I really love Rex Morgan! I know, I know — I’m repeating myself. But two silly little panels from the 12 March 2009 can just send me into a swoon. It doesn’t advance the plot, either the real one or mine. But you know what? I don’t have a plot! Bwahahahahaha!
(It would be better with Dr. Andy around, but swooners can’t be choosers, or something like that.)
Oh, wait. Go With a WINNER! Ah, that’s better!
The current Mary Worth story-line is boring me to tears. College-grad medical doctor Adrian is apparently being sucked in by a flim-flam artist and doesn’t see it. (Then again, Rex Morgan is an M.D., too, and there are whole forests of 2×4’s with his his name written on them.)
I pass the time hoping that grifter Ted and griftee Toby meet up. It’s not going to happen, but a girl can dream…
Gosh, I love Rex Morgan. I think if I could only mashup one strip, it would be his (okay, with occasional sojourns into other strips, particularly when the Judge Parker universe has a dress-in-an-outfit-two-sizes-too-small-for-you story going).
But I love Rex and all of the new, fairly well-developed characters that are introduced, too. Even if they really aren’t part of the strip.
Or maybe Margo Magee’s estranged father! And his friend Dr. Morgan! And his kissy-face!
What Margo really, really wants to know: Where’s my $&#*(@ pizza?!
I’m not a huge fan of Apartment 3G, but sometimes strips align themselves very nicely, kind of like the full moon last night.
Sometimes you just find the Platonic ideal in stock illustrations:
Which, of course, reminds me of cocktail parties, and cocktail dresses, and cocktail smalltalk. Hey, that’s right, the party at Judge Parker‘s!
All good things must come to an end, but in Parkerville, it’s not a peek in the powder-room, with the ladies adjusting their makeup and their mammaries in their thin, silky rayon mammary holders. Nope, it’s a couple of lawyers sitting around talking.
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:
…I do a whole mashup based on a throwaway panel. It’s okay…the rest of the strip wasn’t that exciting, aside from the ship’s physician coming down with the Nautical Norwalk infection.
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.
Who is the woman in the photograph?
Most important question:
Who cares?
Speculation on the identity: Hilary Hahn (the musician who inadvertantly instigated Edda’s jealous rage against Amos); Margaret Hamilton (the Wicked Witch of the West); Ingrid Bergman (from a reference to Casablanca several millennia years weeks ago).
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.
