Junior Rufus Is Sad

From 6/12/08:

Today is a stupid wordplay strip, but it’s the accidental wordplay that shows just how far out of touch Gasoline Alley is.

To let it all hang out: Ever since the introduction of a certain little blue pill, America has been obsessed with boners. We know that Bob Dole couldn’t get a stiffy by looking at his wife alone. We cheered when we heard that Mike Ditka would know to call a doctor if he had an erection lasting more than four hours. Yes, for the past several years, no tire swing in this great land has gone more than eighteen seconds without getting a football passed through it.

So, balls on the table: Don’t put the word “impotent” in a comic strip, unless you want blogs about said strip to make a whole lot of wiener jokes. Even if it’s interrupted by an apostrophe. (And definitely not if it’s interrupted by a period.)

On the other hand, “He’s holed up in his house an’ won’t come out” is tremendously appropriate. Joel’s gonna need two jugs if he wants to overcome the thinly veiled symbolism.

And by the way: Is that really where wagon wheel axles come up to?

The Smartest Man in Gasoline Alley

From 6/11/08:

Sometimes, people in this strip are going to not act retarded just by dumb luck or because it’s the only way to offer a necessary opposing viewpoint.

Today, Joel is the lucky beneficiary of that simple truth. He somehow realized that $1,000 is worth more than the opportunity to be in a cat food commercial, and (presumably) get mistaken for a cat version of country music (mewsic?) singers.

If there are two choices, and two people who each have to pick a different one, one of them is reasonably likely to make the right choice, I suppose.

So, congratulations, Joel. You’re the smart one. Wear that mantle proudly.

A Tremendous Loss To The Country

From 6/10/08

Clearly, this is why the nation is entering a recession. Because we’ve lost the economic output of Rufus, who’s halted whatever it is he does to sit by the phone.

Even better: We get to watch!

Waiting for Meowdot

From 6/9/08:

Before my brief sabbatical, Rufus had concocted a crazy scheme: Win Chef Meowrice’s “Feed Your Pussy” contest to get to appear in a commercial. I guess he really didn’t concoct this scheme, it’s sort of just following the rules of the contest, but he is at least obsessing over it, so let’s give him credit.

Anyhow, it’s just a matter of time before he wins the contest, and I’m not just saying that because I’ve read ahead in the strip. He’s sent 500 labels, a number so large (if I may borrow from Douglas Adams), it conveys the idea of infinity much better than infinity itself. He literally, or at least figuratively, has sent every single label in the universe. And yet, they still all fit on a single 8 1/2-by-11 sheet of paper. Magical!

This joyous occasion, however, shall lead to a long period of depressive ennui. Yes, the joy of imminent cat food contest victory as a dark side: You have to sit around waiting to actually win the contest. Poor Kitty has either already been to the taxidermist to escape this torment, or it’s planning to get there at the first available opportunity.

Back and Bad…

I’m back.

Bad blogger! Bad blogger! Bad blogger!

Actually, the true* reason for my absence isn’t so simple. See, first I was abducted by Austrian terrorists who snatched me as I got off the Red Line train at Belmont. They blindfolded me, tied me up, threw me into the back of a van, and drove for six days non-stop. By this time, I was getting hoppin’ mad, so I cut through my ropes using the six days’ worth of fingernail growth I’d accrued, then used the rope to garotte one of my captors unconscious, my extremely long fingernails to scratch out the eyeballs of the second, and my incredible martial arts skills to wipe out the third. Then I kicked open the door and began running. After about three miles I realized that I could safely remove my blindfold, and I found myself in a harsh, desolate landscape that I immediately recognized as the Greek isle of Crete. I hailed a taxi, but the driver was obviously sent by the Austrians to kill me, so I turned on my charms and seduced her in the middle of the street, after which she drove into the Mediterranean, switched on “submarine” mode, and brought me back to Chicago through a secret underwater tunnel that connects the Mediterranean to Lake Michigan. Then she dumped me for a midget roller derby star, but that’s okay, because frankly, she made a good choice.

Let’s focus on the important thing, though: I’m back. And I’ll be working my way through the last month or so.

* Truth not guaranteed.