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Slylock Fox, 8/17/08

Oh, sure, the main puzzle in today’s Slylock at first glance seems like it could take place in any abandoned house being used as a hideout by a criminal gorilla; it’s a common story, what with the recent spike in home foreclosures and downsizing at local primate houses. But check out that portrait hanging by the door: that’s none other than Mr. Mark Trail. I think it’s pretty clear that Harry Ape is holed up in the house where Kelly Welly spent her sad, final years. Having lost the good looks that allowed her to bend men to her will, and alienated her friends by her constant foolishness, she was left with nothing but her picture of her one true love; she spent the last days of her life alone, throwing chicken bones on the floor and propping up her crumbling furniture with cinder blocks. It’s quite sad, really.

Family Circus, 8/17/08

I was going to say that there could be no greater horror than the concept of “water sports” as applied to the Keane Kids, but then I got a load of the actual panel so entitled. While we are treated to a hint of Billy Ass, at least we are spared any glimpse of Little Billy. Thank God for Newton’s First Law of Motion, as it applies to dangly bits.

In the “hurdles” panel, Mom is clearly either going kick Jeffy right in the ribcage or go sprawling onto the stovetop; I vote for the former, as that will learn him to loll around in front of pots spewing out ominous black smoke. Also, “wrestling” appears to be code for “beating the living crap out of Daddy.” Even the animals are getting in on the savage assault.

Rex Morgan, M.D., 8/17/08

Rex is looking pretty chipper in panel four, presumably because he’s totally intrigued by the concept of separate vacations. “If taking vacations apart is good for a marriage, maybe spending all our time apart will be even better!” But by the final panel, he’s looking very, very sad indeed. “Damn it, it’s awkward enough avoiding sexual advances from my wife; I don’t want to have to deal with this at work, too!”

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Rex Morgan, M.D., 8/16/08

I am sadly far removed from the good, honest, manly work that goes on aboard boats, so the only association I have with the phrase “cabin boy” is “teenage sexual plaything for lonely sailors.” Presumably there’s something nautical that a cabin boy would be making himself useful for, but if thirtysomething landlubber jerkface Rex Morgan could actually do something productive on board other than show off his manly chest so that Lenore and/or her crew can get their jollies, I’d love to hear it.

For Better Or For Worse, 8/16/08

Oh, also, Grandpa Jim is dying or something. I’m going to pass over the tiresome melodrama here for the moment (if he really didn’t want to spoil her day, then why did he go and have a heart attack in the middle of it?); I mostly want to comment on Uncle Phil’s creepy, glowing eyes in the next-to-last panel. Though it’s not entirely clear what they’re supposed to denote, this is a very striking effect, so much so that I immediately remembered the last time I saw it in this strip: the day that Liz and Anthony half-assedly got engaged. One can only assume that it denotes the imminent death of something wonderful and precious (e.g., Liz’s grandfather, Liz’s carefree existence as a human being who thinks and feels).

Marvin, 8/16/08

Here’s a question that has puzzled generations of professional humorists. Imagine that you have a terrible, terrible joke. This joke has nothing to do with the interests or concerns of babies. If that joke were stretched out over three panels, and thought-ballooned by three near-identical drawings of a heavy-lidded, sullen, unlikeable infant, would it become funny, or at least less unfunny? Thanks to the bravery of this Marvin, we now know that the answer is a resounding “no”!

Dick Tracy, 8/16/08

Another philosophical conundrum: Is depicting a mangled human being, his flesh torn to ribbons by his own savage dogs, somehow acceptable for the comics pages if an onlooker makes some half-assed wordplay comparing the poor soul to a pork chop or t-bone steak of the sort that you’d see for sale in your local supermarket? Based on the absence of outraged letters demanding the removal of Dick Tracy from all newspapers everywhere, the answer is apparently “yes”!

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Blondie, 8/15/08

Having apparently decided that his nonstop regimen of bingeing and (I assume, based on his rail-thin physique) purging isn’t punishment enough for his poor body, Dagwood has now taken to torturing his innocent bladder.

Crankshaft, 8/15/08

Truth in labeling laws ought to require that every single installment of Crankshaft and Funky Winkerbean contain the phrase “an undercurrent of melancholy that I can’t quite seem to put into words.”

Marmaduke, 8/15/08

Marmaduke is overplaying his hand here: his owner has made the baffling decision to try to balance a good-sized sandwich on a plate, a bowl of potato chips, and, um, a plate of some sort of cube-things on his lap with no tray or other support of any kind, so at least half of that food is going to be on the floor in short order.

Momma, 8/15/08

Ha ha! Momma’s doctor is a monstrous cannibalistic fiend who feasts on the organs of the elderly.

In unrelated news, for everyone who has been able to endure the Foob Wedding Of The Century by consoling themselves that once the vows have been uttered, it will all be over: Ha ha ha ha ha.