Author: ComicBookHarriet

I went on a little reference search tonight, just as a treat.

First, the Prince Store at Minneapolis/St Paul Airport.

This one may have come from a Batiuk provided reference picture. I found out that the dangly ceiling garlands are how the store looked as of August of last year.

I’m guessing most of the obviously traced stadium panels were similarly from Batiuk’s private stash of vacation photos. But I did manage to pull in some good ol’ Google slop. Some are only possibly the reference.

Some are a shoe-in.

Statue of Louis Riel.

The Provencher Bridge with Cityscape.

And now, for my favorite.

Blue Bombers head coach Mike O’Shea

And last of all, I believe the lady Mountie was supposed to be a cameo of this poor sweet law enforcement officer, who most definitely didn’t deserve the shame.

Boy Mountie looks OLD by comparison. I mean in art style. Guessing he’s pulled from some ancient Ayers arc of yesteryear.

A very wise man once said, “N’interrompez jamais un ennemi qui est en train de faire une erreur.“

Unfortunately for all of us, he said this in French, which is a language no one speaks but the French, (who are too snooty to translate) and French Canadians (who are somehow even snootier than the French).

I asked Grok what the saying meant and it gave me this.

“Never interrupt Banana Jr. 6000 when he’s on a roll.”

But I cannot stay silent anymore. I am well and truly sick and tired of this disgusting state of affairs going on in Crankshaft right now.

I’m not talking about the shameless pandering to the Canadian Football League, the city of Winnepeg, Princess Auto Stadium, poutine as a food, or the Canadian Museum of Human Rights.

I’m talking about the eponymous so-called protagonist himself, Ed Crankshaft. The old bastard is too damn agreeable these days. It makes me SICK.

For the first week he sat idly by watching Pam and Jeff angst over damaged sports apparel with the disinterested flat affect of a cow watching CSPAN. Barely got a quip out. And since then he’s been all grins and enthusiasm. Even when he’s ‘complaining’ it’s more Mr. Magoo than Misanthropic.

This is what we have now:

And this is what we NEED:

Humor is subjective. But anger is funny. Anger is energy. Anger is passion. Anger is life.

It is what this strip was built on. It’s CRANKshaft, not GOOFstick.

Get rid of this passive, grinning, empty headed dundermuffin, and give me back a Crankshaft with some spite. MAKE CRANKY GRUMPY AGAIN!

And what is up with this best buddies relationship between Cranky and Jeff these days?

Be-ware-of-eve-hill said it well on the last post.

In the old days Crank and Jeff’s relationship was dynamic, fun, and a breeding ground for jokes. Because they couldn’t stand each other and weren’t shy about it.

Jeff and Ed, the blue-collar bus driver and the white collar accountant, they didn’t understand each other, and were brimming with resentment, and yet sometimes found common ground, or had moments of connection.

Was the old relationship a lazy copy of Archie and The Meathead? Maybe. But stock conflict straight from the trope rack is better than this anemic bland bond built of nothing.

So this is my rallying cry! Make Cranky Grumpy Again! And let him go back to hating Jeff just as much as the rest of us do!

BOY I CAN’T WAIT FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK OF THE SAME 12 BATTON THOMAS HEADS PASTED OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN YES SIR.

We are reaching levels of pointless navel gazing approaching the mythical.

And I don’t even sit here wondering, “Who is this for?”

Because it’s for Tom. No one else.

As he nears his twilight hours, he looks back on his life and sees that his artistic ambition has only produced one massive work of significance: The Funkyverse, and he must achieve immortality within it.

Tom, like a dying replicant on a rainy roof, is overcome with the compulsion to speak aloud to his captive audience all the profound experiences recorded in his decaying brain.

“I’ve seen things you snarkers wouldn’t believe. Rainy leaves mouldering inside a dampened portfolio. Book signings inside voluminous convention halls. A rock with a weird notch in it. All those moments will be lost in time, like newsprint in mulch. Time to die.”

(Bloggers Note: Sorry I’ve been an absentee blogmeister for the last couple weeks. Dad’s been expecting more outta me lately as far as farm work goes, and so my mental batteries were pretty depleted. Thanks so much to Banana Jr. for being a champ teammate on this and picking up some of the slack. Love you all, and hope to be back in the snarking saddle again!)

Ol’ Cranky is far from the craggiest old mug on Washington Square. As a century plus of beautiful New York air, friendly New York critters, and civic minded New Yorker’s meant that Washington’s head from the statue on his arch is more spackle and epoxy than marble at this point. Madonna would be envious of these fillers.

At first, I was offended on behalf of this landmark. After all, it was erected to celebrate the centennial of the inauguration of our own nation’s Cincinnatus. The man who probably could have taken power for life, and instead released the reins. We can celebrate now nearly three centuries with no lifelong tyrants. (Except, according to my dad, FDR. But that’s getting us too close to politics again!)

The triumphal arch was designed by Stanford White, architect of many impressive edifices; not least of which included his impressively groomed mustache.

Unfortunately, I learned in my research today that moustaches weren’t the only thing Stanford liked to groom. I guess the Pedostache can be traced further back than I’d first assumed.

In 1906, this Victorian Bryan Singer of balustrades attended the premiere of Mamzelle Champagne at Madison Square Garden. During the big finale number,  “I Could Love A Million Girls” Stanford White was shot dead by the disgruntled (and equally abusive) husband of one of his alleged victims.

So I’m no longer enamoured of Washington Square’s crumbly little arch. It serving no greater function than reminding a crotchety old tourist of foot pain seems appropriate.

Just a quick one today, as I’m sure BJ6K is cooking up an Epic Rap Battle of History between Les Moore and Wilbur Weston.

But this panel. This panel confirms to my tinfoil, self-centered brain that Batiuk reads the comments here and elsewhere. As I have explained this way of differentiating the DoubleDumb twins on many an occasion.

When Batiuk half-randomly decided last year to hypercharge Emily and Amelia Mathews-Reynolds from precocious 12-year-olds to high schoolers, I wonder if he knew how much it was going to shoot those characters in the foot.

Whereas Emily and Amelia as kids had about a decade of strip time and dozens and dozens of appearances to pull art from, Emily and Amelia as high schoolers have an insanely limited number of strips, only 52, to copy pasta from. And many of those are hampered by the twins just being blonde heads in a sea of classroom faces.

Additionally, a few Emily and Amelia strips come from the Burchett era, meaning posting them in with Ayers lines leads to weird effects. Like when Simpsons met Family Guy.