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Mark Trail, 9/17/10

We’ve learned from Apartment 3-G that the world of soap opera strips is sometimes haunted by mysterious, ghostly blue figures. These shades can watch and murmur inaudibly, but never speak or interact with our heroes. Today’s Mark Trail, though, contains the first ever sighting of mysterious blue bottles. Is this why our evil cage-hunter is so bitter and angry? He drinks the ghost-booze, constantly, and yet he never gets a buzz, because this beverage primarily exists in the spirit realm.

Beetle Bailey, 9/16/10

Ha ha, yes, the lady in the GPS computer, she tells you to order a pizza even when you have a pizza already in your lap! Beetle Bailey’s Sarge: portrait of a paranoid schizophrenic compulsive eater.

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Mary Worth, 9/16/10

You know, in between all the drive-bys and the vigilantism and the reconciliation and the dropping dead, I think we lost sight of something important about this storyline: it was originally about two people who were afraid to love, not just one. We’ve stayed with Dr. Mike through every excruciating moment of his Journey to Wholeness, so we can truly appreciate the love-capable orange-suited human sitting before us. But Jenna’s thought balloon makes her problem seem much shallower. Mike had to watch his father die before the icy crust around his heart finally melted; Jenna, meanwhile, was just waiting for the right guy in a hideous outfit to buy her a basket of taupe oblong food-things.

On the other hand, I’m not sure if I can handle a six-to-eight-week emotional archaeological expedition through the ruins of Jenna’s past, so maybe we should let her think dreamily about how she finally snagged the piece of arm candy that best matches her furniture and move on.

Archie, 9/16/10

Hey, check it out! Svenson the janitor has just gotten hip and grown a goatee. Welcome to the brotherhood, sir! Don’t let anyone tell you that this facial hair configuration went out of style in 1998. It’s a timeless look!

Apartment 3-G, 9/16/10

Oh, God, New Tommie’s had more than just a little styling done to her hair; it looks like there’s been some unlicensed rhinoplasty work done as well. Check out that last panel: her nose looks to be rapidly caving into her face, Michael Jackson-style. Either that or the “myself” she likes again is her true identity, Lord Voldemort.

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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!”