Today, Joel is inadvertently a jackass. (Distinguishing him from the jackass pulling the cart, who is genetically a jackass. Joel probably is one genetically as well, but today it’s inadvertent.) Of course, Rufus deserves it, so Joel gets five cool points.

Unless he’s asking the question because he’s seen Kitty’s clearly blissed-out face (which Word auto-corrects to “blessed-out”, proving something nefarious). Yep, that Kitty’s tasted something human, whether it’s tongue or toenail or something midway between. I don’t like Kitty.

Poor, poor Rufus. He wastes a full week of his life, seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes, and very nearly a crappy song from Rent waiting for an essentially worthless prize, and for his trouble he doesn’t even get it.

He’s so angry he temporarily demotes his phone from the place of honor on his nightstand to the floor. But then, he realizes that’s too harsh, so he moves it back. But just as a warning against future malfeasance, he leaves the drawer open and askew. That’ll learn it.

Meanwhile, Soulless Kitty has turned into soulless Pikachu, but “soulless Pikachu” is redundant and can just be called “Pikachu” or “stupid Japanese thing that consists of thousands of rules each made up seemingly on the spot.”

Yeah! Going Antisane will speak truth to the power that is Pokemon. Take that, Pokemon!

I TOLD YOU! IT’S A WITCH!

Of course, Rufus can both break down a wooden door with just a key and split himself and his possessions into two bodies, so perhaps Kitty isn’t the only one.

Meanwhile, we discover that Rufus’s shack is built out of scrap wood and onomotopoea, which apparently is quite common in junkyards.

… because if he did, we wouldn’t have a plot.

The phone call comes, as we knew it would. But poor Rufus, so noble in his rejection of technologies that normal people take for granted, keeps all his worldly possessions (namely, a phone) safe from nefarious phone thieves through the use of a bulky padlock, rather than the convenience and security of a professionally installed deadbolt. As a result, he’s about to miss the most impotent telephone call he’s ever received, apart from the time he accidentally called for phone sex with Dustin Diamond.

Kitty still has no soul, and fortunately for Rufus, cats with no soul have supernatural powers that will prevent any ill from befalling their owners. At least until such time as the cat can eat the owner and take his soul down to hell for eternal torment.

Now that should be a fun plotline.

We get it, Scancarelli. You’ve seen “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” And you’re able to up the lame factor by turning said pumpkin into a phone call.

Aw, who am I kidding? I can’t stay mad at you. Not when you give us lines like “Phooey t’yooey an’ yo’ sister tooey!” Methinks that’s going to be a strong contender for “Gasoline Alley Line of the Year.” So let’s just say that it’s the only part of this strip and ignore everything else. Cool?

Rufus is maintaining his retreat from society in his bid to Be Present To Win.

Normally, that would be thoughtful of him; never showing his face again would be a tremendous kindness.

But this is no act of generosity; it’s another step in Rufus’s descent into madness. It’s only a matter of time before he takes more and more drastic measures to attract Chef Meowrice’s attention.

Yes, folks, it’s true. And you may want to send the kids out of the room for this: Rufus is going to shoot President Reagan.

Knowing this, I guess it’s best for all concerned that Reagan is already dead. In fact, the only person not helped by this is Jodie Foster, because that means that Rufus is just one more guy who isn’t obsessed with her. And he should be. Candleshoe was rollicking fun.

Poor Joel. Forced to buy cat food for a cat that isn’t his, and that I don’t think he even likes, because Rufus is waiting for a call.

Obviously Joel is Bert to Rufus’s Ernie, while Rufus only has eyes for the Snuffalupagus that is Chef Meowrice, if he even exists at all.

If a few people get swords run through them or drink poison, this could easily turn into a modern version of Shakespeare.

We can only hope.

Today’s strip is a perfectly executed thumping of a character who kind of deserves it.

To deconstruct: Panel one, he complains that sitting around doing nothing while waiting for the phone to ring is boring. This is to make us hate him and want him to die.

Panel two, the phone rings. Rufus either sheds a tear of joy or a flop-sweat of exertion, as turning his head is the first movement he’s made in several weeks and his muscles have atrophied to the point where if he tries to stand up, he’ll collapse in a pile of goo. Even Kitty’s excited here, which is tough, because he/she clearly has no soul.

Panel three: Turtles. It’s a call about turtles. And wayward turtles, at that. Telemarketers, you are hereby forgiven for one annoying call. You’re still rather a lot in the hole, but it’s a start.

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?

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.