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Crankshaft, 1/13/14

One of Crankshaft’s beloved/tiresome running gags is “Lena’s snack food is extremely poorly prepared and thus largely inedible,” but I don’t particularly remember her coffee being a punchline before. At first I thought it was the same gag, but note that Mary is taking another deep swig even after having spun into pin-eyed freakout mode in panel one. Clearly, while Lena’s brownies are dangerously unchewable, Lena’s coffee is dangerously addictive, with only a single sip of the pure stuff capable of turning you into a mindless junkie, drinking huge gulps even as your mind turns to mush.

Blondie, 1/13/14

Boy, Dagwood looks awful cheery for a guy who knows he’s going to die at five o’clock today! One can only assume that he has this attitude because he’s chosen this death; probably it will take the form of a spectacularly gory and public suicide capping off a killing spree in the office he hates so much. But as a final fuck-you to his employer, he’s going to dick around on the Internet on the company’s dime all day before he murders everybody.

Archie, 1/13/14

Mr. Weatherbee’s thousand-yard stare in panel two is the proper result of sudden, terrible knowledge: he realizes that we are well into the second generation of food’s transformation from a craft to commodity. Soon nobody left alive will remember a meal that was formed by your own hands or the hands of someone you loved. Whether or not we have any particularly fond memories of family dinners from our childhood, the marketing construct of “Just like mom used to make!” is so embedded in our brains that we’ll repeat it to each other endlessly as we scarf down machine-shaped corn byproduct extrusions dusted with MSG flavor crystals.

Apartment 3-G, 1/13/14

I’m not sure what’s sadder: that Margo doesn’t know anything about Tommie’s car situation, despite the fact that she’s her roommate and ostensibly one of her closest friends, or that Tommie thinks she can drive to England to see her fiance.

Slylock Fox, 1/13/14

Oh my God … that Footprints Jesus poster … it’s really a crime scene

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Slylock Fox, 1/6/13

I demand that you join me in loving everything about this hallucinatory anthropomorphic animal lunar exploration fever dream. What’s wrong with this moon scene? Is it the lack of space suits and the clouds and the moon rising in the moon’s own sky? Is it that Slylock is wearing a space-helmet of some sort, but Max’s head is exposed to lunar vacuum? Is it that Sly and Max both have hugely dilated pupils and big grins? Is it that they’re lying on the grimy floor of some opium den somewhere, enjoying this doped flight of fancy, rather than solving crimes like they’re supposed to be?

Rex Morgan, M.D., 1/6/13

“Most people don’t mind at all if their teenage babysitters make their earliest fumbling steps into sexual adulthood on their couches these days, June. In fact, some people practically encourage it! Don’t be such a prude! You don’t want to be known as the prude-mom, do you? Ugh, I can’t believe I married a prude.”

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Judge Parker, 12/15/13

Oh hey remember the overly nice concierge who aggressively helped Judge Parker Senior with his terrible screenplay? (Side note: the Parkers have been on this hell cruise since July, Jesus.) Anyway, she’s now been replaced by a “fantastic” computer program, so we’ll need no more of her creative input! She’ll be perfectly happy with whatever loose hundos Alan had floating around in his wallet, plus a “small writer’s credit,” and hahahahaha if he thinks that there’s any such thing as a “small writer’s credit” or that he gets to decide who gets one. Hope you enjoy endless lawsuits and/or WGA mediation sessions, Alan!

Family Circus, 12/15/13

Re: “rapping his presence”: Obviously it’s ludicrous that a seven-year-old in 2013 would think “rapping” means “criticizing” and not “hip-hop vocals.” But still, I think we can all be thankful that the Family Circus has chosen not to depict some form of terrifying holiday-themed Christian praise rap.

Panel from Slylock Fox, 12/15/13

oh no Shady Shrew has mastered inception, we’re all done for