Snark It Up, FuzzBall!

Usually I love the Sunday 9 Chickweed Lane (aside from the occasional Thorax sighting), probably because it tends to say less and show more (i.e., I can just sit back and admire Brooke’s work of slinking, silly cats, or beautiful young things dancing, or swimming, or stretching, minus the words).  Maybe it’s the sturm und drang from the last decade’s worth of weekday strips that’s wearing me down, but today’s strip (a Sunday strip, of all things!) just set my teeth on edge.

I feel much better now.

(public displays of affection, if, like me, you’re still living in the 20th C.)

And what is more yack-a-licious than…

Just think! If Peter Kiesl had stayed State-side, what opportunities might he and Edie have had?

Poshlost.”

And for the rest of the folks tired/bored/confused/annoyed by the endless slog o’ doom…

Good old Mr. Borgnine is still going strong in his 90s! Take that, Little Orphan Annie!

What’s his secret for longevity? He reveals all (well, thankfully not all):
http://www.break.com/index/ernest-borgnine-secret-to-long-life.html

By strange coincidence, life imitates (comic) art.  At 9 Chickweed Lane, Edie and Herr Kiester have discovered that Bill is alive:

Yet in spite of this crushing blow, hand jive goes on.

And over at Camp Swampy, it’s something about “Sarge squeezing his toothpaste”:

Is this a new spin on “don’t ask, don’t tell?”

CC’s spike thought that likely upcoming future moments in 9 Chickweed Lane could be improved by a visitor from Cul de Sac.  I think it works — maybe both locations are in the same neighborhood…

I don’t know if some of this can even be considered love…

…but annoying, definitely.

I can’t even start explaining this story.  Other than 10 years after the war, Edda’s grandmother runs into her Nazi Austrian boy-toy in the concert halls of New York, and thinking her Yankee boy-toy is dead, renews their acquaintance.  Yeah, close enough.

Of course, the road to hell is paved with good intentions (or some other synthetic material)…

Deep contemplation?  Profound introspection?  Fervent, stringently-held beliefs?

Nah.

(Even so, the artist would probably drawn pretty nice stink lines.)

I mean really really really like.  I love its artistry and linework.  But unless it’s featuring Solange, Seth and/or Mark, it tends to slog down into interminable storylines. (This is also the case for Pibgorn.)

Of the current story (“Gramma Burber is a WWII Flying Ace Secret Agent”), there was a beautiful panel on 3 April 2010, of an Austrian POW, as he watches Edie (aka, the Portrait of a Gramma as a Young Woman) walk away and realizes he’ll never see her again. Very elegant and gut-wrenching.

They do meet, years later.  (And I helped!)

And on…

And on…  (In the words of TV’s Craig Ferguson, “Don’t you judge me!”  It’s not like there hasn’t been a NAKED GUY in Pibgorn for the past two four days!)

And on (note that this is not a mere a hand slipping southward, but a 180-Degree Full Scrotal Rotation, which may or may not be an ice skating element)…