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Archie, 8/2/07

The Archie Joke-Generating Laugh Unit 3000 managed to churn out a serviceable punchline today (by the abominably low standards of the legacy comics industry) but it’s the weirdness of the setup that really places this strip squarely in the uncanny valley. Who is gap-toothed Leroy? Why does Archie hold him in such contempt? Did Archie’s chest expand between panels one and two, or did his head shrink? Why is he wearing an ankle-monitoring bracelet? Why are Riverdale’s beaches studded with ominous-looking targets? Sadly, I fear that the all of these anomalies are just the AJGLU’s idea of background color.

Mark Trail, 8/2/07

Seeing Mark announce “I’m your worst nightmare!” is of course a delight, a little love letter to everyone everywhere. Still, it wouldn’t be Mark Trail if the dialog emphasis failed to violate all norms of conversation among English-speaking human beings. Mark emerges from his hidey-bush and bellows “I KNOW ABOUT IT!” at the top of his lungs, then politely adds “I’m your worst nightmare” in his indoor voice. Perhaps all the boldfacing in the first word balloon tired him out.

Anyway, we are of course all on tenterhooks to see tomorrow’s punchery. Your firearm is no match for Mark’s bare fists, Buzzard!

Mary Worth, 8/2/07

If you ever needed proof that Mary Worth is some kind 18th-level Jedi ninja archbishop of meddling, this is it. By having a relationship with a somewhat older man, Dawn is enjoying herself in an ever-so-slightly unconventional way, which Mary obviously thinks is the moral equivalent to genocide. Rather than let our young romantic see her revulsion at this depravity, however, she instead pretends to be on Dawn’s side, only to plant a tiny seed in her mind by comparing her and Dr. Drew to the Camerons, Charterstone’s most loathsome couple. Now, every time Lover Boy, M.D., moves in for a smooch, Dawn will be unable to keep from visualizing Ian’s bloated, chinbeared visage, purple with drink and contempt, hovering before her. She’ll move on to a more age-appropriate boyfriend — or a nunnery — in no time, and Mary with allow herself a brief, subtle smile of satisfaction.

UPDATE: In this context, I simply must post to this excellent post at Subdivided We Stand, from faithful reader Smitty Smedlap.

The Phantom, 8/2/07

I know it’s not socially acceptable to test this out, but I’m reasonably sure that, while there are probably several more or less accurate ways to transliterate the sound made by an oar handle plunging into a man’s solar plexus, “PUNT!” is probably not one of them. I will allow that “UHHFF!!” is probably a pretty good approximation of the sound one would make when so oared, however.

Note that the Ghost-Who-Uses-The-Mori-Youth-Entrusted-Into-His-Care-As-Bait has sent a group of mostly naked teenagers with improvised bludgeons into a fracas against men armed with automatic rifles, while he stands above and fires a desultory round or two from his pistol in the general direction of the action. I suppose that if he leapt down, we’d all be denied yet another shot of his stripey ass.

Marmaduke, 8/2/07

This is one of the filthier things I’ve seen today. If you’re a sicko like me, it’s fun to imagine the caption without the second sentence.

Dick Tracy, 8/2/07

“The chief has just issued an APB for an elderly man!” And the cooks at Gitmo start making fewer halal meals and more bran muffins and prune juice as the several million Americans who fit this one-sentence description are rounded up for interrogation.

The Family Circus, 8/2/07

Sadly, the attempt to assassinate the Keane clan was botched. “Next time,” swore a cowed human race, sick to death of their antics. “Next time.”

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Ever-faithful reader True Fable sent me some pics this past weekend sporting his spiffy new cranberry Margo!Boxcar!Saturn shirt around the fine town of Roopville, both to illustrate willethompson’s handiwork and to prove that the city isn’t some kind of made-up place like “Shangri-La” or “Peoria”. I was so wrapped up in squiring my mom around that I was neglectful in posting them! So here they are. Pic two offers a close-up of the shirt, while pic three illustrates the architectural majesty of Roopville City Hall.

Sadly, this exclusive run of shirts is now in the hands of collectors only; perhaps you’ll be able to get one on eBay someday. However, there are plenty of Gail Martin shirts still available! There’s anecdotal evidence that these are beginning to arrive in the eager hands of the first buyers, so I demand that you all send me pictures post-haste!

On a largely unrelated but still awesome note, I received an e-mail the other day from faithful reader Vince with the subject “Your tax dollars are paying for 3-D Mark Trail”:

To commemorate their 200th anniversary (or some crap like that), the NOAA headquarters in Silver Spring have been giving away promotional cards. They’re card stock, about 5×8 inches, and on the front they have a bunch of information about NOAA. Boring so far. However, if you turn it over, you get this Mark Trail strip. If it looks blurry, that’s because it’s supposed to be read using these 3-D glasses.

Amazing as this concept is, I must sadly report that the 3-D strip does not in fact feature Mark’s Fist O’ Justice coming at you right out of the frame.

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Dennis the Menace, 8/1/07

Not to keep on repeating myself, but there are few things more disturbing in this life than seeing that single drop of sweat roll slug-like down George Wilson’s florid, spiteful mask of a face. All of the things that it could signify — an incipient killing spree, a massive cerebral hemorrhage in progress, unwanted sexual arousal — are things better left uncontemplated.

Today, Dennis is identified as a pest, which is an epithet much more in line with his severely downgraded antisocial behavior. It doesn’t actually rhyme with “Dennis,” but I would argue that his current pale reflection of his past menacing glories ought to revoke his right to a rhyming nickname. I had a brief hope when my eyes settled on the word “pest” that Mr. Wilson was referring to a three-foot-tall fly-human hybrid, who had escaped from his basement lab and had arrived to wreak a gruesome revenge on his creator. This, to me, would have justified that creepy bead of sweat.

Crankshaft, 8/1/07

Ha ha, silly old person! You thought that as an adult you were still entitled privacy and autonomy! Has nobody pointed out to you that you’re old?

Popeye, 8/1/07

After our last visit to this feature, those of you who don’t read Popeye regularly are probably wondering if the strip continues to be totally bonkers. Today’s installment, in which Popeye, Olive Oyl, and Olive Oyl’s brother Castor cower in a Cold War-era bomb shelter from a bloodthirsty cow determined to bite off their heads and drag their corpses across the field, is here to answer with a hearty “Yes!”

Gil Thorp, 8/1/07

“All beginners have issues with footwork Mr. Ritter, but Bill has only half as much trouble as most — because he only has half as many feet! Get it? Because he chopped one of his legs off with a chainsaw, you see. But anyway, your boy can punch! It’s almost as if he carries some kind of burning, unquenchable rage inside of him! I can’t guess why that would be, but let’s just hope that the guy who invented the chainsaw doesn’t get in the way of his fists, you know what I’m saying? Get it? Because he chopped one of his legs off with a chainsaw! Hey, come back, where’re you going? I got a million of these!”