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Mary Worth, 9/30-10/2/05

This is how Mary Worth’s alcohol-driven storyline ends: not with a booze-fueled, police-intervention-requiring bang, but with a sober (or, perhaps, dry drunk), platitude-drenched whimper. As Rita and Vic motor off in his Mood Car (like his suit, it shifts from melancholy blue during the goodbyes to hopeful brown as they head towards Rita’s new small-town hideaway), I can’t help but wish that we had seen a little more cussing and public humiliation of Mary and Jeff, and a lot less forgiveness and overcoming of adversity.

Nevertheless, things do seem to have wrapped up awfully neatly. Rita even now has a substitute Fay to smother with affection and make freaky puppets with; this will save her from liquoring up Vic and forcing him to sire some mutated incest-child on her in order to fill the emptiness that Fay’s death has left in her codependent soul. We’re probably not meant to contemplate the many, many loose ends (Will Rita relapse? Won’t the suffocating atmosphere of small-town life leave her with nothing to do but drown her sorrows in the bottle? Does the interlude at the Women’s Shelter prove that Mary hates and fears poor people above all others? Is Dr. Jeff finally going to get laid?) so instead I’ll just pose this question to you all, on the subject of “inappropriate” quotation marks: why do aphorisms one (“Your future depends on many things, but mostly on you!”) and three “To live in hearts we leave behind is not die!”) get quotes around them, but not number two (“Only time will tell!”)? Perhaps Mary’s mind is so cliche-o-riffic that she can’t even tell the difference between platitudes and her actual thought process anymore.

I would be remiss without showcasing this comment on Friday’s strip from Dennis Jimenez: “I like the soul shake there in panel two. The sistas at the women’s shelter must have taught ’em that. Right on!”

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Mary Worth, 8/25/05

I think JEFF IS IMPATIENT because you’ve been going out for years and the nights are still ending with a chaste peck on the cheek, Mary. Rita is just the latest excuse you’ve been able to throw into his horny path. I don’t think even your pink-psychedelic-starfish-t-shirt-and-pleated-baby-blue-skirt combo is going to dissuade him from his quixotic goal. He’s already at home, surfing the Internet with his one-handed, 19-key keyboard, looking for dirt on Rita to get her out of the picture. Maybe if there were a little more action going on, he wouldn’t need a one-handed keyboard, if you know what I’m saying.

By the way, if you want to see ol’ Dr. Jeff busting a move on Mary, check out this entry on Smitty Smedlap’s blog, Subdivided We Stand. Very disturbing.

Wouldn’t Wilbur the bald-headed advice columnist be a good person to consult for guidance in this situation? Perhaps; but a look over at Gil Thorp reveals that the legendary Marty Moon, insane with grief over the failure of his charity-based romance, has cut off one of Wilbur’s hirsute arms and is having someone slap him in the eye with it:

All this drama has been having a negative effect on Apartment 3-G’s Lu Ann over the past few days. Especially the head part of Lu Ann. Watch out, everybody, she’s gonna blow!

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OK, let’s start this catching-up post with the events over in the province of Foobonia that have had comics readers across Canada and the U.S. (aka “Baja Manitoba”) so exercised. I actually don’t have much to say on the subject except to reiterate what most have already said, which is FOR GOD’S SAKE EVERYBODY CALL THE GOD DAMNED MOUNTIES OR SOMETHING BECAUSE HOWARD JUST TRIED TO RAPE ELIZABETH AND WE’RE ALL STANDING AROUND MAKING LAME-ASS PLAYS ON WORDS AND LAUGHING BEHIND OUR HANDS. Ahem. I mean really, even an accountant — even a Canadian accountant — can’t possibly think that a little ear-twisting constitutes sweet vigilante justice.

On the other hand, I’ve given up on hoping against the inevitable Liz-Anthony get-together. Of course, in real life, Thérèse would make their future lives a living hell vis-a-vis the adorable little baby whose name I now forget, but the strip has shown her being so unrealistically disinterested in the little bundle of squalling, pooping joy that no doubt she’ll be happy to let Liz adopt her (him?) and turn him (her?) into a Patterson By Proxy. And everyone will be happy ever after. Except, we hope, Howard.

With those weighty subjects out of the way, let’s move on to a little nose-picking from Monday’s Curtis:

Now, I ask you: is this the most graphic depiction of prospecting for nostril gold ever to grace the funny pages? It’s not so much the visual that bothers me, offensive though it is, but the explicit — well, I’m not sure if they’re sound effects or stage directions, exactly, but they’re gross, and the accompanying motion lines don’t help. Though I have to admit that I’ve always liked the Curtis convention of people suddenly sprouting enormous eyes and long, luxurious lashes when they’re being disingenuously cute, as Barry is here.

Mary Worth, 8/12/05, 8/15-16/05

I continue to be utterly horrified by Mary Worth’s treatment of both women’s shelters and alcoholism. I kept waiting for Mary’s illusions of the horror that is downtown to be shattered by the tough-minded but caring women who took in Rita when she had nowhere else to go. Instead, we’re treated to a tearful reunion while a bunch of slightly mussed but reasonably well dressed white women stare and listen to the shelter-bashing in creepy silence. Check out panel two of Friday’s strip — Rita is so desperate to get the hell out of there that she’s pushing Mary out the door, despite the fact that there’s been zero evidence that anything bad happened to her there. Maybe she’s just happy that she won’t have to look at that woman with the huge cyst on her face anymore.

But hey, at least Boilface never took her to the scene of her one of her most humiliating drunken moments and expected everything to be fine. Yeah, Rita, I suggest you go down the “complete abstinence” route — though of course I’ll be having the ketchup-colored Chateau Heinz with everyone else in here. Hope you don’t mind driving home!

I really, really hope that, in tomorrow’s strip, Rita’s answer to our bow-tied waiter’s question is “A double scotch — and make it #$&*#($ing snappy!” And then further hijinks ensue. Mary needs to learn that clever rhymes are no substitute for a treatment program run by certified substance abuse counselors.

Gil Thorp, 8/15/05

If you haven’t been following Gil Thorp’s non-stalking storyline, then I don’t have anywhere near enough time to explain why Sports Illustrated’s Rick Reilly is lurking in the bushes, ballpoint pen and reporter’s notebook in hand, waiting to hear this vicious anti-Pac-10 diatribe. I would just like to say that this development reminds me of the embarrassing amount of time I spent as a youth watching Scooby Doo, whose adventures would often feature guest spots from the sort of big name stars that your typical eight-year-old living in 1982 would be sure to love, such as Phyllis Diller or Tim Conway. I’m sure said stars were happy to spend twenty minutes in the studio recording some lame-ass jokes and then walk off with a nice pile of dirty, dirty Hanna-Barbera cash. Rick Reilly didn’t even have to do voice work, though I’m assuming he also didn’t get paid or have any creative control. And in fact, perhaps the latter is something of an issue. Here’s a look at the real Rick:

Now, the photo reveals that Mr. Reilly has a fairly typical number of smile lines around the eyes for a man his age. His Thorpian doppelgänger, on the other hand, has crow’s feet that are so pronounced that he appears to be wearing KISS make-up. Way to treat your guests, guys!

And speaking of special appearances, “Smitty Smedlap” of Subdivided We Stand has already pointed out that the evil coach is really none other than radio’s own Don Imus, and put together this little graphic to prove it:

Scary, no?