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Gil Thorp, 6/6/22

Look, folks, I’ve never claimed to be particularly “baseball savvy,” so I apologize for failing to follow Saturday’s disjointed jargon about Ryne Duren. (Just as a side note, faithful reader/Twitter follower Windier E. Megatons pointed out that Ryne Duren is a classic guy for the Let’s Remember Some Guys genre of sport talk, which you’d think Gil Thorp would engage in more often.) Apparently the point was not that “You should get better glasses, like Ryne Duren did” but rather that “Now that your opponents know your vision is poor, you should ham it up and make it seem like you have very little control, like Ryne Duren did, so that they’re terrified you’re going to ‘accidentally’ murder them with a fastball to the face, something that a coach at the high school level would definitely just let happen.” Remember, kids, using a series of elaborate coded signals to compensate for your disability is the pusillanimous tactic of an effeminate coward and violates the rules of baseball. But pretending to be a true psycho/major legal liability for your school district? That’s all the game, fellas.

Slylock Fox, 6/6/22

A thing that I have noticed in my many years of Slylock Fox studies is that a great many of the “mysteries” simply involve a sapient animal who has been caught in some wrongdoing offering a transparently false alibi that Slylock easily sees through. Today it occurs to me that one of the things that distinguishes humans from (present-day) animals is our ability to imagine counterfactuals: ways that events could have, but did not, play out, or, alternately, explanations that we know to be false for actual events. Perhaps part of the great Animalpocalypse was the non-humans’ sudden ability to dream up counterfactuals of their own, but being so new to them, they find them difficult to refute. Only Slylock, one of the wisest of the new breed of animals, is able to keep is bearings on reality in this brave new world.

Pardon My Planet, 6/6/22

The comics pages are a small-c conservative institution heavily invested traditional institutions like the nuclear family. Only truly radical strips like Pardon My Planet are willing to speak the unpopular truth: raising children is exactly like your soul being condemned for your sins and tortured forever, in hell.

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Mary Worth, 1/23/22

Oh my GOD, the island ISN’T EVEN DESERTED, Wilbur is going to be FINE, just FINE. I don’t want to overstate things, but this is absolutely, positively, the greatest injustice in all of recorded human history. He’s not even going to take the opportunity to finally, actually stop drinking this time because all the obnoxious Australians/Floridians (depending on what ocean we’re in) are absolutely going to be buying him round after round of free booze once he stumbles in there and tells his story.

Pardon My Planet, 1/23/22

Ha ha, it’s funny because this guy is so economically desperate that he’s begging some spirit being to rip all his teeth out of head just for a few more dollars! Sure, he needs to buy food, but what are you going to chew it with, buddy? What are you gonna chew it with

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Hi and Lois, 9/17/21

Do teen boys still, in the year 2021, lie around their bedrooms, decorated with Stones and Led Zep posters, and talk about how bands today suck? I mean, they did when I was a teen in the ’90s, which was also decades after those bands had been relevant, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t now, but I admit that I don’t have any personal insight into the subject. I certainly hope little brothers of teen boys still lurk in the hallway outside their rooms, ready to strut in sassily with a perfect cutting sitcom-quality bon mot, because otherwise I will despair over the direction of today’s youth.

Family Circus, 9/17/21

Sure, you would think Big Daddy Keane would take this opportunity to unceremoniously plop his son on the other side of the fence and then power-walk away from his family forever, but I don’t think the desire to do that iss the emotion being conveyed by his facial expression here. It’s more a look of pure panic, as if he’d do anything to stop whatever sort of blubbering, weeping noise Jeffy is making, which should give all of us pause about whatever sort of blubbering, weeping noise Jeffy is capable of making.

Pardon My Planet, 9/17/21

I don’t really talk about Pardon My Planet very much, but on a day where one of its interchangeable characters spins an erotic description of a very fuckable armadillo, could I really ignore it? I mean, I probably could, most days, but the comics fodder is a little thin today. I just wrung a paragraph out of Jeffy crying, for pete’s sake. Anyway, like I said, this guy wants to fuck an armadillo, but what’s really sad is that he’s ashamed of it so he tries to project conventional feminine attributes onto the poor fantasy beast as if that places his desires within the bounds of traditional heteronormativity, when in fact it just makes it all much, much worse.