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Everybody nags writers, “Show, don’t tell.” But when the showing fails and the deadline draws nigh, telling will have to do.

Judge Parker, 6/16/2008

For days, we’ve been speculating, “Terrorist plot or drug bust — which will appear in the newspaper?” The answer? Not this strip, if you keep this up. And hey — the maid gets
the inside seat in the breakfast nook? How does that work?

Mary Worth, 6/16/2008

Here’s another newspaper comic about what appears in a newspaper. But don’t worry — the narration box helpfully explains that the newspaper photo is misleading. Taking Mary’s side, of course.

The Phantom, 6/16/2008

Ignoring the convenient ladder, the Ghost-Who-Showboats speculates about how awesome his awesome feat will look when it appears in print. As though anybody’s going to look past the first panel.

Spider-Man, 6/16/2008

Spidey’s narration box is as baffled as we are. And perhaps as bored.

Mark Trail, 6/16/2008

The second panel’s giant tortoise is rendered mute. Cramming his gullet with peyote — or is it deadly nightshade? — he prays only that his release, or the end, will be quick.

— Uncle Lumpy

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The Phantom, 6/4/08

So for the past few days, the Ghost-Who-Is-Pretty-Darn-Ripped and his wife have been strutting around in various states of undress on an abandoned oil platform somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, for no reason that you need to worry your pretty little heads about other than that it provides an opportunity for hot superhero-on-diplomat action. This has no doubt been delightful to faithful reader Bootsy, who can’t get enough of that stripey, stripey ass. Today’s strip is particularly hilarious in the stripey ass department, as we see that the Phantom sleeps in his stripey briefs and purple tights, though he lets his manly, muscled (and, if the final panel is any indication, nippleless) torso breathe.

Mary Worth, 6/4/08

About a year ago, I was forced to contemplate a question: Is there anything more vile than watching Vera and Dr. Drew have phone sex on bland and hideously colored sheets? At the time, I said “no”, obviously, but I now know that watching Mary and Ron have phone sex on bright and hideously colored upholstery is worse. KEEP THOSE HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM, YOU TWO.

Crankshaft, 6/4/08

By the look of glum despair on the balding green-shirted dude’s face, I’m guessing that this isn’t the first Crankshaft trademarked misanthropic witticism he’s had to endure during his 40+ minute wait in the security line.

Apartment 3-G, 6/4/08

Oh, Alan! That’s not “petty cash,” that’s Margo’s coke fund. She likes the powdered stuff, because unlike you she is classy, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be assaulting you like a crazed basehead when she realizes what you’ve done.

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Phantom, 5/3/08

Could the JUNGLE PATROL’s longstanding no-yucky-girls-allowed policy have been based on sound policy, not mere prejudice? The men of the Jungle Patrol have for centuries cheerfully taken orders without question from a mysterious figure that they never see and who may not even exist; but these two dames have been Jungle Patrolpersons for less than a week and they’re already determined to suss out his identity — not because they find the idea of a faceless, nameless superior officer creepy and weird, of course, but because they want to have sex with him. Kay and Hawa have been yammering on in this vein for several days now, and I’ve been wondering how their tight-knit friendship would survive when the Unknown Commander has to choose only one of them to be his Unknown Commandress, but today we learn that obviously the choice will be based on racial grounds. It’s too bad the real U.C. isn’t Chinese or something, just because it would be fun to watch that blow their minds.

Apartment 3-G, 5/3/08

Thanks to the glory and pageantry of NetFlix, my wife and I tore through all five seasons of The Wire a few months ago, but this Apartment 3-G makes me realize that I still don’t fully understand the economics of the drug trade. Will Jones be pleased when he realizes that Alan is redistributing his dope, happy to move up the ladder from street-level dealer to wholesaler? Or will he conclude that the profits Alan is reaping by selling smack to desperate floozies are rightfully his own, and decide to shoot the hapless artist in the back of the head and leave his body to rot in a vacant somewhere?

The stakes would be much higher if everyone involved weren’t morons. I love Jones’s rapt expression in panel two. “Whoah — that’ll buy a lotta dope! Now where I could I find some … oh, wait, I have some right here! Turns out I don’t need your money after all, Alan.”

Dick Tracy, 5/3/08

Dick Tracy’s contempt for Deformed-Americans has never been more obvious. Hey, Liz, your “knight in shining armor” lost his gun, then stood around aimlessly in that shining armor until somebody else shot the bad guy. Your real savior was Dab Stract, who has the added bonus of not being married (I’m assuming). Go on, plant a wet one his lumpy, malformed cheek. He’s earned it!

Gasoline Alley, 5/3/08

His two-timing having been revealed to the congregation, Sturdivant is about to be dragged out of the church by the bride’s hobo relatives and stabbed to death, or possibly sodomized. Score another one for good ol’ fashioned frontier justice!