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Curtis, 12/21/09

IS NOTHING SAFE FROM THIS BLASTED RECESSION? The one thing that has kept all of America going in this blighted recessionary wasteland was the knowledge that, if we could just make it to December 26, we would have the annual Curtis Kwanzaa Fable to enjoy. But now we learn that this year’s tale won’t involve awesome drug-induced mayhem like giant telepathic otters and bat-winged bears, but will instead merely consist of the last few employed Americans being hit up for money.

Slylock Fox, 12/21/09

Let us pass over today’s sordid crime with only a passing nod of approbation for the perp’s amphibian insouciance, and instead focus on the TERRIFYING DEVIL-THING casually trying on shoes. Those ears aren’t shaped properly for her to be a fox or even the demon Queen of the animal hell Slylock inhabits; I must therefore assume that she’s some kind of lesser Dark Angel, trying on some spiky heels for grinding into the faces of damned souls down in her subterranean punishment realm.

The Phantom, 12/21/09

As a longstanding fan of the Phantom’s saucy narration boxes, I’m bit unsettled to learn that our host for the strip is actually an aged, bloated Billy Dee Williams, so desperate for work that he’s willing to cram an ascot into his collar and spout cheeky nonsense.

Gil Thorp, 12/21/09

Wait … but .. basketball? Milford sports tend to be more or less mutually exclusive, so this seems to indicate that football season is over. But wasn’t the football team actually kind of good this year? What about the playdowns? It bothers me that I’m more tuned in to the championship picture in the Valley Conference than I am to the fortunes of any of the real-life NFL teams for whom I ostensibly root.

And what about Duncan Daley’s simmering drunken rage? I certainly hope that he interrupts Milford’s first game by wandering onto the court, confused and belligerent, with that case of beer still hoisted on his shoulders.

Mary Worth, 12/21/09

Thank goodness the creators of Mary Worth finally realized that America simply couldn’t take any more strips featuring Wilbur typing in front of his computer; any more excitement along those lines and there would have been riots in the street. Today’s strip is still pretty good though, with Adrian and Dr. Jeff making goofy facial expressions and hand gestures (what’s Adrian playing peek-a-boo with, I’d like to know), and Mary disregarding basic kitchen safety by attempting to simultaneously open the oven and lean over the pot on the front burner (with its handle sticking out into the walkway, no less!) to stir whatever’s boiling in the back. In other words, while Wilbur is eating lonely white-bread sandwiches and agonizing over his past mistakes, the Corey Clan has been helping themselves to the “medicinal” pot brownies someone brought Scott.

Apartment 3-G, 12/21/09

Every once in a while, the characters in Apartment 3-G talk like actual New Yorkers. For instance, it makes total sense that a proud Manhattanite like the Professor would bobble his head in shock as he blurted out “Ruby has friends in Queens?!” I’m assuming he’s emphasizing that last phrase just as he would if he were saying “…on Mars?!” or “…in hell?!”

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Mark Trail, 12/9/09

Oh, yeah, there’s an “old store” “a little way back,” surrre, Mark. I’m pretty sure that this is where the rationalizing about abandoning Rusty to be drowned/eaten begins. “He can’t feel his foot, that means gangrene has probably started to set in … a boy with only one leg can’t survive in the wild, it would be cruel to get him out now. And I’m sure drowning after the tide raises the water level up inch by inch over a matter of hours until it’s above your head is a very relaxing way to go — why, you probably don’t even notice it! Now, to hitchhike back to Lost Forest. I’ll tell everyone Rusty was taken in by a family of friendly swamp folk, I’m sure they’ll buy it.”

Phantom, 12/9/09

So, as a surprise to nobody, Mrs. The Phantom was not actually killed by a terrorist bomb, but has instead been secretly thrown into prison in some case of deliberate mistaken identity. Today’s installment is notable mostly because it seems to indicate that V for Vendetta has come up on somebody’s Netflix queue.

Pluggers, 12/9/09

Pluggers know that the love of an adorable moppet is a load of crap when compared to sweet, sweet, life-giving pills.

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Spider-Man, 11/7/09

Oh my goodness, have I somehow managed to completely miss to this point the fact that Spider-Man crime honcho Bigshot is in fact a person of diminutive stature? And that his “Bigshot” moniker is thus delightfully ironic? That’s the conclusion I’m drawing from first two panels. It’s also possible that American’s bankers, apparently deciding that ordinary citizens no longer give them proper respect in the wake of the financial meltdown, have installed raised daises for their tellers so that they can literally glare down at the little people.

Meanwhile, in panel three, the Sandman is showing that Bigshot doesn’t own him. Sure, he may be taking part in this bank heist in order to save his daughter’s life, but he scrupulously avoids using any coarse terms of abuse for lawmen. No, it’s just “pop,” “buddy,” and, if he really gets worked up, “bub.”

Phantom, 11/7/09

Hey, everyone, the Phantom’s wife got blown up! Apparently! But I hear this is the start of a seventeen-month storyline, at the end which I’m guessing the Walkers will be reunited, not that our hero has any way of knowing this, since he doesn’t read the trade press. I mostly just want to point out the implication of the final panel, which is that the creepy cave shaped like a human skull with a terrifying, yawning mouth used to denote good happy fun times for the Phantom and his kids.

Crankshaft, 11/7/09

Crankshaft’s awful yuppie neighbor exists mainly to make Crankshaft look vaguely sympathetic and it’s kind of working here today. Jeez, the old guy’s proud of finally learning the names of all the Canadian provinces and territories, OK? Does it cost you anything to let him finish?

Beetle Bailey, 11/7/09

You know, we all poke fun at the cancer in Funky Winkerbean, but for my money the most depressing things in the comics are the Beetle Bailey strips about how General Halftrack needs to drink himself into a stupor because he hates his wife so much. Dear everyone who can’t get enough booze-soaked marital discord in the paper: Have you tried watching Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? It’s like this, but good!