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Kevin and Kell, 4/9/20

Welp, it turns out that I started reading Kevin and Kell, a strip about horny furries who kill and eat each other, more than a year ago, but then almost immediately lost interest in it. But rest assured, gentle readers, I am always going to let you know when a comic strip that I have to assume appears in a certain number of family newspapers features gaily skipping animals festooning a maypole with long strings made up of the viscera of (I think we have to assume) sapient squirrels.

Funky Winkerbean, 4/9/20

I think she’s probably more incredulous about you trying to put the moves on your friend’s widow just a few weeks after he killed himself by driving off a cliff! I think it’s a pretty safe bet! I’m pretty incredulous about it myself!

Mary Worth, 4/9/20

I mean … do you have to tell him? You definitely haven’t told Hugo about Jared! Why do you feel like you have to start telling your various boyfriends the truth about things now?

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Gasoline Alley, 4/8/20

“Josh,” said nobody, absolutely nobody, nobody real and nobody you could even conceive of as being a vaguely believable fictional character, but for this bit imagine that there might, in some bizarre parallel universe, be a person or persons who would ask the following question, “What’s going with the thing in Gasoline Alley where they were going to save the farms or whatever?” Well, the save-the-farms meeting has devolved into absolute chaos, and not even the fun kind, just the kind where nobody’s really in charge and they’re definitely not sticking to the ostensible topic, which is probably fine because none of these dopes has any idea about how to save the farms, that much I can guarantee. Anyway, the strip’s extremely non-beloved wacky parrot character is here stirring up shit, and is today apparently stealing valor! The nerve! Can’t wait for him to go to prison.

Pluggers, 4/8/20

Despite the contempt I regularly shower onto Pluggers, I would be very sad if it went away! And yet I can’t really see where it has to go after today’s installment, “Pluggers sure plug up the toilet a lot, with their poops.”

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Beetle Bailey, 4/7/20

Way back in the mists of time, like the late ’90s and early ’00s, many people looked at the Internet on primitive CRT screens that could only display 256 different colors, which gave rise to a limited “web-safe color palette” made up of shades that you could be sure all your users would see properly. I’m reasonably certain that when I first started this blog in 2004, the colorized comics from King Features still used that palette, which would explain some of the odder coloring choices, like the electric blue sports coats so beloved by the square gentlemen of my late beloved Apartment 3-G.

Anyway, I assume that the anonymous, underpaid comics colorists long ago shifted to accommodate the literally millions of distinct shades that modern monitors and touchscreen devices are capable of displaying, which is why I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that what Cookie is serving up today isn’t a “sloppy joe” as most of us would understand it, i.e., ground beef in a dark red sauce. No, the men of Camp Swampy have their plates running with bright, red, fresh blood, its color picked out of a near-infinite spectrum to indicate that they’ve been offered the still-steaming viscera of something — or someone — who’s been freshly killed.

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 4/7/20

Wow, I have to admit some deep-rooted prejudice that I wasn’t even conscious of holding: I’ve always assumed that Doc Pritchard was a flatlander who ended up in Hootin’ Holler as part of a federal rural medicine program to clear his loans from med school, or maybe he’s just lying low to avoid multiple active malpractice suits. But no, it looks like he’s actually from this place, or at least is tied to its rocky soil via kin; since he’s familiar with their down-home rural ways, that may explain why he’s cheerfully moonlighting as a large-animal vet today.

Six Chix, 4/7/20

Look, the world’s a little crazy right now, so if you have the modestly prominent platform of a day’s share in a nationally syndicated newspaper comic strip, why not use it to air out your most petty and specific grievance? Do you believe not only that deep-dish pizza is garbage, but that those assholes from Chicago don’t even really like it? Go ahead and tell the world! What are they going to do, violate “safe at home” orders to come get you?