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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]

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So, throughout this whole Weblog Awards business, I’ve tried to take the high road, refusing to even acknowledge my competitors for the coveted Best Humor Blog award. I’m modeling my campaign on the greatest of American presidents, Warren G. Harding, who felt that traveling the country seeking votes was beneath his dignity, and instead just had voters shipped in to Ohio to watch him bloviate from his front porch (except I refuse to go out on my porch because it’s cold). However, as all campaigns will, this one has turned ugly, and now I’m going to have to dirty my hands a bit. It seems that one of my opponents, the so-called Bloggess, is spreading scurrilous rumors about me — namely, that I eat kittens and plan to celebrate my inevitable victory with a kitten feast. She’s even made a badge for those who won’t vote for her, and taken her dastardly lies to the Twitter, where I can’t fight back because I can’t even begin to understand the Twitter or how it works, but here’s a picture of those Twitter lies:

Anyway, I would like to state right now, for the record, that I would never, ever eat a kitten. I love all cats, as my own pampered kitty can attest. Instead, once my opposition has been crushed and the award that is rightfully mine has been handed to me, I will celebrate by eating babies.

Seriously, though, you should totally read her blog because it’s very hilarious! And please do not start a blog fight with her commentors! We can all be friends (as long as I win). And I’m not just saying that because she also writes for the Houston Chronicle and could maybe somehow cut me off from my custom comics page. Or because, according to the Twitter, she has naked pictures of me, somehow. And when you’re done enjoying her blog, come back and vote for me, which you can do every 24 hours. Because babies is delicious.

In other Weblog Awards news, Medium Large is, against all odds, within reach of third place in the Best Comic Strip category! Vote for Ces to get a bronze medal! It will help with his self-esteem!

IMPORTANT AD NEWS PLEASE READ THIS: In non-self-congratulatory news, I am about to restore the ads that I removed a couple of days ago. Please e-mail me if anything sketchy happens when you visit this site after this point (i.e. after 8:45 pm eastern time on 1/7) — pop-ups, weird redirects, etc. Thanks. UPDATE: Ads taken back down. Blech.

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Funky Winkerbean, 1/7/09

I have absolutely no idea why Becky the One-Armed Band Director looks so horrified in panel two when she thinks that Band Director Emeritus Harry Dinkle is about to launch into an impromptu lesson on preventing pregnancy and sexually transmitted infections. If one of my high school band practices had been interrupted by an old man rambling away on the subject (“Let me tell you the most important thing my CO told me before we hit the beach at Normandy: For God’s sake, put a rubber on it! That’s how I managed to screw my way through every French cathouse in every town we liberated without my pecker falling off!”), it would have been the best band practice ever; certainly it would have been a more useful and relevant use of our time than attempting to master yet another Andrew Lloyd Weber medley. I can only assume that, as a Funky Winkerbean authority figure, Becky is required to supervise a certain amount of misery in her charges; she’s afraid that Harry is going to head off that chlamydia epidemic that’s raging nicely through the woodwinds, along with a couple of unplanned pregnancies that she’s counting on in percussion.

Judge Parker, 1/7/09

It appears that Heidi the sexy, trigger-happy cop is going to make a final attempt on Sam’s bemused, detached charms, possibly in one of Phoenix Sky Harbor’s parking garages. You know, I’ve finally figured out what Judge Parker’s ladies-love-Sam plots remind me of: the classic Billy Wilder film The Seven Year Itch, in which the protagonist, left alone in his sweltering Manhattan apartment as his wife and son head to the country on vacation, entertains all manner of sexual fantasies about his comely neighbor Marilyn Monroe and other women — almost all of which involve him coldly rejecting them as they fling themselves at him. I remember thinking when I saw it that it was unspeakably perverse, but Sam is so dull that he sucks all the thrill out of it.

Slylock Fox, 1/7/09

4) If you see a supposed surgeon advancing on you in full clown makeup, I don’t care how sick you are, get the hell out of that hospital now. Answer: True, true, for the love of God, kid, run!