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Apartment 3-G, 8/21/08

Wow, I had always assumed that the Professor was a Professor of some squishy liberal arts discipline, but apparently it turns out that he’s a psychologist or something? And, naturally, now that he’s seeing patients again, it’s important that he cut that beard back to a goatee and bust out the Just For Men, because the last thing you need is a therapist who’s a shaggy old greyhair.

In panel two, the part of Ruby will be played by the severed head of Bette Davis.

Blondie, 8/21/08

“Hey, Dad, wanna hear another crazy idea? Maybe we should move the TV closer to the sofa so I don’t have to watch the Olympics sitting on the God-damned ottoman.”

Gil Thorp, 8/21/08

So, as near as I can tell, the lesson to this Gil Thorp storyline is going to be: “Minor league baseball, with its need for bus rides and farm-seeing, is all well and good if your only other choice is being deported to (gasp!) Mexico, but white kids should totally go to college instead.”

Herb and Jamaal, 8/21/08

Um … did Herb’s wife turn off the kinky as soon as they go hitched? That’s about the only interpretation of this I can come up with. That or she stopped supplying him with heroin.

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Family Circus, 8/20/08

Billy is continuing to tear his swath of contempt through our nation’s capital, and I for one couldn’t be happier. Today, we see that the New 21st Century Man, his soul purged of all feelings of patriotism or sentimentality or historical awe by the cleansing fires of our violent, amoral world, is incapable of understanding what emotions these monuments from a dying culture are meant to evoke, seeing only their physical properties and none of their symbolism. Jeffy, still too young to comprehend the hellscape that he will inherit from his elders, apes their belief that these piles of dead stone still mean something, and wordlessly holds a picture of the grotesque phallus that the Victorians somehow thought would honor America’s long-dead first leader.

Beetle Bailey, 8/20/08

Speaking of grotesque phalluses, there are few better illustrations of the term “creepster” than General Halftrack gazing rapturously heavenward as he imagines the erotic shenanigans that his young secretary is committing to her journal. Hopefully he’ll at least get into his office and get the door shut before he starts pleasuring himself.

Judge Parker, 8/20/08

NOOOOOOO! NOT THE CELL PHONE! WHY, GOD, WHY? Cut down in the prime of its battery life … *sob*

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Marvin, 8/19/08

The feature that brought you “Belly Laffs” now presents a running “gag” that’s even more recycled-art-a-riffic: “Ask Marvin,” in which not even the third panel contains any illustrative artwork! No, it’s just three panels of a terrible, typing baby, who urges his fellow infants to be so incredibly hateful that parents won’t just think twice about having more children, they’ll actually be physically unable to have sex because they’re so soul-blightingly exhausted!

Speaking of babies, faithful reader aquagirl2 fears that her youngest bears more than a passing resemblance to the terrible Marvin. What do you all think?

The haircut is a little uncanny, I think, but that’s easily fixed with scissors or clippers. Remember, a bald baby is better than a Marvin-resembling baby.

UPDATE: At aquagirl2’s request, I’m posting the other pic she sent me, in which her little Marvin-a-like looks happier and cuter. I didn’t put this up originally because he doesn’t look as much like Marvin here — in particular, his eyes aren’t let up with Satan’s hellfire — but he does seem to be thought-ballooning something, possibly about making his parents’ life miserable, or about crapping.

Gil Thorp, 8/19/08

Elmer’s too dumb to realize why “that job for [his] coach” involves painting a huge target in an open field and standing on the bulls-eye. Having already bombed Jimmy Hughes’ house with his deathplane, Gil is now flying to Michigan to eliminate Elmer as well, determined to put an end to these painfully boring summer storylines once and for all.

Mary Worth, 8/19/08

Dear Toby Cameron:

You probably think that we can’t see your thought balloons, and that you therefore are free to visualize your shirtless husband whenever you’d like. Well, we can, and you aren’t.

Sincerely,
The Mary Worth-reading public

Crankshaft, 8/19/08

Ho ho, the battle of the cranky old folks just keeps getting better! It’s pretty obvious that at the end of this trip to the cemetery somebody’s going to end up at the bottom of a shallow grave — but who? I’m on tenterhooks!