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Mark Trail, 2/28/11

“His name is Mark Trail and he is American.” God, has any phrase ever been so perfectly calculated to make your proud to be from the U.S. — or, if you aren’t from the U.S, to make you ashamed for being a filthy foreigner who can’t vote for the same President that Mark Trail votes for? (Mark Trail casts his ballot with his fist, so that there’s never any question of “voter intent”.) My heart was so swelled with patriotism upon reading this that I almost missed the insane implication that underlies this statement, namely that Mark somehow drifted in his small boat to another country, an exotic tropical island inhabited by white people. Who are these mysterious tribeswomen? Why have they dragged Mark back to their home rather than seeking medical attention for that festering black wound on his forehead? What oppressive regime causes them to fear being discovered in even this half-assed act of kindness? Why does Mark keep an autographed photo of his wife in his wallet? Is it in case he forgets her name, or forgets which of the baffling and terrifying females in his life he’s married to?

Crock, 2/28/11

God help me, I have to say that I like almost everything about this Crock strip. I like the way the camel is drawn to some kind of realistic scale, dwarfing the bartender and all the human-sized furniture in the strip. I like his nonviolent but apparently extremely effective threat to slobber all over our speciesist barkeep. But mostly I like the dialogue-less third panel, in which the camel grins at us triumphantly, with the telltale cartoon bubbles over his head indicating that he’s already well on his way to being drunk. Kudos to you, my soused desert-dwelling friend!

B.C., 2/28/11

Today’s B.C. accidentally raises an interesting question about primitive societies: in tiny early hominid bands — there can’t be more than, what, 10 named characters in the entire B.C. universe, right? — where everyone knew each other intimately, could much of what we think of as crime ever happen?

Apartment 3-G, 2/28/11

Ha, it’s only Monday and Margo is already getting lit. There’s a number of ways this story can end — in recriminations, in violence, in oversharing — and all of them are delicious.

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Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 2/27/11

“Yep, you sure won, Gran, what with your obvious terror of your imminent demise! Look at ’er weeping bitter, bitter tears!”

Panel from Dick Tracy, 2/27/11

“That’s right, citizen! The way to soothe anxiety is to blend in with the crowd! Conform! Conform! Dick Tracy and the thoughtcrimestoppers textbook demand it!”

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Apartment 3-G, 2/26/11

Look at that sly smile on Margo’s face. There’s nothing that she likes better than to see a couple of elevator fetishists getting together to “take a ride,” if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and if you don’t, I’m talking about having sex in an elevator with a lot of great early 20th century iron work. Sure, Margo is sad to lose her new boyfriend, but the fact that Lu Ann will be losing hers more than makes up for it.

Dick Tracy, 2/26/11

“I can’t shoot the monster in cold blood”? Cripes, Dick is going soft. “Hey, are you trying to steal my watch?” “What? You took your watch off yourself, and you’re on the other side of th–” BLAM BLAM BLAM

Shoe, 2/26/11

I am not comfortable with the cheerful way that the Perfesser is patting his chest in panel one as he boasts of his weight loss. “Yep, I’ve lost twelve pounds on my diet — and it all came right off my man-boobs!”