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Ack, for once I’ve missed my Sunday night COTW target. Let’s get to it before we start on the comics I’m behind on. Here’s this week’s top comment:

A3G: “‘Bad things happened here. I can feel it.’ Obviously, Gabriella has seen Lu Ann’s paintings.” –man behind the curtain

And runners-up!

“I thought it was fairly clear by now that Margo split her father’s forehead from the inside and emerged fully formed astride a chariot pulled by naked, nubile man-slaves. That ‘mother’ is a comically inept character actor she hired cheap from a failing production of The House of Bernarda Alba, and she’s been a bit sorry ever since, but not enough to sacrifice the cover and occasional inadvertent amusement she provides. Though if she ends up actually saving Lu Ann, my guess is it’ll be back to the shadowy realm of telenovela walk-ons and amateur psychic hotline-manning for her. No one saves that twit and gets away with it.” –SecretMargo

“What pisses me off is that Lynn, for some reason, thinks that this whole house-buying arc is somehow interesting in any way, shape, or form. I’m all for contrived melodrama if it’s crazy and ridiculous, but does anybody care about a fundamentally retarded family buying a house? … And even better, the backup story is an old man recovering from a stroke. WHEEEEEEE THE FUN NEVER STOPS IN CANADA” –ararrrar

“Abbey forgot to tell Sam the best part — that she just handed a check for $2.5 million to the bass player from Molly Hatchet.” –Squawk

“Rex is actually holding a crescent wrench in panel two, and when he’s done with Hugh’s bicycle, the subsequent traffic accident will show him how M.D.s deal out justice … hell yeah.” –Johnny Cat

“I wish we could see the reporters’ reaction after Cassandra’s ruse is exposed. ‘What, you mean whales aren’t fish?! No shit, Slylock! Hey, I’ve got another mystery I think you can solve. It’s called the Case of the Clobbered Cockblocker.'” –Piels

“Dinnertime at the Morgan household is a festival of self-loathing and unspoken resentment. So basically, like the rest of their day, except with more food.” –Trilobite

“I like in MW that Charterstone’s garbage chute is big enough to stuff a body down without the awkwardness of having to chop it into pieces in the bathtub.” –NotThatGuy

“By any stretch of the English language, does ‘deep sleep him to the moon’ make any sense at all? It must be upsetting to get an urge that you can’t even visualize.” –Artist formerly known as Ben

“And the best seat in a plugger’s house is perched precariously on what is probably a threadbare arm of the chair that is held on with duct tape? Pap-Paw seems to tolerate the young’un only because she is holding the bag of salty snacks.” –GotFuzzy

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Herb and Jamaal, 6/2/07

In an attempt to put a fresh and non-copyright-infringing spin on a joke that’s been cracking ’em up on the message boards outside churches around the country since 1998, today’s Herb and Jamaal ties itself into serious theological and philosophical knots. “Knee mail” (i.e., prayer) is of course the preferred method of making contact with a deity of the type that most religious folks today believe in: a God of pure spirit who exists on a plane separate from the physical reality we inhabit. Thus, Rev. Croom’s answer to Herb’s question (about which he looks rather disgustingly satisfied, incidentally) doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense. We already talk to the spiritual God via knee mail, rev; Herb wants to know how to make contact with a hypothetical physical God. My suggestion: poke Him with a stick. Not too hard, though.

Blondie, 6/2/07

If I were a clerk at The Book Barn (or, well, you can’t see the “k”, so it might be The Boon Barn or The Boob Barn, but never mind that) and a customer brought me a copy of every mid-sized book in the store with a cover the same exact shade of blue, my first response would be less “You sure enjoy all kinds of different books” and more “Sir, I know that obsessive-compulsive disorder can be a life-afflicting problem, but the first step is to admit that you need help.”

Beetle Bailey, 6/2/07

So … does this strip make any sense to anyone, anywhere, at any level of familiarity with golf? I thought I had it — Gen. Halftrack is about to be caught cheating by Lt. Flap and Hitler-Mustached Mid-Level Staff Officer Whose Name And Rank I Forget Or Perhaps Never Actually Knew as they Keep On Truckin’ towards the reader, and Lt. Fuzz is demanding advancement in rank in exchange for his silence. But if Flap and H-MM-LSOWNARIFOPNAK have already seen the general’s perfidy, then Lt. Fuzz’s collaboration won’t help matters; if they haven’t, then their presence in the second panel, which seems to be the incentive for Fuzz’s sudden blackmail bid, is irrelevant. O wiser heads on the Internet, answer this conundrum!

A more philosophical question: Why are these two golfing together in the first place? Usually Halftrack is willing to humiliate himself by hiding under his desk or hanging out the window just to avoid a few loathsome moments spent with his subordinate. Surely any golf outing with the two of them would result in the younger man being brained by a club somewhere on the front nine.

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Gil Thorp, 6/2/07

Wait … but … if … except … guh … [sputter] … THORPSTOCK???

They’re just … they’ve gotta be messing with us. Maybe Gil Thorp is what happens when you take the brown acid.

Clambake’s fleshy, ass-like chin has never looked more horrifying than it does in panel one.

Dick Tracy, 6/2/07

Dick, Tess may be upset because you kept having a conversation with her even though you had already left the house without her and gotten on the plane. Just a thought.

Pluggers, 6/1/07

Honestly, when it comes right down to it, pluggers will eat just about anything.