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I eat again at the so-called Soul Food place, and yet again I fail to consume a soul. Am I misinterpreting the signs, or is this place lying to me? The owner pries into my writing. I tell him only truth, and he seems troubled. Perhaps his soul is troubled. I could calm it. I could devour it. His partner is nowhere to be seen. The restaurant is empty. Today I will eat soul food.

—Voshkod
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Law, order, and wacky hijinks

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Shoe, 5/18/05

More life lessons from the comics, this time from Shoe. Dragged in front of a judge for a serious crime like stalking? Just placate him with some vaudeville-era jokes — he’ll be too busy enjoying the knee-slapping hilarity to throw the book at you! Here’s a handy chart that will help you prepare your defense.

When the judge says… You say…
“Young man, the police say you’ve robbed at least seven banks in this city alone!” “Well sure, your honor — that’s where the money is!”
“After your last drunk-driving conviction, you were ordered to seek treatment. But when the police pulled you over tonight, your breathalyzer  results was double the legal limit.” “I guess it’s like the old saying — I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy!”
“Stop disrupting these proceedings! Order in the court!” “Order in the court, eh? I’d like a large cheese pizza, please — and to go!”
“Blinding your own parents with a red-hot poker — it’s one of the most heinous crimes I’ve ever seen in my long years as a judge. What do you have to say for yourself?” “Hey, they said they didn’t want to see me coming around anymore…”

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You’re just lucky that impersonating a black person isn’t illegal, Rap-Dog

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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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The floating heads demand your death!

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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.