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Mark Trail, 9/26/09

Well, at last we know that “fishing trip” was the activation code phrase that the cruel scientists at the secret government bioweapons lab implanted into the brain of the hideous genetically engineered test subject known only as “Rusty.” Upon hearing those syllables, every gland in his Frankenstein-like body begins pumping at full speed, his pupils dilate, his breath quickens, his muscles expand, and the killing begins. The poor down-on-their luck couple in panel three will have another few minutes to sadly brush their little girl’s hair before a blood-drenched Rusty bursts through the window, screaming “CAN SASSY COME WITH US” at the top of his lungs as he attempts to bite off all of their skin.

Blondie, 8/26/09

Good lord, Blondie, are you trying to kill Dagwood? We all know he can maintain consciousness for only about six hours a day, with extended desk- and couch-based naps filling in the hours before his early bedtime and after his always-late morning awakening. Without that caffeine, his whole system might just shut down entirely. That shaking in the final panel is probably his body desperately trying to stay erect; in another few moments he’s just going to pass out right there in front of the water cooler.

Slylock Fox, 8/26/09

5) Rhinos are, like, totally baked, like, all the time. Answer — totally true, man!

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Very long-term readers will remember that, only a few weeks before my 2005 wedding, I had to upgrade the software that runs my site to stop up a security hole, which for boring technical reasons meant I also had to redesign the site, which resulted in a design with tiny print and endless white space that hurt everybody’s eyes. Then not long after I got back from my honeymoon, I found a freely available design template, hacked it inexpertly to make it work for me, threw it up on the site, and pretty much haven’t thought about it since.

But! I have at last decided to invest a little back into this thing that I spend so much time looking at, and will pay someone actually money to redesign it! Could that someone be you? Maybe, if you’re a professional Web designer, and know about WordPress and stuff! Check out the request for proposals and let me know if you think you’d be a good fit.

One thing you’ll note in that RFP is that I’m thinking (just thinking, mind you) of changing the comments so that they’re threaded — in other words, so that each comment has a “reply” button, and pressing it will result in your comment showing up indented immediately under the previous comment, rather than at the end of the list. I’m very interested to hear from frequent commentors on whether you think this would make it easier/more fun to have conversations, or whether it would disrupt the flow of things.

And I’m very interested in hearing from anyone — frequent commentors, occasional commentors, and lurkers alike — on what they’d like to see in the redesign, though do check out that RFP first to make sure it isn’t something I’ve already decided to do, and keep in mind that I’ll just be tweaking the design of the site, not its content. I can’t promise to implement everybody’s ideas, but I do want to hear them. Sound off in the comments or email me, whichever you prefer.

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Jumble, 8/25/09

I’ve been doing this blog for (ye gods) more than five years now, and in that time I’ve learned that cartoonists are charming, funny, wonderful people who are incredibly good-natured and have a sense of humor about what I do here, even if I’m cruelly mocking their life work. This is true of the ones who contact me, at least; there may in fact be dozens of comics artists out there seething at my scorn, but they have yet to start hurling bricks through my window. Anyway, the reason I bring this up is that some comics artists actually go out of their way to ask why I don’t make fun of them, and among those people is Jumble artist Jeff Knurek (whose last name always looks to me like a Jumble clue, but I digress). Although I have noted this feature a couple of times in the past (drawing zoophilic perversions always helps you get into this blog), I have submitted to his urgings and am now approaching his puzzle comic anew! Anyway, today’s comic proves that Mr. Knurek has sadly confused “astrologer” with “low-rent Elvis impersonator,” and “crystal ball” with “ball of yarn.”

Reading the Jumble also reminds me of the fact that it makes me feel stupid, because I’m not actually smart enough/don’t have the attention span to solve the puzzle, ever. Crosswords I love, but my brain stubbornly refuses to rearrange word scrambles into the correct configuration. Thus, I’m always getting the joke a day late and out of context, since I do read the answers faithfully. In that regard, I feel obliged to point out that “MIRTH SKIMP CROTCH PENURY” seems to tell a delightful little tale about wasting all your money on prostitutes.

Ziggy, 8/25/09

How much abuse does Ziggy take in his titular comic-panel? It’s unquantifiable, but it’s a lot. Today’s installment includes a common Ziggy stance, in which our hero twists his little hat nervously while being berated just for being Ziggy (in this case, by the main character from the recent Pixar hit Up, slumming). You don’t see Ziggy actually wearing his hat very often, but you do see him clutching at it anxiously quite a bit; it seems to mostly serve as a prop for his pathetic cringing. The fact that he has props for his pathetic cringing goes a long way towards explaining why Ziggy’s abuse elicits more vague disgust than sympathy.

Family Circus, 8/25/09

Good lord, it’s a very bad sign for the blackout violence to start at such a young age. It looks like Dolly’s going to have to be chained up in the basement with the other four Keane Kids you never hear about.

Apartment 3-G, 8/25/09

Oh, yeah, you know what helps alleviate the grief? GRIEF SEX! [insert porn “bown chicka bowp bown” music here]

Judge Parker, 8/25/09

Oh, yeah, you know what helps alleviate the pain of minor injuries? MINOR INJURY SEX! [insert porn “bown chicka bowp bown” music here]

Ha ha, just kidding, obviously. If you saw some fiendish hell-demon crawling towards you with a sexy woman’s body and a yawning inky black emptiness where its face should be, you wouldn’t start unbuttoning your shirt to reveal your heaving bosom; you’d run screaming into the woods, severe ankle sprain be damned.