< sarcasm >
Today’s strip clears up so much!
< /sarcasm >
Dashiell Hammett “felt” Brinkel was innocent of Valerie Pond’s murder? Well… how can you argue with that? Especially when Hammett himself believed that Brinkel was covering up for the REAL murderer, which is… not a crime? Is that right?
Interesting that Cliff is essentially hatching a conspiracy theory about Brinkel, given how he didn’t seem to care for Senator McCarthy’s conspiracy theories about his own actions.
Filed under Son of Stuck Funky
Tagged as Butter Brinkel, Cindy, Cliff, Cliff Anger, crotch shot, Dashiell Hammett, Hollywood, Jessica, movies, Now Cindy, old crap, Old dying people, uninteresting stupid anecdotes, Valerie Pond
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Son of Stuck Funky
And somehow this never came up in the EIGHTY YEARS since it happened. A celebrity had information from another celebrity regarding another celebrity who was charged with killing another celebrity…and everyone just sat on it for eight decades. Sure, Tom, sure.
Eighty or maybe 100. Who knows with this timeline? Maybe this incident triggered the Poloponnesian Wars while were at it.
#PericlesDidIt. #ArchidamusWasInnocent. #ThycididesFakeNews.
Alcibiades was going to testify, but he changed his mind
Alcibiades was going to testify but he changed his mind
Alcibiades? He and the chimp drank each other under the table.
Was this the chimp that launched a thousand ships,
And burned the topless towers of ilium?
Coming up next week: “My friend, Dashiell Hammett, who was investigating a murder, also knew your father, John Darling, who was murdered.”
So, I guess that answers the question as to whether Plantman is a perennial or an annual.
Cliff Anger is basically a far less interesting version of Abraham Simpson here.
“Gimme five bees for a quarter!”
I think Batiuk is trying to simulate what human excrement would be like, if it was presented in “newspaper comic strip” form.
Trying?
I hope Jess is keeping that camera shot waist-up. Cliff is doing a John Gruden-level man spread…
It’s ludicrous. A celebrity PI uncovered previously unknown information on a major celebrity murder case and told no one except Cliff Anger, who then went home and kept mum about it for the entire second half of the 20th century and well into the next. And remember, Cliff wasn’t even sure why Cindy wanted to interview him, despite a) knowing she was doing a Butter Brickel documentary and b) having this bombshell information on that very topic.
I’m sure he deliberately goes through these stories to make absolutely sure that every single tiny detail contradicts every other tiny detail. It just cannot be accidental, IMO that’s simply not possible. He never, ever slips up either.
Coming Sunday: a despondent, withered and badly aging Butter sits forlornly in an Alcatraz cell…”come ON Anger…I KNOW Hammett told you…pick up the phone and CALL the authorities…please!!!”
Cut to Cliff sitting there in his lampshade askew apartment, blankly staring at a decoder ring as calendar pages flip by.
Well, here we are, right where I expected to be. We’re given a plot twist that’s both predictable and teeth-grindingly stupid and Cindy and Messica are floored by it because they cannot conceive of it.
The last time I saw someone that surprised by the stupidly obvious was the last time Ash couldn’t see through Team Rocket’s blatantly obvious disguise.
So a man on trial for murder, an offense that puts his life in jeopardy, is going to shield the real murderer? Are we working up to Butter walking into the California gas chamber saying “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far rest that I go to than I have ever known?”
Also, if the studio ordered her rub out, why would Butter take the fall?
And if the chimp did it, same question.
The holes and inconsistencies in this plot line have moved to whole new level.
Batiuk says he wrote this Brinkel story during one of his book tours. I see a movie-type montage of the author at work: scribbling bits of dialog and plot onto scraps of paper between the endless distractions of annoying fans and shiny objects; scrunching up the papers in his motel room and lobbing them around the room until he gets bored and goes and watches TV; spilling food and drink on the papers at the breakfast buffet. Finally, be bundles up the smeared, stained pages in random order with about 20 rubber bands and
tosses the whole mess to the artist. “Here’s the script. See what you can do with it.”
That’s about the only way I can see how we got this muddled garbage of a story that’s been happening the last few weeks.
You really think there were fans to interrupt him? I’m pretty sure he dreamt this all up while staring at a Fatty Arbuckle biography for four hours at a Barnes and Noble signing not a single person attended.