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Mark Trail, 10/21/10

Some of my readers rushed to declare Friday’s Mark Trail, in which our hero leaps over a barbed-wire-topped fence to knock a rifle out of a senator’s hands, to be the greatest Mark Trail ever. Well, I hope you all feel a little sheepish now that you’ve seen today’s strip, a glorious single-panel tableau in which Future Governor Frank kicks a fawn in the butt while his stepdaughter, Mark, and the man whose political patronage he’s been so desperately seeking all look on in horror. We of course can’t declare this strip the best of all time — for, in a world that has brought forth such wondrousness, how can we put limits on the potential joys of the future? — but it sure is pretty great.

Shoe, 10/21/10

Something doesn’t seem right here: I thought that, in the Shoe world, Roz serves coffee and comfort food from a diner counter on a tree branch, whereas booze is dished out in smoky bars that do not appear to be tree-based structures. But this is mere nitpickery, I know! I should just enjoy the hilarious joke here, about how the strip’s main characters use their crippling alcoholism as an excuse for being cheapskates.

Luann, 10/21/10

So, yeah, I haven’t really been able to bring myself to comment on the “Brad and the gang deal with the serious problems of stalking and domestic violence with Three’s Company-worthy hijinks” plotline over the past few weeks. But then I got to today and saw Brad and TJ talking about ladies underwear, and I thought to myself, “No way in hell am I suffering through this alone.” SO HERE IT IS! LOOK AT IT! LOOK AT THEM TALKING ABOUT PANTIES!

Judge Parker, 10/21/10

Ha ha, it wouldn’t be a Judge Parker story if one of the already wealthy principals didn’t become even richer at the end of it. Sam plays golf with a guy for 10 minutes and sees him get killed? Boom! A $100,000 advance check for Judge Parker! Sam violates legal ethics willy-nilly to sort of half-assedly solve a mystery? Wham! A cool hundred large for him too! Now the hour or so he spent helping Jules set up an Excel spreadsheet will net him a third of what will no doubt turn out to be an insanely lucrative business. It’s a good thing his house is so big, because he’s going to need someplace to put his huge piles of stupid money.

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Ziggy, 9/15/10

Ziggy staring forlornly at the viewer and admitting that nobody likes or respects him, using language that was vaguely funny when deployed by Rodney Dangerfield 25 years ago, is nothing out of the ordinary. But I admit that my interest is piqued by the sour-looking man in the hat strolling behind our hapless misery-gnome. Was it an encounter with this sneering Babbitt that left Ziggy so forlorn? Did the bourgeois conformist glare at our hero and sneer “Put some pants on, freak,” before stalking off? Perhaps Ziggy’s sense of persecution has some basis in external reality after all.

Shoe, 9/15/10

Shoe seems to have abandoned his attempt to woo an uptight lady bird with Farah Fawcett hair and moved on to someone more his style: a busty, heavy-lidded fellow drunkard wearing something low-cut who likes to complain about things. “Dogs, am I right? Seriously, who do we have to blow to get some God-damned booze around here?”

Gil Thorp, 9/15/10

Oh, man, a whole year’s worth of boring and incomprehensible Gil Thorps is worth it if they’re necessary to frame the strip’s annual descent into fiery madness. This year’s ritual of cleansing flame features the newly elected co-captains placating the crazed torch-wielding mob by pledging to beat to death any Milford player who fails to adequately entertain the townsfolk.

Mary Worth, 9/15/10

“After all, the most important thing about my father is how he affected me, and since I cared about him less as a human being and more in terms of his failures to live up to some abstract ideal, once we made peace his continued presence in my life was frankly superfluous. His death was really more convenient than anything else. Am I right in assuming that this sensitive talk about my feelings is finishing the job of preparing you for sex with me that was started by the russet-colored meal I purchased for you and my orange suit/black shirt/wispy chest hair combo? I’ll bet I’m right! I’m a trained mental health practitioner!”

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Funky Winkerbean, 9/13/10

Oh, Cayla, this is just getting pathetic, now. Do you think that this new hairstyle will win Les’s heart back from Susan? I mean, have you seen her hair? Les doesn’t prefer Susan to you because she’s young and hip and sexy. He prefers her because she’s a dead-eyed emotional wreck who loves death. You can’t get that from any salon!

Mary Worth, 9/13/10

Speaking of misguided optimism, check out how excited Dr. Mike looks in panel two! He clearly believes that the way to a woman’s heart is through a heartfelt story about how he’s relationship-shy because his father spent decades as a drunken failed vigilante. Perhaps he thinks that he’ll seal the deal by casually suggesting that they have sex in the very bed where his dear old dad finally “found peace.”

Gil Thorp, 9/13/10

What’s really sad is when you see a couple who’ve lost that spark and are really just going through the motions. Gil used to really put his heart into it when he made up contentless answers to Marty Moon’s bullshit questions. Now they’re not even making eye contact!

Also, is it really traditional to put decisions on high school sports captains to a popular vote? That seems like a good way to end up with teams captained by Justin Beiber and Jesus.

Luann, 9/13/10

This is what’s known in the business as “fan service.” Specifically, it’s providing a service to those fans with a keen interest in Brad/Dirk scat-themed slash fiction. They make up a small but intensely loyal group, and it’s nice to see them finally get a shout-out.

Shoe, 9/13/10

I’m on the record as finding the “Shoe birds desperately flirt in a smoky bar” strips crushingly depressing. Today’s installment, in which a depressive is romanced by someone with a presumably domestic-violence-themed restraining order against him, nicely demonstrates why.

Jumble, 9/13/10

Alas, it appears that the Man isn’t ready for Jumble Jeff’s guerilla art installation. But Jeff, why isn’t your “street tag” LUJBEM FEJF, as it is on this blog? Are you afraid that hoodlum graffiti aficionados can’t handle anagrams? You do them a disservice, sir. Jumbles are for everybody!