it, three months now? What do you suppose they’ve been up to? Never mind, I think we all know what they’ve been doing.

Mary Worth, 11/6/06

Look at the way Mary grits her teeth in that last panel. I have a feeling that Ella’s casserole is going to be made up mostly of broken glass, fiberglass insulation, and bleach.

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Mary Worth, 11/1/06

I’m sorry, it’s going to take more than Tommy waving around the world’s smallest bible to convince me that he’s decided to give up the exciting, glamorous world of methamphetamine addiction. I’d be a little more credulous if he weren’t holding the Good Book in his fingertips at arm’s length. He’s clearly using it as a prop to get dear old Mom to open her home to him once again upon his release, and is concerned that Jesus will see into his black heart and His written Word will burn the skin right off of his evil, evil hands. Since most bibles tend to be referred to as “holy” on their front cover (good marketing, that), I’m guessing this is a crude, handmade pamphlet that’s actually full of bootleg pornography.

The fact that Tommy’s eyes are the size of dinner plates makes it all the harder for me to believe that Christ is his anti-drug.

Some commentors have been remarking snarkily on Tommy’s hairstyle and what it might say about his position in the prison social hierarchy. I’d just like to point out to you newbies that Tommy has always rocked the scrunchie hardcore.

Bonus question: What the hell does that sign that’s partially blocked by Iris’ head in panel two say? “Cur”? “Fur”?

For Better Or For Worse, 11/1/06

I’m assuming that what’s happened here is that Shannon has proved that she’s plenty smart enough to disconnect the soundsystem, and that we’re going to learn some valuable lessons about how you should be nice to those less fortunate than you, and that industrial sabotage is totally OK if your bosses are jerks. But I’d like to believe that what the Lead Rectangular String Instrument player means is not that the power is out on their amps, but that due to Rebecca’s total bitchiness, they’ve, like, magically lost their sound, man, their groove, their mojo, that special something that’s made them Canada’s favorite teenage pop act. Then Rebecca will have to go on a magical journey to get her sound back, where she’ll find out the true meaning of music and friendship.

Check out the huge pile of bottled water cases in panel two. Makes you wonder what else is in Becky’s rider in terms of backstage goodies. (Insert your own “rider” joke here.)

Judge Parker, 11/1/06

You know, Judge Parker, I love homoerotic subtexts in serial comics more than just about anything, but I also like those subtexts to be at least thinly veiled. This isn’t even sporting for me.