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Blondie, 4/5/07

True story: On recycling day in our neighborhood, the big trucks from the sanitation department drive around at walking speed; one guy’s in the cabin driving the truck, and another one is walking along the sidewalk, picking up the bags of cans and throwing them in the back. One day last fall as I was walking towards my house, I saw the recycling truck stopped at the corner, with the driver hanging out the window and laughing. When I got a little closer, I could see his partner, an enormous dude in a jumpsuit, hopping his way through a recently chalked hopscotch board, with a huge grin on his face. Anyway, no snark here, just wanted to note that today’s Blondie reminded me of that, and stave off complaints that nobody has actually drawn a hopscotch board on the sidewalk since 1962.

Apartment 3-G, 4/5/07

Oh ho, it’s a meeting of the minor-characters-one-generation-older-than-the-protagonists minds as Margo’s hilariously stereotypical immigrant mother ambushes Professor “Big Papa” Papagoras. The Professor has clearly guessed nothing of the sort about Margo, as he’s surely spent too much time in his love nest with Gina to be keeping track of his neighbors’ sex lives, but he seems surprised that anyone would be planning to propose marriage to someone incapable of what humans call “love.”

Baldo, 4/5/07

Hey, remember last week, when I said something nice about Baldo? Well, since then, Tia Carmen has been explaining to El Mustache del Sexy, in harrowing detail, how she came to arrive in America. It seems that Baldo and Gracie’s mother was killed by a drunk driver in a horrible accident years ago with Baldo and Gracie in the car; their father, overwhelmed by the prospect of raising two kids by himself, called his Tia Carmen to come help raise them. Today, she speculates on the divine purpose behind such horror. That’s right, Baldo and Gracie: God killed your mom so your Tia Carmen could get laid. Sorry ‘bout that, but they don’t call ’em “mysterious ways” for nothing.

Oh, also, on Sunday this strip’s “hilarious” April Fools “joke” featured heavily armed INS agents bursting down the door to the Bermudez home and dragging Tia Carmen away screaming into a paddy wagon while the children wept. I feel less bad about this now that I’ve seen today’s installment.

Pluggers, 4/5/07

Oh, for … that’s a whole lot of unnecessary verbiage in that caption. Here you go: “A puppy is a plugger personal trainer.” GOD DAMN IT PLUGGERS, DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE? Sheesh.

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Apartment 3-G, 4/2/07

In part one of Soap Opera Strips I Haven’t Been Discussing Because They Have Been Boring To Me, Apartment 3-G’s interminable Lu Ann vs. Ghost Albert Pinkham Ryder storyline has been boring to me. There’s been days and days and days of crap exactly like the above, and yet none of it has advanced the plot a single iota. I have grabbed onto a shred of hope that the final panel here represents the possibility of some kind of resolution, as the dialogue would surely point to a murder-suicide scenario if one of the interlocutors weren’t already dead.

How long in strip time has Lu Ann been holed up in her paint-huffing paradise? It seems like months, which means that Tommie and Margo should jointly win the Worst Roommates In New York, Self-Absorbed Division. Shouldn’t Margo at least be concerned that Lu Ann has secretly accompanied Eric on his business trip for sexin’ purposes or something?

The Phantom, 4/2/07

In part two of Soap Opera Strips I Haven’t Been Discussing Because They Have Been Boring To Me, The Phantom’s interminable Old Man Mozz Is A Hostage To Bank Robbers storyline has been boring to me. There’s been a lot of fleeing bank robber dude, a lot of Phantom mind games, and way, way too much of Mozz’s gnomic, infuriatingly vague pronouncement. It appears that the Ghost Who’s Good With Knots is as bored with the diminutive sage’s blather as we are, but I do think that lynching him is a bit harsh.

Pluggers, 4/2/07

You know, I am in touch with my inner plugger enough to admit that I get some lower back twinges now and again myself, and I will say that, even on my back’s worst days, if I had to choose between bending over, and, say, allowing a heavy can to fall from above my head and bounce off of not one but both of my nipples — well, let’s just say that I’ve become quite adept at bending at the knees when need be. Admittedly, I don’t have the luxuriant man-boobs this plugger is sporting, but that’s gonna bruise.

Dennis the Menace, 4/2/07

Hmm, destroying your parents’ marriage by well-timed and almost imperceptible acts of psychological guerilla warfare? There might be hope for you yet, young menace. Well played.

Mark Trail, 4/2/07

Please be Dan’s corpse. Please be Dan’s corpse. Please be Dan’s corpse.

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Spider-Man, 3/31/07

You may have missed Friday’s thrilling Spider-Man, in which the fake Mrs. Spider-Man attempted to escape from the back seat of her captor’s car! So, thrill to this installment in which … she … is … put back into the car by her captor. This, combined with my rage earlier this week at similar non-developments, has brought about an epiphany: just about everything that happens in Spider-Man happens only to slow down the action of the strip. It’s all an endless delaying action, making the big payoff we’re going to get that much more exciting. I’ve been reading this feature daily for something like three years now, so I can tell you that said payoff had better be really good.

Panel three: Spidey, you got clocked by a brick and you’re just now wondering if this whole “spider-sense” thing isn’t a load of bunk?

Pluggers, 3/31/07

Just when you think that the whole “anthropomorphic and non-anthropomorphic animals uneasily sharing narrative space” scenario can’t get any more unsettling, you get today’s paean to involuntary sterilization. For obvious reasons, I try not to pay too close attention to the various family relationships among the horrifying bipedal beasts of Pluggers, so I can’t say for sure if the dog and the Chicken-Lady are kin or just acquaintances, but I think what really makes this panel disturbing is the look of mortal terror on the face of the li’l pup contrasted with heavy-lidded indifference of his feathered captor.

Would it make me an evil chardonnay-swilling elitist if I suggested that actual plugger litter control is a crude, hand-scrawled sign that reads “FREE PUPPIES,” which you put on a pole in the middle of your dog-feces-laden yard? What, it would? Oh, OK then, I won’t … what, I already said it? Damn it.

Beetle Bailey, 3/31/07

Wow, who knew that painting your own porch furniture was something that somehow lowered one’s prestige, and that, more generally, the elite of our military’s officer corps lives in a fishbowl in which every action that they and their spouses take is judged by neighbors and passersby? Who should be painting a general’s chairs? A crew of enemy combatants, on loan from Gitmo?

Family Circus, 3/31/07

“I’m helping her too, Jeffy! I’m masturbating to Internet pornography because I know that cleaning leaves her too tired to perform her marital duties. Oh, and let me borrow one of those shirts, while you’re handing them out.”