Mark Trail, 1956.
Total dedication to the environment.
Ruthless anger toward anyone who defies him.
Right Fist o’ Justice: meting out what’s right for over a half century!
And pretty dang exciting, too! Not since the MRSA outbreak have tempers run so high!
The week of 24 January was one of hawt, haunchy goodness in the comic strips. What, you don’t believe me?
Poor Ari.
Someone finally suggests in the hallowed halls of Charterstone that Wilbur and the mysterious Kurt Evans go for DNA testing to determine if Wilbur was shooting blanks or not back in the 70s.
Not blanks, more like BBs, I guess.
A deer?
The Egyptian god Anubis?
Probably a deer. But then again, you never know…
And then again, you never know:
I never liked Love is…
In fact, I pretty much loathe it. I’ve never quite understand why it’s “okay” for two naked little kids to carry on in adult situations (falling in love, marriage, having kids of their own, etc.) and be on the same scale of “cute” as the melon-heads in Family Circus. God help us, they are WAY creepier than the Keane Klan.
While the “love” in Love is… is scmaltzy, squicky kanoodling, we all know what it all really boils down to, and the creator/artist/whover the hell is running this fiasco has been dancing around it for years:
Taking a cue from the current Luann plot (such as it is), Sam considers trying out for West Side Story. That, or he’s just having a conniption fit.
You don’t really need to know what’s going on in the current Spiderman story-line (hell, I’m not sure what’s going on). This is mostly a matter of Mary Jane getting undressed for bed and what kind of passions folks have — acting for Mary Jane and, um, other stuff for Peter…
The limitations of colors for comic strips usually have me saying nothing when folks in Bright White shirts with Very Black vests show up.
But hey…if someone feels the need to invoke Han Solo’s sartorial splendor, I feel the need to indulge them:
