Snark It Up, FuzzBall!

For some reason, this one gave me fits…I kept missing little fixes and messing up the dialog.  I really need to make notes and not rush things. I think this is the finished product!]

And try as I might to ignore most of the Phantom’s antics (hey, sailing around on an automated boat isn’t exactly the most exciting thing in the world, but it’s currently beating

A) My Interminable Dinner with Mary Worth;
(B) Less Chit-Chat, More Chest! at Judge Parker’s retirement party; and
(C) Let’s Find Donut Boy! Or Rex ‘n’ Guido in a Clinch! Or Do Something Cool with Count Morgu!)

Sigh.

It’s an obvious gimme.  But you’ll feel better if you do, Katherine (that’s Judge Parker Sr.’s hot mama of a trophy wife):

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!

Well, it’s time to check in and see what The Phantom is planning to do to control the reptilian menace that is the help the ecologically-threatened Croccos!  It’ll be dangerous, no doubt…so let’s get the kids involved! Yay!

And while we’re doing that, let’s scare the bejabbers out of innocent bystanders! Yay!

Here I am, playing the apologist for Mark Trail.  While the real strip seems to indicate that the economic downturn is reason enough for lumberman Ken to take out his frustrations on his wife, rather than all the good folks at Lehman Brothers et al., I’d like to think that Mark knows what’s right and what’s wrong.

At least when his attention isn’t divided.

In the realm of fan-fiction, there’s a category known as PWP (“Plot? What plot?”), and it’s used as an excuse or justification to write a snippet that is nothing more than filthy, filthy sex.

Which is okay (Well, unless the writer can’t write. Then it’s just excrutiating to read.).

I have a feeling that Judge Parker’s Barreto is developing the visual counterpart to that.

Which is also okay.

A recent Rex Morgan had June making a fierce pucker.  I figured (although it kinda creeped me out) that matching it with a previous Rex pucker might make an interesting belated Valentine.  So I went to my stash.

Do you know how many freakin’ puckers these people put on?!? It’s a damned grapefruit/lemon/lime fiesta!  Don’t even get me started on the “close calls”!

The only saving grace is that Andy Reed has never demonstrated such a thing.  Don’t you dare, Mr. Nolan!

Oh, Jeffy, you hapless little melon-head!

…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.”.]

True Fable over at CC did a marvelous rant of Brooke McE.’s continuing, cutesy, boring fixation on young lust, with double entendres which are evidently supposed to rival Noel Coward and/or Cole Porter.

Uh-uh.

Edda and Amos might be gosh-darn genius kids, graduating high school early, attending Julliard, traveling to Belgium to compete in world championship cello play-offs.  But you know, you can be too droll, too waggish, too obtuse, too lifetime-subscription-to-The-New-Yorker.  Sometimes you just have to call a spade a spade, and a phallus a…

…well, whatever.

[I have to admit that I was seriously tickled and touched by CC Rusty’s comment about it “I would read this strip every day”.  Awwww, shucks…that is so sweet! Thanks, Rusty!]