Post Content

Mary Worth, 1/21/22

Look, would we all be happier if Wilbur were dead? Absolutely. But, things being as they are, can we at least look forward to watching him try and repeatedly fail to climb a palm tree, with increasing desperation every time? Yes, yes we can. And remember, even if he manages to succeed, he’s just going to end up with a coconut. There is absolutely no way he will be able to open that coconut.

Crankshaft, 1/21/22

“Wow,” thought Pam. “He’s been talking about it for years but he finally did it. He finally figured out where to score weed.”

Rex Morgan, M.D., 1/21/22

“Look, Kelly, I really don’t care about whatever frivolous artwork Rene collected. I just need you to say, clearly and for the record, that absence of evidence is the same thing is evidence of absence. You can do that, right? And you can do it under oath?”

Pluggers, 1/21/22

Oh, ha ha, just a plugger spending a dull Friday night listening to the police scanner. Say, I wonder a what code “10-45” means, let’s check on the old Google to fin–

AHHH

AHHH

OH MY GOD

IT’S ONE OF HIS FRIENDS

HIS DEAD FRIENDS

THE COPS ARE CALLING FOR BACKUP BECAUSE THIS BLOATED MAN-ANIMAL CORPSE IS SO VERY DISGUSTING THAT THEY CAN’T HANDLE IT

Post Content

Marvin, 1/20/22

Today’s Marvin is a good Rorschach test for readers. Where did your mind go immediately after reading this? Are you a pedant who looked up when “Who Let The Dogs Out” was released in an attempt to try to figure out the question of how old Jenny and Jeff are (it climbed the charts in mid-2000, meaning they’ve gotta be in their late 30/early 40s, unless Jeff put the song in a mix “ironically” after the fad had faded)? Or are you a pervert, who assumed that Jeff played “Who Let The Dogs Out” on their honeymoon, during sex, to his wife’s horror? Because my brain is so quick to go to the worst possible places, I sadly fall into both categories.

Crock, 1/20/22

I guess the joke here is that smoke signals, a primitive method of long-distance communication, have been “hit with a virus,” just like a high-tech computer might be, but obviously that’s only a conclusion you would draw if you are, like me, cursed to read the daily comics and attempt to figure out what’s actually going on with them. I assume most people would instead take the more obvious reading, which is that the Lost Patrol are all dying of some terrible disease.

Mary Worth, 1/20/22

Sorry, Wilbur has only one panel to spare on self-reflection as to how he ended up in his current predicament. Now he’s got to move ahead and deal with more important questions, like where on this island he can find sandwiches, or, if they’re not available, cold cuts and condiments he can use to make sandwiches.

Post Content

Dick Tracy, 1/18/22

Oh, look, everybody, it’s another quick Dick Tracy Minit Mystery, starring [steadfastly refuses to do any actual research on the relative popularity of Dick Tracy villains] everybody’s favorite villain, Piston Puss! According to the invaluable Dick Tracy wiki, Piston Puss has appeared in exactly one other storyline, in 1966, which means that the Giant Wheel Of Obscure Old Dick Tracy Characters the creative team spins every time they need a new antagonist must be even bigger than I thought. Anyway, clearly this mystery is going to somehow hinge on the order in which the various suspects hung their coats on that rack, so it’s too bad that Piston Puss’s wiki entry doesn’t say whether or not he’s partial to fur coats. Meanwhile, I have some notes on his character design and overall execution: if his name is Piston Puss, shouldn’t his face be a piston? Putting some half-assed metal disks over his ears does not make his face a piston, I regret to inform you. Also, call me bigoted if you must, but I would not hire a part-car, part-man person to work at a car dealership, because I would worry that he would try to eat the cars, or perhaps make love to them.

Mary Worth, 1/18/22

Haha, welp, looks like Wilbur’s not only still alive, but he didn’t even lose his glasses or his belt! We’re not even going to get the pleasure of watching him stumbling around this desert island, unable to see anything and desperately trying to keep his pants from falling down! Don’t think we’ll be satisfied by his comically ruffled combover! We Mary Worth readers aren’t mere goldfish, content to gobble up whatever flakes you drop down on us! IF WILBUR ISN’T DEAD, HE MUST AT LEAST SUFFER