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Rex Morgan, M.D., 4/3/09

HEY EVERYONE JUNE MORGAN IS IN HER BIKINI! HOT! HUBBA HUBBA WOO HOO OK, look. Doubt my credentials as a heterosexual comic-loving man if you must, but I simply cannot get myself worked up over drawings of sexy ladies. I mean, sexy ladies are intriguing to me as a rule, but when it comes to cartoons, it’s hard for me to forget that someone, somewhere, generally a dude, was drawing said sexy lady, and usually thinking, “Hmm, I’ve seen sexy ladies in real life, but with the powers of my artistry, I can add even more sexiness!” Which in practice usually means “I can make her boobs even bigger!”

I don’t pretend to be consistent on this point. For instance, it’s well known that I have certain … feelings for Margo Magee. And Margo is nice enough to look at, but my feelings are primarily driven by the fact that she’s a hilarious, tightly-wound bag of angry crazy, which is the sort of thing I’ve been known to go for in the past. And while Margo’s wonderfully antisocial personality is as much a fictional construct as, say, Abbey Spencer’s ass crack, somehow it’s much harder for me to ignore the artifice involved in the construction of the latter.

And speaking of artifice … I’m not a professional breastologist or anything, but I’m pretty sure that one’s cleavage does not consist of two perfect and slightly separated semi-circles if one’s bosom is the one that God gave you. Having a surgically enhanced cartoon fantasy object strikes me as particularly bizarre and off-putting, to be sure, but what I really want to know is: whose work are we looking at here? Certainly not Rex’s; breast-enhancement surgery can take hours, and that’s much longer than he’d ever want to spend touching a girl’s boobies.

Blondie, 4/3/09

Blondie comments on the current economic crisis: the unemployed masses, their lives destroyed by the decisions of the powerful, weep openly in the street, just outside the fine restaurants where the captains of industry who got us into this mess dine on gourmet foods, served on china plates and fine tablecloths. The workers who are still employed sit by uncomfortably, afraid to protest at the injustice for fear of joining the starving hysterics in the gutter, wracked with shame over their collaboration in their own oppression.

Dennis the Menace, 4/3/09

Hey, Mr. Wilson, it’s the government that publicizes the names and addresses of sex offenders, not the television stations. But I admit that when they ran that picture of your house with the caption “PERVERTS IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD” as the lead story on the 6 o’clock news, that was a little much.

Pluggers, 4/3/09

You’re a plugger if you euphemistically refer to an anonymous sex party as “league bowling.” (The rest of us call it “book club.”)

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Pluggers, 3/31/09

Ha ha, remember a couple of weeks ago, when something that went around a plugger’s waist was very long, because pluggers are fat? Well, it turns out that other things that are supposed to go around a plugger’s waist aren’t long enough! Because pluggers are fat, you see. Also, take a look at some plugger ass!

Since male pluggers are almost universally portly, why is poor Rhino-man the butt (ha ha) of all the “pluggers are fat” jokes? This might explain why he’s always so depressed (though it might be because he’s poor).

Gasoline Alley, 3/31/09

“And by ‘cry,’ I mean ‘tear off my own face!’ Argh, basic human kindness sends me into an insane rage!”

Hi and Lois, 3/31/09

Is this the beginning of Trixie’s transformation from “sunbeam-loving cherub” to “cold-blooded sociopath”? If so, can we sic her on Marvin?

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Mark Trail, 3/18/09

Thank goodness Mark Trail has given up on its attempts to depict all-too-realistic and depressing human behavior and is going back to its bread and butter: attempting to depict hilarious and completely incomprehensible human behavior. Because the following list of activities is in order of increasing conspicuousness, obviously:

• Two dudes hanging around in a restaurant in broad daylight, drinking coffee and wearing hideously colored shirts.
• Two adults accosting a child they don’t know and offering obscene sums of money buy his camera.
• Two random people appearing in the background of a terribly composed picture, which will be printed automatically from a machine and put into a sad little scrapbook by a neglected orphan who lives in the woods and has no friends.

Luann, 3/18/09

OK, so Luann is clearly never going to give us less of … this, so from here on in, I want more. More, do you hear me? The only way this strip’s never-ending stream of queasy sexuality will become palatable to me is if it just goes completely over the top, turning the whole thing into some ludicrously repulsive French sex farce. I want to see Mrs. DeGroot seducing TJ for information (“TJ, I can’t stop thinking about the other day in the bathroom … but my fantasies would be so much hotter if I knew what you did for a living!”). I want to see Brad accidentally invite Toni to dinner at an S&M club (“Gosh, I thought that meant they served salad and macaroni!”). I want to see Bernice arrange a tryst between her soldier brother and Delta — and then retreat back to her room to watch via the hidden cameras and masturbate furiously. I want to see Gunther at the San Diego FurCon ’09 after-party, grinning bashfully while being serviced by dozens of obedient piggies. I want to see Luann and Elwood … no, wait, never mind, even I have my limits.

Hi and Lois, 3/18/09

Sunday’s neglect-o-thon made the case for a Child Protective Services visit to the Flagston residence, and today that case just got a little bit stronger. As Trixie sits alone in the middle of the floor, surrounded by scattered toys, she notes that her family “disappears” every day, but doesn’t mention anything about anyone coming to her house in their place.

Curtis, 3/18/09

Barry is right to be concerned. Curtis does not have the right attitude to find much financial success as a prostitute.

Ziggy, 3/18/09

Even Ziggy’s computer is repulsed by his sexual advances.

Pluggers, 3/18/09

Sure, they eventually put on the belt, go to their soul-killing jobs, then come home and eat pizza and drink beer in front of the TV until they doze off; but for most pluggers, that moment in the morning when they contemplate suicide is, perversely, the high point of their day.