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B.C., 6/4/05

So Generic Caveman Guy Whose Name I Don’t Care To Look Up wonders if God Almighty has a sense of humor. But then he notes the waddling presence of That Short Hairy Dude Whose Name I Am Actively Avoiding Looking Up, and realizes that any God who would create such a thing must have a sense of humor indeed!

Except the short hairy dude wasn’t created by God. He was created by Johnny Hart. Do you know what this means? That’s right: Johnny Hart thinks that he has a sense of humor! The horror.

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As I noted last month, sometimes my ISP puts comments that it suspects to be spam into a queue. I have to sign off on said comments in order for them to appear on the site. I urged you then to not panic and/or repost your comment a jillion times if it does not appear as soon as you post it. This advice has largely gone unheeded, which means that I often have to figure out which out of seven or eight near-identical comments to approve. So, here’s a tip for y’all: one word that seems to guarantee indefinite detention in Comment Guantanomo Bay is that acronym beloved by spamming pornographers and lonely perverted comics readers alike: MILF. WoodrowFan in a comment proposed CILF as a non-filter-triggering alternative (with the C standing for cartoon). So go nuts, sleazebags!

Update: Apparently the innocent toponym Milford also gets caught, by association. Thanks to daChipster for the detective work. As a euphemism for Milford, I suggest the phrase poorly drawn hell on Earth.

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Mary Worth, 6/3/05

Watch out, Mary! See those rage lines radiating off of Rita’s shoulders and fists, and the painful rictus of anger twisting her face in panel one? She’s about to transform into some kind of Incredible Hulk-style superpowered destructive force of sulking, whining, and codependence! In all my Mary Worth-reading years, there’s been only one other character who’s evidenced this kind of limb-vibrating emotional instability:

Tommy at least had the drugs to blame. You can tell Mary is terrified of her new roommate because her normally impeccable grammar is slipping — normally she’d offer a patrician “Why is that, Rita?” rather than the teenybopper-style “Like, how come?” Unless she’s so freaked out that she’s babbling in some kind of fake-o how-kemo-sabe Indian dialect: “How come Rita into apartment with me? Me scared she break things!”