Snark It Up, FuzzBall!

No kidding.  The minute the Cat o’ Death leaves, I’m ignoring Crankshaft with no regret.

Of course, there are a few loose ends to tie up, like dealing with a jilted boyfriend from 60-odd years ago…

Oh, rumor has it that Eugene (the old guy standing by the car, erstwhile boyfriend from 60-odd years ago) died in the war.  I don’t know which war…WWII, WWi, the Crimean.  Anyway, if this is the case, it isn’t so much the fault of Batuituiiutk and Errors, but rather a testament to The Power of Barney, Cat o’ Death! All hail Barney! Bar-nee! Bar-Nee! Bar-NEE!

This is why cats were worshiped in ancient Egypt, people.

And after a week of Eugene wandering through Crankshaftville, his addled mind juxtapositioning fragile, sepia-toned photographs of him and Lucy with the reality of a Midwestern city in the last throes of urban decay, I’m really, really hoping this is the last we see of him and his misty, water-damaged memories:

It looks like the current story-line in Mark Trail is coming to an end.  Ken accepts the responsibility for shooting Bucky and knocking his wife around (no mention of counseling or anger management classes…saying “I’m sorry.” is as good as a man’s firm backhand handshake in Lost Forest).  Bucky will be relocated. Patty will continue to be a ditz. The End.

AAAAAAAAAAAnd...not quite the end.  Ken sweetens the deal for Patty to stay with him and his abusive ways by considering a baby!

Oh, crap.

I’m not half as livid as a lot of folks responding to this “look! everything’s okay, now!” turn. I just screw around with the comics.  Be careful what you wish for, Kenny boy.

Evidently the first week in March has been designated “‘It’s All My Fault!‘ Week,” at least among comic-strip characters.  Maybe it has something to do with Lent.

Confusing?  Yes.  Deserved?  Maybe.

Quick! There’s two more days left to beat your breast, dress in ashes and sack-cloth, and moan “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”  Or you can just go out for a nice dinner, or at least a Dairy Queen sundae.

And it’s not like we didn’t know this was coming.  Even if we were all ignorant of the fact that nothing it certain but Death and Taxes, Batuiuiuiuiuk would’ve telegraphed that fact for months for our collective benefit.

Yeah, you were all thinking it.  First Judge Parker’s retirement party, with every single woman attending in very little fabric and a whole lotta skin.

Then a return to Lost Forest, with Patty still looking for her wounded pet deer Bucky.  She finds him, his antlers caught up in those of another young buck.

Can you say “rack”?  I knew you could.

Thanks to Calvin’s Cardboard Box over at CC, for those immortal words:

MT: Wow, lookit those racks get tangled up!
JP: Wow, lookit those racks get tangled up!

…or one small psychotic cat!

[I don’t know why I’m doing so many mash-ups the last few days.  I guess spending five days at an S.C.A. event, followed by several more of paperwork having to do with the event, has me really jonesing for PhotoShop.  I wonder if there’s an AA equivalent.  Or if I can get money for being a poster child or something…]

And lest anyone think otherwise, Mark Trail doesn’t just ball up his fists and punch.  Violence is not the first option, or the second.  Mark examines the evidence, considers implications, suggests alternatives, investigates solutions…

…and then he punches somebody.

[I loved the 21 and 23 February panels.  While Mark is very likely agreeing with Forest Service Same about the sorry state of the economy, his brusque responses immediately caught me as something to the effect of “Ask me if I care.”, and “Oh, boo hoo — cry me a river, Sam.”.]

Why on earth do we continue to follow Judge Parker?  While there are occasional glitters and glimmers of pulchritude (sexy legal secretary Gloria; sexy Scottsdale homicide detective Heidi; sexy (but dead) pole-dancer and murderer Dixie Julep), the one thing that keeps the attention riveted and the juices flowing is….

Abbey Spencer!

Abbey in a bathrobe.
Abbey in Daisy Dukes.
Abbey in a riding outfit.
Abbey in a flannel shirt.
Abbey with her hand up a nice chicken.
Abbey in a black strapless number.

Yeah, like I was going to say Sam Driver (nice body, but not shown off enough).

The current story line focuses on Alan Parker’s retirement, Randy Parker’s investiture as the new Judge Parker, Sam Driver’s reluctant acceptance to be Alan’s book agent and Abbey Spencer grinding around the celebration in the aforementioned black strapless number.  Only there’s not enough of the last option, so here’s more:

Meanwhile in Lost Forest, Ken Brillohead, Lumberjack with Issues, terrorizes his wife Patty and threatens to shoot her pet deer.  Unfortunately, he does own a closetful of guns, so he could make good on the threat.

A friendly piece of advice, Ken: Judge Parker’s literary agent, Dewey Cheatem, had a closetful of guns, too.  Do you know where Dewey is, Ken?  That’s right, on a slab in the Scottsdale morgue!

I don’t even think Lost Forest has a morgue:

I have to admit, I could give a rat’s patoot (or a venison burger with seasoned curly fries) as to what happens to Bucky (the deer, not the cat).  But now we’ve crossed into Extreme Close-up Territory (aka, ECT), and that’s always a winner!

I guess it stands to reason that a dim-witted, lonely housewife in Lost Forest who befriends an orphan fawn and raises him to adulthood might not be particularly creative when it comes to naming it.

Still, it confuses matters a little…

It’s been a while since I’ve done a Mark-Trail-on-Sunday piece, and another comic jogged me in that direction.  Of course, as I was working on this one, I realized that I’ve already done a Mark-Trail-on-Sunday Squirrels piece.

Oh, well.  I’d rather see squirrels on ice than Meddlers on Ice (I’m looking at you, Mary Worth).

I can’t believe it – I’m still going through Kleenex and coughing (although the coughing is usually at night, and when I do it during the day, I don’t notice it, even though it appears to freak out everyone around me. Good. Makes up for all the moms who drag their snotty-nosed, mucous-thick coughing kids around with them.)

Anyway, I define “bed-rest” as “sitting in front of the computer and mashing comics.”  And at least I can provide some public service by trying to interpret the newest story-line in The Phantom, with its mysterious appearance of creatures that are know to the locals as “Croccos.”  Croccos?!

(The photo of the stack of Crocs was taken by a tourist in Parma, Italy. It just makes me happy, all jolly and bright and sunny!)