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As America’s Thanksgiving weekend winds up, I just thought I’d give thanks for a few things:

Panel from Apartment 3-G, 11/28/08

I’m thankful for the greatest Apartment 3-G narration box ever. “As Margo’s despair deepens…” should be placed at the top of every panel in which Margo appears, and at the top of many in which she does not.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 11/28/08

June is thankful that Sarah hasn’t noticed that “loud older people alone time” mostly happens when Daddy is out “playing golf.”

Luann, 11/28/08

I’m thankful that we got to see T.J. talking to his parents, swatches of whose scalps he keeps in his wallet at all times, about at last finding a new set of victims.

Panel from Spider-Man, 11/28/08

I’m glad to at last see hard evidence that excessive TV watching can reduce your attention span.

The Middletons, 11/30/08

I’m glad to see that America’s funny pages can provide comic relief for those with loved ones suffering from senile dementia. Ha ha, she’s so far gone, she doesn’t even know what time of year it is!

Beetle Bailey, 11/30/08

I’m glad we got to see Beetle in charge of a whole soldier, instead of the dismembered soldier-bits he usually bosses around.

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Apartment 3-G, 11/26/08

I know that this is going to come as something of a shock, but it turns out that Margo is a terrible art gallery manager, who put all her energy into insulting, belittling, and sneering at the help when she should have been micromanaging them, or at least requesting occasional progress updates. This failure is all the more hilarious because she essentially abandoned her event organizing business to run the Mills Gallery, leaving open the question of what exactly she’s been doing all day (my guess: rifling through Eric’s papers for evidence of infidelity). So now we can add “incompetent gallery impresario” to her list of resume bullet points, along with “incompetent party planner,” “incompetent publicist,” and “incompetent entry-level garment industry employee.”

This show still might not be a total disaster, though: her boss is missing or dead, her curator is dead, her artist left town in a haze of grief, and probably nobody was going to come to the exhibition anyway. She and Doris ought to just slap all that crap that’s in the storage room up on the wall (not worrying about whether it’s right-side up or even whether it’s art), send out a press release to Time Out New York touting “a bold new exhibition that questions the very notion that art can be ‘curated,'” and then start drinking.

Gil Thorp, 11/26/08

I’m pretty sure that it was Marty’s skeptical bosses who suggested this new shock-journalism tactic: bringing the hulking and emotionally unstable Jeff Ponczak onto the show and then insulting his mother. The thinking no doubt is that the ’Czak would either keel over from a rage-induced heart attack or (as the clenched fist in panel three suggests) punch Marty in the face; either event on camera would obviously be ratings gold.

Mark Trail, 11/26/08

“Say, why don’t we just set that old gator loose at that investors meeting? That’s likely to solve all of our problems, sure enough!”

Hey everybody! As is my wont, I’ll be taking off for Thanksgiving — comics return Sunday, or Monday, or something. Enjoy your Thanksgiving, if you live in the US and/or celebrate Thanksgiving; the rest of you, enjoy your next four days of Comics Curmudgeon-less hell.

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Apartment 3-G, 11/25/08

You know, most people would be sick with worry for the safety of their loved ones if said loved ones were off on some mysterious but almost certainly dangerous mission way on the other side of the world. Thankfully for all of us, Margo is not most people, but is rather a gorgeous, tempestuous firecracker of a woman held tight in the grips of cocaine-driven paranoia. “The way I see it, Eric is either at the bottom of a ravine with a Chinese bullet in the back of his head, or whoring his way through every brothel in Lhasa — and he’ll be lucky if its the former.”

Spider-Man, 11/25/08

I’m not sure what’s more hilarious about today’s Spider-Man: that Big-Time’s real name is “Bigelow,” or that his flat-top Spidey-impersonator-for-hire is looking on in undisguised terror as he has a catty conversation with his ex-wife on his circa-1986 cordless phone.

(Bonus question: Is “Bigelow” funnier as a first name, or a last name?)

Blondie, 11/25/08

I’m pretty sure one of these guys has finally gotten up the nerve to make a pass at the other, only to have it fly by completely unnoticed; I’m just not certain which one was the passer and which one was the passee, yet.

Lockhorns and Hi and Lois, 11/25/08

In the new Great Depression, all comics will be about huddling together for warmth in the enormous suburban homes whose mortgages are so expensive that we can no longer afford to heat them.