Post Content

For Better Or For Worse, 6/12/07

So, Mt. Foob has gotten sick of my cutting decision to refer to the Milquetoasty-Potential-Love-Interest-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named only as “The Mustache,” eh? They’ve gotten so sick of it that they’ve chosen to remove his mustache, eh? Well, two can play at this game! From now on, he’s … The Vast, Disconcerting, Fleshy Expanse Of Upper Lip! Or TV,D,FEOUL for short. I can go as far down this road as you want, Foobmeisters!

I am in fact 99 percent sure that’s supposed to be Anthony, though he looks weird enough that I can understand the doubts. The tip-off is the freckles, people. I’m assuming his suddenly non-droopy features are a product of FBOFW’s patented “Sexy-Cam” technique.

I just want to say that I love the collection of bizarre, misshapen faces in the second panel. Apparently they saved money on the tent by just getting married at a circus freak show.

(P.S. Remember that bit of Foobery from T Campbell I solicited artists for a couple of weeks ago? The results are here. Sadly, we may be too late after all…)

Momma, 6/12/07

I don’t pretend to fully understand what makes a fellow attractive, but I always thought of Tony Blair less as “cute” and more as “pasty and somewhat weasel-faced.” (He’s gotten better looking with age, I’ll admit.) Of course, Momma has long been slightly obsessed with the attractiveness of prime ministers, so maybe this is all of a part. Maybe, like her brother Francis, Mary Lou just has a thing for the head of a cabinet government elected by a parliament. She just can’t get worked up about the separation of powers we have going on the United States, and wants Tony Blair and the sexy, sexy Westminster system he represents to come over across the pond.

I realize I’m just pussyfooting around the larger issue here, which is that this cartoon makes no sense. But it makes so very much no sense that I’m somewhat in awe of even approaching the lack of sense that it makes.

Pluggers, 6/12/07

Oh, come on, Pluggers! See, there’s supposed to be a little wordplay going on here to justify your existence; otherwise, there’s nothing but passive-aggressive anti-elitism and the least sexy furries known to man. Here, I’ll help you out. “Pluggers don’t use twist ties … they just give the bag a good …” Did you guess what the last word should have been? Something that appeared earlier in the sentence? Hmmmm?

Archie, 6/12/07

Overheard in the year 2015: “Boy, Archie turned into Tom of Finland-style beefcake so gradually, we all hardly even noticed it. And they all used to be so wholesome…”

Post Content

So, yeah, it’s been way too long since I promised to unveil the winner of the Self-Bashing Tyler Contest! And here’s the honest truth on why: I hate having to pick! Honestly, I’m just touched and amazed that you all put so much creative energy into this whimsical contest. I’m always impressed by the creative energies swirling around this blog. In a real way, you are all winners. (You can see all the entrants here.)

But, to paraphrase Homer Simpson, in another, more accurate way, only one of you is the winner — specifically, the winner of Dean Booth’s totally fabu Tyler action figure. That winner will be revealed in a moment! But first, a couple of runners up.

Dr. Jeff definitely gets point for his cartoonification of the panel, complete with motion lines and narration box. He also wonderfully captures Tyler’s spit curl and vacant expression.

Kevin also managed to capture Tyler’s eerie blankness. And, with cunning use of photo-editing software, he managed to piece together real-world versions of the various components of the drawing to create a deeply alienating affect — not quite as alienating as Gil Thorp itself, but pretty close to it.

But the winner broke through what was portrayed in the drawing itself to show us not just what was on the page, but what was implied, as well: namely, blood. Lots and lots of blood.

Let’s review, in its entirety, the e-mail that accompanied this picture from Wally Lamb:

Dear Sir/Madame:

I won this contest fair and square. I didn’t do anything wrong. I never filed a police report. I never accused anyone. Everyone thinks I’m stupid, even Brynna. But I got one over on all of you!

Truer words have never been spoken, sir! May I add that I desperately covet the shirt? For your pains, Wally Lamb, you shall receive the Self-Clubbing Tyler action figure. Hopefully they will let you keep it in your room at the mental ward.

Post Content

Pluggers, 6/11/07

Plugger moms are going to kill themselves within the hour … but only after they have the satisfaction of killing their kids first.

OK, that’s horrible, but you tell me what else that facial expression could possibly lead to. This officially is the most horrifyingly depressing Pluggers ever, outpacing even the “Rhino-man plugger hocks his decades-old TV to keep the bill collectors at bay for another week” installment.

Speaking of horrible, I don’t want to take this in a direction that will lead to anyone, anywhere producing Pluggers porn (and if you do produce it I will not link to it you cannot make me) but I’m a bit confused by this plugger mom’s bustline, since I’m reasonably sure she’s supposed to be a kangaroo. Shouldn’t she have a single nipple in her pouch? And shouldn’t her kid actually be a tiny, salamander-like embryo, nestled safely in said pouch leaving both of her arms free? It sure would be a lot easier on her if that’s how it worked, I’ll tell you that.

Gil Thorp, 6/11/07

I’m sorry, I simply cannot abide the hideous claw-hands in Gil Thorp (see also here (where my prediction was totally borne out, by the way, not that it was very difficult) and here). Other than the fact that Coach Mrs. Coach Thorp looks like she’s about the scratch off her Joker-like face in panel three, though, this is pretty nifty. I particularly like the fact that Ponytailed Girl Whose Name I Forget (I Think She Works For The School Newspaper Maybe?) appears to be holding back her friends in panel one, as if they’re so enraged by their coach’s cancer-free state that they’re planning to hold her down and beat some cancer into her.

Thanks to a faithful reader (Uncle Lumpy?) for the new nickname “Yul Brynna” for the newly shaven-headed former Brynna Antenna. Unfortunately, I’m probably never going to get a chance to use it, as she appears to have fled the softball diamond, and, presumably, the greater Milford area, due to her shame.

Mark Trail, 6/11/07

The fact that Sam Hill has been blinded by a high-speed blast of shattered glass and shredded duck viscera flying right into her eyes is awfully convenient — not for her, obviously, but for Mark. This way, he’ll be able to take his new lover back to Lost Forest; because she can’t see, she won’t even notice that Mark already has a wife and adopted son. Cherry won’t notice the new order of things either, of course, because she’ll be ’luded to the gills, as always. Rusty’s electronic ankle bracelet will ensure that he never leaves the backyard pen.

Hagar the Horrible, 6/11/07

Somebody help me out here. The “joke” in this strip is supposed to be that Hagar’s supposedly fierce company of Viking warriors have fled in terror at the mere mention of Attila’s name, right? So, what’s the deal with the tall grass? Have they been killed and laid low in the grass by Attila’s short and stealthy warriors? Does the grass merely serve to evoke the limitless steppe, home to nomadic peoples like the Huns? Is it meant to make an otherwise dull panel interesting, or, conversely, to save the trouble of drawing Hagar’s disturbingly potato-like feet? What? What?

Slylock Fox, 6/11/07

You might think that being a fox detective is glamorous, that it’s all high-profile media events and fancy tea parties and exclusive nightclubs. But be warned: you will occasionally be called down to the trailer park to figure out just who is throwing rocks at whom. It’s probably a good thing that Slylock’s there to keep the peace, as Rachel Rabbit looks pissed, and I have a feeling that her screams of “You’re lucky my bunnydaddy ain’t here!”, echoing throughout the park as she kicks the thin metal side of Chez Rat, would soon be immortalized in a heavy-rotation episode of COPS.

This strip deserves kudos for not going with the classist but all-too-obvious “Reeky Rat obviously lives in filth, and thus would not under any circumstances be engaged in ‘housecleaning'” solution.