I have just completed my review of the Saturday comics, and I fear that this is the only one that has moved me to comment:
Pluggers, 3/7/09
Pluggers are terribly constipated, but they don’t trust any medication or treatment developed after 1925.
I apologize for the foregoing. Hopefully Sunday’s strips will be more inspiring.
Mark Trail, 3/4/09
With a mighty KEN!, Patty single-handedly redefines ludicrous dialogue boldface in Mark Trail; and with a weepy “It’s all my fault!” over the supine form of her beloved abusive husband, she single-handedly sets attitudes about domestic violence back decades. I look forward to seeing just how hilariously offensive the conclusion to this story is: presumably Patty will apologize for forcing Ken to slap her, Ken will allow the deer that caused him massive internal injuries to live in their house, the magazine article Mark will write about the whole affair will arouse such sympathy in the timber-purchasing community that Ken’s business will pick up again, and our happy couple will finally have that baby, which will quickly die of Lyme disease.
Gil Thorp, 3/4/09
CRUTCHES? CRUTCHES? NOOOOOO! I CLENCH MY FIST IN RAGE! See, what the doctor doesn’t realize is that Milford student-athletes are only valued for their physical prowess; like racehorses, once they’re injured, they’re put down so that they don’t take up valuable classroom space that could be used by a point guard who can walk unaided. Ashley knows that Coach Kaz will be waiting at her house with a shotgun if she fails to leave the hospital under her own power.
Alternately, Ashely might be enraged because she realizes that the “doctor” is actually Marty Moon, who has wandered into the hospital hoping to find some unguarded morphine.
Pluggers, 3/4/09
This may be the first time that Pluggers has inspired pity in me rather than rage or contempt. So, you thought the basic literacy and arithmetic skills taught in public schools would help you climb the economic ladder despite your lack of elite connections, eh, pluggers? You poor anthropomorphic saps.
Rex Morgan, M.D., 3/3/09
So, obviously, the current Rex Morgan, M.D., storyline became boring to me once it stopped being about hot barely closeted nautical action and instead turned into something about, I dunno, medicine-y stuff. Still, I am charmed by this old Mrs. Dunsmore, who is apparently British, and her imperial nostalgia. “Yes, if there’s one group that knows how to run a quarantine, it’s the Brits! Comes from being an island people, you see. We’ll be kept just off shore by polite and heavily armed guards, and occasionally be airlifted crates of digestive biscuits and blood pudding to eat; if the virus rages out of control, of course, they’ll just set the boat on fire with all of us still on it, nodding their heads sagely as we scream for mercy and saying ‘Bit of a sticky wicket, eh wot? Still, had to be done, I suppose. Say, d’you think we have time to catch the Test Match?'”
Pluggers, 3/3/09
Though pluggers are incapable of adequately planning ahead for retirement, their suicide preparations are remarkably meticulous.
Family Circus, 3/3/09
BITE, PJ! DO IT! BITE BITE BITE!