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Slylock Fox, 9/14/09

Longtime readers of Slylock Fox have long wondered at the nature of the judiciary in this realm of bipedal sentient animals. While this locality is equipped with a serviceable mostly-canine police force, there seems to be little regard for the constitutional rights of men or beasts, and Slylock Fox himself, while not obviously affiliated with the law enforcement apparatus in any institutional way, is permitted to imprison and convict suspects merely on the strength his own flimsy deductions. Today, we learn the truth: all the action in this strip takes place in some kind of despotic absolute monarchy, ruled over by Princess Pussycat’s iron fist, with Slylock as her chief and unquestioning Inquisitor, the Darth Vader to her Emperor Palpatine. Moreover, though the Princess is called “pussycat,” her fur/skin is a bright red not seen on any natural feline, leading me to the conclusion that she is an actual hell-demon, controlling her subjects with her devilish supernatural powers; she’s probably the one responsible for transforming them into terrible hybrid beast-men in the first place.

Today’s transgressor against Her Satanic Majesty is wearing the all-black uniform and sunglasses that indicate that he was actually a member of her feared secret police. Perhaps the temptation of selling her devil-gold was too much, or perhaps he finally had had enough and was planning to strike a blow against his evil overlord by disposing of one of her symbols of power. Either way, in short order Princess Pussycat’s palace attendant is going to demonstrate that the enormous axe he carries as part of his uniform is not ceremonial. Still, you have to admire Rodney’s chutzpah; even in the face of summary execution, he’s still offering a jaunty double thumbs-up and a Fonzie-style “Aaaayyyy.”

Funky Winkerbean, 9/14/09

Hold up, what … what is the deal with dude’s thighs in panel three? They’re all lumpy and misshapen, and not in proportion to the rest of him. It’s like he’s hiding a couple of hams in his pants, for the winter.

Oh, and also, people opposed to cancer and death played as spectacle are pin-headed philistines. Pin-headed philistines with weirdly misshapen thighs.

Spider-Man, 9/14/09

Today’s strip offers another entertaining moment in Spidey-Dimness, as Peter Parker reveals his total unfamiliarity with the concept of metaphors. “MJ, this is no time for confusing talk about meteorology! I’m busy whining about my constant failure!”

Shoe, 9/14/09

Once again Shoe’s patented Goggle-Eyed Reaction Shot Of Soul-Scraping Horror is right on target, as our mechanic instantly notices that, once the Perfesser’s inevitable slide into poverty reaches the point of homelessness, he’s planning on living in his car by himself. Where will his young ward Skyler be in this scenario? Presumably he’ll have long since been delivered to the Shoe-world’s equivalent of an orphanage, which, since everyone there is a bird, is probably an agro-industrial facility that processes low-grade poultry into soup stock.

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Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 9/13/09

I present to you this Snuffy Smith not because it’s noteworthy (it isn’t) or funny (oh, definitely not) but because it gives me an opportunity to point you in the direction of the puzzlingly detailed Wikipedia article for “Old Time,” which concept our flatland tourister (tourister?) neatly exemplifies. “The archetypical Old Timey costume includes … vertically-striped fabric, straw hats … a vest, and sleeve garters of the type worn in the later half of the 19th century,” says the crowdsourced wisdom of the world’s largest online encyclopedia, and two out of four clearly ain’t bad. The question of why the flatland tourister is dressed all old-timey, when the strip has always at least half-heartedly attempted to pass itself off as taking place in some extremely rustic locale in the present, is perhaps a mystery too profound for Wikipedia to answer.

(And thanks to behind-the-scenes Rifftrax genius Conor Lastowka for pointing me in the direction of this particular bit of Wikiwhimsy.)

Marvin, 9/13/09

Considering the kinds of filth this strip routinely serves up as family entertainment, I’m actually kind of surprised that they’re apparently not allowed to use the word “snot.”

Panel from Mary Worth, 9/13/09

As Detective Hewlett drops his simple frontier bride back off at her rustic farmhouse, let’s take a moment to savor the deliciousness of “Operation H-Town.” I’m going to wager that, contrary to the Chief’s gruff commentary, it will be a party — the kind of party where a certain lovelorn police officer gets killed! Will it be Adrian’s fault, because Scott will be so busy figuring out how to diplomatically tell her that she needs to get a haircut that costs more than $8 for the wedding ceremony that he’ll walk right into an ambush set by crazed smack dealers? Probably!

Panel from Apartment 3-G, 9/13/09

“…and so that’s when I decided that I didn’t love them either! Yes, everyone in the world who had ever or would ever live was now officially my enemy. They’d pay. Oh, they’d pay.”

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Gil Thorp, 9/12/09

Hey, it’s September, which means it’s football season in Gil Thorp again, which means that, after a summer of struggling with his personal demons, Marty Moon is going to make some kind of effort to be a legitimate sports journalist this year, even if it’s only as a minimum-wage stringer for whatever local newspapers and AM radio stations still feel a perverse obligation to use their rapidly diminishing resources to cover high school sports. You can see Marty’s resolve in the fact that he’s decided to actually put on a tie, even though he’s wearing it aggressively loosened, either to project a sort of classy-but-casual air or because he’s physically unable to tighten it, thanks to delirium tremens. Anyway, his very first question of the year has already brought home how completely pointless the kabuki theater of sports reporting is, and he will be passed out drunk in his car in short order.

Mark Trail, 9/12/09

It’s amusing to me that even the terminally dim Rusty is beginning to understand that tangling with dangerous criminals might not ultimately make for fun vacation time; Mark, whose ability to feel fear was conveniently eliminated by some kind of massive head trauma, thinks of only of punchy justice, and not the danger into which he’s placing his young ward. Fortunately, there’s presumably an endless supply of malformed orphans down at the Lost Forest poorhouse who will be perfectly willing to answer to the name “Rusty” if it means a few years of fresh air before they too are used as poacher bait.