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Archive: Phantom

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The plink of DOOM

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Crankshaft, 4/30/18

Man, Crankshaft sure drops a lot of pills, doesn’t he? Remember when he had to beg the doctor for more pills, because he keeps dropping them? I don’t know his specific medical situation, but I’m assuming he needs those pills to live, right. And he keeps dropping them. I think you see what I’m getting at, wink wink, nudge nudge (it’s Crankshaft dying of some preventable disease because he kept dropping pills, and nobody being sad because he’s a mean old jerk who everybody dislikes).

Six Chix, 4/30/18

I’ve got a lot swirling around my mind looking at this panel — like, what’s a robot’s “family”? is this supposed to be in a bar or a kitchen in someone’s house? since circuit boards are what robot brains are made of, is this cannibalism, or just the equivalent of eating meat, assuming the boards’ specs are lower than the ones inside the robot? — but I can’t get past the idea of the robot eating. Like, eating? Putting a circuit board in its mouth-slot and … eating it? Nah. Not working for me. Sorry, Six Chix, I’m gonna pass on this one.

The Phantom, 4/30/18

I know I normally don’t “get political” on this website, but I know that some of my followers are keenly interested in depictions of young, ripped, mustachioed Mitt Romney engaging in some recreational breath play, and who am I to fail to bring them the good news?

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Soapy Sunday

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The Phantom, 4/29/18

This Phantom Sunday plot, involving our hero breaking a prison snitch out Bangalla’s most hellish jail temporarily for crime-fighting purposes, has been happening since at least last October, and I’m definitely not going bring you up to date on everything that’s happened in it, because if it were actually interesting I probably would’ve talked about it here already, right? Mostly I wanted to point out that our jailbird’s faltering attempt to find common ground with the Phantom makes the hero recoil in disgust and think about his loving, supportive childhood where a man dressed in a purple gimp suit who never even let his own children see his face taught him to kill.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 4/28/18

Oh, right, Heather, last seen having succeeded in her plan to seduce her dying, demented husband, or at least procure some of his seed. Well, the baby’s born and the husband is dead, and now she’s going to have to deal with both the grief and her stepson Hugh, who failed to come to his father’s deathbed, probably because his father never liked him and he and Heather conspired to keep Hugh from taking control of the family company not once but twice. The new baby is named “Phoenix,” presumably to summon the image of a bird rising from its own ashes, which will help Heather make the case to the board of Avery International that the infant is in fact the reincarnated soul of Milton and therefore technically the company CEO.

Mary Worth, 4/28/18

I know it’s been a few days since we checked in with Wilbur, so here’s the update: Wilbur’s still depressed, and now he’s turning to drink. It’s sad that he has this whole liquor cabinet, including a bottle of decent scotch, and nobody to share it with. What about his neighbors? What about Ian? What do you think is keeping Wilbur from inviting Ian over and enjoying a pleasant nightcap? Probably the fact that they don’t really care for each other because they’re both pretty unlikeable, I imagine.

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It would be better if a single drop fell in and then a tentacle grabbed him

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Dick Tracy, 3/27/18

It has been brought to my attention by many of you that Ghost Pepper didn’t dislocate his shoulder in a car crash; he got shot by Dick Tracy from an improbably angle as Tracy lay prone on the ground behind the car. This happened in a Sunday strip that I missed (SHAME), and also the windshield got shot out in the process and the airbag activated, I dunno. The point is that Ghost Pepper’s wound is seeping blood, and, his plan to lay low at the aquarium having been foiled more or less immediately by someone needing to get into the closet where he was hiding, one assumes that he’s about to fall into a tank where something that likes the smell of delicious blood, like a shark or an orca or a kraken or whatever, is going to put him on the Dick Tracy horror death list of honor.

Gil Thorp, 3/27/18

I hereby apologize for implying that the Social Justice Teens don’t know anything about sports and don’t know what they’re doing. In fact, their highly sophisticated campaign of clownish behavior and harassment aims not just to drown out and provide an alternative to Marty Moon’s racist rants but to also draw everyone’s attention away from the patriarchal and hierarchical world of sports altogether. Way back in in the mid ’00s, earnest liberals Steve Luhm and Hadley V. Baxendale tried to bring justice to basketball season by means of incremental reforms. But Steve Luhm ended up a bitter, overeducated high school janitor, and this current generation of radicals are here to smash the system to pieces with pure, goofy anarchy.

The Phantom, 3/27/18

Meanwhile, thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean, the most self-righteous nap in human history is about to begin.