If Carl’s breathing apparatus in yesterday’s strip was some kind of sympathy ploy, it didn’t seem to help him sell any candy. Today Carl’s traded his nasal cannula for his horn, and is looking a little more chipper and a little less prone to drop dead at any second. Not only does that bastard Dinkle force them to peddle “Raisin’ the” bars to finance their CD, the Manorisms rehearsals have been known to last well past the typical nursing home bedtime. I don’t think medical marijuana is strictly legal yet in Ohio; in any case I think Iris and the boys would need something a little stronger to put up with Dinkle.
Category: Son of Stuck Funky
I Don’t Want Candy
If yesterday’s strip depicting Mort and his walker (hey! Mort Walker!) going door to door to sell candy yesterday was not heartbreaking enough, here’s poor Carl pushing around his oxygen tank. Anyone opening their door to this sight would be overcome pity, but this Westview resident is fed up after years of Dinkle’s interminable fundraisers and decides she’s gonna take it out on Carl. “Whopperjawed” sounded to me like some kind of Willy Wonka reference (think “everlasting gobstopper“), but according to Google it’s a word meaning “crooked or askew”. Between the nonsensical punchline and the cruelty of sending nursing home residents out to hawk candy, this is FW at its unfunniest.
Candy Man Comes Around. Again.
Members of any band under the baton of “Noble” laureate Harry Dinkle are compelled to support the enterprise by going door to door peddling turkeys, books, and that sweet, sweet Belgian chocolate. Even a member who uses a walker and who several years ago couldn’t recognize his own son.
Not the River But the Stream
You were hoping that we’d dispensed with Dinkle at least until band camp, but today we find him fronting “The Bedside Manorisms”. Either Dinkle’s done a hell of a job whipping this band into shape, or he truly has gone deaf after all; in any case he feel’s they’re ready to head into the studio. Harry, the internationally renowned fundraiser, seeks to generate merch to sell at their shows, while Walt and the lady violin player we thought was Harriet reject such crass commercialism and embrace the DIY ethic.
A Song of Farce and Ire
The panels in today’s strip read at least as well in reverse order. To paraphrase Nate, who can say what the past four years held for the Class of 2017? The only glimpse we get of WHS ’17 is a few pairs of feet in panel 4 (nicely-rendered, by the way, and feet are hard to draw) . Recall that Cody and Owen handed over the reins of WHS’ in-house media operation directly to some freshmen. I’m supposing Tank and Conner to be underclassmen. As befits these anono-grads’ status, their commencement is held not in a stadium, with drones, but rather in the auditorium, listening to Nate name-check the author of A Game of Thrones.
Son of Stuck Funky 
