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The Lockhorns, 5/13/17

You know how it works: with worms, you catch a little fish. With a fish, you catch a much, much bigger fish. One big enough to swallow you whole, you and your entire boat, and end your hated life with your hated spouse forever. Look at Leroy’s faraway smile, just thinking about how death, blessed death, will finally come for him, deep in a friendly fish’s warm, snug belly.

Mark Trail, 5/13/17

Oh, hey, uh, are these guys still talking? Apparently! The hairlines are continuing to retreat at a rapid pace. Look at the dude in panel one! He’s just got a hair island left in the middle of his head! For a gruff cop, that is an extremely avant-garde hairstyle.

Mary Worth, 5/13/17

OH MY GOD IT REALLY WAS A TRAP

AND NOW KATIE’S BEEN LEFT TO DIE IN A FILTHY ACTUALLY PRETTY CLEAN HAITIAN BATHROOM

LEAVING ENTERTAINER ESMÉ FREE TO SEDUCE DEREK, AND THEN SMOKE CIGARETTES WITH HIM AFTERWARDS

THIS IS AMAZING

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Mary Worth, 5/12/17

So in addition to being a shitty husband, Derek is a terrible boss as well! “Hey, Sandy, Denise, thanks for holding down the fort here at the office while I took a three-week vacation to ‘reconnect’ with the wife or whatever. You do not want to hear about how that went, ha ha! Anyway, I saw this extremely generic teal hat in a fenced-off vacation compound in Haiti and thought of you guys. Uh, I only bought one, so, I guess you can share it?”

Meanwhile, Katie is exploring the Mystery Of The Propped-Open Bathroom Door! THEORIES: Either it’s a trap laid by her romantic rival, Entertainer Esmé, who’s lying in wait in there with a knife, or the plumbing’s backed up and the toilets smell very, very bad.

Funky Winkerbean, 5/12/17

As you all know, I normally choose to think as little as possible about the decade-wide Funkyverse chrono-disconnect between Crankshaft and Funky Winkerbean, but I have to admit that I’m intrigued by Becky’s passing reference to “tear[ing] down the old bus garage” mere days in real time (and ten years in Funkyverse time) after the Crankshaft gang ruminated over the possibility that they’d be replaced by robots. I certainly hope they did get replaced by robots, and that moreover Crankshaft’s pension was docked so the school district could afford to buy the lubricant the robots need to function at peak efficiency.

Hi and Lois, 5/12/17

Peter Parker? No nipples. Dagwood Bumstead and Mark Trail? No nipples. Congratulations to Chip Flagston, the daily comics’ first benipplèd man!

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Mary Worth, 5/7/17

Derek strides determined onto the smoking deck, the new pack in his fist a taut miracle of cellophane, paper, foil, and promise — of hours of pleasant anticipation, indulgence, and satisfaction. Unguided, his hands repeat the practiced rituals that release the first cigarette of twenty — twenty, by God — fresh, firm, fragrant, perfect. The match glows in his cupped hands as the head burns off, and the flame kisses the tobacco into life.

Confusion of fire, ash, and ember as the tip catches, then blessed smoke, warming his lip as it passes over, bathing his mouth in electric mist. Teasing himself, he savors the pungent earthiness and the cascade of memories recalled from half a lifetime of such moments — in terror, bliss, bitter cold — before drawing it deeply in. Relishing the familiar catch in his throat, he closes his eyes to bathe in his first deliberate, fully conscious breath in what seems like months.

Full, rich, warm, radiant, held, and released softly as a sigh, his spent breath scrolls effortlessly back into the sea air. The shimmering silver column pauses for just a moment at the rail, then streams abaft to dissolve in the tropical sunlight.

The old, remembered music rises in his ears, an impossibly high-pitched sostenuto from a faraway violin, along with a placid warmth and golden lightness radiating throughout his body, and keen appreciation of every sensation etched into this moment: sun hot on his arms, breeze soft on his cheeks, whisper of scent from a woman now at his side.

“Oh, hi — Esmée, isn’t it? Nice day, huh?”

Curtis, 5/7/17

OK, this strip is a knockoff of the “Curtis is humiliated trying on clothes” series in which a dressing-room door flies open to reveal Curtis in his underwear before a sudden storeful of jeering spectators. But hey waitaminute – what is this crowd laughing at? Chutney’s an attractive girl, and has been drawn even more so over the years – surely “boyfriend” and “date” aren’t laughably out of the question.

So they must be laughing at Curtis — so selfish, shallow, and incapable of love or friendship that they snap pictures of the famous monster to show their friends. Curtis is headed toward a really dark place — no pepperoni for you, jerkwad!

Phantom, 5/7/17

Hey, I know I plug this strip like it’s my job or something even though folks like Josh aren’t feeling it. But c’mon, people: Jungle Patrol! Minions of ‘The Python’ Chatu! résumé-building “Leopard Print” Hawa and “Full Auto” Kay! Captain “Jimmy Olsen” Weeks in full “Golly, Colonel” mode! Colonel Worubu himself rocking his fourpack in that breechclout! That’s some quality entertainment right there.

But as long as the evildoers (evilsayers, really) are all lined up on their knees like that, I’d avoid saying things like “brilliant execution” — somebody in this crew could easily get the wrong idea.

Hey, that’s it for me — Josh will be back early tomorrow, continuing the great circle of whatever this is. Thank you for a lovely time!

–Uncle Lumpy