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Gil Thorp, 4/20/05

Now, those of you have been following this blog know that I love Gil Thorp for its deranged, coked-up pacing, its bizarre hairstyles, and its transformation of the jocks who persecuted me in high school to a parade of morons who dance about for my amusement. That’s why I feel justified by saying, with love and affection, that the art is really, really bad. I mean, really. Take a look at everyone’s favorite “dealer” (and events have proven that he’s just a card shark, not a drug pusher), Hutch Renfro, from his first appearance a few weeks ago:

I’m assuming from context that the dude inviting the gamblers inside in panel one of today’s strip is the self-same Hutch, even though there are differences that make it hard to be sure; for one thing, his forehead seems to have expanded into Star Trek alien territory. If half the attention that has been lavished on the door’s wood grain had been applied to Renfro’s face, this would be a lot easier to follow. Then he proceeds to morph into someone else entirely in panels two and three, assuming he’s the guy to the right of easy-to-identify dorkwad Steve Luhm. He mainly seems to be getting beefier and beefier with each passing moment, so maybe this plotline will involve steroids after all. Or gamma radiation! A Hulk-Gil Thorp crossover! That I’d pay good money to see.

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For Better Or For Worse, 4/19/05

OK, the “slutty 12-year-old girls of Canada” thing in FBOFW has gone past laughable and unsettling and is headed into insane moral panic territory. To ask a halfway-serious question: does anyone remember from the days when Elizabeth was in junior high whether her burgeoning sexuality was repeatedly dissected for our squirmy edification? Because you know, before the Clinton administration and all those damn blow jobs, no one under the age of 21 ever thought about sex. (His pernicious influence has even spread to Canada!)

Seriously, I’m all for 12-year-old girls lusting after hot twentysomething dentists with stupid facial hair — it’s part of the natural order of things. What I can’t get behind is the lusty use of the word “morsel.” Ick. The block-lettering font makes it all the harder to ignore. And the interjection “Hooo!” just leads me to think about a certain monologue involving the phrase “sexual playtoy” that I promised my therapist that I would try to forget about.

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An embarrassment of riches in today’s funny pages! I present to you five one-panel short takes.

From Luann, 4/18/05

I dare you to use the phrase “She’s a honey … but you’re sugar” in conversation with someone with whom you’re trying to ingratiate yourself romantically. I dare you.

From Apartment 3-G, 4/18/05

And by “she,” I’m pretty sure she means Margo. “Seriously, I can’t believe they let you in. What are you doing here?”

From Rex Morgan, M.D., 4/18/05

“Why weren’t you invited? Because Buck likes men, June. Real men with cleft chins and tight jeans and thick coats of forearm hair. Now you make sure that thumbsucker is out of my sight and my breakfast is ready by the time I’m back from the tent-pitching, you hear?”

From Mary Worth, 4/18/05

Be careful what you wish for: after three weeks of Mary filing patient reports, you will beg to see Anna and Brian quoting Richard Bach at one another again.

From B.C., 4/18/05

No, but seriously: what the f— oh, why do I even bother?