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Gil Thorp, 1/10/09

You may have noticed that I haven’t really commented on Gil Thorp lately; that’s because this storyline, which began with Nut Boy and armed robbery, has turned out to be total snoresville ever since. Today’s strip is noteworthy, though, in that it contains shocking images of Gil Thorp engaging in coaching — not in the usual sense of him holding a clipboard and collecting a paycheck in the general vicinity of high school athletics, but actually attempting to help a member of his basketball team with his play. Gil’s advice — “relax, you’ll be fine, and everyone else we have sucks even worse than you” — leaves a bit to be desired, I suppose, but it’s a start.

Meanwhile, the thirty-first participant in Brenda’s all-weekend sexathon has arrived.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 1/10/09

What I’m learning from this Rex Morgan storyline — in which the bored, angry passengers on this strike-stricken death boat are constantly demanding that somebody, anybody pour them a drink — is that the only thing stopping most cruise ships from degenerating into vomit-covered bacchanals are crewmembers trained in the fine art of cutting the lushes off gently. Hope for the livers of all involved has arrived in the form of this friendly off-duty bartender, who probably recognizes the symptoms of alcohol poisoning when he sees them and will start watering the drinks down accordingly. (As a side note, you may think it odd that a bartender would consider a navy blue suit and sharp red tie to be cruisewear, but one of the guys who bartended my wedding was an investment banker, so you never know.)

Lockhorns, 1/10/09

I must admit that I’m charmed by the evocative setting of today’s Lockhorns. Leroy and his nameless, emotionally numb companion are just alighting from the commuter train, heading into work on a chilly morning, carrying their briefcases and coffees. We’ve never really learned what Leroy does for a living; whatever it is, it apparently requires that he wear a baby blue smock for some reason.

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 1/10/09

Snuffy Smith makes yet another acknowledgement of modern televised entertainment; however, this reference serves only to set up the main joke, which is that Hootin’ Holler’s sole religious institution apparently exists primarily to personally enrich its so-called “parson,” who cheerfully admits as much to one of the community’s most notorious lawbreakers.

Pluggers, 1/10/09

Pluggers redirect their suppressed sexual feelings towards their enormous, gas-guzzling cars.

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Mark Trail, 1/9/09

“Dear Penthouse: I never thought this would happen to me, but one day I came home from a long trip early in the morning, with my dog Andy, and found my wife with both of her hands touching another lady! Andy is a St. Bernard! The lady who isn’t my wife was blonde, and my wife was wearing her robe! They leaped away from each other when I came in, and yet it still made me feel funny, somehow, as if I were seeing something unlawful! Andy sure is a good old dog! That’s why I take him on trips, instead of my wife! Later, my wife told me she had changed her hair, but I didn’t notice. I hope you print my letter! Sincerely, Mark Trail.”

Dick Tracy, 1/9/09

The current Dick Tracy plot is only just getting underway, but since it revolves around Tess attempting to market a Dick Tracy line of cosmetics, it may already the strip’s most laughable yet, since the Dick Tracy brand mostly consists of his impossibly square head and cheerful fascism. It’s appropriate that the final panel juxtaposes the phrase “doesn’t smell right” with a flaming house in which a scientist has just accidentally immolated himself, as the Dick Tracy cologne will smell mostly of seared human flesh.

Marmaduke, 1/9/09

When Marmaduke viciously claws at the eyes of random passersby, blinding them, his owner refers to his violent acts as “kisses.” I shudder to imagine her home life.

Oh, yes! Don’t forget:

(Thanks to Uncle Lumpy for the graphic! And vote for Ces and Medium Large, too!)

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Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 1/8/09

Must I take on the burden of keeping comics within the bounds of their self-constructed universes? Look, the chances of Loweezy’s Gossipy Friend Whose Name I Neither Know Nor Care About being acquainted with the still-popular-but-no-longer-red-hot-enough-to-merit-pop-culture-namechecks TV program Gray’s Anatomy are pretty low, seeing as her community’s only contact with the outside world comes from the town’s few lovingly maintained Hoover-era radios. I suppose its a possible that a few of Hootin’ Holler’s more successful moonshiners acquired fancy tee-vee sets back in the day to tune into the Dumont Network; fortunately, after the switchover to digital broadcasting next month, we will be spared any more attempts on the part of Snuffy Smith to engage with modern television programming.

Frankly, I’m more concerned at the sight of a doctor cramming with a basic anatomy textbook just before an appointment. “OK, the hip bone’s connected to the leg bone, the leg bone’s connect to the … to the … damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have prescribed myself so many drugs during med school!”

Judge Parker, 1/8/09

Ah, so Sexy Heidi the Sexy Detective is turning to Sam not for sexy sex, but for emotional comfort. “Sam, I admire the way you just stood by bored and disinterested while we pumped that woman full of bullets. You’ve obviously learned to look death in the eye and not be touched by it, just as you’ve managed to remain detached from all other aspects of the human experience other than your own smug self-satisfaction. Can … can you teach me how not to feel?”

Mark Trail, 1/8/09

[INSERT PREDICTABLE AND DISTASTEFUL BUT COMPLETELY MANDATORY BESTIALITY JOKE HERE]