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Gil Thorp, 3/20/09

Well, it looks like it’s that time of the season again, when Gil realizes that whatever squad he’s doing a half-assed job of coaching at the moment won’t be going to the playdowns, so he needs to make a half-assed attempt to intervene in the most egregious of the stupid dramas playing out among his charges in order to vaguely justify his existence. (If he doesn’t do this at least once every three months, they’ll take his name off the strip entirely and call it The Magical, Boozy Antics Of Marty Moon.) This spring’s crisis involves the Larsons, who are quite reasonably worried that they’ve moved their kids from the warm, nurturing environment of New York City into some kind of degenerate hellhole where they’ve become romantically entangled with vest-wearing fans of wacky, theatrical surf-rock bands. Gil needs that coffee, as he’s almost certainly come straight to Chez Larkin from PUB, as his drunken logic indicates. “See, Ashley and Dylan are all right kids … but, uh, don’t judge Milford based on them! We’re better than they are! Not that they’re … bad … per se … uh, what’s with those rays coming out of your eyes? Are you trying to use your mind control powers on me?”

Luann, 3/20/09

Well, there you have it. The big TJ mystery that’s been percolating since at least last Thanksgiving has been … solved! All thanks to a paragraph of exposition crammed into a single panel during a porch-based conversation. That should prove wrong everyone who thought the resolution to this plot point would be prurient, or interesting.

Slylock, 3/20/09

What kind of message are we sending to the young people of today? Look at this irresponsible bird, giving birth to an out-of-wedlock egg and then just strolling casually off! Where is this supposed to be, the ladies room at Parrot Prom?

Family Circus, 3/20/09

The way this little mob of melonheads is gathering at the open doorway, all staring silently at their teacher in her new short skirt and listening to Billy’s slander, is making me nervous. Miss McElfresh is about to find out how they deal with the Sin of Pride here at the Keane Kompound. (Hint: It involves rocks. Many sharp rocks.)

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Mark Trail, 3/9/09

You know, I was really hoping that Mark would smugly return to his forest home today, so we could get started on the next storyline about poachers or whatever, and perhaps we could begin to forget the retrograde horror that has been the Ken and Patti plotline. But instead, things are getting even worse. Previously, Patti said something about not being able to have a baby, which I assumed meant that her womb had been blighted by the Lord in punishment for her occasionally having negative thoughts about the way her husband slapped her around; today, though, we learn that Ken has apparently been withholding his man-essence from her, but has now decided that it’s time he began reproducing himself. So, in an attempt to provide some sort of balanced view, let me just say this: BABIES DO NOT SOLVE MARITAL PROBLEMS. THEY EXACERBATE THEM. But unless the “tests” our nurse is about to run include a surreptitious vasectomy, it’s probably too late for our doomed couple.

Cleats, 3/9/09

Oh, look, Cleats is taking a break from its kid-friendly sports humor to introduce yet another terrifying demon-thing. Pray to God that it doesn’t turn around tomorrow, showing us the front of its grotesque, unnatural head.

Judge Parker, 3/9/09

“Interesting? Not really … wait, this is Judge Parker. ‘Interesting’ is code for ‘offering an opportunity for a hot lady to show off her breasts.’ So, yeah, I guess that is kind of interesting.”

Slylock Fox, 3/9/09

Koppy Kat’s bust made big headlines, but as a first-time offender, he was able to plea-bargain his sentence down to 18 months in minimum security, thanks to his agreement to discreetly help local museums determine which of their pieces were forgeries. (There were more than you’d think, and not all of them came out of Koppy’s workshop.) To the surprise of everyone, the experience scared him straight; upon his release, he embarked on a career as an art consultant, supplementing his income by churning out “Six Differences” puzzles. But that day’s bust had a just as big an effect on someone else: Max Mouse. As soon as he laid eyes on that unsettling psychedelic drawing of Mickey with one eye and one ear, he realized just how limited his worldview was, and he was immediately seized by a need to expand his consciousness however he could. Six months later, he had changed his name to “Maximum Spirit Voyager,” was living in a commune in New Mexico, and had taken more peyote than most doctors would have believed survivable.

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Slylock Fox, 3/1/09 (portion) and 3/2/09

First off, an apology: while scanning Sunday’s strips for entertainment value, I somehow managed to completely miss an appearance by my hero, Reeky Rat, in which he is actually innocent of the crime of which he is accused! He’s still guilty of wearing a hideous yellow sweater that in no way lives up to his awesome fashion potential, and of befouling the snow-covered dirt patch in front of his trailer, but if the plot on which a man has parked his trailer (the rent on which is less than sixty days overdue) is not his castle, where he can dress and litter as he pleases, then what rights remain to us in this country? Reeky’s small-type, upside-down exoneration may be a first for the Slylock Fox rogues gallery, and presumably this is all the excuse Slylock needs to stop going to down to the trailer park altogether and just let its denizens dish out brutal justice to one another with their crude homemade weaponry.

That should clear up lots of time in his schedule for episodes like today’s, in which our detective heads over to the gym to creepily stare at the patrons and employees in their little short shorts. What, do you work for the FDA now, Fox? I’m sure Buford can produce some kind of corporate-sponsored study proving that regular bowel movements are an important part of any muscle-building regimen.

Archie, 3/2/09

The main joke in today’s Archie indicates nothing more than that the AJGLU 3000’s anti-lawsuit module has been given far too much priority over its other humor functions (THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT LUCKY CHARMS® BRAND CEREAL FROM GENERAL MILLS I ALONE DARE SAY THIS), but I am amused by Archie’s father’s mug, which reads “#2 DAD.” It’s possible that our charming joke-generating machine, in its cold mechanical logic, doesn’t see why 2 would be much inferior to 1 on a scale of 0 to infinity and means this as a compliment, but I prefer to believe that it has finally learned the importance of poop jokes.

A more sobering revelation comes on the milk carton in the second panel, which tells us that Jughead has been kidnapped, possibly after having been lured into a creepy van by a trail of hamburgers.

Family Circus, 3/2/09

“I mean it, our children are lazy little turds, lying there on the floor sullenly mashing mass-manufactured pieces of plastic crap together for hours on end. Just the very sight of them sickens me. I sincerely hope you bought the toys that are known choking hazards, like I asked you to.”

Dick Tracy, 3/2/09

“The oil companies will make him a rich man … for keeping his mouth shut, after they bury that formula in a very, very deep hole.”

Marmaduke, 3/2/09

“I don’t mind too much, though, because this way I can’t really feel the pooling urine.”