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Gil Thorp, 5/17/05

How — I mean how — can you people keep calling for the death of Gil Thorp when he consistently provides this level of entertainment? Honestly. You might choose to see Milford as so stultifyingly lame that this counts as a major vice bust; I prefer to see this whole storyline, taken in conjunction with the legendary Marty Moon’s arrest and sentence to mildly difficult labor, as a cautionary tale about the reign of terror enforced by an out-of-control police force. Prepare to see Coach Thorp make a To Kill a Mockingbird-level impassioned courtroom speech to free his wrongly imprisoned nickel-ante student-athletes. Because if the court doesn’t set them free … then Milford’s baseball team will be short of players and need to forfeit! Surely the good townsfolk won’t allow that to happen.

A review of last week’s strip reveals that Brent was in fact just at Hutch’s as a spectator. Still, the fact that Officer Bebow didn’t have him thrown in the clink for uttering the phrase “just chillin’ with the peeps, brah” indicates that she has special plans for him. Look at the Rap-Dog in panel two: that luxurious, fluffy mane of hair, that stunned, vacant expression, the mouth slightly agape and threatening to start drooling at any moment. He and the lady policeman are even wearing the same t-shirt, and his breasts are almost as big as hers. Yes, being an undercover cop is tough gig, but there are compensations.

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Mary Worth, 5/16/05

You know, up until today, I would have described Mary Worth in many ways — as a self-important old biddy, as an evil, controlling harpy, as a kicky accessorizer with a cravat — but now I see her in another light: as simply pathetic. In a smug attempt to prove that she’s not an Alpo-eating alcoholic shut-in like Fay Begler, Mary summons up the ghostly shades of: Professor Cameron and his blonde trophy wife, who haven’t featured in the strip’s storylines in years, and combover king Wilbur and his wayward daughter Dawn. That constitutes her great fortune? Mary, allow me to be the first to break the news to you: just because the cruel gods that are Giella and Moy force them to live in your apartment complex and they don’t immediately flee when you start offering them your unsolicited advice doesn’t mean that they’re your friends. And you may be placing a bemused Dr. Jeff among your pantheon of well-wishers, but if I were you, I’d watch my back on this little boat trip, lest you end up in a Birdie-and-Barracuda-style watery grave.

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Beetle Bailey, 5/15/05

Here’s what offends me about today’s Beetle Bailey: the joke is not only par-for-the-BB-course lame, but could have very easily been made into a daily strip (just take panels three, four, five, and eight) without reducing the meager humor content at all. C’mon, Walker (Walkers?): while you were idling on the links, Bill Watterson was fighting tooth and nail to get you extra non-fungible Sunday space! The least you can do is take advantage of it. Since Beetle Bailey has a well-known affection for single-panel strips that presumably take less time to draw, you’d think the strip could at least offer mega-panel Sunday editions that would allow more loving detail to be lavished on Miss Buxley’s breasts.

Here’s what doesn’t offend me about today’s Beetle Bailey: the idea that Sgt. Snorkel is going to be disappeared into to some Abu Ghraib-style hole, locked in a cage, forced to wear a dog collar, and interrogated by military intelligence until he begs for mercy. That’s just good clean fun. Go easy with the glow-sticks, boys!

I do have to say that the center panel reminds me that I like the shoes in Beetle Bailey. It’s like the Keep On Truckin’ Guy joined the army and moderated his stride a bit. Also, General Halftrack’s over-the-phone thought balloon joins Mary Worth’s earlier soundless sound in the annals of cartoon oddity: