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Dick Tracy, 7/4/18

Citizen! Share your Fourth of July with this steel-jawed law enforcer, literal red-headed stepchild, and alien halfbreed, arrayed before a monochrome American flag! Comply!

Crankshaft, 7/4/18

All week long, Ralph has been flirting with both myocardial infarction and Sandy here, to the dulcet strains of jazz classic I Can’t Get Started — doubly ironic because even if he does, there remains the matter of finishing.

P.S. In California we have fires, and our air really does look like that. I don’t know Ohio’s excuse.

Mary Worth, 7/4/18

Tommy and Brandy emerge from some kind of hostage drama, and the foreshadowing is thick: Tommy will demand sex on threat of murder, and Brandy will gladly opt for death: “Humanity, schumanity — a girl’s got to have standards!”

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, 7/4/18

Every year around this time I become insufferable on the subject of fireworks. Growing up, we had the good, real kind — the ones that fly, flash, and most of all explode. I once got arrested for pitching an M-80 into the lagoon at a public park, and I can’t say I regret it.

But now the runup to every Fourth of July brings a week of TV-news moralizing about how awful fireworks are and police BS about how THIS TIME the department will be REALLY SERIOUS about enforcement. The spokespeople are hilarious: “Yes of course we will totally send our officers charging into drunken parties in private backyards, risking their lives to keep lawbreakers from injuring themselves. It’s our top priority. Youuuuuu betcha.”

But the highlight is the late news on the Fourth itself, when every station stops their tut-tutting and backdrops the news desk with a live feed of the Oakland skyline — a lacework of smoke trails silhouetted against a sky lit bright as day. AMERICA, dammit!

Still and all, I wouldn’t put explosives in the hands of Hootin’ Holler’s most belligerent drunk.

— Uncle Lumpy

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Gil Thorp, 7/3/18

In the annals of phoning it in, Gil Thorp stands as a colossus. And it’s contagious — unless Gil has taken to asking himself questions, the artist was supposed to draw Kaz in the first panel (“Wait a minute … did I just? … Aah, screw it!”).

Anyway, at Gil’s urging, beloved straight-shooting State Coach Colvin has promised no-hoper Kevin Pelwecki a big, steaming sack o’ nothing — walk-on tryout, no aid, thanks for stopping by, see ya kid. My advice? Take it, Kevin — it’s a damn sight better than anything you’ve got now. Especially the coaching!

Funky Winkerbean, 7/3/18

As his hermetic working relationship with Uber pal Pete grows more intense, Darin has gradually distanced himself from wife and family — fobbing off son “Sky” on his exhausted Mom, “forgetting” that wife Jessica lives three time zones away, and then using that as an excuse not to call her. Now, the image of his beloved Pete standing naked and dripping wet throws him into panic: “Must run from feeeeeeelings … !”

Tell me again who’s on the cosmic treadmill here?

9 Chickweed Lane, 7/3/18

The archives of the Comics Curmudgeon are littered with the bones of abandoned one-gag comics: Marmaduke is a big dog, Herb and Jamaal never say anything straight out, Heathcliff is nuts. If it weren’t for the occasional breath of “Everybody hates Grandpa” fresh air, Marvin would join them on the discard pile.

And so it is with 9 Chickweed Lane, with its now decade-long “Oh, the sexy, sexy music!” theme. Lately it’s just been a rotating cast of interchangeable partners rutting to unheard compositions. Is it wrong to want the Nazis back?.

Dustin, 7/3/18

Dude, have you ever read this comic?

— Uncle Lumpy

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— Uncle Lumpy