If Batiuk had ever gone to the trouble of fleshing out the character of Funky’s dad, then maybe we could afford ourselves a chuckle at today’s strip. When he cropped up in Act III, Pa’s broken hip was just a link in a week-long chain of mishaps that befell Funky on his birthday. Since then, Dad (whom Batiuk hasn’t given a first name) is rolled out any time the author wishes to make Funky seem sympathetic: Funky has to schelp his father home to “celebrate” Christmas, or to the mall Food Court for a Father’s Day “lunch”. Dad exists merely as just one more cross for Funky to bear.
Category: Son of Stuck Funky
Espèce d’Idiot
Funky Winkerbean is a reality-based comic strip that depicts contemporary issues affecting young adults in a thought-provoking and sensitive manner.
What kind of idiot goes into the business of educating teenagers, then changes careers to write a comic strip about teenagers, when he clearly despises teenagers and doesn’t know any teenagers?
Oh, that kind of idiot.
I’ve always liked Owen—no, wait, let me finish!
Owen, as his creator compels him to behave, is a dimwitted, resentful, and callow boy with hardly any redeeming characteristics. He repels me. He’s a lazy student known to plagiarize from Wikipedia and otherwise cheat. He wears a chullo in summer, for crying out loud!
The thing is, I think the poor guy does all that stupid stuff under duress. In the hands of a more capable author than our favorite auteur, Owen and Cody could be interesting.
The Owen I’ve always liked is one that Batominc will never cause to exist.
So we’re left with the bandos getting drenched in the H₂Os on the fields in front of the mommos and daddos who are stupidos sitting on the bleachos. And so it goes.
About the title: In French, you can call someone a species of idiot. It means that not only are you an idiot, you’re your own special kind of idiot.
Update: Here endeth my stint as your guest snarker. It was a hoot, and I hope you enjoyed it (the snarking, not the comic)! TFH takes on Sunday’s bundle of joy, and will announce our next guest then! Cheers! Wait. I mean gloom!
Spit Take Two
Drown in the Water
Sky cracks open, walls falling to the floor
Just as well to keep it, a guessing game in store
You’re with me now, will be again
All other points in between
And the cruel, cruel mornings
Have turned to days of swim or sink
If living right is easy, what goes wrong
You’re causing it to drown
Didn’t want to turn that way
You’re causing it to drown
Doesn’t make a difference now
You’re causing it to drown
—Son Volt, Drown
Owen: I’d sure like to know how this could get any worse!
The Universe: Request granted. It’s worse. Like you didn’t see that coming.
And the sad thing is, now we’ll never get to experience the epic love story of Owen and Cody. Not because they’ve literally drowned in the rain, but because our favorite auteur hasn’t got the literary or artistic chops.
Slowly She Turned
Slowly she turns, inch by inch, step by step, until her bullhorn is right in Owen’s scruffy face.
She fingers the switch on the bullhorn’s handle. Owen can almost taste the liniment she spreads on her stump. She takes a breath, and yells into the microphone:
Then…
The sky is ripped open and the rain pours through a gaping wound, pelting the women and children—pelting the women and children—who run—who run—into the arms of Ohio.—almost U2
